Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Shen Qingqiu awoke with a headache.

Of course he did. When didn’t he?

It was a dull, throbbing thing that seemed to hum behind his eyes and crawl down the back of his skull. The sort of ache that spoke of either too little sleep or too much thinking, and he had certainly done both. His mind was still clouded with the remnants of some infuriatingly pleasant dream, one of those absurdly warm, syrupy things that left a lingering sweetness even after waking. The more it faded, the more it irritated him. He could almost recall laughter, his own… maybe? and a hand brushing against his sleeve before reality wrenched him back into consciousness.

And then, of course, the world decided to make it worse.

Yue Qingyuan had appeared at his doorstep again that morning, looking all worried eyes and soft tone, asking after his health as though Shen Qingqiu were made of delicate glass rather than flesh and bone. It had taken all his patience not to slam the door in his face. How weak did the sect leader think he was? A few dizzy spells and a nightmare or two did not mean he was suddenly an invalid.

Now, with his tea cooling beside him and his patience thinning by the second, Shen Qingqiu could confidently say he was in a terrible mood.

All he wanted, all he ever wanted, was peace and quiet. A few blissful hours where no one dared to bother him, where he could lock himself in his rooms, close the shutters, and threaten anyone foolish enough to knock. But, naturally, fate despised him.

Because instead of silence, there came a light knock.

And then, as if mocking his existence entirely, Mu Qingfang’s voice.

“Hello, Shen shixiong,” came the soft greeting, followed by the door creaking open without so much as an invitation. The healer stepped in, his expression politely bright as always, the kind of smile that grated on Shen Qingqiu’s nerves precisely because it was so calm. “Are you feeling better today?”

Shen Qingqiu exhaled slowly through his nose, biting down on the sharp retort that leapt to his tongue. Then, because self control was a virtue he liked to pretend he had, he instead opted for a sneer.

“This one is feeling perfectly fine,” he said coolly, folding his hands together as he leaned back in his chair. “Does shidi think so lowly of his shixiong that he assumes him incapable of waking up without supervision?”

Mu Qingfang’s smile twitched, but he remained unruffled, as always. He closed the door behind him with infuriating gentleness and seated himself across from Shen Qingqiu, sleeves falling neatly as he moved. His eyes squinted in quiet amusement, a sure sign that whatever he was about to say would be intolerable.

“No, no,” the healer said, voice calm and annoyingly pleasant. “I’m pleased to see that Shen shixiong is back to normal again,” He paused, struggling to suppress the laugh tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Your behaviour yesterday was… well, let’s say it was rather eccentric.”

Shen Qingqiu’s fan snapped open in an instant, the sharp sound slicing through the air and making Mu Qingfang flinch just slightly.

He leaned forward, eyes narrowing, voice dropping into that deceptively silken tone that promised violence if one breathed wrong.

“And what, pray tell,” he said with venomous politeness, “did this one do that was so funny?”

Mu Qingfang hesitated, lips twitching again as though debating whether to risk his life for honesty.

Judging by the gleam in Shen Qingqiu’s eyes, the answer was likely no.

“Shixiong… doesn’t remember?”

Mu Qingfang tilted his head, studying him with that maddeningly serene expression doctors were born with, as if Shen Qingqiu were some particularly difficult patient rather than his senior brother. He hummed lightly, thoughtful, and then nodded as though confirming something to himself.

“Well,” he began delicately, “to put it simply… Shen shixiong spent most of yesterday running around the entire peak in only his inner robes. He—” his lips twitched, “—uprooted the plants in his own garden, shouted something about ‘fluffy sheep deserving better’, stole at least seven books from the library—rare ones, I might add—and then locked yourself inside your house, muttering about betrayal and cultivation conspiracies.”

There was a pause.

He what.

Shen Qingqiu blinked once. Twice. His fingers tightened around the fan still resting in his hand, the edge bending just slightly under his grip.

“Are you sure, shidi,” Shen Qingqiu said at last, voice dangerously calm, “that you’re the one who isn’t unwell? Because I can assure you, I have no recollection of behaving like a mad drunk on my own peak.”

Mu Qingfang didn’t even flinch. He merely offered a small, polite cough into his sleeve, as though bracing himself for impact.

“I witnessed it,” he admitted softly. “Quite thoroughly, in fact.”

Shen Qingqiu stared at him. Then, slowly, his expression twisted into something between horror and indignation.

“You— witnessed it?” he hissed. “You stood there while this supposed humiliation occurred, and you did nothing?”

“I tried to intervene,” Mu Qingfang said with all the patience of a saint. “But you threatened to curse my bloodline if I came within three feet of you.”

“…”

“Then you called me a ‘canon fodder npc’ and accused me of stealing your immortal destiny.”

Shen Qingqiu’s jaw dropped open soundlessly before he could catch himself.

That… that couldn’t be right. He hadn’t—he wouldn’t!

Would he?

He rubbed his temples, trying to piece together the fog of yesterday. Everything after his nap was a blur. He remembered sitting on the veranda with tea, a dull ache behind his eyes, the faintest ringing in his ears… then nothing but warmth, like drifting through a fever dream.

And now apparently that fever dream involved half naked gardening and book theft.

He exhaled through his nose, long and sharp. “If this is a jest, Mu shidi, it’s in very poor taste.”

Mu Qingfang only smiled faintly. “I’m afraid it isn’t. Even that disciple of yours came by to ask what was wrong. You threw Xiu Ya at him.”

Shen Qingqiu smirked bitterly. At least that was one thing in character. 

“You missed, of course. But the intent was—ah—very clear.”

“…”

He slowly, carefully, buried his face in his hands.

Shen Qingqiu drew himself up, the faintest curve of a smile, cool, precise, and altogether lethal, touching his lips. He folded his fan with exaggerated care, every motion a measured dismissal.

“Ah, Mu shidi,” he began, all velvet and razor, “how touching of you to act the vigilant shepherd to my apparently wayward sheep. Truly, your devotion warms the cockles of the most wretched heart. But—” he paused, inclining his head with the air of conferring a rare mercy, “I would hate for your venerable mind to be overtaxed by trifles. Go home, rest those heroic knees, and do not burden the peak with recollections that confuse you. It would be a pity if the mist of senility were to make strangers of us all.”

He smiled then, the sort of smile that froze breath. “Pray, take your leave with haste. I would not have you collapse from the shock of remembering facts that trouble you so.”

Mu Qingfang’s face went unreadable for half a heartbeat then, with a small, insolent bow that held no respect whatsoever, he turned on his heel. “Very well, Shen shixiong,” he said, voice flat. “This shidi will go and let you wallow in your admirable dignity. Just know, I’ll be nearby incase anything happens.” He left the room without another scrap of politeness.

The door clicked shut and Shen Qingqiu’s courtesy snapped like dry paper. The smile dropped; his hands tightened until the fan’s ribs creaked. Rage slid up his spine, hot and immediate.

“Idiot,” he hissed, not bothering to soften it, that man has always been an insufferable fool.

He was about to stew in his own shit for a while before he spotted a little figure peeking out from the window. Shen Qingqiu narrowed his eyes suspiciously, one brow arching as he lifted a hand in a slow, measured wave which prompted the tiny figure to brighten and reveal herself.

A head of neatly tied ribbons peeked out, hesitating in the crack of the doorway.

“Yingying,” Shen Qingqiu muttered, voice caught somewhere between weary and fond. “Hello.”

“Shizun!” Ning Yingying beamed, bouncing on her heels with all the energy of someone who’d clearly forgotten that he was supposed to be terrifying. Her smile was so earnest it nearly made him feel guilty for being irritated. Nearly.

He sighed, long and dramatic, and gestured for her to come closer. “Well, come on, then. Don’t just stand there like a decorative statue.”

She scampered over immediately and plopped onto the floor across from him, robes puffing around her like petals. For a moment, she only fidgeted with her sleeves, sneaking little glances at him as if assessing the stormy weather of his mood.

Finally, she cleared her throat. “Shizun… can I ask something?”

He gave her a wary look. “If it’s about borrowing spirit stones again, the answer is no.”

“It’s not!” she said quickly, shaking her head so fast her ribbons bounced. “It’s just… a question.”

He leaned back, fanning himself lazily. “Very well. Proceed with your ‘question.’”

She pressed her lips together, clearly struggling to phrase it delicately. “Um… hypothetically,” she began, “if Shizun saw a… really, really cute puppy… like, fluffy, wagging its tail and everything! Would Shizun rather…” She paused, then finished in a rush, “beat it to death or pet it?”

There was a long, painful silence.

Shen Qingqiu slowly lowered his fan and gave her a flat stare. “…What.”

Ning Yingying blinked up at him innocently. “Just wondering! Hypothetically!”

“Hypothetically,” he said through his teeth, “I would not assault an animal unprovoked. What sort of question is that?”

Her shoulders sagged in visible relief, her face lighting up again. “So you’d pet it?”

“I—” He caught himself before he could say something cruel. He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly. “No. I would not pet the mutt. I wouldn’t outright kill it either.”

Ning Yingying huffed as if he was the one being difficult, “But shizun leans more towards the pet option, no?” 

“…I guess.” 

Yingying’s grin widened. “Then I’ll tell everyone you’re feeling better!”

Before he could even react, she bounced to her feet and dashed out the door, calling happily over her shoulder, “Bye shizun!”

Shen Qingqiu stared after her in disbelief, then buried his face in his hands to hide the small smile on his face. He really couldn’t help but indulge her antics. 

…hm. But there was a reason she was asking, wasn’t there…

He shoved back from the table so abruptly the cup trembled. “Ming Fang!” he barked, voice echoing down the corridor. 

The boy stumbled in a moment later, pale and panting, bowing so quickly he nearly headbutted the floor.

Shen Qingqiu was standing by the table, fan half open like a blade, eyes dark with irritation that could flay flesh from bone. “Report.”

“…report what, Shizun?”

“Don’t repeat my words like an echoing bell,” Shen Qingqiu snapped, his tone so silkily dangerous it was almost kind. “Report what happened yesterday. All of it. Every detail.”

“…Oh,” Ming Fan’s voice came tentatively from outside. “You’re… feeling better today?”

Shen Yuan blinked at him. “Better? Why wouldn’t I be?”

The boy looked like he’d seen a ghost. “You really don’t… remember anything?”

Shen Qingqiu scoffed tilted his head, keeping his tone airy, “Don’t waste my time, get to the point.”

Ming Fan’s smile was brittle. He bowed quickly, voice rising an octave, “Nothing. Shizun was peaceful.

Shen Qingqiu’s gaze sharpened, the kind of look that made disciples confess crimes from three years ago, “Peaceful?” he repeated slowly. “That’s strange. I’ve just been told I spent the day destroying my own garden, violating the library, and terrorising the peak while half dressed. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

Ming Fang’s soul visibly departed his mortal shell. It wasn’t even subtle, his pupils shrank to pinpricks, his mouth fell open like a dying fish, and for a heartbeat he looked as if he’d ascended straight past the Heavens and into sheer, unfiltered terror.

“Wh–What?” he squeaked. “Who—who would ever say something so absurd, Shizun?! That’s— that’s slander of the highest order! A crime! A— a sin!”

He pitched forward in a strangled half bow, half collapse, hands quivering so badly he nearly braced himself on the floor. “You were… absolutely dignified! As always! Immaculate! Radiant! Untouchable! Never—never would you commit something so— so unbecoming! Mu shishu must be mistaken! Or–or overheated! Hallucinating! Yes! Heatstroke!”

Shen Qingqiu’s fan snapped shut with a sound like a thunderclap tearing the sky.

Ming Fang flinched so violently he nearly toppled. “I’ll—I’ll go inform the disciples and Mu shishu that you’re stable now!”

…Stable?

Shen Qingqiu’s frown deepened, sharp and cutting. Stable? Stable? What was that supposed to imply?

“Ming Fang—”

“Thank you, Shizun! Goodbye Shizun— long life to Shizun!”

The boy fled out the door, down the steps, disappearing so fast it was as though fear had sprouted wings on his back. He didn’t even slide the door closed, just abandoned it swinging in his wake like he expected the room to explode behind him.

The silence that followed was thin, high strung, almost metallic. It vibrated in the air like the moment before a guqin string snapped.

Shen Qingqiu stood rooted in place, jaw locked, eyes sharpening. His fingers flexed against the edges of his fan, a muscle ticking in his cheek.

“Useless disciples,” he muttered darkly, beginning to pace. “Lying healers. Senile busybodies. This entire sect conspires against me.”

Another step. Another slow, simmering inhale.

He stopped. Abruptly. Completely.

Because a new, far more horrifying thought drifted in like smoke, just what did he do yesterday?

Yesterday was— what? A blur of white. A too soft bed. That strange room that smelled of antiseptic instead of sandalwood. Machines beeping in a rhythm he didn’t recognise. And faces, foreign faces, bending over him, talking in a language that blurred at the edges.

That wasn’t Cang Qiong.

It wasn’t anything like Cang Qiong.

A wave of nausea crashed over him, sharp enough to make his vision swim. Shen Qingqiu inhaled sharply and stumbled back, collapsing onto the nearest chair with less grace than he’d ever admit to.

He lifted his fan to cover the grimace twisting his mouth, habitual, instinctive. But the moment the lacquered surface met his gaze, he froze.

There was writing on it.

He didn’t write on his fan.

He would never write on his fan. Defacing his own accessories was beneath him, and besides—his handwriting was elegant, refined, flawless. Not… whatever this was.

Scrawled across the wood, jagged and uneven, was a single word:

scum.

He stared and the fan stared back.

As if mocking him.

…

He clenched his teeth and threw the fan across the room so hard it snapped. 

Immediately after, a door slid open with all the hesitant caution of someone poking a sleeping tiger. 

Shen Qingqiu tensed, “…Shidi, If this is about my ‘stability,’ I assure you—”

“It isn’t,” Mu Qingfang said gently, stepping inside, “Though your disciples did report some… heightened emotions.”

“Heightened—!?”

Mu Qingfang hums in that infuriating calm way. “Shixiong, I’d like to perform one more check.”

“No.”

“It will only take—”

“No.”

A pause. Then, “…Very well. Please extend your hand.”

Shen Qingqiu stiffened, “I said no.”

Mu Qingfang sat down with a sigh, “Shen shixiong, you were unconscious for a day. When you woke, you were… disoriented. You mistook several of your disciples for… ahem, ‘pathetic cowards’, flirted..? with Liu shidi, and attempted to climb out the window to escape when this one visited inside his home.”

Shen Qingqiu almost qi deviated on the spot.

“I—what?!”

“And when stopped, you shouted ‘don’t take me back to the psych ward.’”

Shen Qingqiu froze, throat closing.

Mu Qingfang’s expression softened.

“Shixiong… are you certain you feel well?”

The fan shook in Shen Qingqiu’s hands.

“I am fine.”

“…Very well, Shixiong. If you insist you’re fine, I won’t press. For now.” He bowed, calm as spring rain, and made for the door.

But before leaving, he paused.

“Please call for me if your… symptoms return.”

Symptoms.

Symptoms?!

Shen Qingqiu’s eye twitched so hard it nearly counted as a seizure.

Mu Qingfang closed the door behind him with forced gentleness.

The moment it clicked shut, Shen Qingqiu shot to his feet.

“Symptoms?! I’ll show you symptoms!”

He strode to the doorway, posture rigid with offended dignity and unspoken murder. He slammed the door open, stalked outside—

—and froze.

His breath caught, sharp and cold.

Because his garden, his pride, his carefully pruned serenity, his tranquil corner of Cang Qiong… was ruined.

The bamboo grove had been trampled flat in chaotic patterns like a herd of wild boars had held a dance off. Flowerbeds were shredded, entire planters upended as though someone had decided to repot the earth itself. His koi pond was cloudy, a rock sticking half out like someone had thrown it in frustration.

And his bamboo house, his elegant, humble sanctuary was now a mural of ink graffiti.

SPLATTERED.

EVERYWHERE.

Messages scrawled in aggressive, jagged brushstrokes wrapped across the walls and on the sliding doors: 

"Shen-dog!"

"Petty tyrant!"

"Stingy Shizun—pay your child support!" (What child support?!)

“I prey on little girls!"

And in huge, dripping characters across the main wall:

SCUM.

The words from his fan had only been the beginning.

His qi surged chaotically against his meridians, scraping like broken glass. He could practically hear Mu Qingfang’s future medical lecture. (You almost qi deviated because of this? You really are… ah, nevermind.)

He sucked in a breath.

Then another.

Neither helped.

He pointed a shaking finger at the house. “No—absolutely not—“

His voice grew shriller with each syllable.

He spun in a circle, gesturing wildly at the carnage around him.

“My garden! My walls! My koi pond! Does this sect have a death wish?!”

His cultivation flared again dangerously and the bamboo stalk next to him cracked under the pressure.

The longer he looked, the worse the adrenaline surged.

The worse the fury spiked.

The worse the humiliation burned behind his ribs.

Someone had destroyed his home.

Someone had defaced him.

Someone had mocked him in such a way.

And the most terrifying part?

He had no idea what or who did it.

Sure, Shen Qingqiu had done plenty to deserve it any and every day of the week from literally anyone, but it was obviously set off by what occurred the day prior! 

He broke off that train of thought when his knees began wobbling as another wave of unstable qi slammed through his chest.

He braced himself on a broken bamboo stalk, panting, vision pulsing at the edges.

That was when he heard footsteps approaching behind him.

Someone was coming up the hill toward his ruined home.

Someone who had definitely seen everything.

Shen Qingqiu’s head snapped up, eyes bloodshot.

“…Who,” he whispered, “dares show their face to me right now?”

The footsteps grew clearer, uneven, hesitant, almost tiptoeing.

Shen Qingqiu raised his head slowly, like a corpse rising from a grave.

At the foot of the stairs, half hidden behind a ruined bamboo stalk, stood the little beast.

Wide eyed and white knuckled, holding a tiny porcelain bottle like it was the last shred of dignity keeping him alive.

“Sh—Shizun,” he stammered.

A vein popped in Shen Qingqiu’s forehead.

Of all people. Of all times. Of all alternate dimension karmic cycles.

How stupid was this boy? Do you not see the state he is in? Do you enjoy pain? Filth. 

Luo Binghe swallowed audibly and took one cautious step closer, bowing so fast it nearly counted as groveling.

“I—I came to return this!”

He thrust out the small bottle with both hands, arms extended like he was offering tribute to a tyrant known for decapitating messengers. (He wouldn’t be wrong…)

Shen Qingqiu stared at it.

Then at him.

Then back at it.

“…What,” he said, dangerously soft, “is that?”

Luo Binghe’s smile twitched. “The medicine you gave me yesterday, Shizun.”

Shen Qingqiu blinked.

His cultivation spiked and he let out a mocking cackle.

Luo Binghe flinched so violently the bottle rattled and he stepped back.

“You said to hide the- uh, injuries. That it would help,” Luo Binghe babbled, backing a step away, “and—it did! It worked very well! I feel very energised today—um—more vigorous! So I wanted to return the bottle and thank you, Shizun!”

He bowed again.

Shen Qingqiu’s brain short circuited.

HE gave the beast medicine?

His eye twitched so hard it was practically tap dancing.

“Luo. Binghe. What. Exactly. Did I give you yesterday?”

Luo Binghe looked at the bottle as if hoping it would answer for him, “Um. A salve..?"

Shen Qingqiu’s lungs seized, his meridians tightened and his qi rioted, “Luo Binghe shouldn’t make up excuses to steal from his master whilst he is in a disoriented state. Perhaps this unfilial disciple needs another lesson in the woodshed?” 

Luo Binghe, reading his expression, paled, “I—I’m sorry! This one really didn’t steal. He promises. If it was precious, this Binghe didn’t mean to use it all! He only took a little—please don’t be angry—Shizun, your face is getting red—Shizun?”

He took a step back.

Then another. Preparing to flee.

Shen Qingqiu saw it and gawked, “You dare run from me?” 

Luo Binghe squeaked and did a full 180, dropping to his knees and slamming his forehead to the ground as he offered up the salve like it was the holy grail. 

“You,” He gestured wildly at the ruined garden, the destroyed koi pond, the graffiti screaming slander across his house, “did this. Didn’t you.” 

Luo Binghe’s soul visibly detached from his body.

“N–No!!! Shizun, absolutely not! This stupid one would never—this wasn’t me—I swear on all nine generations of my ancestors, I didn’t deface your bamboo house!! I didn’t even step on the flowers! I walked around the garden! I tiptoed!!”

“And yet,” Shen Qingqiu hissed, stalking forward, “You appear right as I discover this.”

“It’s just a coincidence!!” Binghe cried, "This ignorant disciple assumed the... renovations to the house were on purpose. Doesn't shizun remember?"

“Remember what!"

”That shizun did it himself…” Luo Binghe’s knees buckled further somehow, "Shizun, please, I’ll leave, I’ll leave right now—thank you for the medicine, goodbye!!”

He tried to run again which only fanned Shen Qingqiu’s fury like gasoline meeting open flame.

”Don’t run.” 

Luo Binghe yelped, tripped over a flattened bamboo stalk, and scrambled backward on all fours like a panicked puppy, “Luo Binghe isn’t running, he’s just moving away quickly— aah-“

Whether it was fear, respect, or sheer self preservation, Luo Binghe turned tail and sprinted down the steps at lightning speed.

Shen Qingqiu tore after him—

Or tried to.

Three steps in, his unstable qi lurched, and he had to grab a bamboo post to keep from face planting.

He growled, “You… beast. Come back. Now.” 

Down the stairs, Luo Binghe’s terrified voice floated back, “…Yes shizun. I'm sorry shizun. Please feel better!” He then came running back and hesitantly skidded to a stop about thirty feet away from him. 

Shen Qingqiu might actually qi deviate from irritation. Seriously, this monster was annoying. 

He stood hunched over his poor, massacred bamboo post, breaths coming sharp and ragged. His vision pulsed—white, then black, then an angry shade of purple.

His meridians twisted like they were trying to tie themselves into decorative knots.

His qi surged in one last tidal wave, smashing against the fragile balance of his cultivation. His heartbeat thundered, each pulse a sledgehammer to the ribs.

Shen Qingqiu wasn't stupid.

He’d long grown familiar with symptoms of an upcoming qi deviation—he knew the warning signs, the turbulence, the hot and cold rush, the crackling at the edges of consciousness. He had lectured disciples about it. He had lectured other peak lords about it. He had condescendingly lectured strangers about it!

Then he felt it.

That snap.

The tiniest crack somewhere deep in his meridians, like a string stretched to breaking.

“Ah,” Shen Qingqiu said faintly.

Across from him, Luo Binghe froze mid scramble, halfway through a terrified backwards crab walk. His eyes were huge, horrified, and gleaming with tears of pure panic.

“Shizun??”

Shen Qingqiu’s right hand twitched, just once, violently, like he was about to slap Binghe clear off the mountain.

Binghe squeaked.

Shen Qingqiu sucked in a breath, jerked his hand back, and clasped it behind him like the image of cultivated restraint.

He stood very still.

Too still.

His voice was thin and dangerously calm.

“Luo Binghe.”

“Yes!” Binghe squeaked.

“Leave.”

“I—Shizun—you're very pale—are you—”

“Leave.”

Binghe shot to his feet like an arrow released from a bow and bolted down the steps so fast his legs were a blur. A trail of dust puffed behind him.

The moment the boy vanished around the bend, Shen Qingqiu’s composure cracked like ice.

“….Nope,” he wheezed. “Absolutely not. Not doing this here.”

He spun on his heel, a motion that nearly toppled him, and staggered stiffly toward his bamboo house. Each step was a battle.

One step, wobble.

Second step, vision going spotty.

Third step, meridians twisting into knots.

By the fourth step, he was praying to ancestors he didn’t even respect.

He tried to look dignified.

It only made him look like a noble immortal precariously balancing on legs made of jelly.

He passed the ink graffiti on his walls without daring to look directly at it, focusing instead on not vomiting or dying or spontaneously exploding.

He reached the doorway.

Grabbed the frame.

Pulled himself inside with the grace of someone escaping a crime scene.

The moment he was out of sight from the path, all pretenses of elegance evaporated.

His knees buckled and he staggered onto his bed like a man surrendering to death. He collapsed onto his side, teeth clenched, fingers clawing at the blanket as his breath came in painful shudders.

“Of all days,” he hissed under his breath, “of all people—“

Shen Qingqiu winced and let the deviation run its course. 

By the time it was over, the sun was setting outside and his body felt limp and hollow. 

He went under the covers and secretly hoped to have the same dream he had last night, all whilst shivering and muttering to himself as his body jolted erratically.

The dream he had yesterday, where he wasn't Shen Jiu.  

…Shen Qingqiu went to sleep with a headache.

Chapter Text

Shen Yuan woke up with a smile.

A huge smile—one of those soft, satisfied morning grins that felt like sunshine on a pleasant spring day.

He stretched under his blankets like a lazy cat, sighed contentedly, and stared at the ceiling with dreamy fondness.

Ahhhh… yes.

Last night’s dream.

Shen Yuan had the funnest dream he’d had in months—no, years! It’d been a long time since he’d dreamed so vividly, so immersively, so… cinematically.

He could remember it perfectly!

The glowing, distressed face of his poor white lotus protagonist…

Ah!

Just reminiscing made him feel like a proud mother waving her child off to his first day of school.

He clutched his chest.

God, he could cry.

Sure, there was a downside… a very tiny, minuscule downside that he had dreamt of being Shen Qingqiu.

…But honestly?

It had its perks!

He gleefully humiliated himself—

Wait, no, let’s clarify—

He gleefully humiliated that shit tier scumbag!

While Shen Yuan himself had a thin face, he was absolutely willing to endure deep, soul crushing shame in the name of humiliating his least favourite fictional man.

It was a dream, after all!

No consequences!

Total sandbox mode!

He ruined the man’s garden, took pity on the poor bunny protagonist, chatted with a few characters, and stomped around Cang Qiong like a half drunk immortal having a breakdown.

AAAahhhh!!!

Peak fiction.

For a tiny, fleeting moment inside the dream, Shen Yuan had wondered if he’d transmigrated. But that was ridiculous. After all, he wasn’t dead! His stomach wasn’t stabbed, his soul wasn’t ripped out, his laptop hadn’t exploded… so he came to the only logical conclusion.

“It was just a dream,” he sighed happily into his pillow.

Absolutely just a dream.

He closed his eyes again, replaying a part where he gave Luo Binghe that bottle of salve. He couldn’t remember what he said it was, but in hindsight it looked suspiciously like laundry detergent.

Shen Yuan snorted.

God, his subconscious was a menace.

He was then violently yanked back to reality.

Literally.

Something warm and damp hit his cheek. He blinked awake—

—and came face to face with his little sister, Shen Di, hovering over him like a ghost.

“….hi?” Shen Yuan croaked.

Her eyes immediately filled with tears. Her bottom lip quivered. Without warning she lunged forward and crushed him in a bear hug that nearly broke three ribs.

“A-Yuan!!! How are you feeling?! Are you hungry? Are you okay?!”

Shen Yuan blinked, patting her back like he was calming a distressed cat.

“Yes? Why wouldn’t I be?”

Shen Di pulled back and fixed him with the flattest, driest, most unimpressed stare known to mankind. Then she flicked him right between the eyes.

Hard.

“OW—what was that for?!”

“You were so depressed yesterday!” she snapped, hands on hips, “I mean—I know you hate hospitals, but I didn’t think you hated them so much that you would try to escape!”

“Eh?” Shen Yuan rubbed his forehead, confused. “Escape? What are you talking about?”

Shen Di pinched the bridge of her nose like dealing with him physically aged her, “You rushed at the doctors. You screamed. You kicked. You tried to climb out the window. You even started biting!”

“…eh???”

“You were like a feral animal!” she cried, waving her arms. “They had to sedate you twice!”

“…Eh?????”

Shen Yuan stared at her.

Shen Di stared back.

Shen Yuan scoffed, “I didn’t do that.” 

Shen Di rolled her eyes, arms crossing with the kind of disdain only a younger sister perfected through years of practice, “Just because you pretend to forget doesn’t mean you get away with it. You’re lucky I didn’t tell Gege.”

“Aish, if I said I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it!” Shen Yuan grumbled, rubbing his temples. “Besides! Why would I? It’s not like I’m not used to being here.”

He gestured vaguely at the hospital room, its bland walls and faint antiseptic smell. This had been his second home ever since his body decided to be allergic to functioning properly. He’d had many humiliating episodes here, but biting?? Shen Yuan would remember biting someone!

Right?

Shen Di let out the most judgmental scoff he’d ever heard from a living human being, “A-Yuan… Yesterday you were feral.”

“I refuse to believe that.”

“You tried to suplex a nurse.”

“Lies.”

“You growled.”

“Okay.”

“You threatened to jump out the window. We’re on the eighth floor!!”

“…Okay, that does sound like me, but I promise it wasn’t!”

Shen Di threw her hands up. “Whatever! You aren’t getting out of this by gaslighting me.”

Shen Yuan slumped back into his pillow, rubbing his face with both palms. The dream must have been more exhausting than he realised because his head still felt hazy, heavy in a way that didn’t match normal sleepiness.

And his body… ached? In weird places? Especially his arms, his ribs, even his wrists felt like he’d—

…fought??

Impossible. He’d been sleeping. Dreaming. Being a menace as Shen Qingqiu. Running around Cang Qiong, destroying his own dignity, his own house, bullying his disciples, comforting the poor bun, emotionally terrorising half the sect—

Oh.

His stomach dropped.

“…Di Di.”

”Mmmmyup?”

He swallowed. 

“Yesterday. What… exactly was I doing?”

His sister paused, confused by the sudden seriousness in his tone.

“Well… for starters, you vanished.”

Shen Yuan blinked. “Vanished?”

“Vanished. As in—poof! You were gone for hours. Your phone, wallet, backpack, hospital socks—gone. You even left your IV stand behind.”

“Eh??”

“And when they finally found you,” she continued, voice rising, “you were wandering around the gardens looking like you’d seen a ghost, muttering about something. This is the important bit… you were complaining that the fake bamboo outside was all wrong.”

Shen Yuan froze.

The bamboo.

His garden.

His dream garden.

His dream garden, which he had absolutely obliterated as Shen Qingqiu.

“Oh. My. God.” Shen Yuan whispered, horrified. “Did I… roleplay?”

Shen Di snorted. “Roleplay? A-Yuan, you practically LARPED a mental breakdown.”

He covered his face with both hands.

No. No no no.

This couldn’t be happening.

He didn’t actually—

He couldn’t have actually—

“Don’t tell me I said anything… embarrassing,” he croaked.

Shen Di’s expression softened just a fraction.

“You threw a tantrum.”

He winced. “Okay, not ideal, but survivable.”

“Then raided the closets for more layers since apparently you were ‘practically naked’.” 

Shen Yuan pulled the blanket over his face.

“Oh no.”

“A-Yuan.”

“Nope. I’m dead. Cremate me.”

“A-Yuan—”

“No open casket.”

“A-Yuan!”

He slowly lowered the blanket, staring at her, wide eyed and haunted.

“…Did I at least sound cool?”

“No. You sounded insane.”

Shen Yuan fell back onto the bed, utterly defeated.

But beneath the humiliation, beneath the embarrassment, beneath the desire to evaporate—

A tiny spark of dread flared.

If he had acted like a deranged druggie yesterday…

If his dream felt that real…

And if Shen Di’s recollection matched the events of the dream—

Then what he experienced wasn’t just a vivid dream.

It might not have been a dream at all.

Something cold slithered down his spine.

“…Di Di?” he whispered.

“Hm?”

“…Was anyone else acting strange yesterday? Anyone I talked to? Anyone who mentioned me acting… different?”

Her brow furrowed. “Oh—actually, yes. Your doctor said you kept insisting he called you ‘Qingqiu.’ And when he refused you tried to kick him.”

Shen Yuan clutched his head and swallowed hard.

“…Di.”

“Mm?”

“Yesterday… did Gege come visit?”

Her eyes flicked away.

And her silence said everything.

A soft knock preceded the gentle whoosh of the sliding door.

In came a round, warm looking nurse rosy cheeks, soft features, kind eyes that crinkled when she smiled. She walked with the calm, waddling assurance of someone who’d seen every kind of patient meltdown known to humanity and still believed in kindness.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” she chirped, voice fluffier than a steamed bun. She reached his bedside and patted Shen Yuan’s hand with featherlight care. “How are we feeling?”

Shen Yuan blinked.

“Uh… alive?”

Her smile widened. “That’s already better than yesterday.”

He quirked a brow. He was in the VIP section for crying out loud! Why wasn’t his private doctor with him!?

She seemed to notice his confusion and so she tilted her head and said, in the sweetest, most oblivious tone known to mankind, “I’m back because you requested a female doctor…?”

Shen Yuan made a sound no adult man should ever make.

“WHAT—??”

It came out as a high pitched squawk that cracked at the end.

The nurse actually flinched.

Shen Yuan grabbed his blanket and yanked it up to his chin as if it could shield him from reality. His face turned red so fast he nearly gave himself heatstroke.

“I—I requested WHAT?!” he squeaked.

She blinked patiently. “A female doctor.”

“That’s—th–that’s inappropriate!” he sputtered, voice climbing several octaves. “I don’t—I would never—! I mean, not that female doctors are—! I just—! I’m not—!!”

He slapped a hand over his mouth.

Oh no.

OH NO.

Did Shen Qingqiu’s brainworms rub off on him?! Was he becoming a lecherous peak lord?? A scummy villain adjacent scoundrel?? Was he going to start fluttering fans and seducing toddlers with folding chair level charm?!

The nurse, bless her innocent soul, continued with a gentle head tilt.

“You threw a latex glove at Dr. Zhang and called him a predatory beast then requested a woman.”

Shen Yuan covered his face with both hands.

“I’m never going outside again,” he whispered.

She patted his shoulder. “Sweetheart, it’s okay. Lots of patients feel more at ease with certain genders. It’s perfectly normal.” 

He peeked out from between his fingers, mortified. “Did I say anything else?”

“Oh, yes,” she said cheerfully, pulling out her clipboard. “Quite a bit, actually! Let’s see…”

She flipped a page.

“You informed us that our uniforms were ‘unfeminine.’ Then you demanded I walk ahead of you in the hallway so ‘the wolves’ wouldn’t stare at my back.”

Shen Yuan squawked.

She nodded sympathetically, as though this were all perfectly normal behavior.

“But don’t worry. After that you calmed down.”

The nurse gave him one last sympathetic pat, as if he were a trembling stray dog who had recently bitten an electrician and was now being rehomed.

“Anyway,” she chirped, “your doctor will be in soon to finalise your discharge paperwork. Since you’re lucid today—and not threatening to exorcise the thermometers—we think it’s safe to send you home.”

Shen Yuan’s brain stuttered.

“D-Discharged? Already??”

“Well, yes! You’re stable, hydrated, and no longer trying to climb out the window.”

He stared in horror and she nodded kindly. 

Shen Yuan covered his face with both hands.

He wanted to die.

Actually, no—he wanted whatever fever dream that everyone apparently experienced all at once, to die.

But the nurse simply hummed and patted him again.

“Don’t worry. We see everything here.”

“Do you?” Shen Yuan whispered bleakly. “Everything?”

She nodded with the wisdom of a woman who had witnessed horrors.

“We once had a man swallow a sock on a dare.”

Shen Yuan did not want to know this.

Before he could mentally crumble any further, the doctor came in, his usual one this time, and greeted him with a bright professional smile.

“Well, Shen Yuan, good news. Your tests are clear, your vitals are back to baseline, and as long as someone is supervising you at home for the next 24 hours, you’re free to be discharged.”

He blinked.

“Just like that?”

Like nothing had happened?

Like he hadn’t spiritually LARPED as a deranged Qing Jing Peak Lord?

She handed him a clipboard.

“You’ll need to sign these. And promise not to run away from medical staff again.”

“That wasn’t me!” he blurted.

The doctor paused. “Ah?”

He coughed, “Uh—I mean—of course, of course, I won’t, uh, do that… again.”

The doctor and nurse exchanged glances—the kind that said He’s harmless, but we should never let him near an open window again.

Shen Di returned just in time to grab his things.

“Alright, A-Yuan. I gave Gege a heads up. He’ll pick us up outside.”

Shen Yuan froze.

“Ge…ge?”

Oh no.

Oh no no.

His older brother.

The one who lectured like thunder.

The one who already thought Shen Yuan was a goblin held together by sarcasm and adoration for fictional men.

He was going to hear everything.

Shen Yuan suddenly regretted every choice in life.

But his sister simply hoisted his backpack onto her shoulder and gestured at him to get out of bed.

“Come on. You can fall apart in the car.”

He shuffled after her like a condemned man walking to his execution.

(He tried not to think about how many had witnessed him screaming like a coke head.)

Outside, the cold air slapped him awake, and Shen Di’s steady grip guided him toward the family car. His brother sat in the driver’s seat, sunglasses on, radiating silent judgment.

Shen Yuan swallowed hard.

He eased into the backseat, clutching his phone like a lifeline.

The moment the doors shut, his brother spoke without turning around.

“A-Yuan.”

His voice was flat.

“Yes, Gege…?” Shen Yuan squeaked.

There was a long, damning silence.

Then, “…Why did the hospital tell me you bit someone?”

Shen Yuan let out a quiet, tortured noise.

He sank into the seat with his face burning and dread coiling in his stomach.

…

Comforted back in his home, he let the familiar environment comfort him and lull him to bed.

He secretly hoped that he would have the same dream he had last night. It was fun. 

Shen Yuan went to sleep with a smile.

Chapter Text

Shen Yuan awoke to the distinct sensation that his body had been wrung out, set on fire, stomped on, and then politely returned to him empty of all spiritual energy.

His limbs throbbed.

His ribs ached.

His head pounded like someone had stuffed a drum inside it and let Liu Qingge go wild.

He groaned and tried to sit up, only to feel something cold and hard under his cheek.

His fingers brushed smooth porcelain.

Not soft fabric.

Not his fluffy memory foam pillow!!

Porcelain.

His eyes snapped open.

Ah!!

A strangled, deeply undignified sound escaped him as he shot upright, too fast, and immediately swayed like a dying reed in the wind. His vision flashed white. His balance fled. He windmilled an arm, missed the table entirely, and nearly ate floor.

He caught himself at the last second and then he saw it.

The bamboo house.

Or rather—

The crime scene formerly known as the bamboo house.

He noticed the fan that he had *ahem* decorated was discarded on the floor across the room. He walked over and plucked it up, observing his masterful calligraphy. As he spun back, the shelves were tilted and books were scattered. 

He stepped forward, surveying the room like a man walking through the aftermath of his own war crimes.

And something heavy, something unnecessary and embarrassing, pressed into his chest.

Guilt.

Why guilt??

This was Shen Qingqiu’s house!

The scum villain!

The man whose entire personality was 100% trash, trash, trash!!!

Why should he, Shen Yuan, devoted reader and innocent transmigrator(?), feel bad?!

He scowled at himself, crossing his arms.

No! Stop that!

This is the scum villain’s fault! This is his body! His cultivation! HIS emotional damage! I just borrowed it!

He pointed at the wreckage like a disappointed auntie.

It serves him right! Karma! Divine retribution!

But the longer he stood there…

…the more he noticed little things.

A carefully folded robe shoved under a chair.

A cup he must’ve knocked over but had clearly once been part of a matching pair.

A half written manuscript under the table, trodden on only once.

And on the desk, messy, ink stained, nearly soaked, sat a stack of lesson plans.

Neat, meticulous, and heartbreakingly diligent.

Shen Yuan felt his throat tighten.

“Ah,” he muttered, “He was… working.”

He crouched down, picking up a page that had survived the destruction. The edges were wrinkled, but the script was elegant. His heart squeezed.

“Ugh—NO! No feeling sorry for him!”

He stood up so fast he nearly toppled again.

And that was when the deeper ache hit him. That hollow, pulsing, bruised from the inside sensation that told him his meridians had been abused, stretched, overdrawn, and whipped into a pretzel.

Shen Yuan hissed, clutching his chest.

Right.

He forgot that the original goods was vulnerable towards deviations. 

Great. Amazing. Perfect. Not only did Shen Qingqiu manage to destroy himself, he destroyed MY liver and MY spleen in the process!

He staggered toward the bed, intending to sit and immediately tripped on a fallen bamboo broom, nearly eating floor for real this time.

He caught himself against the wall, panting.

“…Okay. Okay. I can fix this,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Just clean up. Pretend nothing happened. No one needs to know Qing Jing Peak looked like it was raided by drunk demons.”

He took another step and froze as he heard footsteps approaching outside.

Shen Yuan's eyes widened and he spun around, surveying the wreckage.

There was no way to hide this.

No way to explain this.

No way to escape the consequences of Shen Qingqiu's (and his) actions!!

He grabbed the nearest object (a broken fan), held it uselessly like a weapon, and shook like a leaf.

The door slid open and he realised he was very, VERY doomed.

The door slid open with a soft wooden sigh, and Shen Yuan had precisely half a second to contemplate diving headfirst under the bed before Ning Yingying spilled into the ruined bamboo house.

She stopped short at the threshold, frozen in place like a startled deer, her gaze sweeping across the toppled furniture, the ink splattered floors, the cracked tea set, the boot print on the wall that absolutely should not exist, and finally, slowly, cautiously, landing on Shen Yuan himself, still in Shen Qingqiu’s elegant robes but looking absolutely nothing like the ethereal, refined peak lord she was used to.

He stood clutching a half broken folding fan like it was a sword, hair mussed from sleep and chaos, eyes wide with guilt he absolutely refused to acknowledge, and the distinct aura of someone who had definitely destroyed the room but was currently trying to pretend he had merely walked into it moments earlier.

“...Shizun?” Ning Yingying ventured, her voice trembling with a mixture of reverence and terror, as though she were addressing a highly volatile spirit who might cry or kill them at any moment. “You… you appear to have… had a difficult night?”

Shen Yuan opened his mouth with every intention of replying with dignity and authority, only to find that his throat had dried into dust and his brain had curled up like a salted slug. He forced a smile that felt like it might crack his face. “Ah—yes—well—you see—” he began, sealing his own doom immediately, “I was merely… cultivating.”

“Cultivating… Shizun?” She repeated slowly, taking in the collapsed bookshelf that looked like it had been tackled by a small elephant.

Shen Yuan nodded vigorously, despite the pulsing ache in his temples. “Yes,” he insisted, gesturing vaguely at the chaos as though it were a perfectly normal aftermath of spiritual refinement. “A… breakthrough, you could say. To purify one’s heart, you must cleanse the filth.” 

Ning Yingying knelt beside a snapped bamboo brush handle and picked it up gingerly, holding it between two fingers like the corpse of a beloved pet. “Shizun… were you purifying this as well?”

Shen Yuan stared at the broken stick and felt something inside him shrivel. “Yes,” he croaked, “that also needed purifying very urgently.”

He could tell from her face that she didn’t believe him, but also that she adored him too much to question him openly. A lethal combination, really, because it meant his humiliation would be preserved in her memories with horrifying accuracy.

Before he could attempt to redirect this disaster, a loud, heavy thud echoed from outside, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone stomping with such force that the entire bamboo walkway vibrated. Shen Yuan’s stomach dropped into his knees as a cold, heavy, doom laden aura approached like a sword wielding thundercloud.

Of course!! 

Because today was simply not allowed to be survivable.

The door slid open again, far less gently this time, and Liu Qingge strode in with the speed and intensity of someone who had spent the entire night imagining all possible ways his colleague could have died and was now prepared to fight every single demon in existence to prevent it. His eyes swept the room in a single, viciously efficient pass and then landed in front of Shen Yuan.

Or rather, Shen Qingqiu.

Liu Qingge froze.

His expression didn’t change, not in the face, but something in his aura turned so sharp and so dangerous that Shen Yuan felt his soul attempt to evacuate his body.

“...Shen Qingqiu.”

Two words.

Two words delivered with the exact tone a man would use upon discovering his neighbour had reversed a carriage through his front door.

Shen Yuan swallowed, his throat making a tiny, pathetic sound.

“Liu shidi—good morning,” he attempted, summoning the most brittle, strained elegance his frazzled soul could muster. “I trust you slept well?”

Liu Qingge’s eye twitched.

“Explain.”

It was not a request.

Ning Yingying yelped and waved, scampering off. 

Shen Yuan felt the dizziness return and he opened his mouth, ready to lie again—

—and then the worst possible thing happened.

A soft, timid voice called out from outside the doorway.

“Shizun…?”

Shen Yuan’s veins turned to ice.

Luo Binghe stepped hesitantly into view, clutching a tray of morning porridge, eyes wide with worry, looking for all the world like a loyal, anxious puppy searching for an injured owner.

The instant his gaze swept over the wrecked bamboo house, his expression crumpled in horror.

Shen Yuan stared at him.

Liu Qingge stared at him.

Luo Binghe stared at him.

And Shen Yuan, heart pounding, head throbbing, legs shaking, surrounded by ruin he technically caused and was now fully responsible for—

—did the only thing his exhausted, over caffeinated, transmigrator(??) brain could do.

He pointed vaguely at the broken window and said, in the most defeated tone imaginable,

“…the wind.”

And every single person in the room knew, instantly and without question, that he was lying.

Shen Yuan took several long, deliberate breaths, the kind one takes before stepping onto a stage they have absolutely no business performing on, and steeled himself with the solemn conviction of a man who had already made enough of a fool of himself in this body for a lifetime.

Okay. Well. It seemed like this would be a recurring series of dreams. And if he has a save file, then he probably… shouldn’t curse out Shen Qingqiu whilst he… was Shen Qingqiu…

No more deranged, frothing at the mouth gremlin behaviour.

No more screaming into the void. No more scuttling across floors like a traumatised prairie rat.

Today—today—he would embody the dignified, frostbitten composure of Shen Qingqiu, the Great Master of Qing Jing Peak, the terror of junior disciples, the man whose eyebrows alone were sharp enough to file swords.

He clasped his hands behind his back, lifted his chin several millimetres higher than natural for extra gravitas, and repeated internally.

Cold. Aloof. Above it all. You are an ice sculpture with taxes.

Unfortunately, the universe hated him.

The moment that Shen Yuan opened his eyes, he was met with the pitiful sight of Luo Binghe and his heart twisted. 

“Shizun,” Luo Binghe said, voice soft, gaze unbearably earnest.

Shen Yuan felt his soul leave his body for the second time in as many days.

But he had committed. He had committed to the cold, frosty bastard persona. So he cleared his throat, dropped his gaze to half lidded disdain, and said with the dismissiveness of a disappointed emperor, “Ah. You’re still here.”

Luo Binghe stiffened, startled. “I—I only came to apologise for yesterday. And to thank—”

“Yes, yes, your gratitude is noted,” Shen Yuan interrupted with a lazy wave of his sleeve, channeling the spirit of every superior older cousin in every family drama ever. “Now kindly remove yourself from my courtyard. Your presence is… clutter.”

It was both the nicest and most refined way he could think to say fuck off.

Luo Binghe blinked as if slapped, opened his mouth to speak, shut it again, bowed quickly, and turned on his heel. Shen Yuan felt a pinch of guilt, just a pinch, but shoved it down ruthlessly. Cold and aloof. Cold and aloof. NO WEAKNESS. HE’S THE PROTAGONIST AND WILL MURDER YOU IN BOOK THREE!! 

He barely had time to exhale before another disaster descended upon him.

Liu Qingge stomped closer with all the subtlety of a collapsing mountain, sword on back, expression like he had already prepared three arguments, two accusations, and one attempted murder.

“You look terrible,” Liu Qingge announced flatly, arms crossing over his chest. “Did you get into trouble again?”

Shen Yuan blinked. Again?! “Excuse me?”

“I heard about the qi deviation,” Liu Qingge continued, tone somehow even flatter. “Try not to embarrass the sect next time.”

Oh.

OH.

The rage that rose in Shen Yuan’s chest was so immediate, so volcanic, so violently Shen Qingqiu coded that for a moment he almost understood why the original scum villain insulted people as naturally as breathing.

Because, hell!! His sect brothers were… persistent!!

He smiled thinly, every tooth a warning.

“Liu-shidi,” he said, tone dangerously polite, “I appreciate your concern. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize you were now monitoring my cultivation progress. Should I report my bowel movements to you as well?”

Liu Qingge’s eye twitched. “That’s not— You— That’s not what I said.”

“No? Then perhaps,” Shen Yuan continued, hands still clasped serenely behind his back, “it would benefit you to practice the ancient art of shutting up before speaking nonsense.”

Liu Qingge made a strangled noise halfway between a scoff and an indignant hiss. “You—! Your mouth is getting worse.”

“Ah,” Shen Yuan said with a gentle nod. “Must be your influence.”

And with that, he stepped past him, sleeves fluttering dramatically, fully committed to his new persona.

Cold. Aloof. Elegant. Untouchable.

…And if he absolutely booked it the second he rounded the corner, that was between him and the Heavens.

By the time Shen Yuan rounded the final bend of the stone path and the bamboo house’s garden came into view, his cultivated frostiness evaporated so abruptly it might as well have been sucked straight out of his pores.

Because the garden.

The garden.

The garden that Shen Qingqiu, stingy, fussy, particular Shen Qingqiu, tended with the obsessive precision of a bonsai tyrant… looked like it had been mauled by a drunken tiger, four rabid boars, and a rogue landscaping crew armed with explosives.

Shen Yuan froze. Completely froze. Even his soul paused mid hover.

Broken stalks. Uprooted flowers. Crushed herbs. Dirt everywhere, like the earth itself had thrown a tantrum. Several potted plants lay overturned with the theatrical despair of fainting damsels. And the ink graffiti—

Behind him, Liu Qingge followed and growled, “Shen Qingqiu—!!” 

The war god then stopped in his tracks at the sight. He then awkwardly pat Shen Yuan on the shoulder, then slowly backed away and bolted from the peak.

The front wall of the bamboo house was still smeared with blotchy, spattered black characters, like the feverish rantings of a demon who’d learned calligraphy an hour ago.

Traitor.
Coward.
Scum.
Go die.
Ugly bastard.

And his personal favourite: Soggy lettuce brained donkey man.

He stared at the mess in the sick dread of someone who realizes they had, in fact, been the soggy lettuce brained donkey man.

“…I did this,” Shen Yuan whispered, horrified.

Saying it aloud didn’t make it better.

It made it worse.

Because suddenly he could imagine Shen Qingqiu returning one day, cold, collected, immaculate, only to find his beloved peak residence looking like a demon toddler had drawn on it mid tantrum.

Shen Yuan rubbed his face.

He was not a bad person.

He was not a good person either, maybe, but he was not rotten enough to leave this mess.

And even if he wanted to rationalize that the original owner of this body was a bastard who deserved mild property damage…

…it was still his house.

And somehow that made it worse.

With a strangled groan, Shen Yuan rolled up imaginary sleeves and accepted his fate.

⸻

The rest of the day passed in a blur of thankless, backbreaking labor that would have made the original Shen Qingqiu faint dead away from overexertion.

He righted toppled pots, carefully re packed soil around delicate roots, and whispered frantic apologies to several plants that probably couldn’t hear him but deserved the sentiment anyway. He swept crushed bamboo leaves into neat piles, mended snapped stalks with twine he found in a drawer, and scrubbed the house’s outer walls until his arms felt like wet noodles.

The ink graffiti proved especially stubborn. Whatever rage drunk version of himself that had written it had either used demon ink or the blood of an extremely vengeful animal spirit, because some of the insults refused to budge even after three full buckets of water and half a bar of soap.

Listen, I’m trying, okay? I didn’t mean any of this! Don’t cling to your hatred like this— I’m not the sect elder!

At one point he almost tripped face first into a bucket when he reread one of the insults he had apparently carved into the side of the herb planter box: Bastard with the emotional intelligence of a fungus.

“…That one was pretty good though,” he muttered while scrubbing it off anyway.

Hours passed. His arms ached. His back ached. His soul ached. But slowly, painfully, the bamboo house began to look like itself again—quiet, neat, gently dignified, the sort of place where a proper, icy cultivation master resided rather than an unhinged raccoon.

By the time he went back inside, the bamboo house was void of visitors and he used the opportunity to fix the interior as well. 

Thankfully, Shen Yuan had decided to spare the inside some mercy last time he was here. Phew! So it wasn’t as much work as the garden. 

And finally, finally, Shen Yuan dragged himself to Shen Qingqiu’s desk, pulled out the folding fan he’d disgraced yesterday, and snapped it open.

One side still read scum in a furious, jagged scrawl.

He winced.

Then, with a deep sigh of shame, he flipped it over, dipped the brush into ink, and, slow, careful strokes, wrote:

sorry.

Lowercase, tiny and pathetic.

He stared at it for a long moment, then folded the fan shut and set it aside next to the bed side table, face burning with a humiliation that was technically not even his.

He didn’t know if Shen Qingqiu would ever see it.

He didn’t know if it mattered.

But it made him feel a little less like a feral demon who’d ruined someone’s home.

And for now, that would have to be enough.

Shen Yuan went to sleep.

Chapter Text

Shen Qingqiu woke slowly, as if dragged upward through thick, suffocating tar.

His head throbbed... no, pounded, a dull and constant ache like someone had taken a mallet to his skull. His limbs felt unfamiliar, light, soft, unburdened by years of cultivation strain. The sheets beneath him were warm and absurdly plush. Everything smelled faintly of detergent and the artificial sweetness of a scented candle.

This was not his bed.

This was not his body.

And, when he blinked at the ceiling, there was a very questionable poster hanging above him of a long haired youth posing with a sword, shirt open, pecs glistening like oiled marble.

Shen Qingqiu’s face twitched.

Ah.

So the... nightmare from yesterday had not been a nightmare.

It had simply… changed locations.

Wonderful.

He pushed himself upright slowly, palms sinking into something unnervingly soft and springy. The blanket pooled around him, a ridiculous lavender colored thing with cartoon rabbits printed along the border, and Shen Qingqiu swallowed the urge to fling it across the room.

Rabbits.

Lavender.

What, was he a child...?

Why must every world he wakes in insult him immediately?

He inhaled, steadying himself, then looked around properly and felt his soul briefly attempt to evacuate his body.

The room was… chaos. Organised chaos, perhaps—if one were generous to the point of delusion—but chaos nonetheless. Shelves lined the walls, overflowing with bright figures, dolls, books with garish covers, and an alarming number of smiling faces that all resembled one person.

A familiar one.

Luo Binghe.

Dozens, no, hundreds-! of tiny plastic Luo Binghes that stared him down from every angle of the room. Unlike the little beast he knew, these were all were older and adorned in... black and red, nothing like the Qing Jing uniform! 

Shen Qingqiu froze, breath caught.

His first instinct was that this was some sort of punishment created by a vengeful demon. His second instinct was that this vessel was unwell. Profoundly unwell. Third, and more disturbingly, was the dawning realisation that he was inhabiting the body of someone who idolised the beast enough to sleep beneath the man’s bewitched plastic gaze.

He pressed a hand to his forehead.

Of course.

Of course, this would be his fate.

His gaze drifted toward the desk, where notebooks lay scattered alongside an open laptop, a flat glowing rectangle that hummed faintly with life. Next to it, a coffee mug shaped like a fox, pens topped with dangling charms, and—

Oh heavens.

A plush doll of Binghe.

Shen Qingqiu stared at it for a long, silent moment.

“…This is a cursed household,” he muttered.

But he needed answers. Proof. Confirmation that he really was not in his own skin.

So, steeling himself, he swung his legs off the bed, wincing at how scrawny and soft they felt, and staggered toward a tall mirror propped against the wall.

His reflection met him, and for a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

It wasn’t his face, that's for sure. 

Instead of Shen Qingqiu’s stark, elegant features, he was greeted by a stranger staring back at him from the mirror. Rounder cheeks, softer jawline, clear eyes with absolutely no cold blooded edge, and a mouth that naturally eased into something dangerously close to a courteous, well raised smile.

An expression Shen Qingqiu would sooner choke on than wear in public.

But none of that mattered.

Not compared to— to—

to this.

His hair.

His. Hair.

Where was it!?!?

Shen Qingqiu sucked in a sharp breath, hands flying to his head, fingers dragging through the short, fluffy tufts that barely brushed the tops of his ears. His knees nearly buckled under the horror.

Short hair.

Too short to bind.

Too short for a ribbon.

Too short to be anything but—

But that length— that length is— completely unacceptable!!

He spun away from the mirror, then spun back, then leaned so close his nose nearly pressed the glass.

No bun.

No jade hairpin.

No graceful fall of black silk to his waist.

He looked like some street urchin allowed to roam free without supervision!!

Or worse.

Much, much worse.

Shen Qingqiu’s eyes widened.

A tremor ran down his spine.

A person — or rather, this body — with short hair…

There was only one explanation.

One horrifying, terrible explanation that the righteous world whispered about behind fluttering fans…

Cutsleeve!

A male lover.

A man who fancied men!

Someone intentionally signaling their… preferences… by cutting their hair to flaunt modern liberties and rebellious tendencies.

“Oh heavens above,” Shen Qingqiu whispered, clutching the dresser for balance. “I’ve awakened in the body of a cutsleeve.”

He swayed.

He steadied himself.

He swayed again.

“No, no, no— calm yourself,” He muttered, pacing a tight circle as panic rattled his ribs. “It’s only temporary. I passed through that strange white room, that bizarre dream world— This must be the aftermath. A continued dream. This body’s owner clearly has… unconventional tastes…”

He took a deep breath and gladly allowed his attention to be set onto something else when he heard a soft alarm playing. He turned towards a strange black rectangle box on top of the nightstand and hesitantly clicked on the round button.

The box lit up and he was met with the sight of Luo Binghe. 

And that was already bad!!! But this beast was smiling... smirking... with his... massive pectorals publicly on display!!!

Shen Qingqiu shrieked.

“A cutsleeve who fancies the little beast!?!?”

He nearly threw the device across the room but the understanding that breaking another man’s spiritual artifact was deeply unlucky, stopped him.

He backed away from the box like it was a cursed treasure.

Shen Qingqiu wasn't a strategist for no reason. He took a breath to regain composure and began inspecting his surroundings once more...

This body's hair barely grazed his jaw, the room decorated in memorabilia and his reflection looked like a gentle scholar.

Yes.

It was confirmed.

Without a doubt, completely irrefutably—

“This isn’t just a cutsleeve,” Shen Qingqiu breathed, voice trembling with disbelief, “This is a devoted cutsleeve!"

His legs gave out and he sank onto the bed, burying his face in his hands.

He had woken up inside the body of the single most dangerous kind of creature…

A passionate fanboy!

Truly, this was the heavens’ most vicious punishment yet.

He lifted a trembling hand and his reflection copied him. He touched his cheek, the cheek in the mirror squished.

He turned his head sideways and so did the idiot in the glass.

Shen Qingqiu felt his stomach plummet.

Still staring at Shen Yuan’s reflection, Shen Qingqiu exhaled shakily.

“…At least I’m not myself,” he muttered.

Small mercies.

Thin ones.

Pathetic scraps of comfort, but he would take them regardless. 

He looked younger. Less threatening. Less like someone carved out of spite and trauma. There were no scars on this body and no cold eyes. No memories clawing him apart from the inside 

It was… unnervingly light.

But that brief, fleeting sense of relief shattered when the door burst open.

“A-Yuan? Are you awake yet—”

A girl entered, Shen Di, his mind supplied sluggishly, and he instantly stiffened. Instincts screamed danger, hostility, protect your weak points but he forced his shoulders to drop, jaw to unclench, face to smooth itself into something neutral and unthreatening.

Shen Qingqiu did not know her.

But this body did.

And the body’s sister was staring at him with concern sharp enough to cut.

“My… apologies,” He said carefully, trying to match the sort of voice he thought suited the cutsleeve's face, “I was… still waking.”

Shen Di blinked, surprised at the formal phrasing.

“You’re being weird again,” She said, stepping closer, voice mellowing, “You larping again? You sure you’re okay? No headache? No dizziness? No… whatever that thing was that day at the hospital?”

Shen Qingqiu tried to school his face into something gentle.

He failed.

Spectacularly.

“I assure you,” he said, expression stiff, “I am functioning within acceptable parameters.”

Shen Di squinted.

“…You’re talking like a robot.”

Shen Qingqiu nearly hissed.

But then her concern softened, her shoulders relaxed, and she reached out to straighten the collar of his shirt with careful fingers. Shen Qingqiu’s breath caught, not in fear, but in a strange, foreign warmth that he immediately shoved away.

He cleared his throat, averting his gaze, “…Thank you.”

Her eyes widened, startled by the courtesy.

“You’re… being nice,” she whispered. “This is scary.”

He scowled automatically.

“There it is,” she sighed, relieved. “That sounds more like you.”

Hm. So the cutsleeve was an annoying brat?

He could work with that.

"...Mei mei... just get out. I need to change!" Shen Qingqiu whined which resulted in Shen Di loudly groaning in response and slamming the door in his face.

Shen Qingqiu, now alone, resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands.

He needed information. A plan. A way to keep from being exposed as an imposter before he even left the room.

His eyes drifted back to the army of Binghe figurines.

But first, Shen Qingqiu needed to figure out what kind of deranged creature this 'A-Yuan'  was.

And why his room looked like a shrine to the very person Shen Qingqiu least wanted to think about.

His gaze slid, dangerously, toward the nearest Luo Binghe figurine sitting atop the desk.

It smiled benignly and Shen Qingqiu narrowed his eyes, lifted a hand, and, very calmly, pinched the figurine by the head.

He squeezed.

Hard.

Nothing happened.

He squeezed harder.

Still nothing.

“What is this thing made of,” he hissed, “hell forged iron?!”

Shen Qingqiu’s eyelid twitched so violently he saw stars.

He tried again, attacking with more force.

The figurine’s head refused to pop off. Its smile only grew more smug.

Shen Qingqiu’s breathing grew thin.

He was going to lose his mind.

He set the figurine down, gently, deliberately, then rose to his feet like a man preparing for war. He marched out of the room and down the hallway, expression so blank Shen Di actually froze mid step when she spotted him.

“You didn’t even change,” she scoffed. “You look like you’re planning a crime.”

“I am,” Shen Qingqiu replied truthfully.

“…Eh?”

“Is there,” he asked, with eerie politeness, “something I may use to… clean my room?”

She blinked. “Like… cleaning supplies?”

“No.” His smile was unnerving, “Something more… decisive.”

Shen Di, being a sane person, took one look at her brother’s dead eyed expression and rummaged under the kitchen sink. She emerged holding a large black garbage bag.

“Here.”

Shen Qingqiu accepted it reverently.

“Perfect.”

And then he returned to Shen Yuan’s room with the focus of a man who had found his life’s calling.

He opened the bag.

And began sweeping every single Luo Binghe related object into it.

The figurines.

The plushies.

The posters.

The books.

The limited edition lenticular print.

Not even the keychains were spared.

He scooped, collected, stuffed, and shoved with the zeal of a cultivator purging evil spirits.

Some fell off the shelves.

Some bounced off his chest.

One hit him in the forehead.

He didn’t care.

He felt righteous.

He felt holy.

He felt… clean.

By the time he was done, the bag was enormous, bulging, and grotesquely heavy. It looked like he was carrying the corpse of a particularly large man.

He dragged it out the front door, down the little concrete path onto the patch of grass near the driveway.

Shen Di followed.

“Um—A-Yuan? What are you doing?”

Shen Qingqiu did not even look at her.

“Purification.”

He dropped the bag with a thud, reached into his borrowed pockets, and pulled out the disposable lighter Shen Yuan had apparently kept for candles.

Shen Di startled. “W-Wait! You're not—”

Shen Qingqiu flicked it.

Fire sparked.

For one exquisite moment, he felt alive.

“Be gone,” he said to the bag of Binghe, voice flat with hatred, “beast.”

Then he lowered the flame.

Shen Di shrieked.

The garbage bag caught instantly, burning cheerfully as Shen Qingqiu stared with the solemn satisfaction of a man finally cleansing his soul.

If the neighbors heard the screams of melting plastic and thought it was a cult ritual…

They would not be wrong.

"..."

Shen Di did not simply panic.

She exploded.

“A–YUAN!!” she screeched, stumbling into the yard with a half empty watering can. “WHAT THE—WHY ARE YOU BURNING YOUR—?!”

She splashed water onto the fire.

It hissed.

The flames crackled louder.

The plastic Binghes screamed (in spirit).

Shen Qingqiu folded his arms behind his back, utterly composed, standing a respectful distance from the blaze like he was attending a ceremonial execution. A slight breeze ruffled his hair.

He looked…

Serene.

As if he had waited his entire life for this moment.

Shen Di, meanwhile, was running in circles like a frantic duck, trying to figure out how to extinguish a fire the size of a small hell gate.

“Why—were—you—burning—them?!” she gasped between splashes, each word punctuated by another desperate toss of water.

Shen Qingqiu barely glanced at her.

“It was necessary,” he said calmly.

“Necessary?!” Shen Di shrieked. “You LOVE Binghe! You worship him! You pray to him!! You literally have SEVENTY TWO versions of the same figurine—WHY WOULD YOU BURN HIM—?!”

Shen Qingqiu gagged so violently he doubled over.

He clutched his stomach and wheezed.

“Love?” he spat. “Worship? That thing?”

Shen Di froze, “…Are you still sick? Hold on, should I call the hospital...”

Shen Qingqiu shot her a cold look. 

Meanwhile, the fire roared merrily, the heat warping the air. Another Binghe plush caught fire with a soft whoosh, its embroidered smile curling into a demonic grimace as its stuffing blackened.

Shen Qingqiu watched it burn with an expression of pure, vicious satisfaction.

He leaned slightly closer, squinting at the melting bead eyes.

“Oh yes,” he murmured, voice low and dark, “suffer.”

Shen Di nearly dropped her watering can.

“A-Yuan, WHY are you staring at it like it’s—like it’s your ENEMY?!”

“Because it IS,” Shen Qingqiu snapped.

She blinked rapidly. “It’s BINGHE!”

Shen Qingqiu gagged again, hand flying to his mouth.

“Don’t say his name,” he choked. “The smoke is already poisonous enough.”

“A-Yuan!”

“This—” he gestured at the flaming pile of Binghe merch, eyes shining with grim righteousness, “—is cleansing. Purification. Exorcism. Deliverance from evil.”

“It’s ARSON!" Shen Di screamed.

“And yet,” he said coolly, “my conscience has never been cleaner.”

Shen Di dropped the watering can and grabbed the garden hose, mumbling in frantic disbelief as she sprayed down the fire.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god—Mum is going to kill you—what is WRONG with you—why would you do this—?”

Shen Qingqiu didn’t answer.

He had locked eyes with one of the remaining figurines half submerged in the melting rubble, a miniature Binghe, smile bright, sword raised heroically, cape now catching fire at the edges.

Their gazes met.

Shen Qingqiu smirked.

Shen Di let out a noise between a sob and a yell.

“A-Yuan... What did this poor man ever do to you!? I thought you loved him! Aren't you obsessed with him!??" 

Shen Qingqiu turned to her with a look of deep, offended disgust.

“Obsessed? With him?” He tapped a finger against his own temple. “Have you gone mad?”

“You literally have his body pillow!!”

Shen Qingqiu quirked a brow, "I don't know what you mean."

Shen Di scoffed, setting down the hose, and ran over to yank the long pillow out of the now extinguished fire. It was a long and large pillow of the monster without... robes... and... exposed his...

Shen Qingqiu screamed internally and externally.

The kind of scream that came from having trauma, a ruined childhood and seven personality disorders. 

“A body—...what—who bought that!?" 

“You!!” Shen Di shrieked.

Shen Qingqiu’s soul evacuated his body.

CUTSLEEVE!!!! 

He stood frozen, turned into a pillar of salt by sheer horror, while behind him the last Binghe plush collapsed into flaming ash.

Finally, he whispered, trembling with revulsion, “This realm is a nightmare.”

“You’re lucky I managed to save a couple of them…” Shen Di, drenched in sweat and hose water, stared at him, “…So. Are you going to explain why you just burned your entire collection?”

Shen Qingqiu straightened, dignity returning like a slapped-on mask.

“No.”

“Seriously?!”

“Yes,” he said, absolutely deadpan.

Shen Di groaned and sank to her knees as the smoke began to drift toward the neighbor’s fence. She was still panting from her firefighting efforts and looking like she had aged ten years in ten minutes, marched straight up to Shen Qingqiu, grabbed him by the wrist with all the righteous authority of a weary older sister pushed past her limit, and declared in one breathless, trembling exhale, “A-Yuan, you’re grounded.”

Shen Qingqiu did not argue.

He did not snarl, or scoff, or roll his eyes, or even attempt to pry her hand off him. He simply stood there, chest rising and falling, the faint smell of burnt vinyl still clinging to him, and accepted the sentence with a strange, solemn nod. The kind of obedient, subdued assent that made Shen Di freeze for a full three seconds because never in her life had A-Yuan EVER complied that quickly with ANY form of discipline.

“…Wait,” she whispered suspiciously, narrowing her eyes. “That’s it? Just… okay?”

Shen Qingqiu blinked slowly, almost regally, as if being grounded was far, far less humiliating than what he was used to.

“If that is your decree,” he said, tone calm and eerily formal, “I shall abide by it.”

Shen Di stared.

Shen Qingqiu stared back.

A gust of wind blew a half burned Binghe keychain past their feet.

“…Okay, you’re scaring me,” she said finally, voice softening into worry. “A-Yuan, are you… are you going through something again? Is this stress? Are you dissociating? Are you—”

Her voice cracked, just a little, and she stepped closer, bracing her hands on his shoulders like she was afraid he might drift away if she didn’t physically anchor him.

“A-Yuan,” she whispered, “you could have gotten hurt. And after everything—after you tried to escape the hospital, after I had to run through the wards like a lunatic because you vaulted the bed rail and sprinted out the emergency exit with your IV still attached—after all of that, I really thought you’d be more careful now.”

Shen Qingqiu’s breath caught.

A flicker of bewildered pride lit his expression, subtle, almost invisible, but unmistakable. That wasn’t ‘A-Yuan’, that had been him.

He remembered every desperate, panicked step from that night, the cold tiles under his feet, the windows, the darkness, the unfamiliar smells, but he had assumed it was a bad dream, assumed it was some disorienting pre awakening flail, not… something Shen Yuan had been scolded for. Not something someone remembered. Not something someone worried about.

Shen Di mistook his silence for shame and softened further, her voice melting into that overly gentle tone she saved for moments when she was trying to coax him out of a breakdown.

“Oh, A-Yuan… sweetheart… you don’t have to push yourself so hard, you know? You can talk to me. You can tell me you’re overwhelmed. You don’t have to burn your favourite stuff or bottle things up until you explode—just come to me, okay? I’m your sister. I’m always on your side.”

Her words spilled over him like warm water, not asked for, not wanted, but strangely comforting in a way he had no armor prepared to deflect.

Shen Qingqiu swallowed, unable to reconcile the blunt, unwavering sincerity in her eyes.

She squeezed his arms, urgent and tender all at once.

“Come on,” she murmured, tugging him gently toward the house, “let’s get you cleaned up. I’ll make you tea, and you’re going to lie down for a bit, and I’ll order your favourite food even though you’re grounded, because you look like you haven’t eaten properly in days, and I’m not letting my silly little san ge spiral alone, not when I’m right here.”

The phrasing hit him like an arrow to the chest.

He froze mid step, heart tightening painfully, because nobody — nobody — had ever said something like that to him.

Not with fondness.

Not with exasperated affection.

Not with softness.

Shen Di didn’t notice his momentary stillness; she had already begun fussing with the ash on his sleeve, dusting off his shirt with brisk, worried motions.

“You’re not fine,” she muttered in a stream of sisterly scolding that softened every blow, “you never are, and that’s okay, because we’re family and you scare me half to death but I still love you, so sit down when we get inside or I’ll make you.”

And Shen Qingqiu, who had never had a ‘family’ to fuss over him, who had never been grounded without malice, who had never been offered tea and comfort in the same breath, found himself following her, step by step, quietly, obediently, with the faintest, most reluctant warmth blooming in the empty space behind his ribs.

A warmth he instantly despised.

But couldn’t stop leaning into.

Shen Di, true to her word, spent the rest of the morning hovering around him like a mother hen who had been force fed monster energy drinks. She shuffled him inside, guided him to sit on the couch, then immediately bustled off to brew tea, muttering a stream of complaints and affection under her breath, a tone that should have grated on him, but somehow washed over Shen Qingqiu like warm sunlight he didn’t dare step fully into.

He sat stiffly at first, back ramrod straight, hands folded in his lap like he was awaiting punishment, eyes darting around the room as if the Luo Binghe memorabilia still lurking on the shelves might leap out and attack him.

But Shen Di returned with a steaming mug, pressed it gently into his hands, and said in the softest tone he’d heard since… well, since a long time ago, “Drink. You look like your soul hasn’t been seated correctly all day.”

And just like that — something in him loosened.

Not much. Barely a thread. But it was enough.

He took the mug. He sipped. He didn’t bark or protest or flinch away when she adjusted the blanket around his shoulders. He didn’t recoil when she sat beside him, close but not suffocating, her presence warm and insistent like someone who had practiced caring so long it had become instinct.

He let her.

And that scared him far more than waking up in this strange world ever had.

Because she reminded him, painfully, overwhelmingly, of Ning Yingying when she was being particularly clingy, or persistent, or heartbreakingly earnest. The same wide eyed concern, the same soft fussing, the same tendency to treat him like something precious even when he was prickly and sharp and did not deserve the effort.

And beneath that… she reminded him of the women from the brothel.

The ones who had pressed warm hands to his cheeks when he was small and shivering. Who had smoothed his hair and fed him scraps of kindness he had never earned. The ones who had held him with a tenderness that felt like he almost deserved the safety, a beautiful lie he had clung to.

Shen Di didn’t know any of that.

But she moved with that same gentle certainty, and every time she touched him, a hand on his shoulder, fingers brushing ash from his hair, a light pat on his knee, he felt himself sinking deeper, like a wild animal slowly realizing the trap was actually… soft.

She talked the whole time too.

A constant stream of chatter that should have grated on him, but instead lulled him into a strange, heavy calm of complaints about work gossip, irritation at the hospital billing system, irritation at him for nearly giving her a heart attack, irritation at herself for being too soft on him and through all of it, her undercurrent of unwavering affection.

“You scared me again, A-Yuan,” she murmured at one point, brushing stray bangs off his forehead. “You can’t just vanish or collapse or set things on fire when you’re overwhelmed. You have to talk to me. Or at least stay where I can reach you.”

Shen Qingqiu didn’t trust his voice enough to answer.

His throat felt tight.

His eyes stung, traitorous things, and he blinked rapidly to dispel the warmth gathering at the edges of his vision.

He wasn’t weak nor was he fragile.

He wasn’t someone who needed this— who wanted this—

Except a very small, buried part of him did.

The part that remembered sleeping on cold floors and flinching from footsteps. The part that had never been someone’s little brother not anymore at least  and the part that had been starved for this gentle, mindless domestic affection his entire life.

By early afternoon, Shen Di had coaxed him into eating with her. Fried chicken and rice and some vegetable thing she insisted he needed, and which he ate without complaint simply because she placed it in front of him with that stubborn, worried look.

By late afternoon, she had him stretched out on the couch, blanket tucked around him like a cocoon, while she watched dramas and absentmindedly patted his knee whenever he shifted.

And by evening…

Shen Qingqiu, who had spent his entire adult life cultivating frost and thorns and walls made of spite, found himself halfway asleep, cheek pressed into the couch cushion, Shen Di’s soft humming drifting over him like a lullaby.

After a moment, she gasped and lightly shook him, “Ah, ah. No sleeping on the couch. Let’s get you to bed.” 

Shen Di ushered him down the hallway with gentle but immovable insistence, one hand at his back like she was guiding a fragile old lady instead of a man who could snap wrists like bamboo shoots. The bedroom door creaked open, warm lamplight spilling over rumpled blankets and a pile of clothes on the floor. Shen Qingqiu stared at it like it was a precipice.

“Alright, A-Yuan,” Shen Di said softly. “Bed.”

He did not move.

Warmth spread through the room. A soft bed. Clean sheets. A sister who fussed like it was her life’s calling. A world where no demons lurked, where no sect politics pressed claws into his spine, where no one sneered his name like a curse.

Stupid.

Pathetic.

Selfish.

He knew all of that.

He knew none of this was his.

He knew none of this was meant for him.

He knew, with the clarity of a knife slicing through silk, that this was borrowed warmth, stolen comfort... a fleeting dream he had no right to enjoy.

He still didn’t want to open his eyes and wake up.

“…A-Yuan?” Shen Di tilted her head. “Why are you spacing out?”

He forced his face flat, his expression cold and aloof. The only shield he knew.

“I am simply not in the mood,” he muttered, voice softer than intended. “To sleep.”

She blinked at him, then huffed affectionately and tugged him by the wrist toward the bed as if dragging a reluctant cat. He didn’t resist. He couldn’t resist, not when his limbs felt so heavy.

The mattress dipped as she climbed in beside him without hesitation, tossing the blanket over both of them in a practiced sweep. Shen Qingqiu stiffened, every muscle tensing at the foreign intimacy but then her hand came to rest between his shoulder blades, rubbing slow circles. Calming, rhythmic, grounding.

He inhaled sharply.

His body thawed in increments, each stroke unwinding a knot that had been tied for years.

“There’s no pressure to sleep,” Shen Di murmured, voice gentle but decisive. “I’ll just talk to you until you get bored enough to pass out.”

And she did.

She rambled about her patient who brought her a drawing of a lopsided cat, about someone clogging the staff bathroom again, about the vending machine that ate her last five dollars.

Her voice was soft, drifting in and out, warm as a hearth fire.

Shen Qingqiu lay there on his side, her hand stroking lazy shapes down his spine, and something inside him cracked open, painfully, beautifully, like a fault line finally giving way under years of pressure.

No one had ever done this for him.

No one had ever stayed beside him like this, without wanting something, without plotting, without judging, without expecting him to be anything other than a warm shape beneath a blanket.

He felt ridiculous for wanting it.

He felt monstrous for basking in it.

He felt like a thief clutching stolen treasure.

But he still leaned the tiniest bit closer.

“Good,” Shen Di mumbled sleepily, as if sensing it. “You’re relaxing. See? I told you. You’re safe.”

Safe.

The word sliced him open.

His throat tightened, eyes burning, breath hitching as he shut his eyes and let the warmth soak into every frozen corner of him.

He smiled, a small, fragile thing, barely there.

If he could remain in this world forever…

If he could remain this person forever…

If he could lie here, wrapped in softness, with someone who cared enough to hold him together—

Selfish.

Delusional.

Impossible.

But gods, he wanted it.

Her fingers drew absentminded loops along his back, soothing as a lullaby. His breathing evened. His body grew heavy, sinking into the mattress as if it were swallowing him whole.

As sleep finally tugged at him, gentle and persistent, Shen Qingqiu allowed himself one last shamefully hopeful thought,

I wish… every day could feel like this.

He drifted into sleep with that longing held tightly in his chest, a wish he knew he didn’t deserve, but held onto anyway, like a starving man clutching crumbs.

Safe.

He felt safe.

A feeling that hit him so hard and so unexpectedly that his breath hitched, and for a moment he genuinely thought he was about to start crying like some pathetic child.

Shen Di didn’t notice, or pretended not to notice, and tucked the blanket tighter around him.

“There you go,” she whispered. “Just rest. I’ve got you.”

And Shen Qingqiu, who had never once believed such words from anyone, let his eyes fall shut, his body unwinding by degrees he didn’t know he was capable of.

Just for today…

Just in this strange dream…

Just in this unfamiliar body…

He let himself be held.

Chapter Text

Shen Qingqiu woke up slowly, his heart thumping as the remnants of his dream faded into a fog he couldn’t quite grasp.

That strange, chaotic, and altogether disturbing dream, that had felt so real was now gone.

Even though he had been in the vessel of some perverted cutsleeve, of all people, it wasn’t the worst dream.

And now, he’s here.

In his own bed, in his own body.

How did it all end? What had happened? The questions buzzed in his mind as frustration built within him.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, throwing off the covers. “I wanted to know how it ended...”

The dream had been maddening, of course, utter chaos mixed with disturbing realisations about how 'A-Yuan' lived, how he thought, and just how ridiculous everything in that stupid world of his had been. Shen Qingqiu wanted to return to it, to confront his own failures in a safe, detached way, but instead, he was pulled back into his own dreary existence.

Gritting his teeth, Shen Qingqiu stood, legs stiff as he walked across the room, casting a glance at the rest of the place. It was quiet. Too quiet. His bamboo house, typically in disarray after one of his violent episodes or moments of intense inner turmoil, was... clean.

The air smelled different, lighter, as if someone had scrubbed every corner of this cursed place.

As he walked further into the living room, the weirdest sensation tugged at his chest. His gaze flicked to the garden outside, a place that, just yesterday, seemed to embody the chaos of his inner state, was now perfectly clean. The bamboo, once bent under his own vicious frustration, now stood tall and proud. The flowers bloomed in neat rows, their colours bright and alive.

Shen Qingqiu took a step toward the window and stared out at the pristine scene.

Was it Yuan? He must've—he had to have. The fact that the garden was restored so quickly, so thoroughly, felt wrong in all the right ways.

Shen Qingqiu’s jaw tightened, frustration twisting within him. The sheer audacity of the situation left him feeling simultaneously defeated and enraged.

"Why did I even care about all this?" he asked himself bitterly, glancing around at the now pristine house, the untouched furniture, the order that was so foreign to him. He should be glad, shouldn’t he?

No. He wasn't grateful.

What kind of idiot would feel relief that the person who ruined his home in the first place, then fixed it? It was common sense! What, did poor A-Yuan want a dog treat for knowing how to wipe his own ass too!? 

The thoughts in Shen Qingqiu’s head churned viciously, refusing to settle, refusing to give him a moment’s peace. He pushed himself upright, scowl ready, and that was when something on the desk caught his eye.

His fan.

Half open, waiting to mock him. 

There, sprawled across the fan laid the word, ‘Scum’ carved into one side that stared back at him with all the smug confidence of a truth universally acknowledged.

His jaw ticked—fine. He didn’t remember writing that, but it wasn’t like it wasn’t true. 

But when he finally reached out, fingertips brushing the lacquered ribs, the fan shifted just enough to reveal the other side.

Small characters. Delicate and a little crooked. And unmistakably not his penmanship.

‘Sorry.’

Shen Qingqiu’s entire being stalled.

An apology. On his fan. Written in some pathetic imitation of his style, as if that idiot thought he could fool him? An apology from himself, supposedly, to himself.

Ridiculous.

Shen Qingqiu didn’t apologise. Not to anyone, least of all to himself. What did that little impostor think he was doing? Using his body, his hands, wandering his house, and then having the audacity to leave behind this… this sentimental graffiti?

It was like waking to find a stranger wearing his face had broken into his study to tidy up and then left a note saying oops.

…which technically, is exactly what happened. 

He clicked his tongue sharply, eyes narrowing as he inspected the characters again. The gall. The absolute gall. As if a single ‘sorry’ could fix anything. As if he needed comforting. As if he were fragile.

Sorry, sorry, sorry.

Tch. Sorry his ass. What were you, Yue Qingyuan!? Grow a pair!

The thought made him feel... uncomfortable. That idiot was trying to make amends for me? Shen Qingqiu’s fingers gripped the fan tighter, his mind swirling with the implications.

He wanted to destroy the fan in frustration. Throw it out the window. Rip it to shreds. But... he didn’t. Instead, he just stared at the apology, a bitter taste in his mouth.

A strange quiet filled the room.

His gaze swept the room again, and the longer he looked, the deeper the wrongness sank in. His house was clean. Too clean. Books aligned properly, inkstones washed, the floor swept, even the damned curtains tied back neatly with matching cords.

He hadn’t done any of this.

Which meant—

That little rat had.

A slow, poisonous smile curled at the edge of Shen Qingqiu’s mouth.

Fine.

If Shen Yuan wanted to leave proof of his meddling everywhere, then Shen Qingqiu would leave him something too—something equally irritating, petty, and impossible to ignore.

He snapped the fan shut with a sharp crack, grabbed a brush and inkstone from the pristine desk (ugh), and with deliberate strokes, wrote elegant characters on the edge of the fan’s guard. 

’Shove your foot up your arse.’

He set the fan down in his sleeve pocket, angled perfectly so that the first thing that greets Shen Yuan tomorrow morning will be Shen Qingqiu’s disdain in calligraphic form.

Only then did he finally stand, pacing through the polished corridor, surveying the suspiciously spotless house.

It was clean! The garden outside looked oddly restored too, despite the recent carnage. He stared at the manicured shrubs and koi pond with growing disbelief.

He absolutely did not do that.

And now he had confirmation.

The intruder had left his trail of apology notes and unsolicited housekeeping all over his life.

Good.

Shen Qingqiu flicked his sleeve sharply, turning away from the window with the air of a man who had decided something unshakeable.

If Shen Yuan wanted to play games, then Shen Qingqiu would raise the stakes.

Tomorrow, the little cutsleeve was going to choke on this petty revenge.

Perhaps, in another world, Shen Qingqiu would simply let bygones be bygones and happily skip hand in hand alongside ‘A-Yuan’. 

A nauseating image. Completely unrealistic. Offensive, even.

Unfortunately for Shen Yuan, this Shen Qingqiu was a vengeful bitch.

Shen Qingqiu merely stared at the tiny apology on the fan, lips pressed into a thin line, and, for the first time in a very long while, allowed himself to truly consider the kind of absurd, insulting, gods forsaken world he was trapped in.

A world where said someone believed that writing sorry in trembling little rabbit scratches on his personal belongings would be welcomed as anything other than an invitation for war.

Shen Qingqiu inhaled once, slowly.

Revenge should be elegant. Subtle enough to retain dignity, yet devastating enough to haunt Yuan for his next three lifetimes. 

And it had to be something A-Yuan would hate.

His gaze drifted to the window. The afternoon sun spilled over the distant roofs of the city, catching on the curved banners and glittering signs of a place he knew well.

Warm Red Pavilion.

Shen Qingqiu’s smile sharpened like a blade.

Of course.

The little rabbit would hate that.

He could already imagine it: Shen Yuan waking up surrounded by women draped across silk cushions, music drifting softly in the air, someone feeding him grapes, someone else trying to press rouge onto his cheeks.

The horror would be delicious.

Perfect.

He stepped away from the desk, sleeves swaying, expression smooth and refined, the picture of a righteous peak lord, while inside, the pettiness of a lifetime burned bright.

He planned as he walked.

He would rent the nicest private room.

Request all the girls he was friends with.

Order wine. Food. Music.

Let them chatter, laugh, play games, do each other’s hair, fill the space with warmth and soft chaos.

And then he would simply… fall asleep.

Like always.

Shen Qingqiu did not sleep well in his own bed. But he slept perfectly at the pavilion, where the women lounged around him like cheerful cats and treated him like a favourite little brother who needed mothering.

The perfect trap.

When Shen Yuan woke, he would be smothered by makeup brushes, flutes, silk sleeves, and flirtatious teasing—all aimed at someone who was absolutely, certainly, undeniably not a cutsleeve.

Shen Qingqiu’s steps grew lighter.

He crossed the courtyard, robes fluttering behind him, and the disciples he passed bowed dutifully to their cold, imposing peak lord—never guessing he was on his way to commit what may genuinely be the pettiest act of psychological warfare in cultivation history.

By the time he reached the city gate, he was almost humming.

Shen Qingqiu stood in front of the red lanterns of the Warm Red Pavilion, their glow painting the night with a soft, seductive hue. The familiar scent of incense and perfume hung in the air, mingling with the laughter and chatter that echoed from within. This place had been his refuge in times of need. A place to lay down his frustrations, escape his endless responsibilities, and slip into a world where he could at least forget about the turmoil of his own soul.

Today, though, there was a different purpose.

Shen Qingqiu strode through the silk curtains with the same calm and practiced air he always wore. His eyes, however, were sharp, calculating. This time, he was not here for relaxation or for the usual distractions. No, today he was testing something, an idea that had begun to gnaw at him ever since he woke up in his own body.

How real could a dream feel before it actually becomes… real? 

The soft sounds of zithers and laughter greeted him as he entered his regular private room, where a few of the women were lounging in an intimate circle, their conversation light and carefree. They looked up as he entered, smiles blooming on their faces, but none of them seemed surprised. After all, he was a frequent guest. Shen Qingqiu, despite his aloofness, was known here. He was someone who belonged, even if he never truly let anyone in.

Shen Qingqiu slipped inside, greeted instantly by delighted voices. 

“A-Jiu! You came early today!”

“Sit, sit—look, we saved your favourite cushion!”

”Sweetheart, you look tired. Did you eat?”

He nodded in greeting, acknowledging their presence with light banter. No one questioned his presence, his visits had always been sporadic but welcome. The women understood him, as much as anyone could. There was a certain... understanding between them, a mutual agreement that kept everything light, simple, and without expectation.

As the women played their soft music, chatting amongst themselves, Shen Qingqiu leaned back into the cushions, his gaze fixed on the flickering lanterns around the room. His mind, however, was a storm of thoughts.

Let's see if this is really real. If I wake up here tomorrow, then it proves I’ve simply been experiencing delusional dreams every night. 

His mind trailed off. If not, then perhaps he'd have to reconsider everything he'd been thinking. But he wouldn't allow himself to care too much. After all, ‘A-Yuan’ had proven himself to be a child, didn't he? A boy who spent too much time with his fantasy filled thoughts and idiotic ideals. How amusing, Shen Qingqiu thought, letting the bitter amusement curl through his chest.

He wouldn’t be surprised if the boy woke up and just threw himself out the window. 

Shen Qingqiu didn't bother to acknowledge the fact that his anger, frustration, and strange fascination with the younger man's fate had reached new heights. No, he was far too proud to admit it. Instead, he let the women’s laughter wash over him, the gentle strum of the zither distracting him as he settled into a half sleeping state. He wasn’t here to relax, he was here to find out the truth, to see if this world was truly his again.

As the night wore on, the brothel’s music and chatter lulled him into a quiet stupor. His eyes fluttered closed, his mind swarming with chaotic thoughts.

The hours passed, but Shen Qingqiu didn't drift off completely. His mind was too sharp for that, too preoccupied with the test he’d set in motion.

Would he wake up here, or would he find himself in a completely different place altogether?

Shen Qingqiu allowed himself to be nudged around, the women chatting around him, pouring tea, playing instruments, brushing powder onto each other’s cheeks.

It was warm. Comforting. Familiar.

His eyes slipped closed.

Yes.

This would do.

Let A-Yuan wake up tomorrow in the middle of this explosion of silk and perfume and feminine mischief.

Let him scream.

Shen Qingqiu drifted off with a faint, perfectly satisfied smile.

Revenge, he decided, was best served in a room full of delighted, cackling brothel women.

Chapter Text

Shen Yuan woke slowly, luxuriously slowly, surfacing from sleep like someone rising from a warm bath.

His body felt soft and light, full of comfort. His plush mattress! The faint hum of his old air conditioner! The familiar weight of a doona…! 

Ah! It was like apologising to Shen Qingqiu cleared him of all his sin and erased all worries from his mind. 

He quickly confirmed he was back in his body by running his hands through his hair and laughed lightly. 

Today would be a good day. He might even go out for a run! Who knows!?

He stretched, feeling oddly proud and clean and righteous. Yes. He had apologised. Like an adult. Like a reasonable, well adjusted man! Sure, it was his fault in the first place, but it counted. He would count it.

He smiled to himself, warm and content in a way he rarely allowed, the kind of soft satisfaction that came from doing something vaguely mature and responsible!! 

He stretched lazily and only then became aware of the uncomfortable dampness beneath his cheek. He blinked, frowning slightly, and lifted his head.

The pillow was soaked.

Not damp. Not moist. Soaked, as if he had spent the night leaking like a cheap water bottle.

“…Did I—cry?” he murmured, poking the pillow as though it might reveal some other explanation. But no. There was nothing mysterious about tears. Only the depressing reality that he apparently cried like a distressed kettle in his sleep, and had zero memory of doing so.

He stared at the soggy pillow, baffled and a little betrayed by his own face. “Great,” he muttered.

Still, even with the wet pillow, the weird tenderness in his chest, and the faint ache behind his eyes… he was still in an inexplicably good mood! Somehow.

He flopped back against the mattress, letting out a satisfied breath, and blinked up at the ceiling with a lazy, growing smile.

His ceiling! 

His plain white ceiling!!

His plain… white… ceiling.

Shen Yuan froze.

Then he sat up very slowly, like someone watching the beginning of a horror movie who already knew exactly how badly things would end.

He stared again.

Still white.

Utterly, unforgivably white.

Shen Yuan jolted out of bed with a strangled gasp, practically levitating off the mattress.

“Where—where is the Binghe poster that I hung up there!?” he demanded to no one, staring at the blank expanse of paint like it was mocking him personally. “The limited edition wall scroll—where—why—how—why is it gone!?”

And that was the moment his good mood officially died.

When he looked up at his shelves, spacious and familiar and arranged exactly as he’d always kept them, he realised something horrifying.

They were empty.

Completely empty.

No figures. No posters. No framed prints. No commemorative limited edition Binghe chibi plush. No ‘Domineering Demon Lord’ acrylic stand he’d fought three people online for.

Gone.

Everything was gone.

Shen Yuan sat there, stunned, blinking rapidly as if maybe, if he blinked correctly, the universe would reload his autosave.

“…Where… where is my…”

He scanned the room, voice slowly rising.

“My fluffy little lotus… my darkened black sheep… where are you? Where is my adorable murder toddler? Where is my precious future emperor of the harem? Where—”

Then he saw the desk.

Also bare.

And the bookcases.

Empty.

His voice rose another octave and he scrambled off the bed so fast he nearly face planted.

“Where is my little protagonist—my soft bun who turned into a walking trauma machine—my—my—my—”

He was practically tearing the room apart now, opening drawers as if Luo Binghe might be hiding in one.

That was the moment Shen Di burst into the room, hair a mess, eyes feral with morning terror.

“Why are you screaming?!” Shen Di’s voice crashed through the hallway before her body did, her footsteps pounding toward his door. “Did something break?! Did you set something on fire? Did the fridge explode? Are you dying?!”

Shen Yuan, wild eyed and trembling with the kind of horror usually reserved for witnessing war crimes, turned toward her while clutching an empty shelf with both hands, holding it up as reverently and as accusingly as if it were the corpse of his firstborn child.

“Shen Di,” he said, each word trembling with unspeakable dread. “Where. Is. My. Stuff.”

She stared at him.

He stared back.

A heavy, horrified silence filled the room.

Shen Di blinked once, her expression slowly twisting from confusion into something wary and concerned. “…Didn’t you burn it?”

Shen Yuan made a sound that began as a breath, pitched upward into a squeak, and then collapsed into full blown hysterical laughter. He sank to his knees, still clutching the empty shelf, laughing the way a man laughed when his soul finally snapped in half like a cheap plastic spoon.

His laughter grew louder, wobblier, painfully breathless as if every exhale was his last and every inhale was a mistake. He rocked back and forth on the floor, giggling like a broken puppet, while Shen Di stood at the doorway frozen in place, the horrified expression of a woman realising that her brother might actually be having a psychotic break.

“Aha… hah… ha—Ahahaha—ha…” Shen Yuan wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes even as more laughter kept tearing free. Then, quite abruptly, the laughter stopped. His head snapped up. His face went blank. His eyes narrowed with terrifying clarity.

“Tell me the truth.”

Shen Di swallowed, nodding very slowly, “Y… yes. Yesterday. You dragged everything into the backyard. And you… torched it. All of it.”

Shen Yuan swayed in place, still on his knees, clutching the empty shelf. His expression went slack, blood draining from his face. For a moment, he looked like a man who had just watched the heavens collapse.

“All my figures…?” he whispered.

“Gone.”

“My limited edition acrylics…?”

“Molten.”

“My signed art prints—”

“Smoke.”

“My plush—my sweet little squishy Binghe plush—”

“You threw that into the fire first.”

Shen Yuan let out a dying noise, which prompted Shen Di to run over and pull him to his feet. 

“…A-Yuan…” Shen Di chewed the inside of her mouth, “I knew you were gonna regret it… look, I managed to save some. It’s in my room.” 

“Oh,” he whispered faintly. “That’s… good….” His vision swam. “So he’s… really gone.”

“…You burned him.”

“My… fluffy lotus…”

“You burned him?”

“My… darkened black sheep…”

“You burned him.”

“My sweet morally unhinged son who just needs a hug…”

“You burned him.”

Shen Yuan nods slowly, “Oh… okay…”

Then, very gently, as if gravity itself had betrayed him, he tipped sideways and hit the floor.

Chapter Text

Shen Yuan drifted awake the way a ship sinks.

Slowly, miserably, and with a sense of inevitable doom dragging him down.

His body felt heavy, too warm, too unfamiliar; his mind was fogged with grief and humiliation and the lingering echo of loss. He didn’t even want to open his eyes. What was the point? He’d cried in his sleep, he’d woken in a barren room devoid of all his treasures, he’d passed out like a delicate Victorian maiden, and now—

Now he was back here.

He half expected Shen Di and his gege to shake him awake and coo that everything is okay but, alas, that wasn’t happening anytime soon. 

He lay there, face buried in what was a suspiciously soft pillow (which already made him suspicious… Shen Qingqiu would never allow himself such comfort. Fuckass porcelain pillows…).

His emotions churned in his chest like an overboiled soup, bitter and burnt and threatening to spill over.

This was the universe’s fault. This was Shen Qingqiu’s fault. This was his own fault. He hated everything.

He squeezed his eyes shut harder.

Maybe if he didn’t open them, reality would go away.

Maybe if he didn’t open them, he’d wake back in his body, with his posters, with his figurines, with his precious Bing—

No! That wound still bled. He refused to touch it.

He let out a long, tremoring sigh.

And that was when he heard it.

A breathy giggle.

Shen Yuan froze.

Another giggle, light, teasing, and far too familiar with his personal space.

His eyes snapped open.

And his soul left his body.

A woman leaned over him. No, not just any woman, but a stunning, ridiculously well endowed courtesan with skin like porcelain, lips like rouge, and a bodice that defied several laws of physics. Her sleeves slipped down her arms as she leaned forward, eyes sparkling directly into his.

Shen Yuan froze, eyes widening as his heart nearly stopped in his chest.

“A-Jiu, it’s so early, you’re awake already?” A voice giggled. 

He looked around wildly and gaped. The women around him, because of course it wasn’t just one, (when had he ever been that blessedly unlucky?) began to stir. A few stretched like lazy cats, hair falling loosely over their bare shoulders, while others propped themselves on their elbows to peer at him with sleepy smiles.

“A-Jiu,” they purred again, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to call him that.

Shen Yuan’s heart leapt into his throat. His hands shot out in a panic, pushing the nearest woman away, as if her touch was enough to burn him alive. “W-What—what is this?! Where am I?! Why—WHY am I—?”

He looked around in absolute horror at the decadent room, plush cushions, red silk sheets, glowing lanterns—

The reality of the situation hit him all at once, and the worst part was, he was in the body of Shen Qingqiu. Shen! Qing! Qiu!!!! The lecherous scumbag who spent his life in places like this! Shen Yuan’s mind short circuited.

For a split second, all he could register was softness. Soft arms wrapped around him lightly… soft pillows. Soft everything—

Then his brain caught up once more.

He was in Shen Qingqiu’s body.

He was in Shen Qingqiu’s body IN A BROTHEL.

He was in Shen Qingqiu’s body IN A BROTHEL SURROUNDED BY WOMEN.

Someone help this poor, poor virgin. Mum! I need backup!!

His mouth opened in a silent scream before sound finally tore free, a strangled, horrified noise that was definitely not dignified, definitely not masculine, and definitely not anything Shen Qingqiu would ever allow himself to make.

He scrambled backward on the bed, limbs tangling in silk sheets, hair spilling over his shoulders, eyes wide with virginal terror.

The woman blinked, startled by the sudden explosion of panic, and touched his arm gently.
“A-Jiu? What’s wrong?”

Shen Yuan, trembling violently, pressed himself against the headboard as if trying to phase through it and into another dimension entirely.

His only coherent thought was:

I am going to murder Shen Qingqiu.

I am going to drag him into the mortal realm and hit him with a frying pan. Right. In. His. Balls!!! 

But all that left his mouth was a breathless, trembling:

“…I… I need to leave.”

Another woman, sitting by his side, rested her chin in her palm with a sly smile. “Aww, don’t be shy now. It’s just us girls. You’re always so shy when you first wake up.”

Shen Yuan’s entire essence condensed into one single, trembling point of despair as the courtesan cupped her cheek, leaned forward, and let out the kind of soft, lilting giggle that could make weaker men collapse on the spot.

Unfortunately, Shen Yuan was a weaker man.

And he did collapse.

Not physically, he wouldn’t be so lucky, but spiritually? Socially? Emotionally?

Dead.

Absolutely, irreversibly, embarrassingly dead.

“Oh?” One of the women leaned in closer, her hand still on his hair. “You’re acting strange today, A-Jiu. Don’t you remember last night? You were so… passionate.”

A girl snorted and cackled at that and they all whispered to each other in hushed voices. 

“Y-You’re all insane!” Shen Yuan wailed, his voice cracking as he scrambled to get off the bed. His legs tangled in the silk sheets, and he fell to the ground with a loud thud.

The women giggled, all of them looking at him with the same knowing expressions. They didn’t even seem surprised. They were used to it. Too used to it.

Shen Yuan’s face was burning hot, his chest tight with embarrassment. He scrambled away from the bed, pushing himself to his feet. Oh my god. The sheer amount of scandal that had just hit him in the face… he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to vomit or cry! 

“A-Jiu, you’re acting all coy today,” another woman teased, “Don’t be like that, it’s just us.”

“Shut up!” Shen Yuan screeched, his hands clasped over his ears as if trying to block out the sound of their voices. He turned and dashed for the nearest door, but it was locked. He banged his fists against the wood, his body trembling with panic. “Why is it locked?! Let me out!”

The women were still watching him, some giggling, some looking at him with curious expressions, as though this was all some kind of game to them. To Shen Jiu.

That damn scum—how could he live like this? Shen Yuan felt a surge of anger boil up in his chest. How could anyone live like this?!

The women blinked, their faces full of confusion. One of them even leaned in, narrowing her eyes at him. “Hmm… You’re acting different today, A-Jiu. I don’t know, maybe… you are different? Did A-Jiu forget what he told us?” 

“Forget what?! I don’t even know you!” Shen Yuan’s face twisted into a mask of desperation. “I’m not A-Jiu!! I don’t even know who that is!!”

But the women didn’t seem to care about his frantic explanation. Instead, they just looked at him, eyes wide, giggling more and more as they exchanged glances.

“Oh no,” one woman said teasingly. “Is A-Jiu acting like he’s never been here before?”

“Poor A-Jiu,” another sighed dramatically, “Did you hit your head? You’ve been here hundreds of times…”

Shen Yuan felt his vision narrow, his mind spiralling into full blown panic. No, no, no. This is insane. This is not happening. This is not real!!

Gege!!! Save him! He’s being harassed by cougars!! 

“Haha, he really is shy today.” 

Another leaned over from behind him, chin nearly resting on his shoulder as she peered at his flushed face. “But he was so bold last night.”

Shen Yuan’s soul shriveled like a salted slug.

Bold??

BOLD?????

He had been unconscious!

Or meditating!

Or COMATOSE!

Or DEAD!

Surely he had not been bold!

His voice cracked as he tried to reclaim even a shred of dignity, “I— I assure you, I— I did nothing bold—”

“Oh, he’s stuttering,” a third woman cooed, scooting closer until her knee bumped his. “How adorable. A-Jiu, you’re so cute today.”

Shen Yuan let out a noise that only deepened their delight, somewhere between a gasp, a choke, and a terrified hiccup.

He tried inching away, only to find himself immediately flanked on both sides like a trapped rabbit. One woman playfully tugged a strand of his hair through her fingers.

“Why is your face so red, A-Jiu? Did you have a dream?”

He begged internally for death.

“No—no dream—”
(Except for maybe the nightmare he was currently living.)

One woman tapped his forehead with her finger. “Your pulse is racing. You must have liked sleeping beside us.”

He almost burst into tears.

They were enjoying this.

They were all enjoying this.

Meanwhile he clutched the blanket to his chest like it was the last shred of purity he possessed, trembling like a startled deer, looking from one flirtatious smile to another with growing, bone deep horror.

But the final nail in his coffin came when one of the women leaned in, lips brushing his ear, voice a sultry whisper, “A-Jiu, if you keep looking at us like that, we’ll think you want another round.”

Shen Yuan levitated.

He shot off the bed, practically vaulted across the room, snatched up the nearest robe without caring whose it was, and scrambled toward the window like the world’s least graceful cat burglar.

Behind him, the women burst into laughter, warm, amused, delighted laughter, watching him flee like a scandalised maiden.

They parted, amused and indulgent, watching as he bolted upright, sprinted across the room, and, in a spectacular display of mortification powered athleticism, and flung himself straight out the window.

They leaned out after him, laughing joyfully.

“Come back anytime, A-Jiu~!”

“We’ll warm the bed for you!”

“Don’t forget to bring wine next time!”

Shen Yuan landed in a heap on the street, scrambled to his feet, and ran, RAN, toward Qing Jing Peak, face burning like he’d been set on fire, muttering, “WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY—” the whole way.

This was, unquestionably, the worst morning of his life.

Actually. No. This was somehow an improvement from yesterday.

If he woke up in the middle of Shen Qingqiu doing… doing that…! Then that would definitely be worse. 

And yet, somehow, Shen Qingqiu’s petty revenge had only just begun.

Shen Yuan fled down the street. The cool morning air slapped his face, but unfortunately did nothing to wipe away the lingering scent of perfume or the traumatic memory of being called A-Jiu in five different flirtatious tones.

He clutched his sleeves tight, head down, determined to reach Qing Jing Peak, lock himself in the bamboo house, and never speak of this morning again.

But fate, as always, despised him.

“Sweetheart!” a bright voice chimed. “Pretty young master! Over here!”

He stiffened.

No. No. Nope. That’s definitely not for me. I don’t hear it. I am invisible. Nobody can see me. I am simply air—

“You there! Lovely one with the silky hair!”

…He slowed.

Silky hair? That—no. They can’t mean me. Shen Qingqiu does not have silky—

He glanced up.

The person calling him over was a middle aged woman stationed behind a small street stall overflowing with embroidered shawls, hairpins, and fragrant powders. She waved at him enthusiastically.

“Yes, you! Come here, precious! Looking to buy something to make your husband happy?”

Shen Yuan’s soul left his body.

Husband?

He opened his mouth to deny everything, but the woman had already rushed over, seizing his wrist with surprising strength.

“My, my, are you running from your bridal chamber? Your makeup isn’t even smudged!”

Shen Yuan blinked.

“Makeup?”

He hadn’t looked at his face since waking in that hellish paradise of a brothel room. He’d been too busy screaming, dodging kisses, and jumping out windows.

The stall lady tugged him to a bronze mirror hanging from the post.

And he saw himself.

Or rather, he saw Shen Qingqiu.

But not the Shen Qingqiu he knew.

This one had glossy red lips. Dustings of gold shimmer near the eyes. A delicate flush across the cheeks. Hair loosely braided with ribbons that definitely did not belong to him. His robes, instead of the pristine jade and white uniform, had been swapped for something outrageously soft, flowing, sheer in places, and trimmed with a faint dusting of glitter.

Damn you!!!!!

He looked like a courtesan on his day off!!!

Actually, no!

He looked like a courtesan on his way to making someone’s day unforgettable!!!

Very unforgettable.

Shen Yuan’s thin, bookworm, nerd core face could not handle it and his knees almost buckled.

“W-What is on my face…” he whispered hoarsely.

The stall lady hummed, “If I had to guess… its nothing too heavy! Just a bit of rouge, some powder, a touch of gloss… they clearly love you at the pavilion, hm?”

Love.

Him.

At the pavilion.

He slapped both hands to his cheeks, smearing the makeup slightly, horrified.

“I—no—I didn’t—this is a misunderstanding—I just—this isn’t—”

The stall lady leaned in conspiratorially, “You know, some gentlemen like their lovers dolled up exactly like this. Very elegant. Very tempting. Though if your husband is the jealous type—”

“Husband??”

“Oh don’t be shy, dear. You look like someone who gets swept away often.”

He made a noise so distressed it startled a passing horse.

And the worst part?

The makeup itself was good!!

Delicate strokes, soft blending, whoever applied it was either a professional or had a deep and intimate knowledge of Shen Qingqiu’s bone structure.

“Nope,” he whispered. “Nope. No no no no. I cannot live this life. This is not my life. This is Shen Qingqiu’s perverted scumbag hobbies and I refuse—”

“Oh? Anything catch your eye?” the stall lady asked. “Perhaps a new sash? Or a more daring robe? I have lace—”

Shen Yuan bolted.

Again.

Straight down the road, leaving a cloud of glitter behind him.

The stall lady blinked, shrugged, and called after him, “Come back if you need perfume for your wedding night!”

Shen Yuan didn’t even dignify that with a scream.

He only ran harder.

Shen Yuan did not merely run back to Qing Jing Peak… he tore across the sect grounds like a fugitive pursued by Heaven’s wrath, the glitter from his sleeves trailing behind him like the world’s most humiliating comet tail!!

The moment he crossed the threshold of the bamboo grove, he lunged toward the nearest pond with the desperation of a man who had lived three lifetimes’ worth of shame in the span of ten minutes.

He dropped to his knees, hands shaking, and violently ripped the hairpins out one by one, jade, pearl, ribbon, whatever demonic nonsense those cheerful brothel ladies had woven into Shen Qingqiu’s elegant locks.

The last stubborn clip snapped free, taking a few strands of immortal grade hair with it. Shen Yuan did not care. He could regrow hair.
He could not regrow dignity.

He leaned over the water, saw the smear of glitter across his cheekbones, the red gloss still shamelessly clinging to Shen Qingqiu’s beautiful mouth, and made a strangled sound that was neither human nor immortal.

No hesitation.

His entire upper body plunged into the pond with the grace of a stone.

Cold water surged into his ears, his nose, his eyes. He thrashed, scrubbing at his face with both hands like a raccoon under attack. Ripples exploded outward with each frantic motion as powdered rouge dissolved into a pale pink cloud around him.

When he finally emerged, gasping, hair plastered to his skull, he looked less like a dignified peak lord and more like a drowned cat someone had thrown into a river for misbehaving.

“Hah—hah—hah—” he panted, braced on his elbows at the pond’s edge. A droplet of water slid down his chin. Another followed. His pulse hammered wildly beneath Shen Qingqiu’s collar, all cold silk and ruined pride.

His face burned, not with rouge this time, but with pure humiliation.

He thumped his forehead against the ground once in self pity.

The soft thud echoed like a funeral bell for his dignity.

His poor… dignity… his manhood…

His trailed off into a hopeless groan and dragged himself up, dripping, hair sticking to his cheeks, robes clinging to him in damp folds. He could feel glitter still stubbornly sparkling across Shen Qingqiu’s eyelashes, taunting him.

Shen Yuan then slapped the water again for good measure then leaned back on his heels, panting, utterly shattered.

He was still kneeling by the pond, dripping and mortified, when a rustling in the bamboo made him whip around like a startled animal.

He wiped the sweat off his brow and squinted into the shadows. And there, in the dim light, was the unmistakable figure of Luo Binghe, standing stiffly out the way, head ducked low like he was trying to avoid being seen. His small, delicate frame was almost completely hidden in the darkness, but Shen Yuan’s sharp eyes had no trouble spotting him.

At the sight of his cold, merciless teacher, Luo Binghe immediately froze in place. His face went pale, his eyes widening in fear as he scrambled to hide behind a thin stick of bamboo that most definitely did not cover him.

And then Luo Binghe peeked again—

—and his eyes went round as saucers at the sight of his teacher drenched, panting, clothes clinging scandalously, with makeup half smeared across an otherwise perfect face.

The boy’s soul nearly left his body. He ducked back behind the bamboo so fast the leaves shook.

Shen Yuan prepared to put on a stern face and bark at the boy to scram when he remembered.

This whole ordeal just proved this… dream was seemingly shared by two people.

And that person just fucked Shen Yuan over the head repeatedly.

Why the hell should he play nice and maintain Shen Qingqiu’s reputation of being a scumbag!??

Seriously. Fuck. That. Douche. 

Shen Yuan wiped the scowl off his face easily and allowed himself to smile freely. He hurriedly scrubbed at his cheeks. “Hello.” 

Luo Binghe jolted and he quickly turned on his heel to leave. 

Shen Yuan panicked. “Ah—don’t hide! Come here! Shizun won’t hit you!”

Silence.

More silence.

Shen Yuan softened his voice, the way one would coax out a frightened kitten.

“Come on… Binghe…”

A head poked out.

Barely.

Those big, watery eyes looked him up and down, taking in the dripping hair and his wet robes… Luo Binghe trembled like someone debating between certain death and slightly less certain death.

But eventually, very slowly, he crept forward.

Like a baby deer.

Like an abandoned puppy!

Shen Yuan’s heart cracked in half and he couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corners of his lips. Oh, how sweet. The little bun was scared of him. How adorable.

He couldn’t blame him. 

He took a step forward, his expression shifting into something far less frightening. His hands slid into his pockets as he walked with an exaggerated, purposeful slowness, drawing out the tension for a few moments.

“You’re trying to hide from me?” Shen Yuan called out, his voice deceptively soft and amused, like the voice of a teasing older brother. “Don’t you know it’s rude to avoid your shizun like that?”

Luo Binghe’s whole body stiffened, but he didn’t respond. Shen Yuan stepped closer, watching as the little bun visibly flinched, his head dipping lower. How fragile, how easily scared he was. Shen Yuan almost felt bad for scaring him, but honestly! He couldn’t resist.

With a little chuckle, he shook his head. “Come on, stop hiding.” He sighed dramatically. “I promise I won’t bite.”

Luo Binghe didn’t budge for a long moment, but finally, slowly, he peeked out from behind the tree, his eyes wide and cautious. The moment their gazes locked, he took a small, wary step forward, his hand twitching as though he were ready to flee at a moment’s notice.

“Shizun…?” His voice was soft, tentative. There was no confidence in it at all. “You’re…”

“I’m what?” Shen Yuan tilted his head with a grin, “Did you think I was going to punish you or something?”

Luo Binghe’s lips parted, but no words came out. Shen Yuan let out a soft laugh, taking another step closer, his tone turning a little more teasing. “You don’t need to worry so much. I’m not going to bite. Although,” he added, taking another long pause as he eyed the boy from head to toe, “I would like to know why you’re so scared of me.”

Luo Binghe scrunched up his face and shot him a confused look.

Okay. Fair. 

The innocent fear in the boy’s eyes made Shen Yuan’s chest tighten. He took another step forward, this time closing the distance completely. He placed a hand on Luo Binghe’s shoulder, a soft smile playing on his lips. “Stop worrying so much. If you want to avoid my anger, just listen to me, alright? Do as you’re told, and everything will be fine.”

Luo Binghe’s eyes brightened just a little, a hesitant smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Shen Yuan felt his heart soften even more, as the boy seemed to relax under his touch. His earlier chaos and confusion felt a million miles away now, like a bad dream he had left behind in the brothel. Here, in the quiet of Qing Jing Peak, with the little bun in front of him, everything felt… oddly peaceful.

“You’re alright, Binghe,” Shen Yuan murmured, finally letting out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

Luo Binghe didn’t respond at first. He was too busy standing there, frozen, still processing what had just happened. His face was so red it almost looked like he had a fever. His robes were torn, his sleeves dusty, one cheek smudged with dirt. Binghe’s eyes were red, his lip bitten, and he clutched his little training sword like someone might yank it away at any moment.

His heart squeezed.

Ah. His little bun. His poor bullied little bun.

“What did they do to you?” Shen Yuan exclaimed, grabbing the boy by the shoulders and turning him this way and that like an overprotective auntie. “Who hit you?? Why are you limping? You’re all bruised! Aiya—my poor Binghe—come here—”

He dragged the startled boy into a very undignified, very un-Shen Qingqiu like half hug.

Luo Binghe froze.

Shen Qingqiu—hugging??

Voluntarily?

Without a gun to his head????

It was so outrageous that Luo Binghe’s brain briefly forgot how to think.

“I—I just wanted to… hide… from… shixiong….” Luo Binghe whispered finally, voice small.

“Oh heavens, of course! Hide here, hide anywhere you want! Don’t go near those idiots. Use Qing Jing as your safe zone. Or, hmm, use me as your personal shield.” Shen Yuan declared, patting his head vigorously.

Luo Binghe blinked.

Then blinked again.

And then—

His cheeks slowly reddened violently.

“Shizun…?” he whispered, looking up through his lashes like someone receiving divine salvation.

Shen Yuan melted instantly. He ruffled the boy’s hair even more. “Good kid, good kid— such a good bun. If you ever need anything, or to hide, just come to me.” 

Shen Yuan, satisfied and feeling like he had done at least one thing right today, smoothed Binghe’s hair again before retreating into the bamboo house.

“I’ll… retire for the day. You can come by later if you need anything.”

Shen Yuan spared him one last glance before he turned and started walking away.

As he walked away, the sound of Luo Binghe’s barely audible voice reached him, almost too soft to hear, “…Shizun?”

Shen Yuan paused, his back still turned. For a moment, he considered saying something, anything, to ease the tension. But in the end, he just shook his head, offering only a small, quiet exhale and a smile. 

Luo Binghe didn’t seem to understand the weight of the moment, but that was fine.

Shen Yuan wasn’t sure he wanted to understand it himself.

Luo Binghe stood there unmoving, flushed red to the tips of his ears.

Shizun had hugged him.

Praised him.

Patted his head.

Told him to come back whenever he wanted.

Snow could fall in summer and he wouldn’t be more shocked.

He stared at the bamboo house with wide, reverent eyes—

—and the faintest, most dangerous spark of devotion bloomed like a seed finally watered.

…Binghe had to hide his crotch.

⸻

Shen Yuan slammed the bamboo house door shut with all the fury of a man who had been forcibly dolled up, catcalled, nearly married off, and then forced to parent a traumatised protagonist… all before noon!!

But in the back of his mind, Luo Binghe’s flustered expression lingered. The way his face had turned so red from just the simplest touch… it was almost funny, how easy it was to affect the little bun like that. Shen Yuan didn’t know whether to be annoyed or strangely endeared by the whole thing.

Such an innocent baby…

He chuckled softly to himself and let out a long breath then locked the door with a tailsman.

For good measure, shoved a shelf in front of it too. 

Let the world try to intrude. He was now a hermit. A hermit with grudges.

And every single one of them had Shen Qingqiu’s name on it.

“Stupid scumbag, perverted peak lord, ruined my morning, ruined my face, why do you have hobbies like this—” he muttered viciously as he paced across the room, dripping pond water onto the floor.

A soft knock sounded outside.

“Xiao Jiu? Are you inside?”

Yue Qingyuan.

Shen Yuan froze, then tip toed across the floor and pressed himself flat against the wall.

He didn’t breathe.

He didn’t blink.

He absolutely did not answer.

Yue Qingyuan knocked again, a soft, earnest rhythm against the bamboo door. His voice floated in with that gentle warmth that made Shen Yuan want to bang his head against the wall out of secondhand embarrassment.

“I heard you have been unwell,” Yue Qingyuan said, every syllable delicate with worry. “May I come in?”

Internally, Shen Yuan groaned loud enough to crack mountains.

No.

Absolutely not.

Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.

He did not have the bandwidth to deal with Shen Qingqiu’s unresolved romantic nightmare when he himself was currently sporting a heart full of resentment, a face that still smelled faintly of perfume, and the emotional stability of a damp napkin.

He edged farther back until his spine met the wall. Then he pressed harder, as if he could merge with it through sheer force of will.

He inhaled once… and let out a soft, deceptively gentle hum, just polite enough to mimic Shen Qingqiu’s formal airs, but carrying the faintest curl of a cruel, petty smile.

“Shixiong is very considerate to come check on this shidi,” he replied sweetly, even fluttering his eyelashes for no one but himself. “It’s rather late… perhaps Sect Leader should visit tomorrow?”

A beat.

Then he heard the soft, breathless inhale from the other side.

Yue Qingyuan’s little gasp.

Shen Yuan had never felt so powerful!

“I… yes,” Yue Qingyuan stammered, sounding as if he had been gently stabbed in the heart. “Okay. I will visit. Sleep well… Xiao Jiu.”

Shen Yuan smirked into the dark like a villain.

“Mhm. Love you.”

There was complete silence.

“…b-bye…” Yue Qingyuan practically fled down the steps.

Shen Yuan waited until the footsteps vanished… and then cackled quietly to himself, feeling an immediate surge of petty satisfaction.

Take that, Shen Qingqiu.

Your ‘situationship’ will absolutely never recover! 

He was still admiring his handiwork when something shifted in his sleeve.

“Huh?”

He reached in and his fingers brushed along something. He then pulled out a fan. 

The fan Shen Yuan had meant as a peace offering because he accidentally destroyed a house and almost made a man explode.

He opened it with a slight smile and a giddiness in his body.

Aw. He kept it! 

Under his neat little apology, in a sharper, instantly recognisable hand:

Shove your foot up your arse.

Shen Yuan’s left eye twitched so hard it nearly developed spiritual sentience.

“Oh? Oh??” he hissed through clenched teeth, clutching the fan like he wanted to snap it. “So the dog actually replied to me? With that? He thinks he’s funny? He thinks he’s clever??”

He stormed into Shen Qingqiu’s bedroom, grabbed ink and a brush, and sat cross legged on the bed like a man about to commit a war crime.

With furious, stabbing strokes, he wrote beneath it:

GET CASTRATED GET CASTRATED GET CASTRATED 

He snapped the fan shut and huffed loudly.

If Shen Qingqiu wanted to humiliate him, then Shen Yuan would gladly return the favor.

He dipped the brush, narrowed his eyes at a small bronze mirror, and began writing across Shen Qingqiu’s stupid ugly perfect face.

On the forehead:
SCUM OF THE SCUM.

Across the cheek:
TALENTLESS HACK.

Other cheek:
DEMON DOG CHEW TOY.

Along the jawline:
COWARD.

He paused, studying his handiwork.

“…Not enough.”

He added, across the nose bridge:
STUPID BASTARD.

Not his best work, but it would have to do. 

Let Shen Qingqiu wake up with that and try to act superior!!!

Shen Yuan sat back, satisfied in a deeply petty and deeply personal way. The kind of satisfaction that came from childish revenge—precisely the level of maturity he was willing to commit to.

He threw himself onto the bed and yanked the covers over his head.

His thoughts spiralled.

Stupid man.

Idiot peak lord.

I hope you step on a lego!

I hope your sleeves get caught in a door and it tears so you end up buck naked in front of all the peak lords!!

I hope your hair tangles forever….!

He twitched again.

And with the last of his petty rage, he muttered, 

“Just you wait… next time I’ll write something worse!” 

Then, exhausted, humiliated, and emotionally fried from the day’s events…

He went to bed. 

….

wait. next time? 

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'

Chapter Text

Shen Qingqiu woke with a stiff neck and a cramp in his lower back, slumped inelegantly over his desk like he had lost consciousness mid scheming. He blinked blearily, eyelids heavy, mind fogged, until he noticed the white knuckled grip he still had on a fan.

His fan.

The one he had used last night to send that very dignified, very righteous threat to that ungrateful little brat he was cursed to share a soul with.

He lifted it, eyes narrowing.

There, ink still fresh and violently carved into the paper in what could only be described as unhinged handwriting:

GET CASTRATED GET CASTRATED GET CASTRATED

Shen Qingqiu stared.

Then snorted.

“Honestly,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over the words. “He’s learning.”

He almost felt proud.

He tucked the fan away with the air of a teacher satisfied by his student’s first scrawled talisman and rose, stretching his aching back. Time for morning rounds. Time to remind his useless disciples how pathetic they were.

Then he stepped out of the Bamboo House.

Silence.

Every disciple in the clearing froze mid movement. Practice swords drooped. Backs stiffened. Several boys stared like they’d just seen a ghost crawl out of the lake.

Shen Qingqiu blinked back at them, utterly unimpressed.

“…What.”

A chorus of strangled voices answered immediately,

“Nothing, shizun!”

“Nothing at all!”

“Shizun looks very—very spirited today!”

Ming Fan tripped over his own feet bowing.

Shen Qingqiu rolled his eyes and strode past them, hands behind his back. Whatever nonsense they were imagining, he didn’t have the energy yet. He began correcting postures with clinical efficiency, tapping shoulders into alignment, smacking elbows down with the edge of his sleeve, nudging stances wider with his foot.

“Straighten your spine. You look like a wilted cabbage.”

“That wrist angle—do you want to slice your own foot? I assure you, it would save me trouble.”

“No, no—if your sword trembles that much, go knit something. At least yarn forgives weakness.”

His disciples scrambled to obey, pale and sweating, but relieved by the normality of it.

Then Ming Fan approached.

Nervously.

Too nervously.

He bowed deeply, “Shizun… may this disciple speak privately?”

Shen Qingqiu sighed. “What is it now?”

Ming Fan shook his head wildly, leaned up on his toes, and whispered into his teacher’s ear, “Shizun… there’s… something on your face.”

Shen Qingqiu froze.

Very slowly, he lifted a hand to his cheek.

His fingertips brushed dried ink.

The same ink he had used to write curses on the fan and same ink that now had every disciple staring at him like he had crawled out of a demonic cave.

Shen Qingqiu closed his eyes.

Inhaled.

Exhaled.

Ming Fan swallowed loudly, “…shizun?”

Shen Qingqiu opened his eyes, smiling with the serenity of a man one breath away from murder.

“Fetch me a mirror.”

Ming Fan yelped and sprinted.

The training field was already tense from Shen Qingqiu’s slow burn murderous aura, but the atmosphere snapped in half when the peak rumbled like an earthquake as Liu Qingge stomped into view, jaw tight, hand on his sword like he was about to slay a demon rather than lecture a man.

“Shen! Qing! Qiu!” he barked, voice echoing across Qing Jing. “Explain to me why there are reports—again—that you were seen leaving a—”

He stopped and choked on his spit, because he finally caught sight of Shen Qingqiu.

Said Shen Qingqiu with something that looked suspiciously like insults scribbled across his face in dramatic, thick strokes like calligraphy done by a very angry toddler.

The silence was profound.

A cicada screamed somewhere in the distance.

Liu Qingge blinked. Once. Twice.

Then, very calmly and very sincerely, he asked, 

“…Did you lose a bet?”

Shen Qingqiu’s left eye twitched. “No.”

“A duel?”

“No.”

“A fight.” 

“That’s a duel.”

Liu Qingge stared harder. “…A curse?”

Shen Qingqiu’s forced smile wavered. “…Are you done?”

“No,” Liu Qingge said bluntly. He pointed at Shen Qingqiu’s face. “Why… is that… like that?”

Behind them, several disciples quietly prayed for a painless death.

Shen Qingqiu inhaled slowly, counting backwards from ten to avoid committing a peak lord on peak lord homicide, once was already too much, “Liu shidi, if you value your life, pretend you saw nothing.”

“I can’t pretend,” Liu Qingge replied, scowling, “It’s right there. On your nose. In big letters. I can see it from the gates.”

“Then gouge your eyes out.”

“You’re telling me to harm myself because you look ridiculous?”

“Yes.”

Liu Qingge opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Stared again.

“…It says ‘stupid bastard.’”

Shen Qingqiu’s smile sharpened like a blade. “Congratulations stupid bastard. You can read.”

A disciple choked.

Another dropped their sword.

Ming Fan, returning at full sprint with the mirror, saw Liu Qingge standing there and nearly tripped in panic, “Ah—Liu shishu! G-good afternoon!”

“Is it afternoon?” Liu Qingge muttered absently, still squinting at Shen Qingqiu’s face like he was trying to decipher an ancient curse, “Shen Qingqiu, are you sure you weren’t robbed? or knocked unconscious? or—”

Shen Qingqiu snapped, “Give me the mirror.”

Ming Fan launched it into his hands and bolted.

Shen Qingqiu raised it.

…And the world ended.

For him, anyway.

Ink. Everywhere. Across his cheeks, his temples, his jawline. Words. Insults. Doodles. Something that looked like a very unflattering caricature of himself riding a donkey.

His fingers curled, knuckles white.

Liu Qingge stared at him for a long, painful moment, eyes dragging over every inch of ink scrawled insult carved across Shen Qingqiu’s face like some unholy calligraphy exam.

Then, with all the subtlety of a war drum, he asked, “…Do you want me to kill the person who did this?”

Shen Qingqiu, who was blotting at his cheek with a damp cloth, snorted without looking up. “Oh? You’re volunteering to kill this lord now? How filial of you.”

Liu Qingge’s brows twitched. “It wasn’t you.”

“It was me.” Technically, it was ‘A-Yuan’, but for simplicity’s sake… 

“…Then why would you write ‘scum of the scum’ on your own forehead.”

Shen Qingqiu paused, cloth frozen mid wipe. A slow, tight smile curled on his lips. “Come to your own conclusion, shidi.” 

Liu Qingge deadpanned, “Just tell me.” 

Shen Qingqiu clicked his tongue, returning to scrubbing, “If I needed commentary from someone who repeatedly uses his sword as a solution to footnotes, I would have asked.”

Liu Qingge crossed his arms, fully ready for battle, “I didn’t come here for this. I came to tell you to stop visiting brothels.”

“I didn’t visit—!” Shen Qingqiu bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood.

Liu Qingge nodded gravely, misunderstanding completely, “Mm. You don’t need to explain. I can kill them quietly.”

“Kill who,” Shen Qingqiu snapped, “the women? Or the gossipers? Or the idiot who told you?”

“Yes,” Liu Qingge nodded again.

Shen Qingqiu pinched the bridge of his nose. “Put the sword away. No murder today.”

“…Tomorrow?”

“Liu. Qing. Ge.”

Liu Qingge sighed, defeated, sheathing his blade. “Fine. But if anyone else writes on your face, I am killing them.”

Shen Qingqiu arched a brow. “How touching. Is this your way of saying you care?”

Liu Qingge stiffened, “No. I just don’t want to look at you defaced. It’s an eyesore and embarrassment for the peak,” He scoffed hauntingly, “Though, not like it’s anything new for you.”  

Shen Qingqiu threw the wet cloth at him. “Get off of my peak.”

Liu Qingge dodged it with brutal grace, turned on his heel and ducked out the way just in time to avoid a sharp kick aimed at his head.

“Liu shidi. Get out.”

“No.”

“Get out.”

“Not until you explain the brothel.”

Shen Qingqiu closed his eyes, breathed in, breathed out.

Then he pointed, sharply, toward the cliff.

“Out.”

“But—”

“Out.”

Liu Qingge finally gave in, muttering, “Fix your face. You look stupid.”

“Fix your personality. You sound stupid.”

They glared at each other one last time which ended with Liu Qingge storming off and Shen Qingqiu vibrating with contained fury. Shen Qingqiu stood rigidly before the polished bronze mirror, staring at the atrocity scrawled across his face.

His temples throbbed.

His jaw creaked.

His nostrils flared like a bull about to charge.

A sound escaped him, something between a dignified cultivator’s exhale and the dying shriek of a demon beast being skinned alive. His disciples flinched in unison. The air pressure on Qing Jing Peak dipped.

The more he stared into the mirror, the more the words burned into his skull and he could practically taste blood.

His vision trembled. His fingers twitched. His spiritual energy roiled so hard that several junior disciples took an involuntary step back, then another, then bolted like rabbits fleeing a wildfire.

Within seconds, Qing Jing’s training grounds were empty. Abandoned swords lay scattered across the stones like offerings to an angry god.

Shen Qingqiu stood alone, vibrating with murder.

That useless, lecherous, two faced, absolute walking STD of a man—!

Dares—DARES—to write on MY face—?!

Oh when I get my hands on him—!

I’ll shove his fan so far down his throat he’ll be tasting sandalwood for eternity—!

That bastard. That absolute dog.

His thoughts churned and boiled. That useless, petty, disrespectful, ugly dog of a man. He would wipe that smug memory from existence when they switched again, he swore it.

He needed somewhere to lash out. Somewhere he could regain his dignity by destroying something weaker than himself.

But first, he viciously used his sleeve to wipe off all the remaining ink and hissed, the humiliation burning hot under his skin.

He needed something to hit, to strangle, to break apart until the world felt aligned again.

And luckily… the woodshed held a certain little beast always ready to be beaten into shape.

Shen Qingqiu’s fists tightened. Yes. Luo Binghe could take it. His pain tolerance was absurd. The brat needed discipline anyway. It would make Shen Qingqiu feel better. Balanced. Righteous.

He reached the clearing in three furious strides and stopped dead.

Because blocking the steps to his bamboo house stood Yue Qingyuan.

Waiting patiently. Hands folded behind his back. Posture hopeful. Expression soft, almost glowing. As if he’d been standing there for some time, looking forward to this visit like some kind of… some kind of reunion.

“Xiao Jiu,” Yue Qingyuan breathed, face lighting up the moment he saw him with a rosy flush to his cheeks, “You’re here. I—”

It was the wrong day.

The wrong time.

The wrong moment for that name.

Something in Shen Qingqiu snapped with an audible internal crack.

Shen Qingqiu stormed toward him, voice erupting before he could temper it, “What are you doing here? Move.”

Yue Qingyuan blinked, smile faltering, “You… invited me, remember? Last night you said I should visit today. I brought—”

“I don’t care what you brought,” Shen Qingqiu spat, stepping closer, eyes blazing, “I said move.”

Yue Qingyuan’s hopeful expression wavered further, a quiet confusion settling across his gentle features. “Xiao Jiu… is something wrong? Did someone upset you? If there is trouble on Qing Jing Peak, I—”

“Don’t call me that.”

The words were a whipcrack.

Yue Qingyuan froze.

“Xiao Jiu…” he whispered, voice cracking.

And somehow, that tender softness, that unbearable affection, only made Shen Qingqiu angrier.

He didn’t know why.

Or maybe he did.

And that made it worse.

Shen Qingqiu gave a humourless laugh, breath hitching with fury, “Are you deaf? I said don’t call me that. Don’t stand there with that clueless expression pretending you understand anything about me.” 

Yue Qingyuan’s shoulders drew in the slightest fraction, as though bracing against a blow. His voice softened, pained. “I… only wanted to see you. You sounded… better, yesterday. I thought—”

“Well you thought wrong,” Shen Qingqiu snarled. “All you’re doing right now is blocking my way.”

The last remnants of hope drained from Yue Qingyuan’s face like water from a cracked cup. His lips parted soundlessly for a moment, a breath, a swallowed apology, then he lowered his gaze.

“…I see.”

For a heartbeat, everything was quiet but Shen Qingqiu’s rage buzzing like a swarm of bees inside his skull.

Yue Qingyuan swallowed once, voice thin. “If that is what Qingqiu shidi wants...”

“Good,” Shen Qingqiu snapped, brushing past him, “Now move aside. I have more important things to do.”

When Shen Qingqiu didn’t hear footsteps, he didn’t bother to look back.

He was still too angry.

Still too humiliated.

Still too ready to take it out on something, someone, smaller.

And Luo Binghe was waiting. 

…

Shen Qingqiu did not knock.

He kicked the woodshed door so hard it slammed against the wall with a crack that echoed through the whole damn peak. Dust rained from the beams. A broom fell over. Inside, Luo Binghe jolted so violently he almost dropped the firewood in his arms.

He turned, expecting—what? A scolding? A lash of cold words? Instead he saw Shen Qingqiu standing in the doorway like a storm given human shape, robes fluttering from the impact, jaw clenched, veins standing out on his neck, eyes bright with barely contained fury. The insults drawn across his face only made the sight more alarming.

Luo Binghe blinked.

Then he sighed with a blank expression.

That only made Shen Qingqiu angrier.

Just as he was about to step forward, one more stride and he would’ve grabbed the boy by the collar and vented every drop of festering rage, another hand shot out and closed around his wrist.

Firm, warm and entirely unwelcome, Yue Qingyuan’s voice followed a beat later, ”Xiao Jiu.”  

Shen Qingqiu’s eye twitched so violently it almost spasmed. That name again. That familiar, hopeful, pleading tone. Like he was still the boy curled up on a frost bitten floor waiting for someone to say he deserved to live.

Luo Binghe’s discomfort grew. He shifted, putting down the firewood. His brows drew together as he glanced between his shizun’s blackening expression and the sect leader’s hand holding the man back.

Then, with the resignation of someone who had lived this pattern too many times, Luo Binghe cleared his throat and quietly said, “Sect Leader, it’s okay. This stupid disciple must’ve… must’ve done something wrong.”

There was no tremble in the words. Just acceptance.

…how dare this brat grow into someone this steady? This tall? This composed? They both came from the gutter, yet the boy had grown into his features, into his strength, into a handsome young man with a future.

While Shen Qingqiu had been left stumbling in circles, wearing the face of a man he hated, with nothing but rage and envy simmering in his bones.

He couldn’t look at the beast without feeling it burn hotter.

Yue Qingyuan did not release his wrist.

He just looked at him, and that was somehow worse than being restrained. His expression was a slow collapse, concern crumpling into hurt, then settling into something soft and unbearably disappointed.

“Qingqiu shidi… why are you like this today?” he whispered. “Please, consider being more lenient towards—”

Shen Qingqiu snapped and ripped his arm out of Yue Qingyuan’s grasp so violently the sect leader flinched. The motion left a red mark around Shen Qingqiu’s wrist, but he didn’t care; the sting only fed the fire in his chest.

He stared at the floor, jaw grinding, breath shaking with swallowed curses. If he met either of their eyes, he’d explode again, or worse, he might crumble.

So he didn’t.

He just turned.

And walked away.

Not a word.

Not a backward glance.

He left Yue Qingyuan standing in the doorway with his hand half raised, still reaching for him.

He left Luo Binghe staring after him, confused and uneasy.

He left the woodshed door hanging crooked off its hinge.

⸻

Shen Qingqiu curled up in his bed like a wounded animal, dragging the blankets over his head as though they could smother the humiliation still crawling across his skin. His teeth sank sharply into the meat of his forearm, hard enough that the sting travelled all the way up to his shoulder. He didn’t care. Pain was easier than rage.

He glared into the darkness of his own sleeves, seething so violently he could feel his pulse hammering in his gums.

Of course.

Of course this would happen to him.

Anyone else, any other than Shen Qingqiu, would have handled this with poise. That ridiculous modern brat, that precious little ‘A-Yuan’ would never have blown up over a few scribbles on his face. Wouldn’t have shouted at disciples. Wouldn’t have made a fool of himself in front of Yue Qingyuan. Wouldn’t have gotten goaded by a child like Luo Binghe just by existing near him.

He bet that world’s version of himself probably woke up smiling. Probably had clean walls, soft sheets, a family that didn’t look at him like a monster, a sister who worried instead of cowering. Probably never had to claw his way through life with the desperation of a cornered rat.

Shen Qingqiu dug his nails into his scalp and hissed into the blankets.

He hated it.

He hated everything.

And the worst part, the absolute worst, was the sight of Luo Binghe in the woodshed. Tall. Composed. Strong. Handsome in that quietly infuriating way that came from good bones, good cultivation, and good luck.

They had both crawled up from filth. Both had survived on scraps and wits. Yet the boy had grown into himself with an ease Shen Qingqiu never had. His presence was steady, his gaze unbroken, his body already showing the beginnings of a future peerless figure.

Why did he get that?

Why did he get to keep growing?

Why did everyone around him get to have something, anything, that he didn’t?

Luo Binghe, with his natural cultivation and effortless beauty.

Yue Qingyuan, with his endless patience and blind devotion.

Liu Qingge, with his natural talent and straight forward mindset. 

That damn brat, with a safe bed and warm meals and a whole world untouched by cruelty.

Shen Qingqiu squeezed his eyes shut, but the bitterness sat behind his lids like smoke.

It wasn’t fair.

None of it was fair.

He rolled onto his side and pressed his forehead against his bitten arm, shaking from the force of his own frustration. He’d thought switching worlds would be a reprieve, a chance to escape, even temporarily. But every time he returned to this body, the weight of it crushed him anew. The memories. His reputation. The helpless fury. The expectations he never asked for.

He hated this skin.

He hated this name.

He hated this entire cursed life.

His breath trembled as the exhaustion finally sank its claws into him, heavy and inescapable. The blankets felt suffocating, but he didn’t kick them off. He just stayed there, small and rigid, as if stillness alone could keep him from exploding again.

A single, miserable thought circled like a fly, refusing to leave him. 

I wish I never had to come back to this body again.

If the heavens were merciful, if fate had even one shred of kindness left in it, Shen Qingqiu would wake up somewhere, anywhere, else…

And never return.

Chapter Text

Shen Yuan woke with the heaviness of a hangover despite never touching a drop of alcohol in either world. The ceiling above him was bamboo green and familiar. His limbs were stiff. And the moment he shifted, an unmistakable sharp ache shot through his arm.

He was back. Good to know he wasn’t kidnapped! Phew! 

Relief washed through him, only to choke instantly in his throat when he realised the position he had woken up in.

His body, Shen Qingqiu’s body, was curled tightly on its side like a wounded animal. His jaw was clenched painfully around his own forearm, teeth marks deep and angry, as if the man had tried to tear a chunk out of himself in his sleep. His fingers were hooked like claws into the bedding, knuckles white; his shoulders trembled.

He carefully loosened the vice grip of Shen Qingqiu’s teeth on his arm. The indentations were deep enough to sting. Shen Yuan winced.

He had read about Shen Qingqiu doing many terrible things, to others, but something about this—this pathetic, clenched, self defensive posture, made something twist hard in Shen Yuan’s gut.

“…Oh. Damn,” he whispered, staring.

It wasn’t hard to connect the dots.

That it was probably his fault. 

He forced himself up. His legs felt like wet noodles. He walked to the mirror…

…and nearly burst right back into tears.

Ink.

Ink everywhere.

On his cheeks, forehead, jaw, faint but unmistakable traces of yesterday’s insults remained. Shen Qingqiu must have scrubbed, maybe even clawed at it, and STILL couldn’t get everything out. Shen Yuan tapped his reflection.

“You absolute maniac,” he told himself. “You left me the aftermath of a toddler’s meltdown…”

He washed again. Harder. Until his skin was pink from friction. He drew in a shaky breath, rubbing at his forehead. “Bro. I’m…sorry, I guess,” he muttered helplessly. “You really… went through it, huh.”

He did this to himself? Because of… me? Because switching back left him alone with all that anger?

Guilt sat squarely on his chest.

“…Okay,” Shen Yuan sighed. “I’ll fix what I can.”

He stretched the stiffness from Shen Qingqiu’s limbs, washed his face one last time and then, after pacing around the bamboo house arguing with himself for several minutes… made a decision.

He would prepare something nice.

Something comforting.

Something that might make waking up in this disaster of a cultivation world slightly less miserable for the other soul stuck sharing his life.

He rummaged through the cupboards. Tea? No—Shen Qingqiu was picky about tea and would only complain. Food? He couldn’t cook here without poisoning someone. A nice robe? Too obvious.

Eventually, he spotted a small lacquered tray, dusted it off, and arranged it neatly with things he knew Shen Qingqiu actually liked, his favourite tea blend (pre made by sect disciples who knew what they were doing), a small dish of sugared lotus seeds, and a good fan, the one with the nice calligraphy and the sturdy spine.

He placed it on the bedside table.

Then, after another moment of hesitation, he added a folded note written in neat, careful script, 

‘Don’t freak out. Breathe.
I handled morning peak duties for today and tomorrow.
Rest or sleep in today.
—Shen Yuan’

He stared at it and cringed.

WTF was this?! He felt like he was serving a lover their breakfast in bed! 

He added a tiny doodle of a bamboo leaf so it looked less like a break up letter.

Then he stepped outside to actually handle said peak duties. 

As he walked down toward the training grounds, Shen Yuan muttered to himself, “Please don’t kill me for the handwriting. Please don’t kill me for the note. Please don’t kill me for existing…”

Then he stopped.

A familiar, suspicious silhouette crouched by the pond, poking something in the reeds with one of the peak’s wooden practice swords.

Luo Binghe?

And the boy was muttering to himself too!

“…if possessed, exorcism paper should be hidden under pillow… no, too obvious. Maybe feed him spirit suppressing herbs… wait, what if shizun likes herbs? No, that can’t be right…” Luo Binghe squinted and listlessly swerved around with his sword in boredom, “Or perhaps… hm… what if I just keep a close eye on him… from afar… or maybe from… close… or…”

A dreamy sigh.

Shen Yuan inhaled and scoffed loud enough to alert the boy, “Luo Binghe. Just… do your morning drills.”

“…Yes, Shizun.”

The boy hurried off, clutching the sword a little too protectively.

Shen Yuan watched him go and sighed.

Right.

One disaster contained.

Another one growing legs.

He rubbed his temples.

⸻

Shen Yuan straightened his sleeves, gathered the papers he needed, and marched toward A Ding Peak with the grim determination of a civil servant about to fix someone else’s financial disaster.

He arrived at A Ding Peak with the best of intentions. The bestest!

When Shen Yuan had woken up in Shen Qingqiu’s abused, self bitten body, he had stared at the evidence of the man’s misery in horrified guilt, and had resolved, heroically, nobly, that he would at least lessen the bastard’s workload. Just a little. Just enough so the next time they swapped, the man wouldn’t be tempted to gnaw his own arm like a trapped fox.

So, yes. Fine. Shen Yuan would help with the budgeting. He’d give the bastard a break. A surprise good deed waiting for him when they next swapped back!!!

He was trying to be thoughtful.

So he marched toward the traitor of the sect, Shang Qinghua’s office with dignity, purpose, and the faint hope that the notoriously sleazy An Ding master would be cooperative.

Then he heard it.

A sound, muffled, frantic, like someone was sprinting around kicking furniture and swearing into a scroll. Then silence. Then another thud.

Shen Yuan blinked.

“…Okay,” he muttered. “So either Shang Qinghua is being murdered, or he’s being Shang Qinghua.”

He pushed the door open.

“Shang Qing—”

A blur launched over the desk like a startled rabbit. Scrolls exploded into the air. Ink pots toppled. A cup of tea completed a graceful arc before baptizing Shen Yuan directly on the forehead.

Shang Qinghua landed with a thud at Shen Yuan’s feet, panting, pale, and with the eyes of a man who had accepted death long ago but still resented it.

“Shen— Shen shixiong!!” he yelped, scrambling upright so fast his knees cracked. “Ah— you—you’re early— I mean— you’re here— I mean— GREAT AND MERCIFUL SHEN SHIXIONG, WHAT BRINGS YOU TO—”

Shen Yuan stared at him.

Shang Qinghua stared back, trembling.

Then, as if remembering at the last possible second that he was speaking to Shen Qingqiu, he clasped his hands and bowed so low his forehead nearly dented the floor.

“This lowly one humbly apologizes for the mess! Peak Lord Shen, please— please take a seat! No— don’t! It’s dirty! I mean— SIT, PLEASE SIT—”

Shen Yuan blinked again, slowly.

Shang Qinghua’s panic was… impressive. And familiar. Suspiciously familiar.

And then the man slipped.

“Please don’t kill me— I mean, uh— haha— everything’s… everything’s fine! I just— fuck, my life—”

Shen Yuan’s eyes narrowed.

“…What did you just say?”

Shang Qinghua froze, “Eh? Which part?”

Shen Yuan stepped closer.

“‘Fuck.’ You said ‘fuck.’”

Shang Qinghua visibly died a little inside.

“I— that is— it’s a— a local dialect—?”

Shen Yuan leaned in, “And why, pray tell, is shidi so… anxious about that question?”

Shang Qinghua squeaked, hitting the floor in a kneeling bow so fast his forehead almost cracked a tile. “I—uh—no reason. Please don’t kill me!”

Shen Yuan blinked through the rain of scrolls still sliding off his shoulders.

“…Why would I kill you?” he asked flatly.

Shang Qinghua, trembling like a leaf, plastered on a smile so fake it was practically a sticker, “Oh, haha! Shixiong must be joking! You’re always joking! Hahaha!”

He was sweating. Palms on the floor. Knees wobbling.

Shen Yuan stepped forward. Shang Qinghua flinched.

“…”

“…”

“I’m here to discuss the Qing Jing budget,” Shen Yuan began, tone neutral and professional.

Shang Qinghua screamed internally and then outwardly, jolting so hard he kicked his own chair.

“Yes—yes! Of course! Anything you want, Shixiong! Please, spare me—!” He froze. “I mean— spare some time! To, ah, talk! Haha! Budget! Money! Numbers! Your favourite things!”

Shen Yuan blinked.

Something was… off.

Yes, Shen Jiu was terrifying. Yes, people scattered when he approached. Yes, peak lords tended to cry behind locked doors after meetings.

But this—

This was hella extra.

Shang Qinghua was sweating like someone who had hidden contraband under the floorboards. His eyes darted around the room like a cornered rodent and kept snapping toward a scroll half tucked under his sleeve.

A scroll decorated with…

…little cartoon doodles?

And some very familiar long hair drawn in messy, frantic ink?

Shen Yuan frowned and leaned a little closer.

Wait.

Was that— ‘him?’

Shen Qingqiu?

With his robe slipping off one shoulder—

And the sect leader was—
—was that his hand on his waist—

And Shen Qingqiu in the drawing was blushing, and—

Oh.

OH.

Shang Qinghua realised exactly what part of the drawing Shen Yuan was staring at and blanched so violently he nearly went transparent.

“Shixiong!” he yelped, slamming his hand over the scroll. “W-why are you looking at that?! It’s nothing! Nothing!! Just a rough draft! For a script! For— for a— ah— sect play!”

“A sect play?” Shen Yuan repeated flatly.

“Yes!” Shang Qinghua squeaked. “A dramatized moral cautionary tale! About… improper interpersonal peak lord relations!”

“And why is Sect Leader Yue drawn like that.”

“It’s not him!”

“And why are my clothes off.”

“It’s not you! But, if you must know, heatstroke.”

“And why,” Shen Yuan said, eyes narrowing, “is there text at the bottom that says ‘Shen Qingqiu lost his composure and got absolutely railed—’”

Shang Qinghua slapped both hands over his ears, “I CAN EXPLAIN—!!!”

“Explain,” Shen Yuan said calmly, “why you are drawing—” He waved a hand vaguely at the scroll. “—peak lord erotic fanfiction.”

Shang Qinghua opened and closed his mouth like a dying fish. “It’s my coping mechanism.”

“Coping for what?”

He hesitated.

Shen Yuan crossed his arms.

Shang Qinghua crumpled like damp parchment. He scuttled closer, dropped his voice to a whisper and hissed, “Does- does it matter..!?”

Shen Yuan glared, “That doesn’t explain the fanfiction—“

Shang Qinghua’s voice cracked and he shook his head, “AhahaHA- what fanfiction. No fanfiction!” Shang Qinghua then scrunched up the scroll and shoved it into his mouth, swallowing the paper to conceal the filth that laid inside, “Hm? Out of sight, out of mind. No fanfiction!”

“…what did you just...”

Shang Qinghua sweated so hard it looked like he was leaking from his hairline, “I-I said and did nothing! Nothing! Gosh, just tell me what you want, shixiong! You’re scaring me!”

But Shen Yuan was already walking toward the desk, already reaching for another scroll.

Shang Qinghua yelped and dove for it.

“Noooo—!! Shixiong, please—!!”

Shen Yuan caught it with one hand.

Held it up.

Read it.

And grinned.

Trash upon trash! 

“Oh,” Shen Yuan said sweetly, victoriously, cruelly delighted, “So you talk like that too.”

Shang Qinghua went absolutely still.

Shen Yuan leaned down, eyes gleaming, “Sit up, Shang Qinghua. We’re going to have a little chat.”

Shang Qinghua whimpered.

“Say. Would you happen to know of a story about the proud immortal demon’s way?”

Shang Qinghua’s lip wobbled.

A long moment passed then, “…Oh my god?!” Shang Qinghua wailed, grabbing Shen Yuan by both sleeves with the absolute desperation of a drowning man finding a floating door, “OH MY GOD OH MY GOD YOU’RE A TRANSMIGRATOR, AREN’T YOU— SHEN SHIXIONG, I SWEAR, I HAVEN’T TALKED TO ANOTHER REAL HUMAN IN YEARS— DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG I’VE BEEN DYING TO SAY ‘WIFI’ OUT LOUD—”

Shen Yuan stiffened as the man shook him.

“No— wait— hold on—“

“OH THANK GOD—” Shang Qinghua sobbed, “PLEASE TELL ME YOU ALSO WAKE UP WONDERING WHERE THE AIR CONDITIONING WENT—”

“Shang Qinghua, LISTEN—”

“DID YOU ALSO HAVE PANCREAS ISSUES? DID YOU DIE OF A HEART ATTACK? DID YOU GET HIT BY A CAR?!”

“I DID NOT DIE, SHANG QINGHUA—”

“OH. MY. GOD.” Shang Qinghua gasped, pupils dilating with spiritual revelation. “YOU GOT REINCARNATED. SO YOU’RE THE OG GOODS...!! AAAAA”

Shen Yuan pinched the bridge of his nose.

“No. Shang Qinghua. Listen carefully. My situation is extremely different. I’m not… stuck here. I go back and forth.”

Shang Qinghua stared.

Then blinked.

Then stared harder.

“…bro,” he whispered. “Are you telling me… you’re on a cosmic two for one timeshare?”

Shen Yuan groaned into his hands. “It’s not a timeshare. It’s hell.”

Shang Qinghua threw his arms around him anyway, sobbing loudly into Shen Yuan’s shoulders.

“BROTHER. BROTHER IN SUFFERING. PLEASE TEACH ME HOW TO GET OUT LIKE YOU-”

“STOP HUGGING ME.”

“—I DON’T EVEN NEED TO GO HOME, JUST LET ME VISIT A SUPERMARKET—”

“SHANG QINGHUA. LET GO OF ME.”

Eventually, Shen Yuan managed to peel him off and force him back into his seat.

The room was a disaster. Papers everywhere. Teacup shards glinting ominously under the desk. And Shang Qinghua, wiping tears with his sleeve, still staring at Shen Yuan like a man who had just discovered religion.

Shen Yuan sighed deeply.

“Look,” he said. “I came here to talk budgeting… okay!? Qing Jing needs less work dumped on Shen Jiu before he literally implodes!” 

Shang Qinghua blinked. “You mean you.”

Shen Yuan grimaced. “…also me.”

Shang Qinghua wiped his nose, straightened his scrolls, and nodded rapidly.

“Say no more, Shen Shixiong. I, Shang Qinghua, your corporate slave fellow transmigrator, shall assist you in all matters of paperwork.”

Shen Yuan felt something warm in his chest.

Maybe he wasn’t alone here after all.

Shen Yuan sat back on his heels, rubbing his temples, “…thank you. It’s just so frustrating trying to figure him out,” he groaned. “Why is he like this? Why is he such a—petty little bitch—”

Shang Qinghua choked on air so violently a stack of bamboo slips slid off his shoulder and clattered to the floor, “W–wait—who? W–who are we talking about?” he squeaked, though he very much knew.

“Shen Qingqiu.” Shen Yuan said it like one might say tapeworm.

Shang Qinghua’s soul left his body again. Bro, what was he supposed to say? This situation was social suicide. It was actual suicide.

He cleared his throat, voice cracking, “I mean… bro, I guess you can ask me! I’ll try my best to answer!”

Shen Yuan stared at him, expression flat, suspicious, and just a hair away from murderous, the kind of look that absolutely did not belong on the face of the man Shang Qinghua still mentally labelled as Shen Jiu.

“So you consider yourself a story analyst?” Shen Yuan asked coolly.

Shang Qinghua laughed weakly. “I mean, I wrote him so I’d hope I could analy—”

Silence.

Both froze.

The words hung between them like a thrown knife.

Shang Qinghua’s smile cracked.

Shen Yuan blinked slowly.

A dead leaf gusted past the open window.

“W–wait—WAIT—” Shang Qinghua raised both hands defensively, back hitting the wall. “Don’t—don’t take that literally! I meant—uh—wrote as in— wrote a report—!”

“You wrote. HIM.” Shen Yuan repeated, voice dangerously soft. “My apologies—did you want to try that sentence again without lying?”

Shang Qinghua screamed internally, slapping both hands over his face, “Uhm, PLEASE— I have an explanation— I swear—“

But Shen Yuan didn’t hear him anymore.

His eye twitched.

He breathed in slowly.

Shang Qinghua watched him like one might watch a bomb begin to tick.

“…So you’re Airplane Shooting Toward the Sky,” Shen Yuan whispered.

Shang Qinghua froze like a deer caught in spiritual headlights, “…Ah? Yes…” He furrowed his brows, “Oh! You knew the title afterall… so you’re a reader! A fan then? What’s your handle?”

“Peerless cucumber.”

Shang Qinghua’s soul left. His knees hit the floor, “You—YOU—??” He jabbed a shaking finger at him. “You’re THAT guy?! The one who left two million hate comments???! The one who told me to— to drown in my own plot holes?!”

“Well! Maybe if you DIDN’T WRITE YOUR MAIN CHARACTER TO SUFFER LIKE A BATHTUB DROWNING SIMULATOR—”

“That was PREMIUM TRAGEDY—!”

“That was EMOTIONAL DAMAGE—!”

“That’s the GENRE—!!”

They lunged.

Two grown men.

Peak lords.

Transmigrators.

Rolling across the floor kicking each other, slapping wildly with scrolls, accidentally knocking over ink pots, cursing in modern slang, ancient slang, and the unique dialect of deeply online forum warfare.

“You ruined my life!” Shang Qinghua wailed, trying to shove a bamboo slip down Shen Yuan’s shirt.

“You ruined mine first by writing this trash world!” Shen Yuan snarled, attempting to choke him with his own disaster grade fanfiction anatomy chart.

“YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE READ IT IF YOU HATED IT!”

“I KEPT READING TO MAKE FUN OF IT— THAT WAS THE POINT—”

Outside, a passing disciple paused at the door, heard the chaos, and heard the shrill scream of,  “YOU DIDN’T EVEN GIVE THE PROTAGONIST A BREAK, YOU ABSOLUTE GARBAGE HUMAN!” —then quietly walked away.

Because whatever was happening inside An Ding Peak?

No one wanted to get involved.

After a while, the two ended up sprawled on top of each other, panting wildly and gasping for air.

Shen Qingqiu grinded his foot into Shang Qinghua’s face, “Tell me.”

Shang Qinghua gave a weak, strangled laugh. “A-Ah… w-well… you see, Shen—… Shixiong, h-he’s actually… very… uh… he has a lot of… qualities…!”

Shen Yuan raised a brow. “That’s not an answer. Why is he such a petty little bitch?”

Shang Qinghua froze.

Then he let out a noise that was definitely not human, grabbed a random scroll off the floor, and fanned himself with the edge of it like he was seconds away from fainting. “Shixiong, I—! I mean—! That is—! Petty is such a strong word, don’t you think?”

“No,” Shen Yuan said.

Shang Qinghua wheezed. “R-Right. Of course. Naturally. Very… fitting. Very accurate, even.”

Shen Yuan narrowed his eyes. “So you agree?”

“N-No! I— I mean—!” Shang Qinghua wiped sweat from his brow. “Look, my scum child— I mean, Shen Qingqiu, has… complexes. He’s… high strung. Easily provoked. Emotionally— um—”

“Stunted?” Shen Yuan offered.

Shang Qinghua stared at him like he had just said the secret password to escape a labyrinth. “Yes. Yes! Severely! Terminally! Gods above, I’m amazed he hasn’t had a heart attack yet.”

Shen Yuan snorted. “If he swapped into my body one more time I think he might.”

Shang Qinghua deflated the instant the words left Shen Yuan’s mouth, “…Swap?” Shang Qinghua blinked. “Wait — uh. W-Wait. What?”

Shen Yuan stared back.

For a moment they just stared at each other, two outsiders sharing the same cursed silence, before Shang Qinghua let out a trembling, relieved wheeze.

Shen Yuan growled, “I just told you this— are you even listening, you hack author!?!” 

Shang Qinghua laughed nervously. The kind of laugh that said I once feared you’d rip out my spine for sneezing too loudly, “Right, right. Aha. Of course. You did. Haha… ha.”

Shen Yuan didn’t smile.

Shang Qinghua swallowed and attempted again. “So—so you’re definitely like me? Reincarnated? Time traveller? Book transmigrator? Isekai’d against my will? Kidnapped by my own shitty writing—? Because I’ll be completely honest bro, I got so scared mid conversation, I think I passed out and was sleep talking. Remind me, I beg.” 

“Kind of,” Shen Yuan interrupted. He rubbed the back of his neck. “…Except I’m switching. Bodies. Back and forth. With Shen Qingqiu.”

Shang Qinghua froze.

“…Switching. With your own body. Back and forth.”

“Yeah.”

“And he’s here sometimes.”

“Unfortunately.”

“And you experience… what? Blackouts? Temporary consciousness transfer?”

“Mhm.”

“And when he wakes up… he’s you.”

“…Yes.”

Shang Qinghua stared at him as if witnessing a medical phenomenon.

Then, with deep pity, “Bro. You’re living a horror movie.”

Shen Yuan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Trust me, I know.”

A beat of silence passed before Shen Yuan leaned in, eyes gleaming with a mix of curiosity, judgement, and very personal bitterness.

“Speaking of horror movies,” he said casually and tried once more, “Why is Shen Qingqiu a petty—-“ 

Shang Qinghua choked so hard he nearly swallowed his own tongue. His hands flew up in frantic little circles. “HAHAHA WHAT— no— Shixiong, nooo, don’t say that—! Knock it off with that term!”

“Why not?” Shen Yuan said, baffled. “He is.”

Shang Qinghua’s smile wobbled like bad jelly. “Well—you know—Shen-shixiong is… he’s… um… he just… he’s…”

“Petty?”

“N-Not petty, just—”

“Vindictive?”

“Misunderstood?”

“A menace?”

“A product of his environment?”

“A feral street rat with a superiority complex?”

Shang Qinghua slapped both hands over his face, “PLEASE don’t make me agree—I still want to live!!”

Shen Yuan hummed thoughtfully, tapping his folded fan against his chin, “Shen Qingqiu won’t remember our conversation. Talk freely.”

“Oh.”

”So, you wrote him like that on purpose?”

“NO—YES—NO!! I mean—it was a phase, okay?! A writing phase! I was young and edgy and thought making him a bastard would be—compelling!”

“He’s compelling all right,” Shen Yuan muttered darkly. “Compelling me to die of stress.”

Shang Qinghua groaned and sank into his chair, face in his hands.

Shen Yuan leaned on his desk. “Be honest. Should I be worried?”

About his switching.

About his mental health.

About worrying about waking up tied to a tree with words carved into his arm…

About anything.

Shang Qinghua peeked between his fingers.

“…Yes,” he said immediately.

“…About which part.”

“All of it.”

Shen Yuan sighed.

Shang Qinghua sighed harder.

Then he perked up. “Wait—so you’re helping him with budgeting today? Voluntarily? Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m trying to prepare something for him,” Shen Yuan muttered. “He woke up… not great. And it’s not fair this guy gets dumped with all the consequences of my sudden appearances.”

Shang Qinghua blinked. And for the first time in their entire interaction, his expression softened with something like genuine empathy, “Awh cute. Is this, like, foreplay to you two?” 

Shen Yuan frowned faintly. “…no…”

“No,” Shang Qinghua agreed, “pfft. Okay.” 

Shang Qinghua leaned in so eagerly that Shen Yuan briefly wondered if gossip was this man’s true cultivation path. The moment he opened the little cloth pouch of almond seeds and began crunching on them like a middle-aged auntie settling in for a good soap opera recap, Shen Yuan knew he was about to hear something juicy.

“So…” Shen Yuan prompted, crossing his arms. “What exactly is the… outside perspective… on Shen Qingqiu?”

Shang Qinghua lit up like someone had finally asked him about his special interest. He scooted even closer, lowering his voice to a whisper so dramatic it practically wobbled.

“Well, Shen shixiong,” he began, eyes darting both ways to check for eavesdroppers, “people think… after your qi deviation a few days ago… you know…” He swirled his finger near his temple.

Shen Yuan blinked. “They think he went crazy?”

Shang Qinghua nodded vigorously, shelling another almond with his teeth. “Completely cracked. Split like a cheap bamboo tile. Shattered! Half the sect says the deviation ruined your soul. The other half says you were unstable to begin with so no one even noticed a difference.”

He paused to sip from his tea.

“And of course, the rest insist you’re just… y’know… normally like that.”

Shen Yuan stared. “Like what.”

“You know. Difficult.”

Shen Yuan raised a brow.

“Temperamental.”

A deeper scowl.

“Mean.”

Scowl intensifies.

“Petty.”

A twitch.

“Vindictive. Ruthless. Impossible to please. The kinda guy who would trip a toddler out of spite—though I personally think that’s slander, even if understandable slander—”

“Shang Qinghua.”

He froze mid chew.

Shen Yuan tapped a finger on the desk. “You’re telling me the entire sect thinks Shen Qingqiu has been walking around half insane and what—no one tried to help him?”

Shang Qinghua cleared his throat delicately. “…Shen shixiong, with all due respect, you bite people.”

Shen Yuan opened his mouth to protest—

—then shut it.

That… did sound like something Shen Jiu would do.

Shang Qinghua continued, encouraged by the lack of immediate violence.

“Anyway! Because of, uh… recent events…” He gestured helplessly. “Running around Qing Jing in your underrobes, screaming at disciples, tearing your house apart, getting ink all over your face, picking fights in the woodshed—”

“I didn’t pick a fight.”

“You tried to punt Luo Binghe into orbit, shixiong.” He cleared his throat, “Unless that’s just a falsified rumour…” 

Shen Yuan coughed. “…Semantics.”

“Right. Well. After all that, people are convinced your qi deviation has—pardon the language—finished the job.” Shang Qinghua popped another almond in his mouth. “They think your soul is deteriorating. Like, mid crumble.”

Shen Yuan stared at the ceiling, horrified.

“My reputation,” he whispered, “is worse than dirt.”

Shang Qinghua pat his shoulder sympathetically. “To be fair, his reputation was already worse than dirt.”

Shen Yuan covered his face with both hands.

“And,” Shang Qinghua added brightly, “everyone thinks Yue shixiong is in denial about it because he’s so in love with you—”

“WHAT.”

“Nothing!” Shang Qinghua squeaked, stuffing three almonds into his mouth at once. “Shouldn’t have said that, yup, I’ll just—snack—shut up—”

Shen Yuan stared at him with the slow, dawning horror of a man realising his new life had become a gossip circle.

And that Shen Qingqiu’s reputation was so terrible… it had somehow gotten worse.

”Well,” Shen Yuan began, “I gotta do something then.” 

Shang Qinghua hesitated mid crunch, mouth full of almond seeds, eyes going wide, “…You wanna what?”

Shen Yuan planted both palms on the table, leaning in with the righteous fury of a man who has finally found something productive to do besides suffer.

“I’m going to fix Shen Qingqiu’s reputation,” he declared. “Thoroughly. Publicly. Irreversibly. I am going to repair the image of that… that… emotionally constipated hedgehog of a man.”

Shang Qinghua blinked once. Twice. Then he stuffed another handful of almonds in his mouth because if he was going to listen to insanity, he might as well snack.

“Uh… Shixiong… have you considered that maybe Shen Qingqiu’s reputation is already… you know.” He swirled his hand in a downward spiral. “At rock bottom? Like—like if you dig any further you’ll hit the magma core?”

“That’s why it’s perfect,” Shen Yuan said, eyes shining. “The bar is so low, I can only go up. People think he’s a vicious, unhinged monster whose qi deviation melted his brain.”

Shang Qinghua snorted, choking on an almond. “Well—yeah. Because he acted like one. For a while. A long while. A painfully long while. Actually, he still acts like one.” 

Shen Yuan waved that off. “Point is- I am now Shen Qingqiu’s PR manager.” 

Shang Qinghua stared at him like he had sprouted a second head. “You’re… you’re serious.”

“Absolutely.”

“But why?” Shang Qinghua asked, voice cracking. “Why on earth would you waste energy helping him? He’s not even… appreciative. Or nice. Or even tolerable!”

Shen Yuan pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I owe him,” he muttered. “That poor bastard wakes up every other day to my messes. He deserves at least a fighting chance at… dignity.”

Shang Qinghua had no idea what ‘my messes’ meant, but he nodded solemnly anyway, because he, too, was a man who had once made choices he regretted. Mostly involving the protagonist halo he’d built.

“Okay,” Shang Qinghua sighed, pushing aside the scrolls he’d spilled earlier. “Alright, alright. If you’re really committed to this suicide mission—uh—reputation rescue—plan, what’s step one?”

Shen Yuan straightened with purpose, eyes practically glowing with newfound conviction.

“Step one,” he said. “Make the sect think Shen Qingqiu is stable.”

Shang Qinghua winced, “Ambitious.”

“Step two,” Shen Yuan continued confidently, “show everyone he’s not a psycho. Or at least… slightly less of a psycho.”

“Extremely ambitious.”

“And step three,” Shen Yuan finished with determination, “make him admired. Respected. Even liked, eventually.”

Shang Qinghua coughed into his fist. “That’s… massively ambitious.”

Shen Yuan pointed dramatically. “Shang Qinghua. Believe in me.”

Shang Qinghua stared at him. Then at the ceiling. Then back at him.

“…Should I?” he whispered weakly.

“No,” Shen Yuan corrected, “but I need you to pretend.”

Shang Qinghua, who had been pretending his entire life, nodded with the resigned professionalism of a man drafted into a war he didn’t believe in.

“…Well,” he sighed, “go, Shixiong. Fix the unfixable. Rewrite public perception. Raise the dead. Whatever you wanna call it. I’ll… cheer. From behind something solid.”

Shen Yuan grinned, clapped him on the shoulder, and said, “I’ll make you proud.”

Shang Qinghua smiled back as if he were sending a soldier off to battle, “Ahaha, no, you won’t.” 

⸻

The next peak meeting was, luckily, scheduled for that day and was supposed to be Shen Yuan’s debut—his grand entrance into ‘Operation: Fix Shen Qingqiu’s Godawful Reputation’.

He had spent the entire afternoon pacing in circles and whisper practicing in front of his mirror. A calm smile. A dignified nod. Speak clearly. Don’t insult anyone, even if they deserve it. Especially if they deserve it.

By the time the meeting came, he felt, dare he say it, prepared.

He entered the hall with his sleeves arranged immaculately (he triple checked), posture poised, face extremely neutral in case his real personality slipped out.

Shang Qinghua, sitting two seats down, attempted to give him an encouraging thumbs up. It only made things worse.

The meeting began. Sect Leader Yue Qingyuan looked tired but hopeful.

“Qingqiu,” he said gently, “it’s good to see you participating again.”

Shen Yuan nodded solemnly. “Mn.”

He had planned to contribute something meaningful, something mature and respectable.

Unfortunately, the first discussion topic was—

”Bai Zhan Peak requests increased funding for—”

Shang Qinghua opened his mouth.

And Shen Yuan’s brain melted, “Denied,” he said instantly. Loudly. On reflex.

Silence.

Dead silence.

Shang Qinghua stared at him like he’d just been betrayed by his only ally in the apocalypse.

Liu Qingge slammed a hand on the table. “Why did you interrupt?”

Shen Yuan calmly folded his hands. “Force of habit.”

The entire row of peak lords exchanged horrified looks.

Yue Qingyuan tried again, delicately, “Then, Qingqiu, do you have a counter proposal regarding the budget?”

“Yes,” Shen Yuan said.

He absolutely did not.

“Please continue,” Yue Qingyuan prompted.

Every eye turned to him.

Shen Yuan opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Absolutely nothing.

His breath caught. His face twitched. His soul evaporated. Somewhere, a spiritual bird cried.

After three solid seconds of silence so painful it could have qualified as torture, Shen Yuan blurted, “…we need… more… money?”

One peak lord dropped his brush. Another choked on tea. Shang Qinghua looked like he was witnessing his own funeral.

Liu Qingge pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh, yes shixiong. That is a plan. There’s a reason you’re the sect’s strategist.”

“Ah,” Shen Yuan said, maintaining the blank, dignified expression of a man whose brain had disconnected from his body. “Shhhhhut up.”

A few more attempts were made to draw him into discussion. Each question was met with either:

“…Mn.”

“…Indeed.”

“…As Qingqiu sees fit.”

“…I agree with whoever spoke last.”

By the time the meeting adjourned, the room was filled with the uneasy buzzing of peak lords whispering that Shen Qingqiu had finally snapped completely.

Shen Yuan rose to his feet, clasped his hands behind his back, and walked out of the council hall with the serene calm of a guqin playing immortal sage.

Not a twitch.

Not a stumble.

Not even a hint of shame.

The doors closed behind him.

He took one step down the corridor.

Then—

“AAAAAAAAAAAAA—”

He broke into a dead sprint.

Shen Yuan tore down the hallway like a man being chased by all great sects. He slapped both hands over his face, muffling a scream of despair, and ran laps around the courtyard like a disgraced rooster.

No no no no NO—why did I SAY that—!?

I should’ve died in the brothel instead—!

‘We need more money’!? Ah, so smart! Fucking moron!

A passing junior disciple froze as Shen Qingqiu zoomed past at speeds that defied physics, letting out what sounded like a dying goose.

“…Was that… Xiu Ya sword?”

“Don’t look,” the other whispered fearfully. “If he sees you, you’ll die.”

Shen Yuan did not stop running.

He would never stop running.

He would outrun the memory of this meeting if it killed him.

⸻

Back at Qing Jing, the disciples who usually greeted him with forced politeness were nowhere. Those who happened to be sweeping or carrying water refused to look up. A few scurried away immediately, nearly tripping over themselves.

Shen Yuan winced.

Okay… okay. Maybe he had scared them. Maybe Shen Qingqiu screamed loud enough to shake the trees. Maybe a few disciples thought the world was ending.

He stepped further into the courtyard.

A cluster of disciples in the corner spotted him and instantly froze.

“…Shizun,” one whispered, as if summoning a ghost.

Another slapped his friend’s arm. “Don’t speak to him! He’ll explode again!”

Someone dropped their broom and ran.

Shen Yuan stared.

“Jesus CHRIST,” he muttered under his breath. “What did that bastard do last night? Did he start flipping tables? Did he set something on fire? Did he try to drown a kid?”

He pressed a palm to his forehead.

No. No point dwelling. Damage control. He needed to—

“SHIZUN!” a panicked voice cried from above.

Ning Yingying practically tumbled down the stairs, nearly tripping over her own robes as she scrambled toward him. Her eyes were red, as if she’d cried the whole night.

She skidded to a stop in front of him.

“Shizun! Are you… um… okay?”

Shen Yuan blinked.

Oh god.

Before he could respond, Ming Fan appeared behind her with the air of a man approaching a bomb.

“Shizun,” he said stiffly, bowing a little too quickly. “We… we apologize for whatever wrong we committed yesterday.”

Shen Yuan pinched the bridge of his nose. “You did nothing wrong.”

Three disciples fainted.

He stared at them in horror.

“Why are you all like this?!” Shen Qingqiu snapped. 

“We thought you’d scold us if we breathed too loud!” Ming Fan blurted.

“Yesterday you yelled at the Sect Leader!” another whispered.

“And tried to break down the woodshed!”

“And tried to kill Luo Shixiong!”

“WHAT.”

Shen Yuan nearly choked on air.

“I did NOT—”

“We heard you screaming his name,” Ning Yingying said quietly. “It sounded like… murder things…”

Shen Yuan internally wanted to bash his head against a wall.

Great. Wonderful.

He steadied himself.

“Listen,” Shen Yuan said slowly, putting on his best gentle-teacher voice, “Shizun was… under… emotional duress.”

The disciples exchanged a look that clearly read: emotional duress = death and destruction.

Ming Fan raised a hand timidly. “Are you still emotionally duressed?”

“…I am fine now.”

A collective sigh of relief swept through the peak.

But before Shen Yuan could feel victorious, someone’s voice echoed from behind him and his soul left his body.

Yue Qingyuan stood at the entrance of the courtyard, smiling with so much warmth it could melt steel.

The disciples immediately scattered like cockroaches, every single one of them diving for cover behind trees and rocks.

Shen Yuan felt a twitch behind his eye.

Fantastic. Just fantastic.

Now he had to deal with this too.

Shen Yuan slapped both hands over his face.

Why do I have to deal with the emotional debt that bastard left behind?

Shen Yuan stiffened. The sect leader’s robes were tidy as always, his expression carefully polite… but his eyes were subtly distant. Guarded. The faint warmth he always showed when speaking to ‘Xiao Jiu’ was nowhere in sight.

“Qingqiu,” Yue Qingyuan greeted quietly. “May we talk?”

Shen Yuan stepped forward, palms damp, “Shixiong… about yesterday—”

Yue Qingyuan lifted a hand gently, stopping him.

“Qingqiu,” he said, voice controlled, “I understand you were upset. Truly. But I’m… disappointed.”

Shen Yuan felt that like a stab. Ouch. Not angry, disappointed. Which was undeniably worse…. HahaHA! NOT!!!

Yue Qingyuan’s posture was formal, almost cold. He clasped his hands behind his back, eyes lowering slightly.

“I thought you wished to speak with me yesterday. When you told me to come.” His voice wavered a little on that. “But instead… ”

Shen Yuan swallowed.

That wasn’t me. That was Shen Qingqiu the malicious gremlin. Can’t say that though. Not unless I want to be exorcised.

“…Shixiong,” he tried carefully, “I wasn’t in the best state of mind yesterday. I… overreacted.”

Yue Qingyuan exhaled. A terribly tired sound.

“Yes,” he said. “You did.”

He wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t chastising. He wasn’t even pleading.

He was simply… hurt.

Shen Yuan wanted to sink into the earth.

Yue Qingyuan finally looked up at him. “I will give you space for now. Please—rest. And if something troubles you again… you may speak to me instead of taking it out on others.”

He bowed his head slightly, a formal, respectful farewell that carried none of his usual affection.

Then he turned and walked away.

Shen Yuan stood there, stunned.

Even the breeze felt colder.

Wow.

Congratulations, Shen Qingqiu, he thought bitterly. You managed to emotionally devastate the one person who still likes you. And I have to fix it. Amazing.

He let out a long, shaky exhale.

And then he trudged toward the training grounds to begin the process of repairing this peak’s collective trauma, silently praying the world would give him a pity buff.

His thoughts screeched to a halt when he actually reached the training field.

Not a single disciple was there.

Hm. 

It was to be expected. By now, all of them must have went to sleep and the sun had long set, the moon casting a dark glow over the mountain peak. 

He then made the executive decision to go and visit the woodshed instead.

Shen Yuan nudged the woodshed door open with all the caution of a man approaching a crime scene, only to halt, breath catching, at the quiet shape curled on the floor.

Luo Binghe was asleep.

Awh.

His back rose and fell in the soft, steady rhythm of someone who finally had a moment where no one could touch him. And in that dim corner, head pillowed on his arm, lashes fanned against a bruised cheek, he looked… painfully small.

Shen Yuan’s chest tightened.

“…You poor thing,” he muttered under his breath, voice barely audible. He hadn’t come here to pity him, he had come here to fix something, anything, after the disaster Shen Qingqiu left behind. But seeing Binghe like this made it impossible to feel anything but wanting to coddle him. 

He crouched down, careful not to make noise, and set down the things he’d brought…

A tray of neatly lined bottles, proper medicine this time, not the useless ointments Shen Jiu used to throw at him.

A slim cultivation manual he had personally dug out of the Qing Jing archives, one suited for beginners who needed a foundation and weren’t already prodigies descending from immortal bloodlines.

And finally, a letter. Folded, weighted with a small stone. His handwriting was cramped, messy, embarrassingly emotional for someone playing the role of a cold, elegant peak lord.

He hesitated before placing it.

This will probably confuse him, he thought. But… the bun deserves at least one good thing today.

He stood, lingering for a moment. Luo Binghe’s hair was a tangled mess, clearly no one ever helped him comb it properly. His clothes were thin. His feet bare. The blanket he usually used was balled up uselessly in the corner.

Shen Yuan exhaled slowly, then picked up the blanket, shook it out, and draped it gently over the boy’s shoulders.

The reaction was immediate, Binghe flinched, just a twitch. The kind a frightened animal makes when it’s too exhausted to run.

Shen Yuan’s heart squeezed again.

“…Sleep well, Binghe.” It came out softer than intended, almost fond.

He turned to leave, sliding the door shut with care, trying not to wake him then closed the door softly behind him.

And as soon as the latch clicked, Luo Binghe opened one eye.

Dark, sharp, untrusting.

But in the next breath, confused. Bewildered.

And worst of all…

…hopeful.

He sat up slightly, the blanket sliding down his shoulder as he stared at the medicine, the manual, and the letter as though they were forbidden treasures.

Shizun was already gone.

But Luo Binghe’s fingers curled slowly around the folded letter, grip tight, eyes bright with something fierce and trembling, something dangerously close to—

…

Chapter Text

Shen Yuan blinked awake, breath slow, chest heavy in the comfortable way exhaustion settles after a shit storm. For a moment he didn’t know where he was; then the blankness of the ceiling hit him.

Ah. His room.

His boring, barren, tragically personality stripped room.

He exhaled, long and shaky, then sat up with the defeated slump of a doll. His eyes drifted slowly across the walls. Empty. Stark. Void of even the ugliest piece of merch. His expression twisted like he’d bitten into a lemon, but he didn’t rage this time. Just… grimaced with deeply wounded dignity.

“Right,” he muttered to himself. “Still a depressing prison cell.”

He pushed himself out of bed and trudged to the bathroom, rubbing at his eyes. His reflection stared back at him… messy hair, faint dark circles… 

But he still smiled.

Just a little.

He lifted a hand, touching the mirror lightly, “Well,” he murmured, “I’ve definitely looked worse.”

He leaned in and winced. “And smelled worse.”

That settled it! Shen Yuan turned on the shower.

And oh. Oh.

It was bliss.

Scalding, steamy, glorious water poured over him like divine mercy. He braced both hands on the tiles, eyes closing, letting the heat soak into muscle and bone and soul. No fragile ancient body. No murderous peak lords. No bratty disciples or terrifying children or brothel nightmares…!!

Just hot water.

“Finally…” he whispered, voice melting. “Finally…”

By the time he stepped out, hair damp and clean, skin warm and flushed, he felt almost human again!!

That’s when he saw it.

A letter.

Folded neatly on the counter beside his toothbrush.

The handwriting was elegant, cold, and sharpened like calligraphy performed under duress. Shen Yuan recognised it instantly. Shen Qingqiu’s.

He hesitated, thumb brushing the paper before opening it.

Inside was a surprisingly neat death threat/message.

Shen Yuan sputtered angrily and considered spitting on the letter in retaliation! But, alas... no. 

He folded the letter with careful fingers and slipped it into his pocket.

When he walked out into the kitchen, Shen Di was already awake, hair tied up, scrolling through her phone. She looked up, blinked, then perked up with a grin.

“A-Yuan! You’re alive! And you look… surprisingly okay?”

Shen Yuan chuckled. “Thanks. I think.”

She stood and nudged a plate toward him. “I made breakfast. Thought you’d be hungry.”

His heart tightened, warm and grateful. “Thanks, di di.”

He sat and ate with her. Simple food, quiet morning light spilling through the window, the mundane peace of home folding gently around him.

When he finished, he stretched, pocketed Shen Qingqiu’s letter again, and headed toward the door.

“I’m going out,” he called.

“Huh? I don’t need to force you today?”

“…huh?”

Shen Di blinked. “Huh… don’t burn anything.”

Shen Yuan snorted.

“Yes, father.” 

⸻

Outside, the world sang.

Cars thundered down the road, hissing like clockwork. Signs flashed with big billboards and signs. People walked past holding their phones, and typing away happily.

And the smell—

Shen Yuan smiled. 

“Awesome,” he chirped, skipping onto the footpath like he belonged there. 

“It really is nice to be back.”

Shen Yuan 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 Yuan stood at the edge of the path, expression unreadable, but his shoulders eased by a fraction at the stillness.

“Oh crap, it’s him again!” A little boy screamed. 

Shen Yuan couldn’t help but snap his head at the sound and chuckled. He walked closer and cocked his head, “Who again?”

All of the boys’ eyes all welled up and they began to wail.

Shen Yuan’s eyes widened and he got down on one knee and yelped, trying to pat the kid’s shoulder, “Ah… I’m sorry! What’d I do!?”

The crying child whacked his hand away and ran away with the rest of his gang, “Muuuuum!!”

“…”

Well, whatever.

Shen Yuan drifted toward the swings without quite thinking about it, guided more by habit and the faint tug of comfort than any real decision. The early morning air was cool, soft, and empty of people… perfect. He lowered himself onto the seat and let the chains rattle just a little as he pushed off, slow and easy, the way you do when you’re trying not to think too much but end up thinking anyway.

A strange loneliness settled over him. Not the miserable, bone deep kind he used to know back when he was in the hospital, but a quieter version, like someone had just stepped out of frame, leaving behind a faint echo of their warmth.

He exhaled and leaned back slightly, letting the swing carry him in a gentle arc.

Even with his mind mostly clear, it wandered back to him…

Shen Qingqiu.

That bastard.

That cursed, sharp tongued, unbearably petty bastard.

Shen Yuan scrubbed a hand over his face, but the smile that tugged at his lips refused to go away.

He was a shithead. A scumbag. A man who rage spiralled at the drop of a hat, who collected grudges the way other people collected porcelain, who turned envy and pride into full time personality traits. But…

He hadn’t needed to see the way Shen Qingqiu curled into himself when overwhelmed. The way he bit down hard enough to bruise his own arm. The way anger wasn’t just anger with him—it was panic, shame, self directed poison, a desperate flailing of someone who had never been allowed to be soft, or scared, or wrong.

He was a bastard, yes.

But he was a bastard with edges formed by survival.

A man who still hadn’t learned he was allowed to be human.

Shen Yuan sighed and let the swing rock him forward again.

“Scumbag,” he said softly, without heat this time.

The morning sunlight filtered through the trees, warm on his face. The world felt peaceful in a way he hadn’t felt in a long while—no disciples, no peak lords, no bamboo house full of responsibilities that weren’t his. Just himself. His body. His city. A quiet park and a swing that didn’t try to throw him into the dirt.

He pushed again, lazy and thoughtful.

He thought about how Shen Qingqiu arranged things, straightened things, fixed things that weren’t even his fault. The rare, subtle flickers of care he hid like state secrets. The way he treated attention like a threat and affection like a weapon.

He thought about the letter tucked safely in his pocket.

On the next forward swing, he leaned his head back and let the sky fill his vision.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “You’re still a mess… but maybe you’re not entirely hopeless.”

The wind brushed past him as if agreeing.

For the first time in days, maybe weeks, Shen Yuan felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be, suspended gently between two worlds, at peace with neither but no longer frightened by either.

And in the quiet sway of the swing, he let himself hope that maybe—just maybe—the bastard scum villain on the other side was figuring things out too.

He watched as the sun began to set and sighed, finally returning home to a pissy Shen Di. He laughed off her nagging and returned to his room.

When he got up there, he took out the letter once more.

Shen Yuan smiled faintly as he read the letter—his letter, technically.

…ahhhh, the og goods really is insufferable!!

Ok. Okokokok, fine!

Shen Yuan sat down at his desk, a blank page waited patiently. He inhaled, steadied himself, and began to write back.

Pfft…

And when he finished, he sat back and stared at the page.

It looked… good. Surprisingly!

Clear, steady, even a little mature!?

A tiny bit proud of himself, Shen Yuan folded the letter and set it neatly on the desk where he knew Shen Qingqiu would find it. He let out a long, quiet breath and nodded once as if giving himself approval.

Then the room tilted.

It was subtle at first, the floor seemed to rise, the light dimmed around the edges of his vision. His stomach rolled, cold sweat forming instantly along his back.

He blinked hard, trying to will it away.

“Uh-“

A cough pressed up his throat, sharp and burning. He covered his mouth out of instinct and when he pulled his hand away, there was red smeared across his palm.

His breath hitched.

He tried to stand, but the movement sent another wave of nausea through him, and he braced against the desk, swallowing down panic. The world felt strangely far away.

Weird.

He paused, pressing a hand to the edge of the desk as the world spun for a brief, nauseating second.

“…Huh.”

He swallowed, but his throat felt dry. Thick. He pushed off the desk to stand properly and instantly regretted it.

A sharp pain stabbed under his ribs. His breath hitched, a thin, shaky inhale that scraped like glass. Shen Yuan pressed a hand to his sternum, fingers trembling despite himself.

“…not… now…”

The warmth in his chest lurched violently.

He doubled over.

The metallic taste hit his tongue first, then the copper tang flooded his throat, hot and unmistakable.

His breath stuttered.

And then he coughed.

A wet, heavy splatter hit his palm and the floorboards, dark and red and far too much.

Shen Yuan stared at it, dazed, dizzy, vision swimming in and out like a faulty screen flickering.

“…you’ve gotta be kidding me…”

Another cough ripped through him, harsher this time, tearing at his lungs. More blood hit his hand, his wrist, dripping between his fingers.

He pressed his knuckles desperately to his lips, chest heaving, lightheadedness blurring the edges of the room.

Seriously!? Now!?!

Maybe switching bodies so often was catching up to him.

Maybe stress, maybe lack of sleep, maybe emotional whiplash.

Or maybe, his body—

He swallowed.

He sucked in a trembling breath and stumbled toward the bathroom; not calling for Shen Di, not even thinking of leaving behind a sign to that bastard Shen Qingqiu. Absolutely not. They had enough to deal with. He wasn’t about to dump more worry onto them, not when he couldn’t even explain what was happening himself.

He clutched the edge of the sink with both hands, knuckles bone white, and forced himself to steady his breathing. His reflection stared back at him, his usually round cheeks suddenly looked ghastly with sunken eyes and lips pale except for the smear of crimson now staining them.

The kind of face that made extras in horror movies scream!!!

Slowly, carefully, Shen Yuan brought a towel to his mouth and wiped the blood away until his reflection looked less alarming. Then he lifted the corners of his lips into something approximating a smile.

It didn’t reach his eyes.

But it would have to do.

“There,” he murmured to himself. “Presentable.”

He folded the towel, washed away the stains, and straightened again, wobbly, exhausted, but determined. He hurled himself onto bed and tightened his eyes, all with a smile on his face.

How selfish would it be to show this side of himself to people? He’d told everyone that he had recovered. He told his family that he had been cured.

And for a moment, he almost believed himself.

Shen Yuan steadied himself with one hand on the sink, washed the blood off with trembling fingers, and forced his expression into something passable.

Something harmless.

Something that wouldn’t alarm anyone.

He cleaned up every trace, rinsed his mouth, splashed cold water on his face, and straightened.

“S’fine…” he murmured to no one, quietly, shakily.
“I’m fine.”

And he walked back to his room before his legs could give out beneath him.

…

At the end of the day, Shen Yuan was a liar through and through.

He wasn’t going to scare Shen Di.

He wasn’t going to worry Shen Qingqiu.

And he wasn’t going to fall apart.

Not yet…

⸻

‘Shen Qingqiu, 

You really didn’t have to write a letter.

(…Actually, knowing you, this was probably the most dignified way you could bring yourself to apologise, so I guess I should appreciate the effort.)

First of all, care to explain why I woke up with no Binghe posters on my ceiling, so you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t ‘fix this immediately’, seeing as I’m still in mourning for the emotional support shrine you personally torched like some deranged pyromaniac with too much free time.

Second—filth?? Filth???

You slept in my sister’s bed! 

She cleans compulsively.

You are literally sitting in the cleanest room in the entire southern hemisphere. (And if you’re talking about my room- then go diddle yourself) 

Third, excuse you, I can climb stairs perfectly well. I climb them every day. Sometimes even two flights. Without crying!

Fourth—what do you mean “interests (unfortunately)”?! Those drawings were PRIVATE. And for practice. Character studies. Research, even. Definitely not depraved. Also they were mostly clothed. You have no right to judge me when you just casually committed arson because you don’t like my taste in male prowess. It's inspiration, you know? 

Fifth—if the heavens are playing a joke on you, imagine how I feel. You made me wake up in a brothel. A brothel. Surrounded by women who were calling me ‘a-jiu’ like we were long term acquaintances. I am emotionally scarred. I may never recover!!! Pay for my therapy, bastard!

And finally—how dare you write to me like I arranged any of this. Do you think I WANT to be yeeted into your torture cultivator-hell? Do you think I benefit from this? I almost had a heart attack because you went there to sleep ‘as a test’. A test of WHAT? My remaining sanity?

Fix it yourself.

No love,
Shen Yuan

P.S. stop touching my things!! I don't need your sticky little child molester hands on my stuff!’

⸻

…

Just take care of Qing Jing. And yourself. And maybe try not to yell at Binghe too much, because he really does look like a kicked puppy lately.

As for me, I’ll pull myself together soon. I always do.

…Right. That’s all.

Chapter Text

Luo Binghe felt as if he had recently adopted a permanent, throbbing headache, one that pulsed behind his eyes and made his temples twitch like dying insects.

It used to be simple with Shen Qingqiu. Predictable, even.

Shizun would scold him, hit him, belittle him, punish him for breathing too loudly and Luo Binghe would accept it, adjust, and survive.

He knew where he stood.

At the bottom. In the dirt. Under Shizun’s boot.

He understood that system perfectly.

But lately…

Lately Shen Qingqiu seemed intent on driving him mad.

As embarrassing as it made him sound like a blushing school girl thinking about her crush, even thinking it made him cringe inwardly, he felt as if Shizun had started giving him… mixed signals?

Terrifying, deranged, whiplash inducing mixed signals.

Ever since Luo Binghe had been released from his last whipping, Shen Qingqiu had suddenly appeared beside him with salve. Salve. Applied by Shizun’s own hand!

Luo Binghe had practically ascended on the spot and almost selfishly kept the bottle to remember the moment forever…

Ah. But he’s older now. He has to be mature. So of course, he went to return it… only to be brutally met with the wrath of Shen Qingqiu and flung off the peak the next morning like a stray dog that tracked mud onto fine silk.

If he had been any weaker, the emotional whiplash alone might have killed him.

Everyone on Qing Jing Peak had noticed his shizun’s erratic behaviour and gleefully tossed it onto the bonfire of Shen Qingqiu’s already demonic reputation.

Because of course it was strange!! Deeply, wildly, psychotically strange! For their peak lord to run around the peak dressed only in his inner robes, tear apart his bamboo house, mutter curses under his breath so openly, and stalk the grounds like a man possessed.

And then, the next day, return to being perfectly normal.

Ruthless, sharp tongued and cold.

But normal.

Luo Binghe had anxiously braced himself for the inevitable next stage; Shizun pulling him aside to beat him to death to vent his anger.

But instead…

Shen Qingqiu woke up at dawn and began cleaning his house.

Like, actually cleaning it. With his own hands.

Luo Binghe had nearly dropped the bucket he was carrying.

Why wasn’t he ordering a disciple to do it?

Why was Shizun personally reorganising his haphazard piles of useless scrolls and dusty trinkets?

Why was he sweeping? Sweeping!

Then there was the day at the pond.

Luo Binghe had expected a blow, or a cruel insult, or to be dragged by the ear back to training— or to even get water boarded right then and there!!!! …but instead Shen Qingqiu offered him safety.

He even smiled.

…huh.

The next day, Shizun looked at him with pure venom, hissed like a cornered feral cat, and nearly impaled him with a glare alone.

Luo Binghe actually massaged his temples at the memory, wincing as a spike of pain stabbed behind his eye.

“A-Luo…” Ning Yingying whispered timidly beside him, inching closer as if approaching a wild animal, “What’s wrong? You look… scary.”

Luo Binghe groaned into his hands, “…Do you think… Shizun’s been possessed by a demon?”

Ning Yingying froze. “Ha?”

Before she could form a full thought, smack—a sharp blow landed on the back of Luo Binghe’s head.

He spun around to glare at the intruder.

Ming Fan stood there with his arms crossed, looking at both of them like they had shared a single brain cell and dropped it.

“Don’t be stupid, shidi,” Ming Fan scoffed, shaking his head. “If anything, Shizun has been possessed by a spirit. Use your brain.”

His relationship with Ming Fan had… ‘improved’ across the years. Whilst they still didn’t like each other, they were no longer the snot nosed brats they used to be when they first entered into the sect. They were practically adults- about to spread their wings and travel the world! So, safe to say, Ming Fan and his crew didn’t exactly pester him physically anymore. Far too busy (phew). 

Still….

Luo Binghe narrowed his eyes. “Are you stupid? What kind of child believes in ghosts?”

Ming Fan rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. “What kind of child believes shizun is nice to him because he actually likes him?”

Luo Binghe sputtered. “I never said—!”

Ning Yingying slowly lowered herself to the ground and put her head between her knees. “I don’t know what’s going on anymore…”

Chapter Text

Shen Qingqiu woke up once more.

Cold prickled along his arms and down his spine before he even opened his eyes. He curled in on himself out of pure instinct. Everything felt wrong. The unfamiliar weight of the limbs, the odd, shallow pattern of breath, alongside a faint ache. 

He lay there for a moment, gathering himself, teeth lightly clenched to stop the trembling.

Then he exhaled a long, slow sigh. Useless to linger.

There was no beasts here nor Qi-ge.

He forced himself upright.

The room looked different in bright daylight. Messy and painfully mundane. Shen Yuan’s mortal things. Mortal bed. Mortal air. Mortal weakness.

He swung his feet to the ground and stood, adjusting to the slightly unbalanced equilibrium of this body. His gaze fell on the letter left neatly on the desk.

Ah. Of course.

He picked it up and read 'A-Yuan's' response.

With every line, his expression shifted from mild annoyance… to incredulity… to disbelief… to the unmistakable twitch of an eye that promised murder when the appropriate vessel became available.

By the time he reached the P.S., he actually scoffed out loud.

“…Sticky little—child—molester…?” he repeated flatly, eyes dead.

He let the paper fall onto the desk. “Truly… the heavens could not have chosen a more insufferable host.”

Still, despite his disdain, the corner of his mouth twitched, not into a smile, but into the resigned expression of a man who has simply run out of energy to be offended.

Before he could gather himself further, a voice floated up from downstairs.

“A-Yuan! Come down, breakfast is ready!”

Shen Qingqiu adjusted his posture automatically, smoothing down his clothes and walked down casually. Shen Di was getting ready and busying herself around the house, "I'm going out with friends today, so just eat and sleep and shit or something. Okay cya!" She blabbered and prepared to put on her shoes.

Shen Qingqiu reached for his own shoes, wobbling.

"Ah—wait! You're going out today?” Shen Di sputtered, "You?!"

Shen Qingqiu cleared his throat, adopting what he hoped was casual confidence, “Yes. I'm going to the…community center.”

Shen Di raised a brow, “For what?”

“That,” he said stiffly, “is none of your concern.”

Her brows rose with the exact unimpressed expression he often gave disciples. So this, apparently, ran in the family.

But she didn’t argue. Instead, she crossed the room, snatched up Shen Yuan’s phone from the counter, unlocked it, and pulled up a glowing map like it was a talisman.

“Here,” she said, tapping it twice. “Just follow this little blue line. It’ll talk to you.”

Shen Qingqiu stared at the screen, mildly horrified, “The box. Speaks.”

“Yeah, Google Maps speaks,” she said, slipping it into his pocket. “Try not to get hit by a bus. And text me if you collapse again.”

Again??

He couldn’t respond as she was already moving on with her morning, as if this cursed body collapsing was as routine as brushing teeth!! 

Left with no choice but to trust the glowing oracle box, Shen Qingqiu limped out into the mortal world.

The walk was humiliating. Every breeze felt too cold. Every car too loud. Every step an exercise in spiritual humiliation. But the little blue line guided him, turning him left, right, left again, until—

There it was.

The community centre, a beige building with faded posters and too bright flowers out front.

Shen Qingqiu stepped inside and immediately regretted it.

A cluster of old women sitting at a long table turned as one, like a coven sensing fresh prey. Their eyes sharpened. Their knitting needles slowed. Their smiles grew wide and far, far too knowing.

“Come sit, come sit—you look pale, dear!” One trilled.

“Did you eat breakfast? You're so thin!" 

Their grandmotherly concern hit him like thrown knives. Shen Qingqiu froze, clutching the oracle box like a sword, eyes widening in sheer alarm.

He felt oddly at home.

One of the ladies rushed in and pushed the others aside, happily smiling.

"Ah. Auntie Lin." Shen Qingqiu smiled back.

“Aiyo! Shen Jiu!” she called, waving him over with the unrestrained enthusiasm of someone whose joints no longer obeyed mortal limits but whose spirit absolutely did. “I didn't expect such a handsome boy like you to have enough time for my silly invitation! Come, come, don’t just stand there like a lamppost!”

Shen Qingqiu's eyes widened for a moment before he calmed- right. He told her his name.

He gave what he hoped passed for a polite nod and hobbled forward. The old women flocked toward him instantly, like ducks spotting stale bread.

“Oh dear, look at you! So pale!”

“Your hair is messy, did you not sleep well?”

"I'm single!" 

One of them even kissed his cheek.

Shen Qingqiu almost ascended downwards on the spot.

Auntie Lin shooed the others away with the authority of a battle general. “Enough, enough, you’ll scare the poor child! He just arrived!”

The others retreated two steps. Not three. Never three.

Auntie Lin turned back to him with a gentle smile. “You feeling alright today?"

Shen Qingqiu raised his chin. “I am perfectly steady.”

Then his leg buckled slightly.

Auntie Lin caught his elbow with terrifying speed for someone her age. “Mmhm. And I’m perfectly twenty one.” She clicked her tongue and guided him to a chair. “Sit. Rest. Did you eat? Young people like you always forget to eat." 

He sat because fighting her would require far more dignity and physical strength than he currently possessed. He was about to answer before auntie Lin got whisked away by her friends and Shen Qingqiu was left sitting beside the others. As the old ladies resumed their morning chatter, knitting needles clacking, gossip circulating like spiritual mist, he awkwardly picked at his fingernails.

Auntie Lin then returned and placed a thermos in front of him.

“Drink. Ginger and red date tea. It's good for you!"

Shen Qingqiu eyed it like it might explode. “…I do not need that."

“Mhhhmmmm,” she replied blandly, patting his arm, “I've seen my grandchildren more steadier than you." 

"..."

He nearly spat blood!!! Not from illness but from sheer indignation!!!!

Out of spite, he lifted the thermos and took a sip. 

Auntie Lin settled beside him. “So. Are you here to volunteer, or to rest? You look like you need both.”

“I…” He paused, “I came… to observe.”

Auntie Lin laughed. “Observe? What, the elderly?” She leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially, “Careful, we bite.”

Shen Qingqiu blinked.

Then, reluctantly… the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

Just slightly.

It was either that or scream.

“Come,” she said cheerfully, patting his back, “we’re setting up for tai chi class. You can help by supervising! You like supervising, don’t you?” She winked. “Nice and easy for someone who looks like they’ll faint if the wind changes direction.”

He inhaled sharply. “…I do not—"

But he was already being dragged along gently, the group waving him over with warm smiles and unrelenting enthusiasm. The cluster began to play bingo and various different board games, laughing along with each other and cackling at Shen Qingqiu's biting remarks that got promptly brushed off. They even convinced him to join their tai chi class, and was basically a professional due to his profession in his original body.

He left that day with a promotion to leading the next class and a hot cup of cocoa. 

When Shen Qingqiu got back to the home, it was empty. So he excused himself to the kitchen and begun his best  attempt at cooking up congee. R

Really, he'd been quite a bother for Shen Yuan's poor sister; it was the least he could so.

By the time Shen Di came home, she still looked as bubbly as she did in the morning. When she saw the bowls on the kitchen table, she almost passed out, "...did I do something wrong? Is it spiked?"

"...no?"

She eyed him for a moment then shrugged and dug in.

"Oh my gosh!" Shen Di licked her lips and nodded vigorously, "This isn't terrible! Wow, when did you learn how to cook decently?"

"...I don't cook for you usually?"

She shook her head at that.

He rolled his eyes so hard the motion bordered on spiritual exercise. Truly, Shen Yuan was a remarkably exhausting individual even when he wasn’t physically present. Rude scumbag...

"I learnt... right now." He mumbled.

She snorted, "Right. Just say you got it off uber eats, it's fine."

"...Goodnight." Shen Qingqiu turned to leave.

Or he attempted to.

The moment he put weight on his legs, his knees buckled like wet parchment. His vision blurred into a grey wash and he swayed, the floor tilting sharply upward to greet him.

He barely caught himself on the table before collapsing outright.

“Yo? A-Yuan?"

Shen Qingqiu opened his mouth to answer and immediately gagged on dizziness. A full body tremor wracked him. He slumped back onto the floor with a graceless thud.

Shen Di's eyes widened. “Ah—one of those days?”

Shen Qingqiu, pale, sweating, and clinging to the table's leg like a shipwrecked sailor, stared at her blankly, "…One of what days?” he managed.

She frowned sympathetically—sympathy! For him—and stepped in, looping an arm under his before he could dodge.

“Come on, don’t force it. If your legs are acting up this badly, just say so.” 

“My—legs?” Shen Qingqiu echoed. “Acting up?”

What in all the realms had Shen Yuan done to this body? And why did his sister sound like she was used to scraping him off the floor?

Shen Qingqiu, for once, was at a genuine loss.

He gripped the wall as he shuffled upwards, every step a negotiation with muscles that apparently did not take orders. His legs trembled, his hip twinged, and his balance felt like someone had replaced all his qi pathways with overcooked noodles. Shen Di fussed around him, oddly used to this routine, sliding a crutch under his arm like it belonged there.

“There you go,” she said, patting him twice on the shoulder as if he were a fragile pensioner. “Slowly. Don’t overdo it, okay?”

Shen Qingqiu stared at the crutch. Then stared at her. Then stared at the crutch again.

…Was this a joke?

Was this truly Shen Yuan’s daily reality? 

But Shen Di had already bustled off, returning moments later, balancing a bowl of congee in her hands as if she was doing it for the thousandth time. She set it on the table with a practiced flick.

“Eat. You’ll feel worse if you don’t,” she said warmly, completely oblivious to the identity theft occurring before her eyes, "I mean- obviously not now, but... just heat it up tomorrow," She patted his shoulder, "Goodnight!"

...goodnight!?

Then she left the room as casually as if this were all perfectly normal and not, in fact, an existential nightmare.

Shen Qingqiu stood frozen, gripping the crutch, attempting very, very slowly to process.

Shen Yuan’s legs did not work properly.

Shen Qingqiu inhaled through his teeth. Okay.

“This unfilial brat is actually defective,” he muttered as he hauled himself up the stairs. Then groaned at the sight of the room that awaited him. 

What a plain, utterly boring room.

Shen Qingqiu stared at the bare walls like they had personally offended him. No taste. No refinement. Not even a hint of spiritual aesthetics. Was this how this body lived? Like some kind of ascetic monk with no dignity?

Sure, the cutsleeve may have had decorations before he burnt them all, but those were disgusting, vile and HIDEOUS!!!

He clicked his tongue and stalked toward the bathroom.

The lighting was too bright. The tiles were too white. The mirror was… acceptable, at least. But the reflection was not.

He leaned a hand on the sink and stared at his own face. This face, Shen Yuan’s face, looked too soft. 

“Pathetic,” he muttered.

Just as he was about to leave, his eyes drifted to a marker left carelessly on the counter. He smirked.

May as well return the favor. 

He popped the cap and, without hesitation, began writing across his own skin.

A sharp line along his jaw.

Two neat characters beneath his eye: idiot.

A small note at the corner of his mouth: useless!

More along his cheekbone: disgrace.

He studied his work like a calligrapher assessing a scroll.

…Marginally better!

He washed his hands, dark ink staining the porcelain for a moment before swirling down the drain—

And then he noticed it.

A dull, rusty stain near the edge of the sink.

Red.

Too dark to be ink.

Too uneven to be paint.

His fingers hovered over it.

Blood?

He stared at it for a single, silent beat.

Then he straightened.

Ridiculous. Shen Yuan was weak, not diseased. This body coughed, tripped, fainted—but it did not hemorrhage mysteriously. It was probably some leftover dye. Rust. A plumbing issue. Whatever this world used instead of proper jade filtration systems.

He turned away from it without another thought.

Drying his hands, he hobbled around the room before using up his last remaining effort to fall into his desk chair and write up a response to Shen Yuan's letter.

...Hm.

'To Shen Yuan,

You are unnecessarily loud even in writing.

I will begin by stating that I did not 'torch' anything. If your… wall sized devotion to men had not been placed so precariously above flammable materials, perhaps the outcome would have been different. You may consider it an accident. 

Second, I did not sleep in your sister’s bed. I sat on it briefly. I was unconscious. The matter is over.

Third, I never doubted your ability to climb stairs. I doubted your common sense. However, after having the misfortune of using your useless body to do so, I find I was mistaken about even that. Truly, you are like a worm clawing its way out of the dirt, unsightly, persistent, and somehow still standing! Good job, little grub! 

As for your… drawings, I will not comment further. Not because I approve, but because I do not wish to think about them ever again. (amateur at best, if you had been at Qing Jing, I would've slit your throat for your lackluster abilities... but alas.)

The women at the warm red pavilion are a delight. It is hardly torture. Moving on.

You are correct about one thing: I did not arrange this. And you did not either. Which makes us victims of the same absurdity.

I do not like that.

You seem to have enough knowledge of my world to continue to mess with it whilst I have been forced into yours. Neither of us are equipped to fix this alone, and I resent that fact more than you likely realise.

Therefore, I propose this,

We stop trying to intimidate each other.

We stop destroying each other’s environments.

And we work together to determine the cause of this situation and how to end it.

Do not touch my things, and I will not touch yours.

If you agree, write back or leave a sign.

—Shen Qingqiu'

Chapter Text

Shen Qingqiu woke to silence so complete it felt manufactured.

His eyes slid open and he was in his own bed.

That alone made his fingers twitch.

He sat up slowly, scanning the room and noticed the curtains hung straight, incense burning evenly, no overturned furniture, no ink soaked walls and no broken porcelain.

Too perfect.

On the low table by his bedside sat a folded strip of paper.

Shen Qingqiu stared at it for a full breath before lifting it, unfolding it with two fingers like it might explode.

‘Don’t freak out. Breathe.
I handled morning peak duties for today and tomorrow.
Rest or sleep in today.
—Shen Yuan’

...

A trap.

Absolutely a trap.

He crushed the paper between his fingers and rose, the silk of his robes whispering as he moved... not hurried, not frantic, but coiled. Every sense sharpened until the floorboards beneath his bare feet felt like threat and promise in equal measure.

Although, he was warming up to that 'A-Yuan', he still didn't trust that same idiot to take over his job.

He stepped outside his lodgings and grimaced as Qing Jing Peak basked in clean morning light.

Sunlight filtered through the bamboo canopy in pale ribbons, catching drifting pollen like slow falling gold dust. Disciples moved through their morning drills in neat formations, the sound of wooden swords striking rhythmically through the air.

All of it was normal.

That was the problem.

Shen Qingqiu walked along the stone path with measured steps, his sleeves perfectly balanced, his posture flawless. Wherever his shadow fell, disciples stiffened just slightly, backs straightening, movements becoming hesitant, eyes snapping forward with fear trained deeply into their bones.

He stopped beside the training grounds.

A junior disciple stumbled mid form, nearly dropping their weapon.

Shen Qingqiu said nothing.

He crouched, picked up a fallen wooden sword, and balanced it across two fingers.

Then he flicked it.

The sword snapped cleanly in half and the crack echoed.

“Posture,” he said mildly. His voice did not rise. It did not need to.

The disciples straightened so fast it looked painful. He handed the broken sword back to the stunned boy and continued walking, the hem of his robes untouched by dust, expression calm, heart still pacing in slow, hunting spirals.

If this was a trick, he would pull on Shen Yuan's hair until something bled.

Farther down the path, bamboo creaked softly in the wind.

Everything looked peaceful!!!

He stepped off the path and walked straight into the bamboo grove, letting the stalks close behind him, letting the sounds of the peak dull until the only thing left was the hush of leaves and the quiet thud of his own heartbeat. He allowed himself to return to his home and exhaled.

“Fine,” he murmured, to the air, to the heavens, to whatever thought it could command him.

“I will ‘rest.’”

And if something decided to spring its trap...

He smiled faintly.

Let it try.

Shen Qingqiu lay still for a long while after reading the note once more.

Rest.

The handwriting was beginning to look far too familiar, and the implication alone made his skin crawl.

Rest!

In a world that had proven itself capable of tossing souls like dice and rewriting reality while he slept?

Ridiculous!! 

He folded the paper with slow, deliberate movements, sliding it beneath his pillow as though hiding a blade, and rose from the bed with the brittle, coiled tension of a man expecting assassination from every shadow. His body ached faintly and the phantom pain coursing through his legs still lingered.

Sooo….

This… was he doing it right?

Is he… meant to sleep..?

…

Welp! He tried. He truly did.

He sat up then threw himself at the low table, poured himself tea, drank it in slow, measured sips, and stared at the bamboo walls until he could count every thin crack in the wood.

But the silence pressed in on him.

The stillness felt wrong.

There were no swapped souls. No strange memories. No sudden embarrassment…

Only quiet.

Only peace.

...

His foot tapped against the floor, once, twice, too many times. He placed the cup down before it could crack in his grip and rose, pacing the room with soundless steps. Outside, Qing Jing Peak was deceptively calm; birdsong, breeze through leaves, a distant murmur of disciples training.

Normal.

Which meant—

The door to his house slid open.

And in stumbled a rat; Shen Qingqiu’s hand had already twitched towards his fan.

“Shixiongggg!~” Shang Qinghua shuffled in like he owned the place, arms full of scrolls and snacks, completely relaxed, completely unafraid, and completely assuming he was talking to the wrong soul, “I figured you’d be bored so I came to—ah—check on you? Make sure you didn’t, uh… emotionally spiral again? Haha… ha…”

Shen Qingqiu grinned tightly.

Actually grinned.

“Ah, Shixiong! I knew it was you,” Shang Qinghua said, stepping further in and kicking the door shut behind him with a heel. “You left your wards sloppy. I thought, wow, that’s not the OG goods. That’s the other guy.”

Shen Qingqiu’s eye twitched, yet he neither confirmed nor denied.

Shang Qinghua, mistaking this silence for permission, cheerfully continued walking further into the room, setting his scrolls down like he owned the place.

“So, listen, I was thinking… if you’re still in this body today, does that mean you’re alternating, or is it like a soul rental situation? Because I read this novel once where—”

Shen Qingqiu slowly turned at that.

“…Explain,” he said softly.

Shang Qinghua blinked. “Explain wha—”

“How,” Shen Qingqiu said, stepping closer, voice low and dangerous, “do you know.”

Shang Qinghua laughed weakly, “Know…? I mean… we’re from the same hometown? We talked… yesterday? We—”

Shen Qingqiu grabbed him by the front of his robes and slammed him against the wall, not hard enough to shatter bone, but more than enough to rattle his soul.

“How do you know about the switches.”

Silence.

Pure, terrified silence.

Shang Qinghua’s face drained of colour so fast he looked like he might pass away on the spot, “…Ah?”

“Answer me,” Shen Qingqiu repeated, smiling thinly, the kind of smile that belonged on death certificates, “Before I demonstrate how badly I can ruin your limbs with nothing but my bare hands.” 

A beat.

Two.

Shang Qinghua squinted at him then slowly leaned back, “…Oh. Oh no. That’s not the other guy,” He laughed weakly, “Haha… you’re… you’re the real one.”

Shen Qingqiu’s voice dipped, cold and sharp. “Congratulations. You have eyes.”

“Yeah, I, uh… like my eyes, thank you very much— please don’t gouge them out…” Shang Qinghua awkwardly scooped up his scrolls, holding them against his chest like a shield. “I’ll… just… leave you to your, uh, peaceful relaxing day then… don’t stab me later…” He backed towards the door, “…You look… rested?”

That was it.

The cup shattered in Shen Qingqiu’s hand and a sharp burst of energy shot forwards.

The door slammed shut before Shang Qinghua could flee, effectively trapping him, “Ack-! I’m sorry!! Imsorryimsorryimsoooorrryyy—!”

Shen Qingqiu stood again, tea dripping from his ruined cup onto the floor, breath slow, shoulders tight, eyes dark.

Rest, the note had said.

He stared at Shang Qinghua with thinly veiled hostility.

A trap.

Obviously.

No one in the heavens ever told Shen Qingqiu to ‘rest’ unless they planned to stab him in the spine afterwards. He stormed towards the creature and threw Shang Qinghua to the floor. In one smooth motion, bound him with rope that he kept hidden for emergencies (and mental breakdowns), wrapping it tightly enough to immobilise, but not maim.

“You will talk,” Shen Qingqiu said calmly, kneeling in front of him. “Or I will make you regret every single lifetime you have lived.”

Shang Qinghua began to cry immediately, “I didn’t mean to expose it! I thought you were him! You were acting soft and weird and looked all peaceful, I thought it was safe—”

“S A F E?” Shen Qingqiu echoed, incredulous.

He grabbed the front of Shang Qinghua’s robe again and shook him once, just once, hard enough to rattle teeth but not draw blood. It was more rage than harm, a violent outlet for weeks of tension snapping all at once.

Shang Qinghua let out a noise that was somewhere between a sob and a hiccup and promptly passed out.

Shen Qingqiu stared at his unconscious form for a long moment, “…I didn’t even start…”

Then he dragged him to the window, opened it and dumped him unceremoniously into a bush below.

(It would cushion the fall. Probably.)

He turned away, adjusted his sleeves, smoothed his hair, and sighed. The note was still on his desk yet he didn’t look at it again.

For a long moment, the only sound in the bamboo house was the faint whistle of wind through the leaves and the slow, measured beat of his own breath as he stared at a wilted plant sitting uselessly by the window.

…the window in which its curtains had been touched…

..Hm.

The stupid plant had been a gift.

From *ew* Qi-ge.

Yue Qingyuan, in one of his common, awkward bouts of sentiment, had left it on Shen Qingqiu’s desk with the quiet, hopeful air of someone offering a stray cat a silk cushion and praying it wouldn’t be clawed to death.

Shen Qingqiu had never liked it.

Never watered it.

Never acknowledged it beyond occasionally considering whether throwing it out would cause an annoying emotional discussion.

But now… he stepped closer.

Slowly, he gathered spiritual energy at his fingertips, letting it hum faintly under his skin as he hovered his hand just above the brittle leaves. He closed his eyes, extended his spiritual sense, and let it brush gently over the dirt, the stem, the air around it.

Cold.

Wrong.

It wasn’t him.

It wasn’t even residue from his own recent deviations or temper flares. There were two energies that felt… thin. Foreign. Either weakly masked or deliberately left faint enough that someone thought it would go unnoticed.

Someone had touched it.

Someone had stood here.

Inside his room.

His fingers tightened and the air shifted.

Somewhere, far too quietly, the curtain gave the barest whisper as it settled back into place, fabric barely brushing the bamboo wall. Shen Qingqiu snapped the curtain fully aside with a sharp, irritated motion, eyes scanning the window, the bamboo outside, the familiar arrangement of his peak.

Empty.

Naturally.

Whoever had entered was long gone.

But the fact remained.

Someone had crossed his threshold.

Touched his things.

Left their filth in the air of his private space.

His lips curled, the expression so cold and tight it didn’t quite qualify as a smile.

He turned back to the dead plant, staring down at it like he might snap its stem with two fingers.

“…So,” he murmured to the empty room, tone smooth and dangerous, “Someone had a little tour, hm?” 

The note on his table suddenly felt lighter somehow.

A trap, indeed.

He swept his sleeves back into place, let the plant wilt alone in the corner, and stepped towards the door with purpose sharpening his spine.

If someone thought they could use his peak like a playground…

They would learn.

Very quickly.

That Qing Jing did not forgive trespassers.

...

Who was he kidding? He knew the smell of that beast. 

Chapter Text

Shen Yuan came to with the deeply humiliating, unmistakable awareness that he was not in a bed.

Last he remembered, he was beating Shen Di's ass at mario kart. Then he vaguely remembered going to the toilet and- augh, embarrassing to recount but- coughing his lungs out and passing out. 

He supposes this situation is similar to when he saw his room stripped apart with no binghe in sight...? And... Ah... Noo... memories... auuuoghh...

Cold, smooth stone pressed uncomfortably against his cheek, the edge of a step dug painfully into his ribs, and his limbs were sprawled at awkward angles that strongly suggested he had either fallen, blacked out mid step, or been handled like an inconvenient sack of laundry and left there out of pity. His body felt wrong in that familiar, unsettling way again. Taller, heavier, stronger than it had any right to be, but still carrying the same bone deep exhaustion threaded through every jerky breath.

He blinked, pupils adjusting slowly, and the grey stone of the staircase swam into focus.

…Ah.

Of course.

He lifted his head the barest fraction, and at the top of the stairs stood Luo Binghe.

Staring.

Hard.

His mouth hung open just slightly, dark eyes wide in naked, unfiltered shock, as though he’d just witnessed a corpse sit up and complain about the weather. In his trembling fingers, a talisman burned itself down to curling ash, glowing lines cracking and disintegrating as thin smoke spiraled lazily into the early morning air.

Shen Yuan stared at the smoke.

Then at Binghe.

“…Wow,” Shen Yuan said after a beat, because self preservation had never been his strongest skill, “You standing there like that is really doing wonders for my self esteem.”

Luo Binghe made a broken sound somewhere between a choke and a whimper, swallowing so hard his throat visibly bobbed. “Shizun,” he said, hoarse and thin. “You— you were— on the stairs— not moving— and I—”

He glanced down at the crumbling talisman in his hand as if it had betrayed him personally, “…I already called Mu shishu.”

Ah.

Wait.

EW!!!!

Mu Qingfang!?!?! Nope! He had enough with doctors- why should he have to deal with them in this body too!? NOOO!!!

Before Shen Yuan could fully process the implications of that, there was the soft rush of displaced air and the clean, sharp scent of crushed medicinal herbs, and Mu Qingfang stepped into existence at the landing, robes still settling around him as though he had been pulled abruptly from wherever he’d been. (NOOOO)

His gaze flicked immediately from Luo Binghe to Shen Yuan.

“What happened?” Mu Qingfang asked calmly, though there was alertness behind his eyes. Then, after one brief look at Shen Yuan sprawled halfway down the stairs, he paused. “...Is Shen shixiong… alright?” A corner of his mouth twitched as if he were barely holding back a laugh.

“I’m fine,” Shen Yuan said immediately, far too quickly, already pushing himself upright despite the sharp protest of his ribs.

It was a mistake.

The world tilted violently, stone steps swimming in and out of focus as a deep, sickening wave of dizziness crept up his spine and wrapped around his skull. His sway was barely controlled.

Luo Binghe moved without thinking, fingers snapping around his sleeve, “Shizun—!”

Mu Qingfang’s expression sharpened instantly, “You are not fine.”

Shen Yuan’s jaw tightened as he forced himself fully upright, yanking his sleeve free with as much dignity as he could scrape together from the floor of his soul.

“I tripped,” he said quickly, too quickly. “That’s all. Stairs are… treacherous. Should be… reprimanded. Or replaced. With ramps. Everywhere.”

Both of them stared at him.

This was not going well.

Inside his head, Shen Yuan’s thoughts were spiraling violently.

Why was I on the stairs?

Did that guy black out?

Did Shen Qingqiu lose consciousness here? Or was he fighting someone? Did he fall? Did someone touch him?

Mu Qingfang stepped closer before Shen Yuan could retreat, cool fingers settling against his wrist.

Warm, steady spiritual energy flowed under his touch as he checked his pulse.

A frown slowly creased his brow.

“…Your body is exhausted,” Mu Qingfang said quietly. “And your qi circulation is… chaotic.”

Luo Binghe’s hands fisted at his sleeves, knuckles whitening, “…Was shizun hurt?”

Mu Qingfang did not answer right away.

Shen Yuan pulled his wrist back, irritation prickling at his skin even as panic built in his chest.

“I said I’m fine,” he muttered. “You’re acting like I died on these stairs.”

Luo Binghe looked like that possibility had already carved permanent damage into his nervous system for the day.

Mu Qingfang studied Shen Yuan for a long, quiet moment, clearly unconvinced, but he stepped back at last.

“I will prepare medicine,” he said. “Do not move.”

“I’m moving,” Shen Yuan shot back automatically, because standing still felt worse than being watched.

He stepped past them with forced steadiness, ignoring the lingering dizziness and the strange tightness in his limbs, doing his best to resemble a cold, terrifying peak lord rather than a confused man who woke up half unconscious on stone stairs.

Mu Qingfang turned to trail after him but Luo Binghe shot the doctor a deathly glare then followed Shen Yuan in his place. The healer groaned and left.

And as Shen Yuan walked away, one thought looped endlessly through his mind, cold and sharp and utterly unshakable:

What the hell happened to Shen Qingqiu while I wasn’t here?

⸻

The bamboo clearing was quiet in that way that felt too deliberate.

Leaves didn’t move. Birds didn’t sing. Even the wind felt like it had been told to mind its business.

Shen Yuan turned fully now, folding his arms, looking Luo Binghe up and down like he was trying to peel him apart layer by layer, "And why exactly has disciple Luo followed this one?"

Luo Binghe’s shoulders went tight. His gaze dropped to the dirt, then flicked away, then back again like a guilty child trying to find the right lie to land on, “I… thought Shizun was unwell. And is checking on him.”

That was not an answer.

Shen Yuan narrowed his eyes. “Try again.”

Silence stretched.

“You were different,” Luo Binghe admitted quietly. “This morning.”

"This morning? Like today." Binghe nodded and Shen Yuan's stomach dropped; not visibly, but it twisted hard enough to hurt, "…Different how?”

Luo Binghe hesitated. His fingers flexed at his sides then he lifted his gaze and there was something sharp in it, "Shizun summoned this one to his home... and said, ‘Don’t leave my sight today.’”

Shen Yuan’s breath stalled for half a second.

Eh?? Shen Qingqiu? Were you planning to abuse the bun?? WTF!!!! Did you change from preying on little girls to little boys?!

“…And?” Shen Yuan said, carefully.

“So you took me inside the bamboo house..." (WTF!!!) Luo Binghe mumbled, "And made me stare at a dead plant (??????) whilst writing out Cang Qiong's mountain rules one hundred times..." (!!!!!!)

Shen Yuan's voice wavered yet he nodded along, "Ah... yes, I did do that... uh... uh huh... and...?"

Luo Binghe chewed on his lip, "Then shizun got mad that this useless one took so long so he led me outside. Then... ahem, then tripped down the stairs and passed out."

...

......

???????

WTF!!!!!!

"I... tripped."

Luo Binghe swallowed and smiled tightly, “Yes.”

The word came out too quick.

Shen Yuan stepped closer. Luo Binghe, without thinking, leaned back half a step.

“…You stumbled,” Luo Binghe said. “Near the stairs.”

Shen Yuan tilted his head. “Stumbled.”

“Yes.”

“…And you were close enough to catch me?”

“I was behind.”

“Behind,” Shen Yuan echoed. “…Not in front.”

“No.”

A pause.

Shen Yuan stared at Luo Binghe’s hands.

They were clenched too tight.

Knuckles pale.

“…You’re shaking,” Shen Yuan observed.

Luo Binghe quickly tucked them behind his back.

“I was scared.”

Wait.

Not I’m scared.

I was scared.

Past tense.

Mu Qingfang’s talisman flickered through Shen Yuan’s memory; burning itself away, ash curling into the air.

Emergency grade.

The kind you don’t use unless someone’s about to die.

Shen Yuan exhaled slowly, “So, just to be clear,” he continued. “You thought this master was acting strange and when he ‘stumbled’… you just let him fall.”

Luo Binghe said nothing.

Shen Yuan studied him.

Not as Shen Qingqiu.

Not as a peak lord.

But as himself.

…And he thought:

That explains the fucking trauma in your eyes!!!

Shen Yuan looked away first, “Alright,” he muttered. “I get it.”

Luo Binghe looked up startled, eyes watering and bottom lip trembling, "No... no! Shizun, please! This stupid disciple is incompetent and he- he! He--" 

Shen Yuan scoffed, "Lah. What silly conclusion did you come up with?" He bonked the bun on the head with his fan and smiled, "Calm down."

That earned a flicker of confusion across Luo Binghe’s face, "...what?"

Shen Yuan looked back at him and gave a tired, sideways smile then glanced toward the mountain path, "It's not your fault for this master's clumsiness."

"Right... clumsiness..." Luo Binghe stuttered and hung his head low.

...

Damnnit! What are you hiding!? 

Alright.

Maybe a better location will drag the secrets out of this bun???

He then begun leading Luo Binghe into a clearing. 

...seriously... wtf is happening....

⸻

Luo Binghe was going to scream. 

He trailed after Shen Qingqiu until they ended up further through the bamboo forest. The path gradually opened into a small clearing, sunlight filtering down in pale streaks through the canopy.

Shizun stopped so abruptly that the loose hem of his robes snapped in the air. He turned sharply on his heel, eyes narrowing, the corner of his mouth lifting in something that wasn’t quite a smile and wasn’t quite anger either.

“So,” Shizun said, voice deceptively calm, “Explain once more. Without lying.”

Luo Binghe stiffened. For a heartbeat, he looked like a rabbit caught in the glare of a hunter’s lantern.

Because how was he supposed to explain? 

Earlier that morning, Shen Qingqiu had not been… like this. Earlier that morning, Shizun had been cold again, sharp and cutting, his presence heavy with coiled tension, demanding that Luo Binghe remain by his side for no apparent reason other than the quiet, dangerous intensity in his eyes. He had paced, muttered to himself, and then, in one final unpredictable turn, had ordered Luo Binghe to follow him down the stone steps at the mountain’s edge.

And somewhere between one step and the next, everything had gone wrong.

Luo Binghe’s fingers curled slightly inside his sleeves as his thoughts flickered back involuntarily; back to the stumble, the sharp intake of breath, the way Shen Qingqiu’s body tilted too far forward. He could still feel it in his palms: the brief, involuntary press between his hands and Shen Qingqiu’s back.

Shen Qingqiu had gone down the steps so fast the air seemed to snap around him, robes tangling, the sound of bone striking stone ringing out too loud, too final. And then he hadn’t moved. Not for a long, terrifying stretch of time.

Ten minutes, at least.

Long enough for Luo Binghe’s hands to shake as he burned through an emergency talisman with trembling fingers. Long enough for the summoning sigil to flash painfully bright as he called for Mu Qingfang.

Long enough for fear to bloom, ugly and cold, in the hollow of his chest.

And now—

Now the man standing in front of him felt wrong in a completely different direction.

There was something off in the way he held himself. In the way his eyes sharpened with confusion instead of cruelty. Something disorienting, like looking at familiar ink that had been rearranged into alien characters.

Luo Binghe swallowed hard, gaze flickering everywhere except Shen Qingqiu's face.

His shizun watched him closely, arms folding slowly across his chest, expression turning sharper by the second.

What shizun doesn't know can't hurt him... and hopefully won't hurt me either. 

“Shizun tripped then passed out,” Luo Binghe made sure to make his voice tremble, “…that is all. I am not lying.” 

He watched as his shizun’s face grew red and coughed, opening his fan to avoid responsibility, “…I see. This master seems to have been in a state of shock. He apologises for the accusation." 

”…mhm…”

Shizun stared at him then nodded, making a move to leave, ”Bye Binghe.” 

Binghe.

...

That was the moment Luo Binghe realised, with a cold, sinking clarity, that the person standing in front of him right now… wasn’t quite the same one he’d followed down those stairs.

“…goodbye shizun.”

Chapter Text

Shen Qingqiu came to slowly.

His eyelids felt heavy and he couldn't help the groan that escaped his mouth...

Shen Qingqiu's first observation was that he was not lying down.

His second was that he was not decent.

His third, delivered with the force of a lightning strike...

WHAT IS THAT.

Because the moment he blinked his blurry vision back into focus, he realized he was not lying on a bed, not on a couch, not even on the floor of a reasonably dignified room...

He was on the bathroom tiles.

And worse—!!

Shen Yuan’s body was sprawled on the bathroom floor, pants loosened, fly half open, legs at an unfortunately revealing angle. And Shen Qingqiu, inhabiting said body, was positioned with his face far, far too close to parts of Shen Yuan he had never wished to know so intimately.

There was a full three seconds in which Shen Qingqiu could do nothing except stare in petrified, reverent horror.

Shen Qingqiu made a noise so high pitched it could shatter jade.

He slapped both hands over Shen Yuan’s lower half like a maiden protecting her innocence, scrambled backward, slipped, slammed into the wall, and somehow experienced every stage of grief all at once.

“This—this—!! Why were you—how dare you—!!! In the middle of relieving yourself!?”

Was THIS Shen Yuan’s life?!

Passing out half naked in a bathroom like some drunk mortal peasant??

“This degenerate—!” Shen Qingqiu gasped, voice cracking as he reached for the nearest towel and threw it over himself like a scandalized noble in a play, “Why was I left like—like—THIS?!” 

He glanced around frantically, expecting Shen Di or some auntie to burst in at any moment and discover him defiling their bathroom tiles with obscene exposure. He nearly fainted again just from imagining it.

With trembling fingers, he redid the pants, yanking the zipper up so hard he almost caused damage to Shen Yuan’s body then quickly moved to sit on the toilet for several seconds, towel still draped over Shen Yuan's... head like a shamed ghost, breathing through mortification.

“…I am going to kill him,” Shen Qingqiu whispered hoarsely, fury vibrating through every syllable. “When we switch back, I am going to end him. This—this humiliation—”

He pushed himself up again, unsteady, legs trembling as though they no longer remembered how to function. The room swayed and he lurched forward and caught himself on the sink, fingers gripping porcelain with white knuckled desperation.

Then it hit.

A sudden, vicious burn clawed up his throat.

Shen Qingqiu barely had time to register it before he bent sharply over the basin and coughed up dark red splatters against stark white ceramic.

His breath hitched violently as more blood welled up, copper flooding his mouth, dripping down his chin in thin, humiliating threads. He stared at the sink in horror, chest heaving, mind screaming as memories slammed back into place—

Right. He hadn't actually gone to sleep, had he?

For a long moment, he just stood there in the dim, quiet bathroom, towel slipping from his hips, his reflection pale and shaken.

This was the most undignified, confusing moment of his life.

Another sharp sting burst behind his ribs. His breath hitched and the tickle became a scrape, became fire, became a wrenching, clawing force that dragged itself up his throat.

Shen Qingqiu barely had time to brace a hand against the sink before he doubled over.

“—kh—!!”

Bright red smeared across his palm.

Shen Qingqiu stared down at it, eyes widening with something raw and instinctively frightened.

“This body—! Shen Yuan, what the hell have you been doing to yourself?”

Another cough wracked through him, harsher, driven straight from the core of Shen Yuan’s weak lungs. His entire torso seized; the world tightened at the edges; and his knees nearly gave out.

He clutched the sink like it was the only thing preventing him from collapsing onto the bathroom floor—

—which, humiliatingly, it was.

His breathing shuddered.

“That idiot…” Shen Qingqiu muttered hoarsely, rinsing the blood away with trembling fingers. “That foolish, idiotic, stubborn donkey—why didn’t he say anything…?”

As if Shen Yuan would ever admit weakness.

As if either of them would.

He struggled to still himself and splashed water onto his face, wincing when he saw the reflection staring back.

Shen Yuan’s features were pale, drawn, shadows clinging beneath the eyes, cheeks ghastly and hollowed like someone running on fumes alone.

…He looked fine yesterday.

His brows furrowed.

No.

No, he hadn’t.

Shen Qingqiu had simply been too preoccupied, too irritated, too panicked, too busy pretending none of this was terrifying, to notice.

He straightened slowly, swaying, clutching the sink again as dizziness washed over him.

He wiped the last streak of blood from the corner of his mouth, set his expression into something vaguely dignified, pulled Shen Yuan’s clothes into place and slumped to his knees.

Focus. Focus. Think.

No more jumping to conclusions. What had happened before the switch?

He squeezed his eyes shut.

A memory drifted up hazily, him walking down Qing Jing Peak’s stairs, Luo Binghe shadowing him like a half starved wolfhound.

Then the beast had...

No. No. Surely not.

…Had that brat pushed him?

His eye twitched then he chuckled to himself.

Right... the dumb mutt pisses himself at the mere sight of Shen Qingqiu. How could that be possible.

He scrambled up, limbs stiff, the world still spinning a fraction off axis. He flushed the toilet reflexively, for dignity’s sake, then rinsed the blood from the sink. The red residue swirled down the drain, pink then clear.

His hands were shaking.

He told himself to stop yet said hands didn't listen.

“Ge—?? What are you doing? You’ve been in there forever! Are you taking the world’s slowest shit? Come onnnn, I was just about to win!" 

Shen Qingqiu jolted so hard he nearly smacked his head on the faucet.

Shen Di!

He took a deep breath, immediately regretted it, and wiped his mouth again, checking for more blood. Clean. For now.

He cleared his throat, trying to sound normal, "…Coming.” His voice cracked like a dying flute and he cringed.

From the other side of the door, Shen Di made a disgusted noise, “You always say that when you’re doing something sus! Hurry up! I’m picking your character for you!”

Shen Qingqiu closed his eyes.

He needed a plan.

He needed to calm down.

He needed to ignore the blood in the sink, the dizziness curling low in his stomach, and the creeping paranoia slithering up his spine.

Because one thing had become painfully, dreadfully, cosmically clear:

Something happened on Qing Jing Peak.

Something that made him pass out and switch early.

And whatever it was—

Luo Binghe had definitely been involved. Maybe. 

Or perhaps Shen Yuan passed out which somehow caused him to as well...? It really didn't make sense and he couldn't be bothered to ponder about it any longer.

Shen Qingqiu took one more steadying breath, plastered on a faint smirk that did not reach his eyes, adjusted Shen Yuan’s traitorous pants, and opened the bathroom door.

“Fine,” he said, stepping out. “Win what?"

Shen Di snorted, “Mario kart? What else?"

Shen Qingqiu 's smirk fell and he grimaced, "What." 

⸻

Shen Qingqiu sat on the floor of the living room like a man awaiting execution.

The glowing screen stared back at him with colours. Violent, flashing, nauseating colours. Cartoon mushrooms. A screaming turtle. A moustached man committing vehicular manslaughter with a smile.

Shen Di shoved a controller into his hands with the unshakeable authority of a palace general commanding troops, "Sit. Play. You look half dead, A-Yuan. This will heal your soul.”

Shen Qingqiu stared at the unfamiliar plastic contraption, turning it over like it was some ancient demonic artifact. There were… too many buttons. Absolutely unnecessary numbers of them. Why were they different sizes? Why did one of them click so loudly? Why did the left side move when he didn’t?

“This is a weapon,” he declared, "And why is my vessel a purple lanky man?" He spat in disgust. 

“It’s a controller,” Shen Di said, "And- excuse you, that's waluiji."

Shen Qingqiu squinted, "I don't like it." He looked over to the other side of the screen, "I want to be the girl."

"Pfft!" Shen Di cackled, "Uhm. No. I'm Peach. I'm always princess peach." 

He glared at her and hissed, jiggling the controller around like a madman, "And how does this work." 

“You hold it like this. Oh my god— no— not like you’re strangling a chicken, stop— okay— okay, good enough. Perfect. Just press A to drive.” Shen Di quirked a brow, "Are you roleplaying? You've known for years..."

He chewed on his lip and nodded, "Yes, I'm... 'roleplaying'. Just... Mhm. An amnesic who doesn't understand how to play. Now," Shen Qingqiu demanded, "What is an ‘A’?” 

“That big green one.”

He pressed it.

His kart lurched forward, immediately slammed into the wall, spun twice, and burst into flames.

Shen Di clapped a hand over her mouth to hide her laughter, “Oh my god— okay— okay, that was a warm up— you can do it this time, mr amnesiac— just drive straight.”

“I am driving straight!” he snapped.

“You’re going backwards.”

“I AM PRESSING THE BUTTONS YOU TOLD ME TO PRESS!”

“Then stop pressing all of them at once!”

Her character zoomed past him effortlessly, drifting like a smug little professional while Shen Qingqiu’s kart performed what could generously be described as interpretive vehicular dance. Swerving, spinning, crashing, reversing, then somehow launching itself off the map entirely.

Shen Qinqgiu’s eye twitched.

“This game,” he said stiffly, “is rigged.”

“You fell off Rainbow Road before the race even started.”

“The road is too thin!” he barked, mashing the joystick with increasing fury as his kart suicidally hurled itself into space again, “This is obviously a death trap! How is this allowed? How is this legal entertainment?!”

Shen Di giggled so hard she nearly dropped her controller. “Gege… gege, relax— it’s supposed to be fun.”

“FUN?! I HAVE BEEN FALLING FOR THIRTY SECONDS—”

He crashed again.

The screen politely popped up: YOU PLACED 12TH. :)

The smiling face taunted him.

Mocked him.

Judged him.

Shen Qingqiu inhaled sharply through his nose, shoulders shaking with dignified rage, “In my world,” he hissed, “this smiling abomination would be exorcised.”

“You’re such a drama queen,” Shen Di sighed affectionately, leaning over to nudge him. “It’s just a game.” He stiffened at the contact, and she grinned at him, bright and unconcerned, “Come on. One more round. I’ll teach you how to drift.”

“…Drift?”

“Yeah! You press this, then this—no—not that—gege NO— okay you know what, give me your hands, I’ll guide you.”

She reached, gently repositioning his fingers over the buttons, warm and patient and utterly oblivious to how foreign this was for him. Someone actually teaching him something without ridicule or fear.

Shen Qingqiu swallowed.

A tiny, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“…Fine,” he muttered. “One more round.”

They started again.

He crashed into a wall immediately.

But Shen Di cheered anyway; loud, earnest, and proud as if he had won first place.

...Shen Qingqiu almost broke the controller out of anger. 

⸻

Shen Qingqiu did not, in fact, murder anyone that afternoon.

Instead, he was forcibly retained in the living room by Shen Di, who plopped herself onto the couch with the determined air of someone who had decided this was a bonding day whether he liked it or not. The controller was pressed back into his hands forcefully as he tried to leave and the television chirped cheerfully. 

Hours passed in a blur of humiliation.

Shen Qingqiu lost every race.

Spectacularly.

He drove directly into walls. Fell off tracks. Missed every boost. Somehow managed to go backwards for an alarming stretch of time. Shen Di laughed so hard she nearly slid off the couch, wheezing and slapping the cushions while he sat rigid beside her, jaw clenched, staring at the screen like it had personally betrayed him.

“These controls are defective,” he said icily, gripping the controller as if it were a demonic artifact. “No respectable system would—”

“You just drove into the same banana peel three times,” Shen Di said, wiping her eyes, “On purpose?”

“I do not slip,” Shen Qingqiu snapped, “The world slipped.”

By the time Shen Di declared a truce out of mercy, Shen Qingqiu was starving in a way that felt almost feral.

They ordered food. Shen Di handled it with that glowing rectangle he still didn’t trust, rattling off choices while he watched suspiciously from the side. When the delivery arrived, Shen Qingqiu nearly ascended.

He forgot, truly forgot, how good food could taste.

Warm. Greasy. Salty. Sweet! 

Inedia was a lie. A useless, ascetic lie told by people who had clearly never tasted properly fried chicken at midnight. He ate like a man making up for centuries of deprivation, posture abandoned, dignity discarded, chewing with a focus usually reserved for battle. Shen Di stared at him for a while, then quietly ordered more.

Afterwards, they watched a movie.

Shen Qingqiu pretended at first, sat stiffly, arms crossed, expression unimpressed, but somewhere between the swelling music and the absurdly dramatic close up of the protagonist’s face, he leaned forward. Then a little closer. By the climax, he was fully invested, eyes sharp, following every turn with an intensity that surprised even him.

When the credits rolled, he blinked like someone waking from a dream.

“…That was,” he said slowly, searching for the word, “bad.”

Shen Di grinned.

Eventually, fatigue crept in like an unwelcome but unavoidable guest. Shen Qingqiu excused himself, moving carefully as he climbed the stairs, mindful of Shen Yuan’s fragile, pathetic body. Each step was taken with caution, pride swallowed for the sake of not collapsing again.

He reached the bedroom, turned on the light, and stopped.

There, on the pillow, lay a folded sheet of paper.

Waiting.

Shen Qingqiu stared at it for a long moment, heart ticking strangely in his chest, before reaching out and picking it up.

⸻

'To Shen Qingqiu,

I had to read your letter… twice!

Once to absorb the insults, and once more to realise that somewhere under all the condescension and throat slitting commentary—you were genuinely extending something like a truce.

So… thanks.
(And before you inflate like an arrogant pufferfish, no, I’m not grateful, I’m just acknowledging the gesture.)

First, regarding my posters. If you consider them 'wall sized devotion to men,' that’s on you. They were motivational art. Body goals! Maybe I want tits as great as Binghe other guys! What's wrong with that!? That’s what normal people call a hobby. It’s fine. I’ve accepted their loss. I lit a candle. I mourned. Let’s move on.

Second, yes, my body is… frail. Believe it or not, it’s doing its best. So if you could try not to bully it into an early grave, I’d appreciate that. Still, thank you for admitting you underestimated me. 

Third, about my drawings… I will choose to ignore the line about slitting my throat. I’m counting it as 'constructive critique'. Truly, what a shit tier teacher you are!

Fourth, I don’t even want to know why you’re so comfortable in a brothel. That’s between you and whatever gods cursed us.

But the last part of your letter, the important part,

I agree with you.

We are victims of the same ridiculous situation.

Neither of us asked for this, and neither of us can solve it alone.

And honestly… I’m tired.

You’re probably tired too.

So yes.

I’m willing to cooperate. Not because I trust you (I don’t), but because the alternative is us destroying each other’s lives out of spite until we both snap.

Let’s not do that!

Here's a few ground rules though. I don't want you bothering Luo Binghe anymore nor mistreating Shen Di. Got it!? 

A partnership… or at least something less awful than whatever we’ve been doing. It's probably best if we continue writing to each other to discuss what's going on. 

Write back if you want to coordinate something specific. If not; fuck it we ball.

Let’s raw dog it!

—Shen Yuan'

⸻

Shen Qingqiu read the letter once, blinked, then read it again.

Slowly, deliberately, as if the strokes might rearrange themselves into something less ridiculous the second time around. His eyes traced every indignant line, every insult disguised as concern, every dramatic gasp that practically bled off the page in Shen Yuan’s handwriting.

By the third reread, his mouth twitched.

By the fourth, he made the fatal mistake of imagining Shen Yuan actually writing it, furiously hunched over a desk, muttering under his breath, pausing only to curse a smudge of ink, slamming the table when he remembered the flaming shrine incident, pointing at the page like a deranged scholar arguing with his own punctuation… and something inside Shen Qingqiu simply broke.

A sharp sound escaped him. A breathy stuttering thing that punched out of his chest before he could stop it.

He froze.

Oh no.

Absolutely not!

But it was too late... another sound slipped through; this time louder.

And then, before he could gather his dignity or crush the moment dead like he normally would, a laugh tore out of him.

A real one.

Not a polite exhale, not a sharp scoff...

A laugh.

A full bodied, undignified, “I cannot believe this idiot said that to me in writing” laugh that bent him forward and had him clutching the edge of the bed as if gravity itself had betrayed him.

Each sentence replayed in his mind with growing absurdity which only made his shoulder shake harder.

It kept going far too long for his liking, bubbling up and spilling out of him without permission, without restraint, like something lodged deep inside had finally snapped loose.

When he finally managed to inhale without choking, he wiped at his eyes (his eyes, wet? absolutely unacceptable!) and tried to force his face back into neutrality.

It didn’t work.

The corners of his mouth kept lifting.

A small, traitorous smile kept creeping back.

Every time he looked at the letter again, the laughter threatened to break free all over again.

“…Ridiculous,” he muttered aloud, voice still unsteady. “Absolutely ridiculous.”

But there was warmth behind the words.

A faint, incredulous fondness he refused to acknowledge or name.

He giggled to himself as he wrote back in response, then folded the letter with a care that contradicted every insult in his reply. He set it neatly on the bedside table, and sat there for a long moment, breathing, recovering, the ghost of a smile still tugging at him, before finally whispering to the empty room,

“…What an infuriating man.”

Really. This Shen Yuan was an enigma.

Shen Jiu went to sleep with a smile on his face.

Chapter Text

‘Shen Yuan! 

This is extremely important.
Do not skim.

Your mission for today is as follows:
• Toilet paper (not the thin, useless kind you mortals seem to enjoy suffering with)
• Roast chicken (already cooked; if you attempt to cook, I fear for my continued existence)
• Rice (white; do not get creative)
• Something green 
• Soup. Any kind. If it is terrible, that will be your fault.
• Tea. Proper tea. Not whatever grass flavoured dust you drink.
• Snacks. I do not know what this entails. Figure it out.

I expect to return to a fully stocked cupboard.
If I open a cabinet and see emptiness, I will assume you wish to terminate our terms and I will throw your body off a cliff.

Do not touch my things.
Do not rearrange anything.
Do not buy novelty items.

—Shen Qingqiu’

⸻

‘Wow. Great start to the day. ‘Dear’ Shen Qingqiu…

Bold of you to assume I skim when you write like you’re issuing a military order to a traumatised intern!!

Also, you can’t just write ‘something green’ and expect that to be a reasonable request. That could be broccoli. That could be lettuce. That could be a decorative plant. Clarify next time.

I’m buying snacks that *I* like. You don’t get to say “figure it out!” and then complain when you come back to a cupboard full of things you’ve never heard of and don’t deserve.

…proper tea is subjective and you’re in my world, so if you don’t like it, you can cultivate about it.

Lastly:
If you come back and everything is stocked, organised, and you don’t immediately die of malnutrition, I expect—*expect*—one (1) acknowledgment that I did a good job.

Not praise. Just acknowledgment.

P.S. I am absolutely rearranging one shelf just to piss you off. You’ll never know which.

Good luck sleeping tonight with that on your conscious! 

—Shen Yuan

⸻

By the time half a year had passed, the switching had stopped feeling like a calamity and started feeling like a schedule.

Not a pleasant schedule, not at all, Shen Qingqiu would never debase himself by calling anything involving Shen Yuan pleasant—but an inevitable one, like rain during monsoon season or Luo Binghe’s tendency to appear exactly where he was least wanted, wide eyed and silently vibrating with emotions that Shen Qingqiu had no intention of unpacking.

They woke up in each other’s bodies every morning now.

Without warning. Without ceremony. Without mercy.

Shen Yuan had learned, very quickly, that the safest way to survive Qing Jing Peak was to wake up, lie still for precisely five breaths, mentally recite I am not Shen Qingqiu, I am not about to be executed, and then sit up slowly enough that no disciple could accuse him of sudden madness… or worse, improvement! 

Shen Qingqiu, on the other hand, had learned that Shen Yuan’s body could not, under any circumstances, be trusted before breakfast, and that if he attempted to stand too quickly, climb stairs with confidence, or exist without water for more than ten minutes, it would retaliate viciously with dizziness, nausea, and the ever present threat of blood where blood did not belong.

Despite this, routine emerged.

Letters were exchanged nightly, left neatly folded on desks or pillows or, in Shen Yuan’s case, occasionally taped to the fridge after Shen Di threatened to throw the ‘angry historical roleplay porn’ out with the recycling.

They were not affectionate letters.

They were efficient! 

Shen Qingqiu would inform Shen Yuan of upcoming sect obligations in a clipped, infuriatingly casual tone, as if scheduling someone else’s public humiliation was no different from rescheduling a tea ceremony.

‘There will be a peak lord meeting in three days.
Do not embarrass me.
If you do, I will find a way to haunt you across realms and shank you.’

Shen Yuan, in return, would write long, overly detailed updates about Qing Jing Peak that Shen Qingqiu pretended not to read closely while absolutely reading every single line.

He wrote about lesson plans he’d adjusted slightly to be less… lethal, about disciples who looked confused when they weren’t screamed at, about Ming Fan’s visible distress when praised, and about Ning Yingying’s cautious smiles, as if kindness were a wild animal that might bite if acknowledged too quickly.

And, inevitably, he wrote about Luo Binghe.

‘Disciple Luo Binghe’s sword form has improved a lot this week.
He corrects himself now before I even speak but he still looks like he’s waiting to be hit, though.
I don’t think he knows what to do with praise.
He’s… good. Really good.’

Shen Qingqiu’s response to this was a single sentence, written with surgical precision.

‘Stop projecting your feelings onto the boy and focus on not dying.’

Which was, in its own way, a concession.

Over time, Shen Yuan learned how to be Shen Qingqiu without detonating his reputation entirely; maintaining the sharp tongue, the cool detachment, the air of disdain that kept others at a safe distance, while quietly sanding down the worst edges, like refusing to strike first, or at all, unless absolutely necessary.

The disciples noticed yet they pretended not to.

And Luo Binghe was acting… strange. 

He began hovering more every second day, making sure to gossip with the other disciples to know which mood his shizun was in for the day before approaching. 

Asking questions he didn’t need answered.

Offering to carry things that Shen Qingqiu absolutely did not need carried.

Standing just a fraction too close, eyes flicking constantly to Shen Qingqiu’s face as if searching for cracks, for proof that the cruelty might return and restore the world to something he understood.

Shen Yuan, deeply unqualified to handle this, coped by pretending not to notice.

Shen Qingqiu, reading about it later, scoffed and wrote back, 

‘Tell him to stand properly.
And stop letting him stare!’ 

Meanwhile, Shen Qingqiu adapted to Shen Yuan’s world with the grim determination of a general occupying enemy territory, memorising bus routes, learning the glowing rectangle’s (a phone. Hahaaa. Shen Qingqiu was proud of that!) treacherous habits, and enduring Shen Di’s relentless insistence that he relax by doing things like playing games, eating snacks, and watching films where people survived emotional distress without cultivation or murder.

He hated how much he enjoyed it.

He hated how warm food felt in his stomach.

He hated how music existed without spiritual energy and still managed to be powerful.

He hated that Shen Yuan’s body laughed more easily than his own.

And he hated, quietly, privately, that some nights, when he returned to the bed exhausted and aching, he didn’t immediately wish to leave.

Their lives began to overlap in strange ways.

Shen Qingqiu caught himself writing shopping lists to the sect leader on multiple occasions. 

Shen Yuan corrected someone’s posture in public and only realised what he’d done when Shen Di stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

They were becoming… competent at being each other.

Which was, perhaps, the most dangerous development of all.

Because routines were comforting.

And comfort, Shen Qingqiu knew better than anyone, was a lie that only existed to make the fall hurt more.

Despite that, at some point, Shen Qingqiu was not entirely sure when it happened, only that it had; his days in Shen Yuan’s world stopped feeling like a temporary exile and began to resemble something dangerously close to routine.

He woke earlier now, not because anyone demanded it of him, not because a bell tolled or disciples waited with bowed heads and sharpened fear, but because Shen Yuan’s body, once neglected and brittle with exhaustion, had begun to remember what rest felt like, had begun to wake on its own with a dull, steady awareness rather than panic or pain; he would lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling with its faint cracks and peeling paint, listening to the muffled sounds of Shen Di moving about the apartment, the hum of distant traffic, the absurdly comforting knowledge that nothing here required him to be sharp, or cruel, or vigilant.

It was infuriating.

It was also… easier.

He drank water now, properly, not just when dizziness forced it upon him; he ate meals—real meals, warm and filling and frankly obscene in their richness, and though he scoffed at the softness creeping onto Shen Yuan’s limbs, at the way the body no longer felt like it might fold in on itself at the slightest provocation, he could not deny that the persistent ache in the chest had eased, that the coughing fits came less often, that the mirror reflected a man who looked less like a ghost haunting borrowed skin.

Shen Yuan, for his part, noticed.

He mentioned it in his letters, cautiously at first, then with increasing confidence, the praise hidden behind jokes and flippant remarks.

‘You know…
I think you’re accidentally doing a better job at keeping my body alive than I ever did. If this is a cultivation technique, I’d like the manual.’ 

Shen Qingqiu had snorted when he read that, folding the paper with deliberate care and pretending his chest did not tighten at the implication that he had improved something without meaning to, without violence or coercion, without even being aware of it.

The letters had become… frequent.

Not desperate nor long winded, Shen Qingqiu refused to allow that, but consistent, appearing on desks and pillows and tucked into coat pockets with an irritating regularity.

Their handwriting growing familiar in a way that set his teeth on edge, because familiarity had always been dangerous to him, and this one crept up quietly, disguised as logistics and insults and updates on matters that should not have mattered at all.

Shen Yuan wrote about Qing Jing Peak with an earnestness that Shen Qingqiu found deeply suspicious.

Shen Qingqiu’s eye twitched as he read another letter about the beast.

‘Luo Binghe is… different,

Still intense. Still watches everything like he’s waiting for the world to strike first. But he’s working harder than anyone else, and I think—don’t get mad—I think he just wants to be acknowledged.’

Shen Qingqiu had read that line several times, expression blank, before setting the letter aside and telling himself very firmly that he did not care.

‘Do not coddle him.
If he improves, it is because he should.’

And yet.

When he switched back into Shen Yuan’s body that evening, when the familiar dizziness passed and the world settled, he found himself thinking of Luo Binghe’s posture, the set of his shoulders, the way his eyes had flickered, not fearful, but uncertain, when Shen Qingqiu himself had last looked at him, and the thought irritated him far more than it had any right to.

It was easier, in Shen Yuan’s world, to sit with these thoughts without them turning immediately into anger.

There were no disciples here to witness weakness, no sect politics demanding constant sharpness, no past clinging to him like rot; there was only the quiet of an apartment in the evening, Shen Di sprawled on the couch with her phone, a half eaten snack forgotten beside her, and the gentle, relentless normalcy of it all.

He let himself sink into that normalcy more often than he should have.

He let Shen Di drag him into activities he did not understand and absolutely did not excel at, let her laugh at his scowling incompetence without feeling the need to retaliate, let himself exist in moments that did not require him to be anything other than present, and in doing so, something inside him, something old and tightly knotted, began to loosen in ways he did not have language for.

It was in those moments, the quiet ones, that Shen Yuan crept into his thoughts most insistently.

Not as an enemy.

Not as a nuisance.

But as a presence.

Someone who knew his world and endured it in his place, someone who wrote to him without fear, who argued with him, who challenged him, who, infuriatingly, trusted him enough to leave his body in his care without fear.

Shen Qingqiu did not like that thought.

He liked it even less that he did not immediately reject it.

‘Do not overwork yourself,
And do not neglect sleep. You are reckless with my body.’

Across worlds, Shen Yuan read it and smiled, warmth pooling in his chest in a way he didn’t entirely understand, absently rubbing at his stomach where it was, soft now, undeniably so, filled with good food and better care, the faint ache of illness slowly retreating.

They had not named what this was.

Neither of them would.

But something had settled between them all the same; an unspoken understanding, a rhythm of exchange and shared existence that threaded their lives together more tightly with each passing switch, until the idea of returning to solitude, to isolation, to being entirely alone in one’s body and one’s thoughts, began to feel… strange.

…Was it strange that sometimes he didn’t mind entertaining such thoughts? 

Chapter Text

Today was supposed to be good.

Shen Qingqiu was going to go meet his friends at the community centre again then go out for bowling with Shen Di in the afternoon but nooooo, Shen Yuan just had to mess it up.

Because that morning, Shen Qingqiu awoke to nothing.

No letter tucked beneath the pillow.

No folded paper on the desk.

No smug, rambling ink stained presence announcing that Shen Yuan was still there, still alive, still tethered to him through words…

Nothing.

The absence hit harder than it should have.

Shen Qingqiu lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling of Shen Yuan’s room, waiting, foolishly, for the paper to simply appear, as if the world itself might correct the error out of sheer fear of him. When it didn’t, irritation prickled beneath his skin like static.

“…Hmph.”

He sat up then he searched.

At first it was controlled, methodical even. He checked the nightstand, the desk drawers, the books stacked neatly by height, the absurdly soft bed that offended him every time he lay in it. When that yielded nothing, the control snapped.

He tore through the room like a mad man. 

Books were lifted and shaken. Drawers yanked open and slammed shut. The wardrobe was emptied with ruthless efficiency, clothes tossed aside without care. He even checked beneath the mattress, as if Shen Yuan might have hidden a letter there out of spite.

Nothing!!

Shen Di appeared at the door midway through this destruction, eyes wide as she took in the overturned room and Shen Qingqiu standing in the center of it, breathing sharply, expression dark.

“…Uh,” she began carefully. “You good?”

Shen Qingqiu straightened instantly, pajamas immaculate despite the chaos, dignity snapping back into place like a blade sliding into its sheath.

“I am perfectly fine.”

She squinted. “You’re… looking for something?”

“No.”

She glanced at the mess. “…Right.”

After she left—muttering something about ‘episodes’ and ‘calling someone before it got worse’, Shen Qingqiu stood alone in the wreckage, jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

No letter.

The next day, he woke in his own body.

And he was in a vile mood.

Qing Jing suffered for it.

Disciples scattered at the sound of his footsteps. Corrections were sharp, merciless, delivered with cutting precision that left no room for misunderstanding or dignity. Months ago, this would’ve been considered normal, but due to Shen Yuan’s taming of the shrew, it had completely given all the disciples whiplash. Liu Qingge received a glare sharp enough to draw blood and a sneering comment that nearly sparked a duel. Yue Qingyuan’s tentative concern was met with icy disdain that froze the words in his throat.

Shen Qingqiu did not know why his patience was gone.

He did not care.

By the time night fell and the world tilted again—

He woke as Shen Yuan.

And there, placed neatly on the desk like a peace offering, was a letter.

Shen Qingqiu froze.

Slowly (more so he bolted) he crossed the room and picked it up, fingers tightening around the paper before he forced himself to read.

‘Sorry. I forgot to write yesterday. Did I worry you?’

…

Shen Qingqiu scoffed aloud.

“As if,” he muttered, folding the letter with far more care than necessary.

He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, irritation still simmering but dulled now, blunted by something dangerously close to relief.

He hesitantly reopened the letter and continued.

’If I ever get lazy again, I’ll just record voice memos instead. Less effort. Same effect. Even wrote instructions on how it works for your ancient ass.’

“…Hah.”

Shen Qingqiu folded the paper and tucked it away, expression sour, “You… idiot…”

He accepted it anyway.

And so it began.

At first, the voice messages were clumsy things. Shen Yuan rambling into his phone, pausing to think, restarting sentences, complaining about cultivation injuries like they were chronic workplace hazards. Shen Qingqiu listened with arms crossed and a scowl fixed firmly in place.

Then he listened again.

And again.

Soon, he found himself waiting.

The messages became as regular as the letters, both filled with updates about disciples, complaints about peak politics, offhand praise slipped in like accidents. Shen Qingqiu responded verbally now too, pacing Shen Yuan’s room as he spoke, tone sharp but familiar, the way one spoke when they no longer bothered with pretense.

It was… rather hard to get used to. 

Shen Qingqiu thought of himself as rather silly when he first attempted talking into the phone. Yet he couldn’t help but feel it was worth it when he returned to a response to his cutting words. 

And when one day passed without a voice memo, 

Shen Qingqiu noticed immediately.

He did not search the room this time.

He merely sat at the desk, fingers tapping once against the wood, jaw tight in anger. 

Did it matter if Shen Qingqiu proceeded to spend the whole day figuring out every nook and cranny of his dumb phone? Who cares? He doesn’t care! No one cares!!!

Shen Qingqiu returned the next few days to Shen Yuan’s body without a single voice memo, and although he had received letters, he was no longer satisfied. 

So when he was met with no handwritten note, he giddily checked the phone. 

He let out a breathless laugh that exhaled through his nose and pretended he hadn’t been counting the hours as he listened to Shen Yuan drone on about the most boring thing in the entire world. 

This was not attachment.

This was simply… habit.

And Shen Qingqiu had always been a man of routine! 

⸻

Over time, the voice messages became… a problem.

At first, Shen Qingqiu told himself they were simply efficient. Practical. Less paper wasted, fewer letters to hide, no risk of ink smudging or handwriting betraying mood. Shen Yuan’s strange little glowing box recorded sound clearly enough, and with a single press, his words awaited to be delivered.

How was that a problem? It was no problem. 

That was what Shen Qingqiu first told himself.

But after all, every problem started small.

Shen Qingqiu, still irritable from a day spent snapping at disciples and leaving Qing Jing Peak in a wake of tension sharp enough to cut skin, had woken in Shen Yuan’s body with a sour mood clinging to him like damp clothes. He opened the device with the intention of deleting whatever nonsense had been left there—

Shen Yuan’s voice filled the room, warm and unguarded, slightly hoarse like he’d just woken up or laughed too much the night before.

“Uh, hey. If you’re hearing this, I forgot to write again. I just… ran out of time. Actually… no, I just don’t want to. Hahaha. Anyway—nothing exploded, Binghe didn’t stab anyone, and Liu Qingge only glared at me twice, so I’m calling that a win. I even managed to get him to drink tea with me! Wooooo! Don’t mess up my progress with him, pleeeaaase.” 

There was a pause. A soft exhale.

“And, uh. Eat something decent, yeah? Not just in this body. I can tell you love eating in my body. Just because you don’t need to worry about getting fat, doesn’t mean you get to do it to me! Eat in your body too! Live, laugh, love! Yes! Bye!” 

The message ended.

Shen Qingqiu stood very still in the middle of the room, phone held loosely in his hand, the echo of that voice lingering in the air far longer than it had any right to.

He scoffed, of course. Immediately. Reflexively. How dumb, right? 

“Telling me what to do,” he muttered, already annoyed, already folding the irritation over whatever unfamiliar sensation had tried to surface in his chest.

Still… he replayed it.

Just once, he told himself. To make sure he hadn’t misheard anything important.

Then again, because the second time didn’t count.

Then, annoyed with himself, he locked the phone and shoved it into his pocket like it had personally offended him.

The problem was that the messages didn’t stop.

They came every few days, sometimes rambling, sometimes short and to the point, sometimes clearly recorded while Shen Yuan was walking somewhere or chewing on something crunchy, his voice muffled for a moment before he laughed and apologised mid recording.

Shen Qingqiu learned things against his will.

He takes it all back… this is an awful method of communication! 

A terrible system, really. He would have to listen carefully to ensure Shen Yuan wasn’t hiding anything useful between his rambling nonsense.

That was all.

…

Something useful he found out was that Shen Yuan hummed when he was thinking.

That he spoke faster when he was excited, words tumbling into each other in a way that would have been intolerable if it weren’t… strangely vivid.

That his voice softened when he talked about Qing Jing Peak, about the disciples, about Luo Binghe—never mocking, never cruel, always careful, like he was handling something fragile.

Shen Qingqiu was unsure if that fragile thing was Luo Binghe or him. 

It was irritating.

Deeply so.

Which was why Shen Qingqiu absolutely did not realize how far the problem had progressed until he caught himself replaying a message for the fourth time in a single evening, standing alone in Shen Yuan’s apartment with the lights dimmed and the city noise drifting faintly through the window.

He stopped the recording abruptly, jaw tightening.

“This is ridiculous,” he said to the empty room.

The room did not argue.

That night, while Shen Di was distracted in the living room and the apartment was quiet enough that every sound felt magnified, Shen Qingqiu found himself doing something profoundly undignified.

He went into the bathroom and stared at the mirror.

And, hesitantly, cleared his throat.

“…Testing,” he said.

The voice that came out was Shen Yuan’s. 

Softer than Shen Qingqiu’s own, rougher at the edges in a way that made his stomach twist pleasantly. He frowned at his reflection, at the face that wasn’t his, at the eyes that didn’t quite carry the same sharpness no matter how hard he tried to summon it.

He tried again.

“This is… impractical,” he said, slower this time, more measured.

It still sounded wrong.

His brows knit together in irritation, and before he could stop himself, he replayed one of Shen Yuan’s messages again, listening closely—not to the words, but to the cadence, the pauses, the way his voice dipped when he was being earnest and rose when he was trying to sound casual.

Then Shen Qingqiu tried to mimic it.

“…Don’t forget to rest,” he said quietly, testing the rhythm, the tone, all while staring directly at himself. 

The words felt ridiculous. The act even more so.

His face heated, and he scowled at himself, mortified, furious, and entirely unable to stop.

He did not like Shen Yuan’s voice.

He simply… found it distracting.

…

He locked the door.

Just in case.

The tiles were cool beneath his bare feet, the mirror fogged faintly from the lingering warmth of a bath he hadn’t needed but had taken anyway. He leaned one shoulder against the sink, arms crossed, expression dark and guarded as Shen Yuan’s voice filled the small space.

It was, objectively, a terrible idea.

Shen Qingqiu knew this the moment the thought crossed his mind, and yet, perhaps emboldened by the strange safety of Shen Yuan’s world, or perhaps because no one here could hear him, he still found himself standing in front of the bathroom mirror again.

The door was locked. The fan was on. He had triple checked.

Good.

He stared at his reflection: Shen Yuan’s face, softer than his own, less sharp around the eyes, lips that looked altogether too expressive when they moved. He cleared his throat, folded his arms, and spoke.

“Idiot,” he said automatically—then paused.

No. That wasn’t it. That wasn’t Shen Yuan. 

He tried again, deliberately lightening his voice, mimicking the careless tone he’d grown far too familiar with through those recorded messages.

“…Relax,” he murmured, in Shen Yuan’s voice. Casual. Almost amused. “It’s just you.”

The sound of it sent something unpleasantly warm down his spine.

Shen Qingqiu’s jaw tightened.

Absolutely ridiculous.

He leaned closer to the mirror, brows furrowing as if daring his reflection to defy him. Then he plucked up all his dignity and gave a little spin, sneering at himself as he cocked his hip out to the side like a succubus, “If you’re going to stare,” he continued, quieter now, voice dropping into something almost lazy, “at least have the decency to admit you like what you see.”

Silence.

Then—

Oh.

That was—

He stiffened instantly, body reacting in a way that made his brain short circuit with pure, incandescent fury. Heat flooded south with zero warning, traitorous and humiliating, and Shen Qingqiu recoiled from the sink like it had personally betrayed him.

“—This—this body—!” he hissed, slapping a hand over his face. “Absolutely shameless!”

His reflection looked smug. He hated that most of all.

Heart pounding, he turned away, pressing his forehead against the cool tile and breathing through his nose like a man attempting to suppress the urge to commit murder. Or arson. Possibly both.

“…I am never doing that again,” he muttered fiercely.

His lower half, unrepentant, clearly disagreed.

Shen Qingqiu straightened, composed his expression with sheer force of will, and marched out of the bathroom as if dignity alone could erase what had just happened.

He did not look back at the mirror.

He was not going to think about Shen Yuan’s voice again.

Not at all.

(Unfortunately for him, that promise lasted approximately five minutes.)

Chapter Text

By the fifth month, Shen Yuan stopped waking up disoriented.

Not because the situation had resolved, far from it, but because his body had learned the rhythm of displacement. Sleep no longer meant rest. It meant transit. Some mornings he opened his eyes to bamboo shadows slanting across polished floors; others, to the low hum of traffic and the faint smell of detergent clinging to sheets that were far too soft for a cultivator’s standards.

He had adapted. Reluctantly.

And Qing Jing Peak had changed under his hands.

Not drastically— Shen Yuan wasn’t stupid enough to overhaul Shen Qingqiu’s entire ruling style overnight, but subtly, in ways that compounded. Training schedules became more consistent. Punishments became… less medieval. Disciples were corrected with cutting words rather than cutting blows, which, to their immense confusion, somehow hurt worse and yet healed faster.

Shen Yuan made sure to inform Shen Qingqiu of his changes, much to the original good’s annoyance, and Shen Qingqiu adapted as well to protect his thin face. Couldn’t act against his character after all, that would be OOC, heh. 

Yet no one trusted it.

They watched Shen Qingqiu like a venomous snake that had decided to wear a ribbon one morning.

Luo Binghe, especially.

Shen Yuan noticed how the innocent bun often hovered around like a guilty ghost, flinching at every shift in tone, every unexpected kindness delivered with Shen Qingqiu’s familiar cold face and unfamiliar restraint. He trained harder (aw!!), became more vocal (yay!!) and stalked Shen Yuan (WTF!!!). 

He supposes it wasn’t too strange for Luo Binghe to follow him around… the bun was going to become blackened at some point of course. Best to track his scum teacher’s every movement… he… supposes. All Shen Yuan could hope was that Luo Binghe’s hatred for this poor old master didn’t… warrant death. 

It wasn’t like he was planning on pushing Luo Binghe into the endless abyss, however he wasn’t going to take his chances in case something went awry. So, lately, Shen Yuan had spent a lot of time planning and scheming ways to ensure Shen Qingqiu would be safe in case Luo Binghe did fall. 

Despite all those negative thoughts about the future, he couldn’t help but feel proud of his Luo Binghe! He seemed a lot more competent and independent… and even though Shen Yuan was worried about his future harem, he still approved of Luo Binghe’s priorities. 

Sleeping around? No, no, no!

Passing as a top student? A+! Good job! I’ll send you to Harvard, bun!

He did worry a little about how Ning Yingying would feel playing second fiddle to Luo Binghe’s true love; Zheng Yang. But, he was sure she could manage. After all, it looked like her social circle expanded! Often talking to Liu Qingge’s sister and sneaking off into the forest, only to return with messy hair, ahahahha. They must be busy, training so hard! 

Erk. But recently, as the immortal alliance conference crept closer, Luo Binghe’s stalking increased. 

Shen Yuan simply smiled at the boy when he caught him, resulting in a very satisfying blushing lotus. 

He also noticed the way Binghe’s stances sharpened, the way his spiritual circulation stabilised under consistent guidance, the way he stopped anticipating violence and instead braced for disappointment—which Shen Yuan, stubbornly, refused to give him.

Five months was enough time for the disciples to realise something was wrong with their shizun. 

It was also enough time for them to realise something was… better.

Not safe. Never safe. But better.

As for Shen Yuan himself—

His health had improved back in his actual body. 

Annoyingly so.

Shen Qingqiu, inhabiting his body with a survivalist’s precision, had enforced sleep. Enforced meals. Enforced rest with the same ruthless efficiency he once applied to discipline. Shen Yuan returned to his body stronger each time, less dizzy, less hollow eyed, the persistent ache in his chest dulled to something manageable.

It made him uncomfortable.

Not the improvement. The intent behind it.

Shen Yuan had begun to suspect that Shen Qingqiu took care of his body not out of obligation, but because it gave him control over something that had once been weak. Mortal. Temporary.

And maybe, though Shen Yuan tried not to linger on this thought, because it was his.

Uhm. Ahah- anyway! 

Their letters had grown… more practical!! 

Less bickering. More logistics.

Event schedules, what time his weekly yoga class was, anomalies, which toilet paper to buy, the usual. Ah. And notes on strange spiritual fluctuations that seemed to spike around the moment of each switch. Shen Yuan began compiling data, dates, symptoms, environmental factors, approaching the phenomenon like a glitch that could be debugged if he stared at it long enough.

There were patterns.

None he understood yet.

But he was working on it!

And in the modern world, Shen Yuan’s life had quietly rearranged itself around an absence.

Shen Di noticed.

She didn’t press. She never did. But she cooked more. Sat closer. Occasionally watched him with a sideways look that said she knew he was somewhere else half the time, and trusted him to come back.

At night, Shen Yuan sometimes lay awake thinking of Qing Jing Peak; the bamboo groves, the scent of incense, the way the air felt heavier with meaning. He imagined Shen Qingqiu sitting stiff backed at his desk, reading smut on his phone (the old prude would never, but it was a funny idea nonetheless) with an expression of disdain slowly giving way to reluctant curiosity.

He thought, sometimes, of how lonely that man must be.

And then, annoyingly, he thought of how lonely he himself felt, being the only one who knew Shen Qingqiu was capable of restraint. Of effort. Of care, expressed sideways and sharp edged, but real.

Five months in, Shen Yuan no longer thought of Shen Qingqiu as just a character.

That realisation sat heavy in his chest.

Because characters didn’t react the way he did.

Characters didn’t get tired.

Characters didn’t quietly, stubbornly keep someone else alive out of sheer refusal to let things fall apart.

Shen Yuan didn’t like this realisation. Characters are meant to be an escape from reality. And accepting that this was real was just—

…

The alliance conference loomed closer on Qing Jing Peak.

⸻

By the time morning training began, Shen Yuan had already resigned himself to the fact that Qing Jing Peak operated on a fundamentally different definition of normal.

The bamboo clearing was bright with early light, dew still clinging to leaves, junior disciples lined up in tidy rows with wooden swords held far too stiffly. Shen Yuan stood at the front with his hands folded behind his back, posture calm, expression faintly bored in a way he’d learned was essential to maintaining Shen Qingqiu’s terrifying mega ultra resting bitch face.

Internally, however, he was having a great time.

“Relax your shoulders,” he said mildly, tapping the flat of his fan against one disciple’s arm. “You’re performing simple stances, not preparing to wrestle a bear. What are you, some Bai Zhan brute?”

The boy flushed and immediately loosened up.

Shen Yuan nodded, satisfied, and moved on, correcting foot placement here, grip there, offering the occasional sharp but not cruel comment. Five months in, he’d learned how to thread the needle, enough biting wit to be believable, enough restraint to not traumatise anyone. The results were… honestly impressive.

They were improving. Quickly.

Which meant, naturally, something had to go wrong.

A familiar pressure prickled at the back of his neck.

Shen Yuan sighed internally.

He didn’t need to turn around to know.

Still, he did, slowly, theatrically, and found Luo Binghe standing at the edge of the clearing, dressed neatly in Qing Jing’s robes, sword at his side, posture straight and respectful.

Older, taller and broad shouldered in a way that absolutely had not been there when Shen Yuan first woke up in this world.

And smiling at him like a loyal dog that had spotted its owner across a battlefield.

“…Why are you here?” Shen Yuan asked, raising a brow, attempting to smooth the small smile that tugged on his lips into a frown. 

Luo Binghe stepped forward and bowed. “Shizun.”

The juniors stiffened instantly. Several of them nearly dropped their swords.

Shen Yuan pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re supposed to be training independently now.”

“Yes,” Luo Binghe agreed immediately.

There was a pause.

“…And yet?” Shen Yuan prompted.

“And yet,” Luo Binghe continued, tone perfectly innocent, “I happened to be passing by and thought… perhaps I could observe. For refinement.”

Observe.

From inside the training formation.

Shen Yuan eyed him skeptically. “Luo Binghe don’t need beginner drills.”

“He knows,” Luo Binghe said earnestly. “But this one wanted to learn from shizun.”

The juniors stared. Some with awe. Some with confusion. One with poorly concealed terror.

Shen Yuan looked between them, then back at Luo Binghe’s hopeful expression, and felt something in his chest soften despite himself.

“…Fine,” he said at last. “Stand at the back. Don’t interfere.”

Luo Binghe’s smile brightened instantly. “Thank you, Shizun.”

He moved to comply—and then, tragically, fate intervened.

Or perhaps a conveniently placed root.

Luo Binghe’s foot caught and he stumbled forward but he managed to catch himself, head snapping upwards and assessing Shen Yuan’s reaction.

When Binghe was met with no look of hatred or disgust from his teacher, he smiled to himself and returned to the forms.

What a silly boy… it was an honest mistake! Did he really think Shen Yuan would yell at him for something so small? 

Shen Yuan went around checking on all the juniors, fixing their posture and using his hands to lightly push them into the right position. 

He turned and saw Luo Binghe’s eye twitching violently. 

“…”

Luo Binghe then noticed Shen Yuan looking at him and smiled brightly. 

“…”

Shen Yuan walked over to Luo Binghe and leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, “This master thinks it’s rather sweet of Luo Binghe to volunteer to help show his juniors their formations.”

Luo Binghe did a double take and squinted, “Huh? What?” 

“…isn’t that why you’re here?” Shen Yuan leaned back and smirked, lightly bumping his shoulder into Luo Binghe’s, “To show off to your shidis and shimeis?”

”…yees.” 

Shen Yuan grinned, “Can’t fool me.” 

His disciple simply nodded with a strained smile, “Shizun is truly too intelligent. Perhaps he may even—!” Luo Binghe then let out a dramatic help as he somehow slipped on nothing and landed head first into Shen Yuan’s bosom. 

Shen Yuan froze. 

The rest of the disciples froze.

“Oh—!” Luo Binghe said quickly, hands gripping Shen Yuan’s biceps and squeezing just long enough to pull himself upright, “My apologies, shizun. This foolish one wasn’t watching his step. Maybe he needs to return to beginner lessons once more.” 

Shen Yuan blinked down at him.

Up close, Luo Binghe smelled faintly of clean cloth and steel. His expression was carefully contrite, eyes lowered—but there was something else there too, something bright and pleased flickering behind the obedience.

Shen Yuan, unfortunately, noticed none of that.

“Watch where you’re going,” he said mildly, tapping Luo Binghe’s forehead with his fan. “You’re not five anymore.”

“Yes, shizun,” Luo Binghe said immediately, stepping back with perfect composure, “Shizun may punish this ignorant disciple however he likes.”  

…

Was it just Shen Yuan or was Luo Binghe’s vocabulary becoming increasingly horny!? 

Ah, such is the life of a stallion protagonist. He shouldn’t take it to heart. 

Shen Yuan cleared his throat and turned back to the group. “As you were. If anyone else trips, they’ll be running laps until dinner.”

That motivated them nicely.

Behind him, Luo Binghe settled at the back of the formation, eyes following Shen Yuan’s every movement with quiet intensity, lips curved faintly upward.

Shen Yuan continued teaching, unaware and amused at his silly disciple’s behaviour. 

When he finally finished up, he sent off his children then went to visit Liu Qingge for a quick round of dueling with their tounges— er, verbal sparring-, shat on Airplane bro’s latest shit storm of a light novel, then returned home to the bamboo house. 

He buried himself in warm and cozy blankets and wrote a quick letter before clocking out of his shift. 

‘Good morning, bastard :) ‘

Chapter Text

‘To Peak Lord Shen Qingqiu of Qing Jing Peak,

I hope this letter finds you in a state of health that is, at the very least, stable.

Recent observations and reports brought to my attention suggest that your qi circulation has exhibited a degree of irregularity that, while perhaps not immediately alarming to one of your… fortitude, nonetheless warrants professional evaluation. As the Immortal Alliance Conference approaches, it is only prudent that all participating peak lords present themselves in optimal condition, both physically and mentally, so as not to cause unnecessary concern—or disruption.

Therefore, I formally request that you attend Qian Cao Peak at your earliest convenience for a routine examination. The process will be brief, unobtrusive, and conducted with the utmost discretion, as I am well aware of your preference for privacy and your aversion to unwarranted interference.

Please understand that this request is made purely in the interest of sect stability and safety. Naturally, should you choose to decline, I will be forced to document my concerns accordingly, which may invite questions from parties far less accommodating than myself.

I trust you will make the sensible decision.

Regards,
Mu Qingfang

Peak Lord of Qian Cao Peak’

⸻

Shen Qingqiu burnt the letter.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and slowly exhaled, letting out a long, low hiss that could have passed for a sigh of death. Stupid bastard, he thought, searing the words into his mind with every ounce of frustration. Does he think I have time for his pious lectures and temperance sermons? Does he even realise who he’s sending them to?

Worse of all, Shen Qingqiu actually woke up happy today! He just came back from parading as Shen Yuan, allowing Shen Di to take him around the city. Now he has to wake up to this!? 

The envelope from Mu Qingfang lay on the desk like a ceremonial trap, its elegant brush strokes belying the barbed undertones buried within each carefully chosen word. Shen Qingqiu thought about over the polite phrasing, noting with every line the subtle insinuations and condescending critiques.

Reminders of his unstable cultivation, gentle digs at his ‘uncooperative temperament’, and a thinly veiled warning about the consequences of ignoring the doctor’s summons.

Summons!! As if I’d drop everything for you, you sanctimonious, hair waving, insect brained, smug little—

He paused, shaking his head with a humorless chuckle, letting the words trail off into a growl. His fingers drummed against the desk, tapping out a rhythm of barely contained fury. “Stupid bastard,” he muttered aloud this time, the sound reverberating in the otherwise silent room. “You really think I’m going to hop over to your little peak and smile while you scrutinise my every move? Hah. Not today, not ever.”

…A summons from the healer peak.

How novel.

They were not close.

They had never been close. Mu Qingfang tolerated him the way one tolerated a splinter lodged too deep to dig out—gingerly, resentfully, and with the constant hope that it might one day fester badly enough to justify removal. For him to suddenly request a visit, and with ‘polite’ wording no less, reeked of ulterior motives.

Shen Qingqiu had no intention of indulging them.

He turned back toward his bed, already halfway through composing a scathing internal monologue about nosy healers and their insufferable saviour complexes, when the air shifted.

A sharp pressure rolled across Qing Jing Peak, clean and forceful and utterly unmistakable.

Shen Qingqiu’s eye twitched.

“Of course,” he muttered.

Liu Qingge descended like a divine punishment.

He landed with all the subtlety of a falling mountain, boots cracking stone as his sword hummed faintly at his side, and immediately fixed Shen Qingqiu with a stare so flat and judgmental it could have shaved years off a lesser man’s lifespan.

The silence stretched.

Shen Qingqiu smiled first.

“Oh?” he drawled, folding his fan open with a snap, “Did Bai Zhan Peak finally run out of walls to punch, or did you come all this way just to glare at me like an uncultured statue?”

Liu Qingge’s brow furrowed. “You look worse.”

Shen Qingqiu’s smile sharpened. “And you look exactly as brainless as ever. How comforting. I see stagnation suits you.”

“You’ve been avoiding Qian Cao,” Liu Qingge said, tone blunt, eyes never leaving his face, “I’ve been told to fetch you.” 

“Truly? You’ve noticed?” Shen Qingqiu tapped his fan against his palm. “How observant. Next you’ll tell me the sky is blue and I’m irritating.”

“You’re unstable.”

That did it.

Shen Qingqiu laughed, short and brittle. “Coming from you? That’s rich. I recall you trying to spar with a thunder tribulation last winter.”

Liu Qingge’s jaw clenched. “Mu Qingfang is concerned.”

“Oh, I’m sure he is,” Shen Qingqiu said sweetly.

“Why are you fighting me on this!?”

“Why do you even care?” 

Liu Qingge snarled, “I don’t.” 

They stared at each other, tension coiling tighter with every breath, Shen Qingqiu fully prepared to continue verbally eviscerating the nearest wall if Liu Qingge refused to rise to the bait—

—and then the world lurched.

Shen Qingqiu barely had time to register the sudden movement before Liu Qingge bent, hauled him bodily over his shoulder, and leapt onto his sword.

“What—put me DOWN, you barbarian—!”

The wind tore the rest of the words from his mouth.

Qing Jing Peak vanished beneath them, bamboo blurring into streaks of green as Liu Qingge flew straight toward Qian Cao peak, grip ironclad and utterly unmoved by the stream of venomous insults being hurled at his back.

“I will have your head for this,” Shen Qingqiu hissed. “I will personally—”

“Be quiet,” Liu Qingge said flatly. “You’re giving me a headache.”

When they landed, Shen Qingqiu was dumped unceremoniously onto his feet, robes slightly askew, dignity in tatters.

Mu Qingfang was waiting.

He stood beneath the eaves of his pavilion, hands tucked into his sleeves, expression carefully neutral; but his eyes sharpened the moment Shen Qingqiu looked up.

“It is nice of Shen shixiong to visit after being requested to do so six times,” Mu Qingfang said lightly.

“This master was kidnapped,” Shen Qingqiu snapped. “Try not to flatter yourself.”

Liu Qingge stepped aside, arms crossed, clearly intending to act as a living barrier should Shen Qingqiu decide to flee or stab someone.

Mu Qingfang sighed. “Yes, yes, I’m sure…”

They moved inside.

Tea was poured. Steam curled gently between them. The setting was serene enough to be insulting.

“The Immortal Alliance Conference is approaching,” Mu Qingfang began casually. “Seven months.”

“I’m aware,” Shen Qingqiu said, “I can count.”

“Qing Jing Peak will be under scrutiny.”

“Oh?” Shen Qingqiu leaned back. “Do go on. Your insight is very important to me.” 

Mu Qingfang’s gaze flicked over him; too slow, too deliberate. “Your qi has been erratic.”

Shen Qingqiu’s fingers tightened around his fan.

“Your behavior has shifted,” Mu Qingfang continued. “Your disciples report inconsistencies. Gaps. Some suspect you are possessed.” 

“That’s a dangerous accusation. Exactly which disciples reported these claims? This one shall go and—“

“I’m a doctor,” Mu Qingfang said quietly. “Dangerous is my profession.”

Silence pressed in.

…What a corn ball.

Shen Qingqiu felt it then… a familiar, ugly twist in his chest. That gnawing certainty that something inside him was being peeled back, examined, weighed for flaws. He hated it. Hated how exposed it made him feel, how it dredged up memories of cold gazes and whispered condemnations.

“And so?” he said coldly. “You called me here to poke at me until something breaks?”

Mu Qingfang hesitated. Then, carefully, “I don’t think you should attend the conference.”

The words landed like a blade.

Shen Qingqiu stared at him, incredulous, then slowly, dangerously calm.

“Say that again.”

“You are not well,” Mu Qingfang said. “And if you appear like this before the assembled sects—”

“—they’ll tear me apart?” Shen Qingqiu laughed softly. “Don’t pretend this is concern. You’re afraid I’ll humiliate the sect.”

Mu Qingfang’s jaw tightened. “I’m afraid you’ll self destruct.”

Something in Shen Qingqiu snapped.

He surged to his feet, chair screeching back, eyes blazing. “You don’t get to decide that. What position are you in to bar me from such an event?”

Mu Qingfang sighed, “I’m a medical professional and this one greatly advices that shixiong-“

Shen Qingqiu glared, “How am I unwell? What of it if I have emotional influxes? No one else has complained.” 

The healer shot him an unimpressed look then muttered under his breath, “As if the sect leader would do anything…” 

“Are you Yue Qingyuan?” 

“You’re—“ Mu Qingfang shot back.

“Are you the sect leader?”

The room vibrated with restrained qi.

Liu Qingge shifted, hand hovering near his sword.

Mu Qingfang grimaced before shaking his head, “No.” 

Shen Qingqiu forced himself to breathe.

Slowly, deliberately, he folded his fan shut.

“Then, considering how your advice holds no real weight at all, Qing Jing will attend,” he said flatly. “And if I fall apart on that stage, then at least it will be my choice.”

“Shixiong!” 

Shen Qingqiu smiled smugly, “If you have any problems with my decision… by all means, take it up with sect leader, Yue Qingyuan!”

“This conference is not a game!” Mu Qingfang barked, watching him go with a troubled expression.

Liu Qingge’s shoulder shook and he briefly snorted before fleeing the doctor’s uncomfortably calm wrath. 

Outside, Shen Qingqiu paused just long enough to steady himself.

…

He wasn’t unstable. In fact, he’d been the happiest he’s been in years. 

…

Shen Qingqiu did not storm out of Qian Cao peak.

That would have been inelegant.

He left with perfect posture, sleeves neat, expression carved from ice; every inch the dignified peak lord who had just been told, politely and with professional concern, that he was unstable enough to be benched like a cracked sword.

The moment his foot crossed the boundary wards, however, his smile collapsed into something sharp and feral.

He does not think I should attend.

Mu Qingfang. Of all people.

The healer had said it calmly, even gently, voice laced with that infuriating tone physicians used when they believed themselves morally superior simply because they held a pulse. As if Shen Qingqiu were a patient. As if he were fragile.

As if he hadn’t survived worse than a few months of… irregularity.

Shen Qingqiu’s fingers curled inside his sleeves.

He did not like that Mu Qingfang had noticed.

He liked even less that the man had asked the right questions these past enforced sessions, about exhaustion, about gaps in memory, about whether the headaches were accompanied by disorientation or a sense of displacement. Questions that scraped far too close to the truth Shen Qingqiu had buried beneath discipline and spite.

Questions that implied concern.

Concern was unbearable.

By the time he returned to Qing Jing Peak, his mood had soured into something sharp enough to cut.

He lasted precisely one incense stick before deciding that if Mu Qingfang wished to play politics, then Shen Qingqiu would remind everyone exactly who taught him how.

⸻

Shang Qinghua nearly screamed himself hoarse when Shen Qingqiu appeared in his doorway.

It was not dramatic screaming—no, it was a very specific, high pitched sound of mortal terror, the kind produced when a man who has carefully avoided someone for months suddenly finds that someone standing three feet away, arms folded, expression murderous.

“Sh-Shen shixiong!” Shang Qinghua squeaked, immediately scrambling upright and knocking over three ledgers, a teacup, and what looked suspiciously like a sack of candied seeds. “This is—wow—what an honour—what brings you—”

“Sit,” Shen Qingqiu said pleasantly.

Shang Qinghua sat.

Hard.

Shen Qingqiu paced once, slowly, like a predator circling an animal too stupid to flee.

“I have been informed,” he said, tone mild, “that certain individuals believe Qing Jing Peak is… unfit to represent the sect at the Immortal Alliance Conference this year.”

Shang Qinghua laughed nervously. “Hahaha… who would think something like that… sounds crazy… sect unity and all—”

Shen Qingqiu stopped in front of his desk and leaned forward, palms pressing lightly into the wood.

“Mu Qingfang,” he said.

“Oh. Ah. Just him? Phew, okay.” Shang Qinghua visibly deflated, shoulders slumping as if the universe had personally wronged him. “Ah… yeah…! That sounds like him…? I guess…?” 

Shen Qingqiu smiled.

It was not a nice smile.

“Tell me,” he continued softly, “how much discretionary funding does Qian Cao receive for ‘experimental medicinal cultivation’ this quarter?”

Shang Qinghua swallowed. “…A modest amount?”

“Mm.” Shen Qingqiu nodded. “And how much of that funding is approved by you?”

“…Most of it.”

“Excellent.”

Shang Qinghua stared at him, eyes wide, then burst into frantic motion. “Wait—wait—hold on—Shixiong, let’s talk this through—Mu Qingfang didn’t mean it like that—he’s just worried—about optics—about you—about—”

Shen Qingqiu straightened, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves.

“Oh, I’m sure,” he said coolly. “Healers worry. That is their nature.”

He turned toward the door.

“Reduce their allocation,” Shen Qingqiu added casually, “by thirty percent. Reclassify the remainder as emergency only. I hear spiritual herbs grow quite well under pressure.”

Shang Qinghua made a strangled sound. “That’s—Shixiong, that’s—he’ll know it was you!”

Shen Qingqiu paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Of course he will,” he said. “That is the point.”

Then he left, robes whispering, dignity intact, revenge neatly filed under administrative restructuring.

⸻

That night, alone in his bamboo house, Shen Qingqiu sat longer than usual at his desk.

The lantern burned low.

The world was quiet.

Too quiet.

His victory tasted… hollow.

He pressed his fingers to his temple, ignoring the faint throb there, and stared at the empty space where letters usually appeared. Where arguments, commentary, irritation, and, occasionally, something dangerously close to understanding had once waited for him.

Now all that remained was Mu Qingfang’s ugly ass envelope, still left on his desk! 

And yet.

Mu Qingfang’s words echoed unbidden.

This conference is not a game.

Shen Qingqiu scoffed aloud, but the sound lacked conviction.

He had survived being hated.

He had survived being feared.

But being seen—that was new.

And the Immortal Alliance Conference loomed, months away, heavy with politics, demons, secrets, and eyes that would be watching him closely.

If something went wrong there…

Shen Qingqiu closed his eyes.

“…Tch.”

He rose sharply, pushing the thought away with practiced ease.

If the world wished to test him, then it would simply have to remember—

He had never been gentle.

And he had never learned how to lose.

Chapter Text

Shen Yuan wasn’t… ecstatic when he read Shen Qingqiu’s message.

He lay on his bed with his phone held above his face, the screen dimmed low, eyes tracking the sharp, clipped lines of text that detailed—without apology, without restraint—exactly how Shen Qingqiu had gotten his petty revenge on Mu Qingfang. Budget cuts. Resource reallocations. A few precisely worded administrative approvals nudged the wrong way. Nothing overt enough to protest, everything painful enough to feel.

Efficient. Cruel. Very him! Annoying efficient ass BASTARD!! 

Shen Yuan sighed, long and slow, and let the phone fall onto his chest.

“Of course you did,” he muttered to the ceiling. “Of course that’s how you cope.”

He could already hear the fallout in his head; Mu Qingfang’s thinly veiled concern curdling into irritation, the healer peak suddenly scrambling with fewer supplies, fewer hands, fewer favours. Shen Yuan didn’t like Mu Qingfang, not particularly, but this wasn’t a novel. Collateral damage didn’t stay tidy.

And then there was Airplane.

Please, Shang Qinghua had written in a separate, increasingly unhinged message thread, Don’t tell him I said anything. I will die. He will end me. I am too young and too talented for this. You however; you’re… not that! So go ahead and feel free to take my place. :) 

Shen Yuan pinched the bridge of his nose.

When the next letter arrived, Qian Cao Peak’s seal crisp and unmistakable, he didn’t even hesitate.

He held it over the burner, lit a match, and watched the paper curl and blacken, ink warping into illegibility before Mu Qingfang’s words could ever reach him. The ashes fell neatly into the sink.

Over the next few days, the letters kept coming.

Formally worded requests. Carefully phrased concerns. One note so aggressively polite it made Shen Yuan wince. Then the other so plain aggressive that he pinned it to the wall so he could wake up and laugh at it. He burned every single one, methodically, almost ritualistically, until the smell of ash became a familiar part of his mornings— Shen Qingqiu also hopped on to the trend and began burning them eventually too.

If Shen Qingqiu wanted to wage a silent war, Shen Yuan could at least hold the line for him! 

Life, unfortunately, did not pause to admire his resolve.

Shen Yuan’s stupid mortal body had been… worse lately.

It wasn’t dramatic!! No sudden collapse, no cinematic coughing fits—but a creeping, bone deep exhaustion that made even standing too quickly feel like a personal insult. He’d find himself staring at nothing for long stretches, chest tight, fingers numb, heart doing that unpleasant flutter that made him stop and breathe carefully until it passed.

He told himself it was stress.

He told himself a lot of things.

So! He revelled in being inside Shen Qingqiu’s super awesome toned working body! He’d even taken up jogging! 

Which, he forgot, was a weird look for a supposed aloof peak lord— to suddenly see said peak lord running around the mountain like a disciple… safe to say he had many gawking at him. 

But honestly? Who cares!? He’s an active, healthy, handsome old man! Okay!?! 

Plus! It wasn’t like Shen Yuan could take his running anywhere else… he didn’t trust himself to test the waters with exploring anywhere other than the mountain. The only times he felt like Shen Qingqiu wouldn’t murder him for leaving the unspoken barrier was when he went on night hunts and missions with Liu Qingge. 

Ah… though, Shen Yuan didn’t exactly need to restrict himself. He could go into town… but ever since the brothel incident…

Shivers…

No… never… again… gag…

Mmm, point is…! Shen Yuan had lately been in a happy bouncy mood from all his prancing around! 

When he returned to his actual body, he was—against all odds or logic—positively rejuvenated.

It was embarrassing, really… but he had a mission today!! 

Babysitting the old grandmas at the community centre! Hahahahaha! So fun! 

Not!

Honestly, if it wasn’t for Shen Qingqiu threats  requests that he go out for the day, then Shen Yuan would just opt to rot in his bed and doom scroll.  

Something about getting out of the house, about having a destination that wasn’t a hospital or his bedroom or the quiet spiral of his own thoughts, had put a ridiculous spring in his step. He’d even caught himself skipping—actually skipping(!?!?!!!)—down the street toward the community centre, bag bouncing against his hip, breath puffing out in little clouds as though he were someone with lungs that hadn’t already betrayed him.

If Shen Qingqiu could see this, he would scoff. Loudly. Then demand to know why Shen Yuan was wasting energy on something so undignified.

But quite frankly, Shen Qingqiu could see this and kiss his ass. Metaphorically. Spiritually. Not actually- that’s gay.

Todays lovely threat message from Shen Qingqiu was lovingly conveyed through a voice message, 

If you stand them up, I will slit your throat.

Awhhh! How sweet! 

So he went.

The community centre was already loud when he arrived—too loud, too warm, full of overlapping voices and the clatter of teacups and the unmistakable energy of elderly women who had discovered gossip and would not be stopped. Shen Qingqiu’s granny friends greeted him with alarming enthusiasm, hands patting his arms, voices rising in delighted disbelief that he’d actually shown up.

Shen Yuan smiled. Awkwardly. Constantly.

He sat where he was told, drank tea that was far too strong, listened to stories that looped and contradicted themselves, nodded at the right moments, laughed a second too late, and fielded questions about his health with the well practiced ease of someone who had learned how to say I’m fine in a way that discouraged follow ups.

It was… nice.

Exhausting. Overstimulating. Slightly terrifying.

But nice.

By the time he left, cheeks sore from smiling and head buzzing, he felt lighter than he had in weeks, as though some invisible weight had been temporarily lifted simply because he’d existed among people who expected nothing of him beyond showing up.

He wasn’t exactly sure how Shen Qingqiu acted around the women, but he guessed it was something similar? 

He walked home slower, hands tucked into his sleeves, the late afternoon sun warm against his back.

He made it three blocks.

The first warning was a sharp, sudden tightness in his chest, so abrupt it stole the breath from his lungs entirely. Shen Yuan faltered mid step, fingers twitching uselessly as his vision dimmed at the edges, the world narrowing into something too bright and too loud all at once.

“No—no, not now,” he whispered, more reflex than hope.

His knees hit the pavement hard but the impact barely registered.

Pain bloomed everywhere at once, not sharp but crushing, like his body had decided to fold inward on itself, organs rebelling in unison. His heart stumbled, then raced, then stuttered again, each beat an effort that sent nausea curling up his throat.

He dropped fully to the ground, hands braced against the concrete, shoulders heaving as his lungs refused to cooperate. Every breath felt shallow, inadequate, like trying to breathe through soaked cloth. His ears rang, high and piercing, drowning out the distant sounds of traffic and voices that felt impossibly far away.

This wasn’t the creeping exhaustion he’d learned to live with.

This was his body reminding him—violently—of the truth.

His vision tunneled. Spots burst behind his eyes. His hands shook so badly he couldn’t even curl them into fists.

Severe episode, his mind supplied dimly, unhelpful and clinical. You pushed too hard. You knew better.

He gagged, coughing harshly, the motion wracking his chest until tears streamed down his face unbidden. His throat burned. His ribs ached. His heartbeat felt wrong—too fast, too erratic, like it might simply forget what it was supposed to do next.

He tried to call for help.

Nothing came out.

Somewhere, distantly, he was aware of someone slowing nearby, a shadow passing over him, a voice asking if he was okay. Shen Yuan couldn’t answer. Couldn’t even lift his head. He curled in on himself instead, one arm wrapping around his middle as if that might hold everything together.

Shen Di would be furious, he thought faintly. I just promised I’d be careful.

The world tilted, then blurred, then threatened to slip entirely out of focus as his strength bled away, leaving him kneeling on the sidewalk with his breath coming in broken gasps.

It spread through him in a dull, overwhelming way, as though his body had been submerged in something thick and heavy, every sensation muffled yet inescapable. His chest burned with each breath he managed to drag in, lungs scraping uselessly against air that refused to satisfy them, while somewhere deeper inside, something had gone catastrophically wrong and was continuing to go wrong without any regard for his growing panic.

Warmth seeped beneath him.

He noticed it distantly, vaguely aware of the unpleasant contrast between the cold concrete of the footpath and the spreading heat at his side. His fingers brushed against it when his hand slipped, came away slick and trembling, and his mind supplied the information with detached calm.

I’m bleeding.

A lot.

The world felt far away, like he was observing it through several layers of glass. Sounds dulled. Colours dimmed. Even the pain began to blur at the edges, no longer spiking so much as pressing down relentlessly, a crushing weight that made it hard to remember why he’d been trying so desperately to stay upright in the first place.

His vision swam.

His thoughts scattered.

This is stupid. Shen Qingqiu is going to—

He didn’t finish the thought.

The effort of keeping his eyes open suddenly felt absurd, pointless. His muscles were shaking, his breath came in shallow, uneven pulls, and no matter how hard he tried, his body simply refused to respond anymore. There was no strength left to fight with, no clarity left to cling to.

So he stopped.

Shen Yuan let his eyes slide shut.

If this was how it ended, then… fine. He was tired. So, so tired.

Footsteps pounded toward him.

“—oh my—hey! Hey, can you hear me?!”

A voice broke through the fog, sharp with panic and unmistakably familiar. Rough hands grabbed his shoulders, shaking him far more than was probably wise.

“Shen Jiu?! Xiao Jiu!!”

Auntie Lin.

His brain latched onto the name weakly, like a drowning man grasping driftwood.

Her face swam into view when his eyes fluttered open again, lined with worry, mouth tight and trembling as she took in the blood soaking into his clothes. Her hands shook, but she moved quickly, decisively, shouting over her shoulder in a voice that brooked no argument.

“Get the door! Someone call an ambulance—now! Don’t just stand there!”

Suddenly there were more voices, more movement. The world rushed back in around him in a dizzying blur as he was carefully—awkwardly—lifted, arms supporting his back, someone else gripping his legs. The pain flared briefly at the motion, a sharp reminder that he was still very much alive, before fading again into that awful, crushing numbness.

He was carried inside.

The community centre smelled like tea and antiseptic wipes and old paper, grounding in a way that made his chest hitch painfully. He was laid out on a table, then cushioned with coats and scarves and whatever else the aunties could grab, a flurry of hands pressing towels against his side, murmured voices overlapping in frantic concern.

“Too pale—”

“There’s so much blood—”

“Hold still, sweetheart, just hold still—”

Auntie Lin hovered closest, one hand gripping his wrist, thumb pressing down hard like she was trying to anchor him to the world through sheer force of will.

“Stay with me, okay?” she said, voice breaking despite herself. “You hear me? You’re not allowed to sleep. You’re not allowed.”

Shen Yuan tried to smile. It came out more like a twitch.

“…Sorry,” he whispered hoarsely, though he wasn’t entirely sure what he was apologising for. “It’s not that serious… I’m only bleeding because I fell.”

The ladies bustled around him with a fierce, almost maternal intensity. Someone brought water, someone else fetched blankets, another barked orders into a phone with the authority of someone who had raised three children and survived it. They pressed warmth into him, talked to him constantly, refused to let the silence settle.

He faded in and out, drifting on the edges of consciousness, but every time he slipped too far, someone squeezed his hand, called his name, reminded him that he was not alone.

And somewhere, dimly, impossibly, through the haze of pain and fear and blood loss, Shen Yuan thought:

Shen Qingqiu would hate this.

That thought, absurd, stubborn, grounding, was what kept him tethered as the sirens wailed in the distance and the aunties closed ranks around him, determined, panicked, and utterly unwilling to let him slip away.

Auntie Lin was still talking.

Her voice cut through the noise in short, urgent bursts, the way people spoke when they were terrified and trying not to show it—too loud, too fast, as if volume alone could keep someone tethered to the world.

“Jiu jiu, look at me—hey, don’t close your eyes, don’t—listen to my voice, alright? You’re doing good, you’re doing just fine—”

Shen Yuan didn’t hear the rest.

The last thing he felt was her hand tightening around his wrist, warm and solid and desperate.

Then everything dropped away.

Chapter Text

Consciousness slammed in like a blade.

Shen Qingqiu sucked in a sharp, panicked breath and nearly screamed.

Pain detonated through him all at once, violent and overwhelming, his chest seizing as though something inside him had collapsed inward. His limbs felt wrong, unbearably heavy yet frighteningly weak, as if they might shatter if he moved too suddenly. His throat burned. His lungs barely worked. Every heartbeat sent a nauseating wave of agony through his ribs.

Blood.

The smell hit him first, thick, metallic, unmistakable.

His vision snapped into focus just enough for him to register unfamiliar faces looming over him, hands pressing cloth against his side, red soaking through layer after layer no matter how much they tried to stop it. The… aunties at the community centre... Panic etched into every line of their faces.

Shen Qingqiu froze.

This body—

It took him a horrifying second to understand.

This wasn’t the aftermath of a battle. There was no enemy qi, no residual spiritual damage, no sign of an attack. This wasn’t cultivation backlash or poison or demonic interference.

This was simply… how Shen Yuan lived.

Frail. Failing. Breaking apart from the inside out.

Something ugly and furious tore through Shen Qingqiu’s chest, “What—are you—doing?!” His voice came out sharp, furious, far too strong for the body he was inhabiting, and the sudden sound made several of the aunties flinch.

Auntie Lin looked at him in stunned relief. “Shen Jiu! Thank god, you scared us half to death—don’t move, don’t talk, the ambulance is—”

“Shut up,” Shen Qingqiu snapped.

The word fell like a blade.

The room went dead silent.

He tried to push himself upright and immediately felt the body rebel, agony ripping through his side, but rage carried him through the motion anyway. His hands were shaking—not from weakness, but from barely restrained violence.

“Have you all lost your minds?” he demanded, eyes flashing as he took in the scene in one ruthless sweep. “Im guessing this idiot— uh- I’ve been masking the pain and no one here noticed anything was off?? Do you have any idea what state this body is in?!”

The aunties stared at him, stunned.

Auntie Lin’s face crumpled. “Shen Jiu, sweetheart, we would’ve done something if we knew… we were helping—you collapsed outside, there was blood everywhere, we didn’t know what else to do—”

Shen Qingqiu shut his eyes for half a second, forcing himself to breathe through the pain, through the rage, through the sickening fear curling in his gut.

When he opened them again, his expression was cold. 

“Get out of the way,” he said flatly. “Now.”

No one argued.

As they scrambled back, Shen Qingqiu stared down at the trembling, broken body he’d been forced into and felt a vicious, familiar anger coil tight in his chest—not at the aunties, not even at fate.

But at Shen Yuan.

At the fact that someone like this had been dealt a body that could barely sustain him.

And at the unbearable thought that, if he’d arrived even a moment later—

Shen Qingqiu didn’t let himself finish that thought.

“Shen Jiu, stay with me, okay? Don’t sleep, sweetheart, don’t—”

Shen Qingqiu jerked, breath tearing into his lungs like he was drowning on dry land.

Pain followed immediately. Blinding, invasive, wrong.

His chest seized. His side burned. His limbs felt like they were made of wet paper and rusted iron all at once. Something warm was soaking through his clothes, sticky and foul smelling, and the moment he registered it—

Blood.

His blood.

No—Shen Yuan’s.

His vision snapped up violently, pupils constricting as he watched the women’s hands hovering uselessly over him, cloths already soaked red, panic radiating off them in waves.

Something in Shen Qingqiu’s chest went feral, “Leave!” 

Auntie Lin flinched hardest.

“Shen Jiu?” she said, voice breaking. “Honey, what—what are you saying? You’re safe—”

“Safe?” Shen Qingqiu snarled.

He tried to sit up.

His body screamed.

White hot agony lanced through his ribs, his vision blackening at the edges, but rage forced him upright anyway, shaking, gasping, clutching at his side as if he could physically hold himself together.

“You call this safe?” he barked, eyes wild as they dragged over the room. “Standing around while this body rots from the inside? Letting him wander the streets until he collapses like a dying animal?”

Auntie Lin stared at him, eyes glossy with tears; not fear, not anger, but something far worse.

Disappointment.

A soft, aching kind of hurt that made Shen Qingqiu’s chest tighten painfully.

“…Xiao Jiu,” she whispered. “Why are you being so cruel? This isn’t our faults.”

…

Xiao Jiu—

Outside, a distant wail cut through the air—long, rising, unnatural.

Shen Qingqiu’s head snapped toward the sound.

“What is that?” he demanded, breath coming too fast.

The aunties exchanged glances.

“The ambulance,” someone said quickly. “It’s coming to take you to the hospital—”

Take him.

Authorities.

Seize the body.

Shen Qingqiu’s mind filled in the gaps with horrifying speed.

“No,” he hissed.

He staggered to his feet.

Immediately, his legs buckled.

Pain tore through him, his vision tilting violently as his body refused to obey. He slammed a hand into the wall to keep himself upright, breath coming out in wet, broken gasps.

“Jiu, stop!” Auntie Lin cried, rushing forward. “You can’t move like that, you’ll—”

“Don’t touch me!” Shen Qingqiu snapped, jerking away like a cornered beast.

His heart hammered wildly, panic and fury tangling until he could barely tell them apart.

They were coming for him.

For Shen Yuan.

He didn’t know what they would do, only that people had a way of tearing apart what they didn’t understand, of trapping and cutting and probing until there was nothing left.

He wouldn’t allow it.

He couldn’t!

Shen Qingqiu lurched toward the door, each step a battle—his legs trembling, his lungs burning, his side screaming as blood continued to soak through his clothes. His body dragged, slow and uncooperative, like it wanted nothing more than to collapse back onto the floor and die quietly.

But Shen Qingqiu forced it onward.

Behind him, Auntie Lin sobbed.

He didn’t look back.

He couldn’t.

The door slammed open and cold air hit his face as he stumbled outside, the siren now deafeningly close, flashing lights painting the world in violent red and white.

Shen Qingqiu fled.

He ran badly, unevenly, half stumbling down the street like a wounded animal, clutching his side, breath tearing out of his chest in broken, humiliating sounds.

His body fought him every step of the way.

Behind him, voices shouted his name.

Ahead of him, the world spun.

And all Shen Qingqiu could think, over and over, was—

I don’t know how long this body has left.

But I will not let them take him early. 

The house was in sight.

Dim porch light, familiar fence, the silhouette of the front gate cutting into the night like a promise. Shen Qingqiu fixed his gaze on it with something close to desperation, feet dragging, lungs burning so badly each breath felt like it was shredding him from the inside out.

Just a little further.

Just—inside.

A shadow moved.

Shen Qingqiu barely registered it before a figure stepped directly into his path.

His instincts exploded.

“Move,” he snarled hoarsely, voice feral, and swung without thinking; an ugly, uncoordinated punch thrown more out of terror than skill.

It never landed.

A man caught his wrist mid air with ease.

Shen Qingqiu hissed and twisted, trying to wrench free, but his body betrayed him immediately, strength draining out of his limbs like water through cracked fingers.

The man didn’t retaliate and simply looked at him.

Up close, Shen Qingqiu registered details through the haze; tall, broad shouldered, dark jacket thrown on hastily, eyes sharp but not unkind. Confused. Deeply so.

“—Yuan?” the man said slowly.

Shen Qingqiu bared his teeth, chest heaving. “Let. Go.”

The grip loosened.

Not because Shen Qingqiu had forced it, but because the man noticed him.

Noticed the way his hands were shaking uncontrollably.

Noticed the blood smeared dark along his side.

Noticed the sheer, unfiltered terror in his eyes.

The man released his wrist entirely.

For a second, Shen Qingqiu swayed, nearly collapsing where he stood.

Before he could fall, the man stepped forward and placed both hands on his shoulders, “Hey,” he said quietly, “Hey. It’s okay.”

Shen Qingqiu froze.

“I’m here,” the man continued, his voice dropping lower, gentler, each word slowed and weighted as though he were afraid that anything louder might splinter something already cracked, “Gege is here, alright? You’re safe. You’re not in trouble.”

Gege? 

The word slipped into Shen Qingqiu’s ears and lodged there, foreign and aching all at once.

He lifted his head dully, the world still smeared at the edges, streetlights blurring into pale halos as his vision struggled to focus. His throat felt tight, his thoughts sluggish, dragged through fog.

“…Qi ge?” he murmured without thinking, the name surfacing from somewhere deep and unwanted, half remembered and sharp around the edges.

The man stiffened.

His hands, warm and steady on Shen Qingqiu’s shoulders, hesitated. He leaned back just enough to look properly at his face, confusion knitting his brows together as his gaze searched Shen Qingqiu’s expression like it was a puzzle he hadn’t been prepared to solve.

Shen Qingqiu saw it then, the uncertainty, the faint flicker of concern, and something twisted in his chest.

Ah.

Xiao Jiu let out a short, breathy laugh, more air than sound, bitter and self directed. How ridiculous. How utterly pathetic, to drag ghosts into a body that didn’t belong to them, to reach for a name that had no place here.

The words hit wrong—and yet—

Shen Qingqiu’s vision swam violently. The world tilted, the last of his strength finally giving up the fight. His knees buckled, breath stuttering into something thin and broken.

“…don’t,” he muttered weakly, not even sure what he was asking for anymore.

The man caught him immediately.

Strong arms wrapped around him before he could hit the ground, pulling him in against a solid chest. Shen Qingqiu tried to tense, to resist, but his body simply… stopped.

Went limp.

Like a puppet with its strings cut.

“Easy,” the man murmured, adjusting his grip instinctively. “I’ve got you.”

Shen Qingqiu’s forehead knocked lightly against the man’s shoulder as consciousness began to blur. The last thing he registered was warmth—real warmth—and the steady rise and fall of another person breathing.

The man sighed softly, concern threading through his expression.

“…You’re burning up,” he muttered to himself.

He didn’t call out for Shen Di or those awful people hunting Shen Yuan down; simply carried Shen Qingqiu to the car, opened the passenger door, and carefully settled him inside, buckling the seatbelt with practiced hands.

Shen Qingqiu snapped back to reality to with the immediate, undignified realisation that he was trapped.

Something cut across his chest, tight and unyielding, pinning him to the seat like a binding talisman crafted by a particularly cruel junior. He looked down, took in the unfamiliar black strap, and promptly lost his mind.

“What—release me!” he snarled, twisting violently, shoulders jerking as he kicked at the footwell and clawed uselessly at the seatbelt. “Unbind this instant, you insolent man—!”

The car swerved slightly.

The man in the driver’s seat didn’t even flinch.

“Yuan,” he said flatly, eyes still on the road, “if you break my seatbelt, I’m making you pay for it.”

Shen Qingqiu froze for half a heartbeat then redoubled his efforts with renewed fury, thrashing like a feral cat in a sack. The belt dug painfully into his ribs, his lungs protested, and stars burst behind his eyes.

“I will end you,” Shen Qingqiu hissed, voice raw. “I will peel the skin from your bones and—”

“Burger or fried chicken?” the man interrupted calmly.

The words didn’t compute.

Shen Qingqiu stared at him, chest heaving. “…What.”

The man glanced over briefly, one eyebrow lifting in mild irritation. “Food. You haven’t eaten. You get like this when your blood sugar tanks.”

“I do not—” Shen Qingqiu sucked in a sharp breath, then spat, “Eat. Shit. Bitch!” 

“Cool,” the man said, utterly unimpressed. “Burger it is.”

They pulled into a drive through.

Shen Qingqiu watched in mounting horror as the man spoke into a metal box, exchanged currency like a barbarian, and accepted a bag that smelled aggressively of grease and salt and sin. The car rolled on, eventually turning into a dim, abandoned parking lot where flickering lights buzzed like dying insects.

The engine cut.

Silence.

The man reached into the bag, unwrapped a burger with practiced ease, and took a massive bite.

Chewed.

Swallowed.

Shen Qingqiu made a sound of pure, visceral disgust.

“That—that is filth,” he barked, recoiling as far as the seatbelt would allow, his voice sharp and incredulous, eyes wide as he jabbed a finger at the greasy fast food in the man’s hands. “You’re ingesting grease. Bare handed. In a vehicle. Have you no shame?!”

Shen Yuan’s brother snorted, a little laugh escaping him as he shrugged. “So what? This filth is awesome. Delicious. Perfectly acceptable.”

Shen Qingqiu’s face scrunched up in horror, his nose wrinkling. “It’s unhealthy! You’ll get fat. Do you even care about—”

The man glanced him up and down with a raised brow, expression lazy and teasing. “Yuan, get off your high horse. I can tell you’ve been eating this crap too.”

Shen Qingqiu froze, his blood boiling as heat crept into his chest.

Excuse me? How dare he—he is insulting Shen Yuan’s body. My work! All my effort, all the care I’ve taken to… to make this body soft, pliant, alive in the ways I wanted, to nurture him!

“I—excuse me?!” Shen Qingqiu barked, fists clenching at his sides, almost shaking with indignation. “Do you know what it takes to keep a body like this in one piece? To make it… capable, to give it some—some human squish, some—life?!” His voice rose, panicked and petulant, turning to near shouting. “This—this isn’t just any ‘crap’! This is precious! My work! My careful—careful—hands sculpted this! You dare insult my work?!”

The man hummed thoughtfully, took another bite, and stared out the windshield.

Shen Qingqiu’s eye twitched.

“You dare ignore me?” he snapped, voice rising. “I am speaking to you, you— you— uncultured swine! Unlock this door at once or I will—”

Nothing.

No reaction.

Not even a glance.

The man simply chewed, wiped his hands on a napkin, and reached for his drink.

Shen Qingqiu sputtered, then raised his voice to a full snarl. “Bastaaaard!!! I will have your intensities ripped out— you’ll forget you ever had anything down there and then I will—”

“Yuan,” the man said calmly, finally turning his head, expression tired rather than angry, “I just worked a twelve hour shift. If you’re going to scream, at least wait until I finish eating.”

Shen Qingqiu stared at him.

Actually stared.

The rage faltered, confusion seeping in where fury had been moments before. He had threatened death. Dismemberment. Eternal torment.

And this man had… continued eating.

“…React.” Shen Qingqiu demanded slowly, incredulously.

The man snorted, “I’ll think about it…”

Shen Qingqiu’s mouth opened.

Closed.

Opened again, soundless.

The man took another bite, utterly unbothered, eyes softening just a fraction as he glanced over again. “You’re having a rough night, huh?”

Shen Qingqiu had no response.

He was rendered completely, utterly dumbfounded—not by fear, or pain, or cruelty, but by the horrifying realisation that no matter how sharp his teeth, how venomous his words…

This man was not going to rise to him.

Shen Qingqiu turned his head sharply away, folding in on himself with all the rigid dignity of a wronged toddler forced to sit in timeout. His arms crossed. His jaw set. If sulking were a cultivation technique, he would’ve been a grandmaster by now.

The man beside him, this man, who clearly had no fear of death, divine retribution, or social decorum, let out a quiet snort.

“Oh my god,” he said around another bite, amused in a way that made Shen Qingqiu’s molars grind. “You’re actually pouting.”

“I am not,” Shen Qingqiu snapped, staring fiercely at the passenger side window like it had personally offended him.

The man reached back into the bag, rustled around, and then, deliberately, maliciously, held up a single chip between his fingers. He waved it, slow and lazy, right in Shen Qingqiu’s peripheral vision.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Shen Qingqiu’s eye twitched.

The smell hit him then—salt, oil, something warm and strangely comforting. His stomach, traitorous thing, gave a sharp, humiliating twist.

The man noticed immediately.

A grin tugged at his mouth. “You want one.”

“I do not,” Shen Qingqiu said stiffly.

The chip waved closer.

“Say please.”

“I would rather starve.”

The chip brushed just close enough to his lips.

Shen Qingqiu snapped.

He lunged forward with startling speed, teeth clamping down viciously around the chip and yanking it from the man’s fingers like a feral beast stealing prey. There was a brief, undignified crunch as half of it shattered.

The car went quiet.

Then—

The man burst out laughing.

“Oh my god,” he wheezed, leaning back in his seat. “You could’ve used your hands!”

Shen Qingqiu froze mid chew, mortified, crumbs at the corner of his mouth. He swallowed aggressively, straightened, and glared. “You provoked me.”

“Sure I did,” the man said, still grinning. He pushed the bag a little closer. “Have another.”

Shen Qingqiu hesitated for half a second then snatched one with his hand this time, scowling as if daring the universe to comment.

They sat like that for a moment, the engine ticking softly as it cooled.

The man’s amusement faded into something quieter. He glanced over again, eyes more observant now. “…Hey. Are you okay?”

Shen Qingqiu stiffened.

“You were limping earlier,” the man continued gently. “Badly. And you looked like you were about to pass out. What happened?”

Shen Qingqiu opened his mouth to snarl, to deflect, to lash out—

—and nothing came.

The truth sat heavy on his tongue, bitter and unfamiliar.

“…I don’t know,” he said finally, voice lower, stripped of its usual venom. His fingers curled into the fabric of his borrowed clothes. “This body… doesn’t obey me. It hurts. It’s weak. I don’t know why.”

The man’s expression softened in a way that made Shen Qingqiu uncomfortable.

“…Okay,” he said quietly. “That’s fine.”

Shen Qingqiu blinked. “It is?”

“Yeah,” the man replied easily. “Then we’ll figure it out. I’ll text Di, tell her you’re gonna stay with me for the night.” 

He reached into the bag again and held out another chip—this time not teasing, just offering.

Shen Qingqiu stared at it, then took it slowly, eyes downcast.

Chapter Text

Shen Yuan awoke with a headache that sat heavy behind his eyes, dull and persistent, like a punishment he hadn’t quite earned but was expected to endure anyway.

The bamboo ceiling swam faintly above him. Qing Jing Peak. Shen Qingqiu’s body felt too light, too steady, too wrong after what he’d just been dragged through. He lay there for a moment, staring, and very deliberately did not think about collapsing on the pavement, about blood on concrete, about Auntie Lin’s hands shaking as she held him.

Instead, his thoughts took the easier, crueler route.

He saw that.

Shen Yuan thought numbly. Shen Qingqiu saw all of it.

The pain. The weakness. The indignity of being held together by strangers and pity and paper thin strength.

His chest tightened.

“…Idiot,” he muttered to himself, rubbing his face with both hands. “You really made him deal with that.”

And the aunties. The community centre. Sweet, kind people who’d already done more than enough for him, now dragged into something terrifying and bloody and inexplicable because he hadn’t been careful enough. Because he’d wanted one normal afternoon. One walk home.

Guilt settled in his stomach like a stone but a soft knock interrupted the spiral.

Shen Yuan froze.

Another knock followed, tentative this time, knuckles brushing bamboo instead of striking it.

“Shizun?” Luo Binghe’s voice filtered through the door, quiet and cautious. “Are you… awake?”

Shen Yuan exhaled shakily and forced himself upright. He crossed the room, movements automatic, and slid the door open.

Luo Binghe stood there, still and uncertain, eyes immediately lifting to Shen Yuan’s face.

They stared at each other.

For a heartbeat, neither spoke.

Luo Binghe’s gaze flicked over him quickly, too quickly to be casual, taking in the pallor, the tightness around his eyes, the way his shoulders were held just a little too rigid. Something dark and worried stirred behind Binghe’s expression.

Then, as if remembering himself, Luo Binghe straightened slightly and lifted what he’d been holding.

A bowl of congee.

Steam curled gently into the air. It was plain, carefully made, topped with a few neat slices of scallion arranged with almost comical seriousness.

Luo Binghe smiled.

It was small. A little silly. The kind of smile that didn’t ask questions and didn’t demand explanations; just offered warmth and food and presence.

“I… made dinner,” he said, as if it were no big thing at all, “I thought… you might want some.”

Shen Yuan blinked.

Something inside his chest finally loosened.

He let out a soft, incredulous laugh; quiet at first, then a little breathless, like he’d been holding it in for far too long. He reached up, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand, and smiled back.

“…Thanks, Binghe,” he said, voice lighter than it had been all morning. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Luo Binghe’s smile widened just a fraction, relief flickering across his face.

He stepped forward and held the bowl out with both hands, careful and earnest, like it was something precious.

It was dark outside and the two ate in silence. Shen Yuan’s movements were slow and hagged yet Luo Binghe didn’t seem to mind; even slowing down to match Shen Yuan’s pace.

When he was finished, Luo Binghe said nothing and left.

Shen Yuan felt slightly lighter.

He turned to Shen Qingqiu’s desk and decided to review Shang Qinghua’s list of demons for the conference…

Chapter Text

Shen Qingqiu’s eyes fluttered open to the sight of his desk in disarray which only made his mood worse. 

He had gone to sleep with his head awkwardly propped up against Shen Yuan’s big brother’s car seat whilst listening to the sounds of music intertwined with over the top screaming…

Hm.

Loose papers lay everywhere, overlapping and skewed, some half sliding off the edges, others weighed down by inkstones and careless teacups. Several scrolls had been unrolled and never retied. Ink had bled where it should not have, annotations scrawled in the margins with a handwriting that was almost his—but rounder, less restrained and annoyingly earnest.

Shen Qingqiu stared.

“…Tch.”

He pushed himself upright, rubbing at his temple as the last remnants of the switching haze faded. His head throbbed. His qi felt thin, stretched, like silk pulled too tight. He swept his gaze over the desk again, lips thinning.

“So,” he muttered to the empty room, “you stayed up all night.”

He reached for the nearest sheet and immediately scoffed.

“Unbelievable. This formatting is atrocious. No categorization by threat level, no standardized terminology—half of these demons are listed by folk names. Folk names!” He flipped the page with a sharp snap. “And this ink blot—what were you doing, crying onto the parchment? Are you that stupid?” 

Still, he read.

Despite himself, his eyes tracked line by line, absorbing the content. It was Shang Qinghua’s list, of course it was- he reviewed the damned thing himself after all, expanded, cross referenced, and… annotated. Shen Qingqiu paused.

There were notes in the margins: small observations about behavioral patterns, inconsistencies between sect records, suggestions on which demon clans were likely to send envoys and which would send spies instead. One section had been painstakingly reorganized, demons grouped not by origin, but by political alignment.

Shen Qingqiu’s fingers stilled.

“…Hmph.”

He picked up another sheet, then another, his irritation slowly losing its edge, morphing into something sharper and more uncomfortable. Shen Yuan had not just reviewed the list; he had thought about it. Had cross checked it against memories that were not his own… somehow. Had tried, clumsily and earnestly, to prepare for the Immortal Alliance Conference in a way that suggested he believed Shen Qingqiu would actually need this.

Though… why had Shen Yuan bothered to remove the black moon rhinoceros python?… 

“This is redundant,” Shen Qingqiu muttered, even as he circled one of Shen Yuan’s notes and added a sharper correction beside it. “And this assumption is naive. Demons do not act out of sentimentality—only advantage.”

He paused, eyes narrowing at a line Shen Yuan had written beneath a particularly volatile demon’s name:

Likely to provoke, but not reckless. Too OP! Do not engage! TOO OP!! 

Shen Qingqiu clicked his tongue and added a brief, reluctant amendment beneath it, refining the observation rather than dismissing it outright.

By the time he reached the bottom of the pile, the irritation in his chest had dulled into a heavy, unfamiliar weight. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling beams, exhaustion finally catching up to him.

“You’re sloppy,” he said aloud, voice quieter now. “You overexplain. You second guess yourself. And your handwriting is atrocious...”

Silence answered him.

Shen Qingqiu looked back down at the papers—at the care evident in the late night work, the uneven ink strokes that spoke of fatigue, the margins crowded with thoughts that clearly had not wanted to be forgotten.

“…But,” he added, reluctantly, as if the word itself tasted bitter, “you didn’t miss anything important.”

He gathered the papers into a neater stack, tapping them against the desk until their edges aligned before inelegantly plopping himself onto the floorboards. 

“I wish I had a phone here…” He concluded stiffly. 

He lay still for a moment longer than usual, eyes fixed on the ceiling beams above his bed. The familiar lines of the room should have been grounding.

They were not.

He sat up.

At first, it was nothing more than a collection of small inconsistencies—things that, taken alone, might have been dismissed. The teacup on the low table had been moved a finger’s width from its usual place. The lid sat slightly askew, no longer aligned with the spout. His outer robe rested on the chair, neatly folded, but not with his precision. The sleeves were tucked in too carefully, as if someone had hesitated, then tried to correct themselves.

Shen Qingqiu stared at it.

Two teacups. 

Two.

Him and Shen Yuan usually just shared one!— (He chose to ignore the way his cheeks flushed at the thought), so that just left…

The beast!!! 

Shen Qingqiu’s jaw tightened.

He rose to his feet, movements controlled, almost stiff, and crossed the room. Each step revealed something else, a stool nudged out of place, the faint scent of warm tea lingering where the air should have been neutral, the subtle sense of presence that clung stubbornly to the space, like an echo that refused to dissipate.

His home no longer felt entirely like theirs.

A sharp, humourless breath left him.

“Pathetic attempt at courting,” he said softly to the teacups. His hand brushed the edge of the table. The wood was smooth, unmarred. Untouched, if one did not know how to look. His fingers curled slowly, nails pressing into his palm as a dull heat spread through his chest.

He reached for the extra teacup, meaning—what? To set it right, perhaps. To correct the imbalance. Instead, his grip tightened, and the porcelain left his hand before he consciously decided to let it go.

It shattered against the far wall.

The sound was sharp, brittle, echoing far too loudly in the quiet room. Fragments scattered across the floor, skidding to a stop at uneven angles.

For a moment, Shen Qingqiu simply stood there, breathing shallowly, staring at the remains before rushing back to the desk and frantically looking through every page once more. 

Demons, monsters, risk levels— but- but nothing! Not any indication that Luo Binghe had been allowed.

So that must mean the beast invited himself in! Because Shen Yuan never did anything without telling him. 

He thinks.

The desk went next—papers swept aside in a single, violent motion, inkstones tumbling to the floor with a heavy clatter. A chair overturned as he shoved it back, its legs scraping harshly against the wood. Scrolls spilled from the shelf when he struck it with the side of his hand, their careful order collapsing into disorder.

He barely registered the noise.

Everywhere he turned, there were reminders. Not blatant, not incriminating—just the subtle adjustments of someone who thought they belonged. Someone who had felt comfortable enough to touch his things, to move through his space, to exist here without asking permission.

As if this had been allowed.

As if he had allowed it.

His breath grew uneven.

This was not Luo Binghe’s doing alone. That truth slid in uninvited, unwelcome. Luo Binghe was obvious. Predictable, in his own infuriating way. What gnawed at Shen Qingqiu was the absence of warning. The silence. The deliberate omission.

Shen Yuan had known he’d be mad right? 

“How considerate,” he murmured.

The room continued to fall apart under his hands, but the destruction felt hollow, unsatisfying. No matter how many objects he displaced, the imbalance remained. The sense of being made a fool of lingered stubbornly in his chest.

He had not been consulted. Not informed. Not even given the courtesy of choice.

The realization was not loud. It did not strike like anger often did. Instead, it settled slowly, seeping into every corner of his thoughts, reshaping them into something sharp and unpleasant.

He had trusted.

The word itself felt foreign, unwieldy. He turned it over in his mind with the same critical distance he applied to everything else, as though examining a flaw in a structure he had once believed sound.

How careless.

How predictable.

Shen Qingqiu pressed his hand against the wall, steadying himself, feeling the cool stone beneath his palm. His reflection stared back at him from the polished surface of a cabinet; expression controlled, eyes dark and unreadable. No outward cracks.

Good.

He exhaled slowly and straightened.

The room was a mess now. Broken porcelain, scattered papers, furniture left askew. It looked wrong—unbalanced, disordered, as though someone else had passed through and left it that way.

Fitting.

He then took a breath and reflected. 

Was Shen Yuan truly malicious? 

No, he’s just stupid. 

Shen Qingqiu was being stupid too. They had switched early for a reason and that was because Shen Yuan had gotten injured. Or… hurt? Did someone intentionally hurt him? Not important currently, the point was that Shen Yuan couldn’t have known. He didn’t lie, he deserves your trust.

”He deserves my trust.” 

Shen Qingqiu forces himself to smile then slowly cleans up the room as he repeats it over and over in his head. Once he was done, he looked into the bronze mirror and reached for a ribbon to retie his hair, movements automatic. His hair had come loose at the temples, strands slipping free where they should have been secured. His robes sat improperly on his shoulders, collar slightly askew. There was a faint flush beneath his eyes, not quite exhaustion and not quite anger. His gaze, when it met its own, was too bright.

He studied himself with the same detached scrutiny he might give a stranger.

So this is what it looks like, he thought distantly.

Shen Qingqiu reached up and corrected it all.

He smoothed his hair back into place, fingers precise, retying the ribbon until it lay perfectly flat. He adjusted his robes, tugging fabric where needed, restoring clean lines and familiar structure. His expression settled, inch by inch, into something calm and composed. Whatever chaos had passed through him was sealed away, locked behind practiced stillness.

The mirror reflected the Qing Jing peak lord once more.

Satisfied, Shen Qingqiu turned and left the room without looking back.

⸻

The outer courtyard was bright with morning light.

Disciples straightened the moment they saw him, surprise giving way to visible relief. A few smiled openly. Others bowed, murmuring greetings, clearly eager for acknowledgment, instruction and reassurance.

“Shizun—!”

“Peak Lord Shen!”

Shen Qingqiu walked straight past them.

He neither quickened his pace nor slowed. His gaze remained forward, unfocused, as though the space they occupied was merely something to move through. The warmth in their voices faded behind him, replaced by quiet confusion.

He had barely crossed the outer path when someone stepped into his line of sight.

Liu Qingge stood rigidly still, sword at his side, as though he had been caught mid step. His expression was blank, for a heartbeat before his eyes widened almost imperceptibly.

He stared and Shen Qingqiu stopped in front of him. 

Silence stretched between them, uncomfortable and oddly intimate, broken only when Liu Qingge seemed to remember himself and shifted his grip which made Shen Qingqiu reach for his sword— 

Except Liu Qingge extended his arm and dangling from his hand was a demon’s head.

The blood had already dried, dark and dull along the severed edge. The expression was frozen somewhere between fury and disbelief. It swung slightly with the motion, grotesquely out of place in the morning calm.

Shen Qingqiu looked at it.

Then he looked back at Liu Qingge.

“…I see,” he said mildly.

Liu Qingge hesitated, clearly waiting for—something. Approval? Interest? A reaction.

Shen Qingqiu offered none.

“You went out early,” he continued, tone courteous. Detached. “How diligent of you.”

Liu Qingge frowned. “I—”

“You needn’t explain,” Shen Qingqiu said gently. “I’m sure it was very impressive.”

Liu Qingge’s confusion deepened. He lowered the head slightly, uncertainty creeping into his posture. “I thought you’d want it. It was near Qing Jing’s borders.”

“Was it?” Shen Qingqiu replied. “How unfortunate.” He stepped closer, just enough to be unmistakably intentional. Liu Qingge stiffened, caught off guard by the sudden proximity.

Shen Qingqiu smiled as he cocked his head to the side, “You’ve always been very reliable,” he said. “So earnest and so, so consistent.”

Liu Qingge’s brow furrowed. “Shen Qingqiu, what are you—”

“But you misunderstand something,” Shen Qingqiu went on smoothly, as if continuing a pleasant conversation. “That reliability has never made you… necessary.”

The words landed softly yet cut all the same, evidently so if the expression the war god pulled was anything to go by. 

“I don’t need proof of your strength,” Shen Qingqiu said, tilting his head slightly. “Nor your concern. And certainly not your expectations.”

Liu Qingge stared at him now, openly stunned. “Expectations?”

Shen Qingqiu’s smile did not waver.

“Yes,” he said kindly. “Those.” He paused then smiled even softer, “This lord really should stop entertaining you.”

Liu Qingge’s grip tightened. “Are you saying—”

“I’m saying,” Shen Qingqiu interrupted, still gentle, “that whatever you think you’re offering me… loyalty, protection, sincerity… it has never been something I was reaching for.”

The war god grunted loudly and rolled his eyes.

“You’re delusional. Do you think we’re close?” Shen Qingqiu added, almost apologetically, to which Liu Qingge only frowned.

“We’re friends.”

Right. Where was this attitude when you terrorised me when we were disciples? Now you’re suddenly open to listening to me like a diligent dog? If this was a year ago, we would’ve already been fighting.

Shen Qingqiu sneered, “We aren’t close. And you will never be closer than this.”

Liu Qingge looked as though he’d been struck.

Shen Qingqiu stepped back, the distance restored, his expression settling into calm neutrality once more. “Dispose of that properly,” he said, nodding at the demon head. “And try not to mistake proximity for possibility again.”

He inclined his head—perfectly polite.

Then he turned and walked away, leaving Liu Qingge standing there, silent, confused, and very much alone.

Shen Qingqiu did not calm down on the way to An Ding Peak.

He strode forward without hesitation, robes snapping behind him, expression dark enough that the disciples stationed outside the head office stiffened on instinct.

“Peak Lord Shen—!” one of them started, scrambling to step into his path, hands raised nervously. “You—uh—you need prior permission to enter, peak lord Shang is currently—”

Shen Qingqiu did not even slow, and with a sharp flick of his wrist, his fan snapped open, the edge striking the disciple squarely in the shoulder—not hard enough to injure, but more than enough to send them stumbling back several steps, breath knocked clean from their lungs.

“Move,” Shen Qingqiu said flatly, his voice carrying the unmistakable promise that repeating oneself would end poorly.

He walked straight past them and shoved the doors open without ceremony.

Inside, Shang Qinghua nearly leapt out of his skin.

“Ah—fuck—!” he yelped, papers scattering as he spun around from his desk, then visibly sagged in relief when he saw who it was. “Oh. It’s just you. Jesus, Bro, you could knock or something—do you know how stressful it is managing a peak? I’m on a deadline here—”

He rambled on as he always did, words spilling freely as he circled back to his desk, already half forgotten his initial fright.

“I was just working on this new draft, actually,” Shang Qinghua continued, tone slipping easily into smug enthusiasm. “It’s got this whole forbidden cultivation, master disciple adjacent tension thing going on—very tasteful, very tragic, lots of longing looks, maybe a little hand holding that’s totally not allowed, and—”

He stopped.

Slowly, uneasily, Shang Qinghua became aware of the silence.

Shen Qingqiu hadn’t interrupted him.

That alone was alarming.

Shang Qinghua glanced up—and immediately wished he hadn’t.

Shen Qingqiu stood perfectly still in the center of the room, the stack of papers clenched in one hand, fan folded tight in the other, his expression dark and cold and fixed squarely on Shang Qinghua with a glare so sharp it felt like being skinned alive by eye contact alone.

The air itself seemed to dip in temperature.

“…Ah,” Shang Qinghua said weakly, a nervous laugh escaping him as he lifted both hands in surrender. “Okay. Wow. I’m sensing that now is maybe not the time to talk about fictional immoral relationships..?”

Shen Qingqiu took one deliberate step forward.

Shang Qinghua swallowed.

Oh, he realized belatedly, cold dread settling in his gut. I am not safe.

Shang Qinghua cleared his throat, straightening the papers in his hands like that might lend him some dignity, “Ah—thank you, Shen shixiong, for reviewing the—”

Smack.

The stack of papers was slammed flat against the desk.

“Change it.”

Shang Qinghua blinked. “C-change… it?”

“Yes.” Shen Qingqiu didn’t look at him. “All of it.”

Shang Qinghua laughed weakly, scratching the back of his head. “Well, I’m sure Shen shixiong’s disciples will be more than capable of handling a few demons. They’re quite strong, after all—”

“I don’t care about the disciples,” Shen Qingqiu snapped, finally lifting his gaze. His expression was cold, sharp, utterly unimpressed. “Secure the conference barrier. Reinforce it. And weaken the demons.”

Shang Qinghua stared. “But— it’s meant to be a challenge, you know!? A little danger builds character!”

Shen Qingqiu’s fingers curled slowly against the desk.

“A challenge,” he echoed flatly. “Is how idiots get themselves killed.”

Shang Qinghua gawked and narrowed his eyes, “If you aren’t worried about your disciples, then who are you worried about!?” 

“If you leave it like this,” Shen Qingqiu continued, voice tight with restrained irritation, “I have no doubt a certain someone will absolutely find a way to throw himself into the most dangerous situation available. On purpose or by sheer stupidity, it hardly matters.”

“That’s a bit harsh—”

“It’s accurate.”

A beat of silence.

Shen Qingqiu shoved the papers back toward him. “Fix it. Or when something goes wrong—and it will—I will personally make sure you regret ever calling this a ‘challenge.’”

Shang Qinghua swallowed. “…I’ll, uh. I’ll revise it.”

“Good.”

…

Shen Qingqiu does not slow until the gates of Qing Jing Peak are far behind him.

The brothel sits where it always has, which was tucked just far enough from respectability to be ignored by those who pretend they do not know it exists, and close enough that everyone does. Lanterns sway gently in the daylight breeze, silk curtains brushing softly against wooden frames.

The moment he steps inside, the noise shifts and voices lift in recognition.

“Ah—Peak Lord Shen!”

“You’re back.”

”A-Jiu!”

“It’s been a while.”

There is no hesitation, no fear, no confusion about whether he belongs here. That, more than anything, makes his shoulders loosen.

Shen Qingqiu exhales.

It slips out of him before he can stop it; a quiet, tired sound that seems to drain weeks of tension from his chest. Someone takes his outer robe without comment. Another pours tea, already knowing how he takes it. Gentle hands guide him toward a seat, steady and practiced, as if he might collapse otherwise.

No questions or expectations...

He allows himself to sink back, eyes half lidded, as fingers work carefully through his hair, loosening knots he hadn’t realised were there. Warmth seeps into him slowly, coaxed rather than demanded. Someone laughs softly nearby; someone else murmurs something pleasant, meaningless, kind.

For a little while, Shen Qingqiu lets himself exist. Free from everything, here lies a man being tended to because he is here, and because he has paid for the privilege of not being alone with his thoughts.

His breathing evens out. The edge dulls.

And then—inevitably—his mind wanders.

It drifts to a sunlit room that smells faintly of tea and medicinal herbs. To old women who argue cheerfully over board games and complain about aching joints while slipping extra pastries into his hands. To laughter that is unguarded, unpolished. To a family that is not his, that never was, but had once allowed him to sit among them anyway.

Shen Yuan’s family.

Something tightens in his chest.

The warmth around him suddenly feels… misplaced.

He opens his eyes, staring up at the carved beams of the ceiling, expression unreadable.

What was he doing, thinking about that?

A sharp, inward scoff cuts through the softness.

Ridiculous.

That sense of belonging, if it could even be called that, had never been his to begin with. It was borrowed and misplaced. A momentary overlap of lives that were never meant to align. Whatever comfort he had felt there had been an illusion, one he’d indulged in far too easily.

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

The care here is different. It’s clean and transactional. More honest in its own way. No one mistakes his presence for something it isn’t. No one pretends this warmth will last beyond the room, the hour, the exchange.

This—this—is appropriate.

Shen Qingqiu lets his eyes close again, but the earlier ease does not fully return. Beneath the gentle hands and murmured reassurances, there is a familiar hollowness, carefully ignored.

The mood was ruined by no one else but him. 

And for a man who prides himself on knowing exactly what is his and what is not, the realisation sits quietly in his chest, heavy and unyielding, as he allows himself to be cared for anyway.

The realisation does not arrive gently. It lands all at once, sharp and absolute, and Shen Qingqiu is on his feet before anyone can react.

Hands still in his hair. Silk brushing his sleeves. A half spoken question dying in the air.

“A-Jiu—?”

He straightens abruptly, breath uneven, eyes distant as though he has just woken from something he should never have allowed himself to enter. The room feels too warm now. Too soft. The kindness here was paid for, which meant it was only temporary.

“I’m done,” he says, voice calm only because he forces it to be.

The girls exchange looks, startled by the sudden shift. One reaches for him instinctively, stopping herself at the last moment.

“Did we—”

“No,” Shen Qingqiu interrupts, already reaching into his sleeve. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

He places the money on the table. More than necessary. Considerably more.

“For your trouble,” he adds, inclining his head with practiced politeness.

They stare.

“That’s—”

“Take it, consider it payment for following through with your kindness towards this display,” he says, firmer now. “Thank you.”

He does not wait for a response. He turns and leaves, pace quickening the moment he crosses the threshold, as though if he does not move fast enough, something inside him will finish unraveling where he stands.

⸻

Cang Qiong mountain looms ahead of him like a judgment.

He does not slow as he ascends. His sword barely seems to touch the air, his breathing shallow, his mind racing in tight, brutal circles.

Shen Yuan has a family.

The thought claws at him relentlessly.

Not metaphorical. Not fractured. A real one. Parents who worried. Siblings who argued and laughed and shared meals. Friends who remembered him when he wasn’t there.

People who would have noticed if he disappeared.

People who would have gone looking.

By the time Shen Qingqiu reaches the head hall, his hands are shaking.

He does not knock.

The doors burst open with a sharp crack as they strike the walls, the sound echoing far louder than it should have in the quiet administrative wing.

Yue Qingyuan looks up.

For a heartbeat, he only blinks; caught off guard, pen still in his hand. Then his expression softens, immediately, instinctively, like a habit formed over years he never quite let go of.

“…Shen Qingqiu.”

The sound of his name spoken so softly, so carefully, makes something in Shen Qingqiu’s chest finally give way.

It wasn’t ever loud when he was with Yue Qingyuan, more so Shen Jiu was the loud one. He was the dramatic one. It’s the quiet kind of break, the kind that feels like a thread snapping deep inside where no one can see it. His throat burns as if he’s swallowed ash. Each breath scrapes on the way in. Swallowing hurts. Even thinking feels like pressing on a bruise he’s been pretending wasn’t there.

No one ever appreciates how good it feels to hear your name spoken that gently. The type of tone reserved for those you care about.

His throat aches, raw and tight, and the effort it takes just to keep his expression composed feels unbearable. Thoughts come sluggishly, heavy, like they’re wading through mud. He doesn’t want to think—but the name drags the memories up anyway.

Shen Yuan has a family.

Not an abstract idea of one, not a half remembered shadow but an actual family. And for the past months, Shen Qingqiu has had to experience that of which he never had. People who worried if he came home late. Parents who argued with him, siblings who annoyed him, a sister who regularly checks in on him, a brother who drags his feral self off to calm down without any anger. A life where there was always someone on the other side of the door.

Everything Shen Qingqiu never had.

Except for the time he last heard from his brother; on the other side of the door, promising to come back for him. 

Shen Yuan had grown up to be a kind man whilst Shen Qingqiu was jaded. He had no warm table to return to and especially no voices calling him back when he strayed too far save for the incessant yelling of his martial siblings. No place where he could afford to be weak without consequence or payment. He learned early how to stand alone, how to sharpen himself into something useful, something untouchable. He survived but survival was all it ever was.

So when that name is spoken with care, with familiarity, it hurts in a way he doesn’t know how to name. Like being reminded of a life he was never meant to have, wearing a skin that never truly belonged to him. Underneath all the glamour, whenever he was in Yue Qingyuan’s presence, he always felt like Xiao Jiu. A pathetic child. 

The only family he ever had was…

“Yue Qi.” 

The two stare at each other silently. 

“I need you to tell me why you never came back.” 

Yue Qingyuan is silent then jolts out of his chair in an instant when the words register in his head properly. He reaches out and Shen Qingqiu trembles in anger and rage because that’s the only emotions he’s ever known. Like some feral beast, he flinches back violently, stepping back, trembling—not with fear, but with something raw and furious and uncontrollable. Anger surges up because anger is familiar. Because anger is the only thing that has ever stayed consistent with him. 

“Don’t,” Shen Qingqiu snaps, voice cracking despite himself. “Don’t touch me.”

Yue Qingyuan freezes, hand hovering uselessly in the air.

“I need you,” Shen Qingqiu continues, each word forced out like it’s being dragged from somewhere deep and ruined inside him, “to tell me why you never came back.”

The room feels too small.

Yue Qingyuan’s mouth opens and his shoulders sag, “I… you wouldn’t want to know.” 

The admission lands like a blade.

“Why?” Shen Qingqiu demands. “Was I inconvenient? Was I not worth the risk? Or did you just decide I was better off dead?”

“That’s not—”

“Then explain it to me,” Shen Qingqiu says, voice rising despite his attempt to keep it controlled. “Explain why I spent years waiting. Why I kept thinking; ‘just a little longer, just one more day’, and you never came.”

Yue Qingyuan’s eyes shine and he shakes his head slowly. 

A bitter laugh tears itself from Shen Qingqiu’s chest, “So,” he repeats. “Why?”

He takes a step forward.

This time, there’s no attempt to hide it; his hands are shaking, trembling at his sides like they might give out if he doesn’t keep them clenched. His shoulders draw tight, as though bracing for a blow that hasn’t come yet. The distance between them feels impossibly large and terrifyingly small all at once.

“Please, Yue Qi—” Shen Qingqiu’s breath stutters, the word catching painfully in his chest. He has to force the next inhale, and it burns going down. “Brothers are supposed to stick by each other, right?” His voice wavers, thin around the edges, but he presses on anyway, stubborn even now. “They stay. Even when their stupid younger brothers get themselves into trouble. They don’t walk away. They don’t—” His throat tightens, and he swallows hard. “They don’t give up on them.”

There’s a bitter edge to his mouth, something almost like a laugh that never quite forms. “You might think I’m stupid,” he says quietly, eyes fixed on Yue Qingyuan as if looking away would make him crumble, “but I learned that first hand. Just yesterday.”

The words hang there, heavy, loaded with meaning he doesn’t know how to explain, only that it hurt and that it mattered.

Yue Qingyuan’s expression fractures, confusion breaking across his face in sharp, uneven lines. His brows knit together, eyes widening slightly as he searches Shen Qingqiu’s face for an answer that isn’t there.

“…What?” Yue Qingyuan opens his mouth, clearly trying to follow the thread Shen Qingqiu has dropped into his hands and failing, “Yesterday?” he asks carefully, stepping closer without seeming to realise he’s doing it. “What do you mean by that? Who—Shidi, who were you with?” 

The question lands wrong.

Shen Qingqiu’s jaw tightens, and then something sharp and restless flashes behind his eyes. His foot taps once against the floor, then again, too quick, too agitated. “Why do you care?” he snaps, a brittle laugh breaking out of him before he can stop it. “What, are you worried I’ve replaced you already?”

Yue Qingyuan freezes. “Replaced—no, that’s not what I meant. I just—when you said brother—”

“Ah.” Shen Qingqiu cuts him off, turning suddenly, pacing a short, uneven line like a caged thing. His fan snaps open and shut in his grip, the sound sharp, almost frantic. “So that’s what this is about. You’re trying to figure out who it is?” He stops abruptly and looks back at Yue Qingyuan, eyes bright with something dangerous and raw. “Relax. It’s none of your concern.”

“Qingqiu,” Yue Qingyuan says, confusion tipping into alarm now, “you’re not making sense. You never left the bamboo house yesterday. If someone hurt you—”

“Oh, spare me.” Shen Qingqiu scoffs, irritation burning hot and fast, blotting out everything else. “You don’t get to interrogate me now. Not after all this time.” His grip tightens on the fan until his knuckles pale. “I learned something yesterday. That’s all you need to know.”

Yue Qingyuan hesitates, clearly wanting to press further, to understand—but Shen Qingqiu is already turning away from the subject, shutting it down with practiced ease and barely contained fury.

“Drop it, Yue Qi,” he says flatly. “I’m not explaining myself to you.”

Yue Qingyuan narrows his eyes and his teeth are clenched tightly. He averted his eyes as he began, “I was wrong,” Yue Qingyuan whispers. “This Yue Qi is stupid. This Yue Qi… did something stupid. But he did come back for you.” 

“You did?” 

The sect leader nodded.

”But you… I waited years and nothing.” Shen Qingqiu faltered, “You said you did something stupid? Like what?”

Silence answers him and that silence is unbearable.

“Yue Qi…”

Yue Qingyuan shakes his head. 

“…Do you know,” Shen Qingqiu says faintly, “how many times I told myself you were dead?”

The other flinches.

“It was easier,” Shen Qingqiu continues. “If you were dead, then you hadn’t chosen to leave. Then I wasn’t just—forgotten.”

He laughs again, hollow and broken.

“But you were alive,” he whispers. “All this time.”

Yue Qingyuan finally closes the distance, carefully, slowly, like approaching a wounded animal, “I’m here now,” he says, voice breaking completely. “I’m here, Qingqiu. I won’t leave again.”

Shen Qingqiu stares at him in disbelief and the rage drains out of him all at once, leaving nothing behind but exhaustion and grief so old it feels carved into his bones.

“…You don’t get to say that,” he says quietly. “Not after everything. You’re still such a coward— even now you’re hiding something from me.” His teeth grind together so hard his jaw aches, breath tearing in and out of his chest like it’s being ripped free. His fingers close around the nearest object on instinct—cool glass, familiar weight—

A vase.

Blue and white porcelain, hairline cracks spidering its surface. He remembers this. Remembers the night he awkwardly pressed it into the other’s hands, Yue Qingyuan smiling too brightly as Shen Qingqiu begrudgingly gave it to him after his first night hunt. You did well, he had said. I knew you could.

“I hate you!” Shen Qingqiu screams.

The vase leaves his hand.

It slams into Yue Qingyuan’s chest with a sickening crack, porcelain shattering on impact. Shards scatter across the floor. A dark bloom spreads across Yue Qingyuan’s robes where one piece cuts skin beneath fabric.

He doesn’t move nor flinch; not even bothering to look surprised.

That expression, soft, guilty, endlessly patient, stays carved into his face like a curse.

“Do something!” Shen Qingqiu shrieks, voice breaking into something unrecognizable. He snatches up the next thing his hand finds— a sword sash, worn and frayed at the edges.

He remembers this one too.

The day he received his first spiritual sword, Yue Qingyuan gifted him a sash and tied it for him because Shen Qingqiu’s hands were shaking too badly to manage it himself. Later that day, Shen Qingqiu threw a poorly handmade sash at Yue Qingyuan’s face. 

“React!” he yells, hurling it with all his strength.

The sash once again hits Yue Qingyuan’s face.

Still—nothing.

Shen Qingqiu laughs, high and hysterical.

Another object. A paperweight. A jade ornament. A bundle of letters. Each one flies from his hands in a storm of memory and accusation, striking flesh, striking walls, striking the man who refuses to defend himself.

Blood stains Yue Qingyuan’s sleeve now. A thin line trails from his temple where something clipped him too hard.

He does not raise his arms.

He does not tell Shen Qingqiu to stop.

He only watches.

“Look at me!” Shen Qingqiu screams. “Tell me what you did!”

The room empties rapidly, the floor littered with broken things—years of gifts reduced to debris. His chest burns. His hands shake so violently he nearly stumbles as he turns back to the wreckage, breath coming in broken gasps.

Then he sees what’s left.

Half buried beneath shattered porcelain and torn fabric, lies a crude, uneven fan. The wood is rough. The paper yellowed. The binding crooked.

The first time.

The first time he had seen Yue Qi punch another disciple— and in defence of him no less. It was the first time he had seen Yue Qi fight since the streets. Yue Qi was laughing nervously as Shen Jiu shoved it into his hands and told him to stop charging in like an idiot all while bandaging his arm gently. 

Shen Qingqiu staggers forward and grabs it, his fingers close too tightly around the handle.

“You pathetic excuse of a man! Say something! I’ll accept anything!” He stomped a foot forwards and hurls his arm in an arch, “Just tell me you left and never looked back! Just tell me anything! No matter what you did, I’ll forgive you if you just say it!” Shen Qingqiu screeched, preparing to throw the fan.

Yet it never left his hand.

“I can’t tell you. I’m sorry.” Yue Qingyuan muttered, looking away.

Shen Qingqiu smiled, “Oh,” he says hoarsely. “Of course.”

His hands move suddenly and the fan snaps in half with a dry, final crack. He lets the pieces fall from his fingers, wood and paper scattering uselessly across the floor.

And for the first time since he burst into the room, Shen Qingqiu has nothing left to throw.

Shen Qingqiu grinned and hauled himself upright, swaying as he staggered over, each step uneven. “What do you want from me?” he demanded. “Do you enjoy watching this one fall apart? Does it make you feel better knowing your precious Xiao Jiu never changed?” He stopped inches away, chest brushing Yue Qingyuan’s. “That I’ll always be the rabid street rat who needs his hand held?”

Yue Qingyuan’s mouth twisted. “…No. Never. I would never think that.”

Silence stretched between them. Shen Qingqiu wanted to believe those words, but they rang hollow in his ears. He couldn’t. There was no way he could.

He leaned in, hooking his arms around Yue Qingyuan’s head, drawing him close. “Or…” His breath skimmed the shell of Yue Qingyuan’s ear, light and taunting. “Is this what you want?”

Yue Qingyuan stared at him, stunned, heat rushing to his face momentarily before gasping and shoving Shen Qingqiu back.

Shen Qingqiu scoffed at the expression he’d provoked. Every man had the same filthy, beastly instinct. Every single time.

“Shen Qingqiu,” Yue Qingyuan said, his voice clipped and stern, hands grasping at the hilt of his sword, “Leave my office. Now.”

He stared at the sect leader and simply sneered.

Then?

He left.

The only family he had and the one who left him behind.

Chapter Text

Shen Yuan wakes to the soft, rhythmic beeping of a monitor and the distinct, unpleasant smell of antiseptic.

His first thought is that his mouth tastes awful. His second is that the ceiling looks way too ugly to be his bedroom.

“…ugh,” he manages, blinking blearily. His eyes sting. His head feels stuffed with cotton, thoughts slow and sticky, like they’re lagging behind reality by half a second.

“Oh—hey.”

The voice is immediate and Shen Yuan quickly snaps his head towards the sound and squints. Shen Shi is slumped sideways in a plastic hospital chair, jacket still on, arms crossed awkwardly over his chest. One leg is stretched out into the aisle like he fell asleep mid shift rather than settling in. He looks exhausted, dark circles, hair rumpled, but very much awake now, already leaning forward.

“You’re awake,” his brother says, relief cutting cleanly through the fatigue. “Good. Okay. That’s good!” 

Shen Yuan frowns. “Why do you sound like that?”

“Because you scared the hell out of me the other night,” The other replies without missing a beat, “You know— very normal response to have when you have another one of your temper tantrums.”

Before Shen Yuan can come up with a suitably sarcastic response, there’s movement by the door.

“A-Yuan!”

Shen Di barrels in first, bag clutched to her chest, eyes shiny and panicked like she’s been holding it together by sheer willpower alone, “Oh my god,” Shen Di breathes, rushing to the bedside and hurling her discarded bag at Shen Shi’s face, “You’re awake! You’re actually awake.”

“I was planning on it,” Shen Yuan mutters hoarsely. “What, how long have I been asleep for?” 

Shen Di exhales sharply, relief flickering across her face before she schools it back into something annoyed. “Idiot,” she says, but her voice wobbles just a little. “Do you know what time it is?”

Shen Yuan blinks at her. “Uh… no?”

“It’s been years,” Shen Di snaps, swatting his arm lightly before grabbing his hand, fingers curling tight like she’s afraid he’ll disappear again. “Twenty years…”

Shen Yuan’s eyes snap open and he gasps, “Twenty!? What about my bitcoin investments!?” 

Shen Di levelled him with an unimpressed glare and scoffs, “I’m joking. It hasn’t even been a day. God, you’d think you’d be more concerned about the fake coma part? Ugh.” She shook her head and continued, “Mrs Lin called me and said you dropped then ran off,” he says. “...good thing Shen Shi found you.”

Shen Yuan’s brow creases, “…sorry,” he says quietly.

“Pfft,” his brother replies instantly. “No, you’re not.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, screen lighting up the dim hospital room. Notifications stack the display from top to bottom, “Also,” he adds, turning it so Shen Yuan can see, “this is your fault.”

Shen Yuan squints. Messages. Missed calls. A familiar name repeated over and over.

Piggy bank:
—What happened?
—Why aren’t you answering
—I’m in meetings all day, call me the second you see this
—Is he okay??
—Don’t sugarcoat it. Is he dead? Did you kill him? 

Shen Yuan stares.

“He’s been in back to back meetings since dawn,” Shen Shi groans, fondly exasperated. “Still somehow noticed I left the family chat.”

Shen Di sniffles, half laughing. “He tried to call the hospital himself.”

His brother rolled his eyes. “Like they’d tell him anything! For a ‘self proclaimed genius’, he’s got the charisma of my left sock.” 

Shen Yuan feels something warm and unfamiliar press against his ribs. He looks away, suddenly very interested in the thin hospital blanket. “…he didn’t have to,” he murmurs.

His brother snorts. “Uhm, yes. He did.”

There’s a quiet moment after that. Machines hum. Someone laughs faintly down the hall, Shen Di squeezes his hand again, gentler now and Shen Shi reaches over and straightens the blanket without comment.

“You’re staying the night,” He eventually muttered, tone leaving no room for argument. “Doctor already signed off on it.”

Shen Yuan’s head snaps upwards at that. 

“And I brought your charger,” Shen Shi adds quickly. “And snacks. Hospital snacks are terrible...”

Shen Di nods once. “I took tomorrow off.”

Shen Yuan blinks again, throat tight in a way that has nothing to do with dryness. He doesn’t know what to say to that. Doesn’t know how to joke it away without sounding ungrateful.

“…okay,” he says instead.

His brother smiles, just a little, and sits back down in the chair, “Thought you’d fight more! Phew.” 

Shen Yuan sighs, “Well. It’s not like I haven’t been here before. I can handle one night of the hospital.” 

“Uhm!” Shen Shi and Shen Di both squeaked at the same time, then exchanged looks and cringed.

“…why are you both looking at me like that?” Shen Yuan asks, irritation creeping into his voice.

His brother exhales and rubs a hand over his face. “Okay. So. Before you get mad—”

“Oh, I’m already mad,” Shen Yuan says flatly.

Shen Shi winces and Shen Di sighs, clearly bracing herself.

“We checked you in,” his brother admits. There’s something apologetic in his posture now, shoulders slightly hunched, like he’s expecting the hit. “Properly… Observation, tests, the whole thing. So it’s… more than one day.” 

Shen Yuan stares at him. “…what?”

“You’re not allowed to leave until the doctors green light it,” Shen Di adds, arms crossed. “We signed the paperwork.”

For a second, the room is very, very quiet.

Then Shen Yuan laughs. It’s sharp and humorless. “You’re joking.”

No one laughs with him.

“You’re not joking,” he realises, and something hot snaps loose in his chest. “Are you serious right now? You can’t just—who gave you the right?”

“We did,” Shen Shi says, voice small but firm. “Because you scared us.”

“Oh, spare me.” Shen Yuan yanks his hand free from the blanket, heart pounding now. “I fainted. People faint! That doesn’t mean you get to trap me in a hospital like I’ve lost my mind.”

“That’s not what this is—”

“No?” he cuts in, anger spilling fast and messy. “Because it sure feels like you all decided I can’t be trusted with my own body anymore. Like I’m suddenly some kind of problem you need to manage.”

“Yuan,” his brother warns gently.

“Don’t,” Shen Yuan snaps. “Just—don’t. You’re all acting like I did something wrong. Like I meant to make a scene. Like I planned to inconvenience everyone’s busy schedules.”

“That’s not fair,” Shen Di says tightly.

“Neither is this!” His voice rises despite himself, echoing faintly off the walls. “You didn’t even ask me! You just decided–!! I don’t get a say!”

Shen Shi stands again, slower this time, careful. “We didn’t do it to control you,” He turns his head away, jaw clenched, chest heaving, “Yuan. Something happened yesterday, and I don’t know what.” He pauses, choosing his words with care. “But you acted like a completely different person.”

Shen Yuan stiffens.

“You weren’t just tired,” his brother continues. “You were… sharp. And angry. And- sure, whatever, we all know you're a raging troll but you said things you’ve never said before.” His voice drops. “My point is… you were only released because your flare ups had decreased, and we were told you were getting better. And now that such a major flare up happened… well, I’m worried about you.”

The words land harder than any accusation.

Shen Yuan scoffs, but it’s weaker this time. “So what, now you’re psychoanalyzing me?”

“No,” Shen Shi says quickly. “We’re just—trying to understand.”

“Because we care,” Shen Di adds, softer than before.

Shen Yuan squeezes his eyes shut, frustration and something dangerously close to humiliation twisting together in his gut. He hates this. Hates being cornered like this. Hates that they’re looking at him like he might break.

“I’m fine,” he says, too fast. “I was just having a bad day.”

His brother studies him for a long moment, then nods—not because he believes it, but because pushing harder right now would only make things worse, “Okay,” Shen Shi says. “Then stay. Let them check you out. Prove it.”

Shen Yuan opens his mouth to argue—then stops.

I can’t ‘prove’ it. Are you stupid? 

I’m fine. I was able to hide it this long; that means I can live with it. 

I hate you, I hate this.

The anger is still there, buzzing under his skin, but beneath it is something colder. The realisation that no matter how much he lashes out, they’re not backing away. They’re not threatening. They’re not leaving.

“…this is ridiculous,” he mutters finally, turning his face toward the window. Shen Yuan hadn’t noticed it at first, too busy being angry, too busy defending himself, but now the room feels wrong. Too white. Too clean. The air smells like disinfectant and plastic and something sharp that sits at the back of his throat. The monitor beeps again, steady and inescapable.

Hospitals are not places you visit.

They’re places you get stuck in.

His chest tightens.

“No,” he says suddenly, voice strained. “No, I’m not staying.”

“Yuan—” Shen Di starts.

“I said no.” His hands curl into fists, nails biting into his palms. “You don’t get it. I can’t—this isn’t—”

“You’re overreacting,” Shen Di says, trying for calm, and immediately regrets it.

Shen Yuan laughs, sharp and almost hysterical. “Oh, I’m overreacting? That’s funny, because you’re the ones who locked me in here.”

“We didn’t lock you in,” Shen Shi insists, alarm rising. “It’s just for observation—”

“You signed the papers!” Shen Yuan snaps, voice climbing. “You took my choice away. Again.” His breathing goes uneven. The edges of the room blur just a little, like he’s underwater. He presses his hands to his temples, pacing the small space between the bed and the window, “I finally got out,” he says, words tumbling faster now. “I finally had my own footing, my own schedule, my own life, and now you want me back in a cage where people decide when I eat and sleep and piss?”

“That’s not what this is,” Shen Shi says desperately. “Yuan, please—”

“You don’t hear me!” he shouts, spinning on them. “I am not doing this again. I’m not going back to being watched like I’m fragile. I’m not letting doctors talk over me like I’m a problem that needs fixing!”

Shen Di steps forward. “Yuan, calm down—”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” His voice cracks, raw and loud, echoing off the walls. “You weren’t there. You didn’t feel it. You didn’t live it!”

The monitor beeps faster now, reacting to his rising heart rate.

Shen Shi’s hands are shaking. He fumbles for his phone without quite knowing why—then freezes when the screen lights up.

Incoming call.

He looks up, eyes wide, then back at Shen Yuan, who is breathing hard, face flushed, eyes bright with something close to panic.

“…I’m answering,” he says quietly. Before anyone can stop him, he accepts the call and places it on speaker, holding the phone out like it might explode.

“Yuan!?” Shen Ge’s loud booming voice fills the room—low, tired, threaded with worry. “Why am I getting updates in fragments? What’s going on? Are you okay?”

Shen Yuan freezes and for a second, he looks like he might bolt.

“Ge,” Shen Shi says quickly. “He’s awake. But he’s—he’s not taking this well.”

There’s a pause on the line.

“…Yuan?” Shen Ge says carefully. “You there?”

Shen Yuan swallows hard. His mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

“I hear you’re in the hospital,” Shen Ge continues. No accusation. Just fact. “And we guessed that you’d be… mad.”

A bitter laugh tears out of Shen Yuan. “Wow,” he says hoarsely. “Did they give you the summary version?”

“I don’t need the summary,” Shen Ge replies. “I need you.” Shen Yuan pauses and his shoulder slump. “I can’t come right now,” Shen Ge says, and there’s frustration there—at himself more than anyone else. “I hate that. But I want you to listen to me, okay?”

Shen Yuan presses his back to the wall, sliding down until he’s sitting, knees drawn up slightly. He drags a hand through his hair.

“I’m listening,” he mutters.

“I know you hate hospitals,” Shen Ge says quietly. “You always have.”

Shen Yuan’s breath stutters.

“And I know what it feels like to finally have your freedom and think someone’s about to take it away again,” Shen Ge continues. “But this—this isn’t punishment. You did everything right. It’s not a step backward.”

Shen Yuan squeezes his eyes shut. “It feels like one.”

“I know,” Shen Ge says softly. “But it isn’t forever. And you’re not alone in it.”

There’s another pause.

“You don’t have to be okay right now,” Shen Ge adds. “You just have to stay—“

“Oh, shut the fuck up. Easy for you to say when you're actively able to travel the world with your working limbs.” Shen Yuan retorted, “You know, this whole pep talk would mean a lot more to me if you were- oh, I don’t know… actually here?” 

The room is silent except for the steady beep of the monitor.

“Yuan. Suck it up.”

Shen Yuan doesn’t respond but he doesn’t shout again, either. Shen Shi lowers the phone slightly, watching him like he might shatter if touched. Shen Di exhales, tension easing just a fraction.

On the speaker, Shen Ge waits for something and when that something doesn't happen, Shen Shi whispers apologies to the man before hanging up.

Shen Yuan stares at the wall, eyes unfocused, breathing finally slowing but leaving him feeling scraped out, like there’s nothing solid left inside him. His throat hurts from yelling. His head aches dully. Everything feels… far away.

“…can you guys leave?” he asks suddenly.

His voice is flat. Empty. Not angry anymore—worse than that.

Shen Shi flinches. “Yuan—”

“Please,” he says again, still not looking at them. “I just—can you leave. For a bit.”

Shen Di hesitates, clearly wanting to argue, then thinks better of it. She nods once. “We’ll be right outside.” She bites her lip, eyes glossy, “Text me if you need anything?” 

He doesn’t answer, but she takes that as permission anyway. The door opens. Closes. Footsteps fade.

Once Shen Yuan is alone, he angrily digs his fingernails into his arms, exhaling shakily and lets his head tip back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling tiles like they might give him answers if he looks hard enough.

He doesn’t know how long it takes before he hears a firm knock outside the door.

”Hey,” a voice says, already halfway inside the room. “You decent?”

Shen Yuan lets out a tired breath. “…define decent.”

The doctor smiles faintly as he steps in, tablet tucked under one arm. He doesn’t rush nor look alarmed at the sorry sight that Shen Yuan is, he just pulls the curtain a little wider to let in more light.

“Rough wake up,” the doctor says mildly. “You always make an entrance, Mr Shen.”

Shen Yuan huffs once. It might almost be a laugh. “You say that every time.”

“Because it keeps being true.” He checks the monitor, jotting something down. “Heart rate’s settling. That’s good.”

Shen Yuan watches him for a moment. “Are you mad?”

The doctor glances over, expression calm but attentive. “You panicked.”

“…yeah,” Shen Yuan admits quietly.

“You don’t do well when you feel trapped,” the doctor continues, voice gentle. “That hasn’t changed.”

Shen Yuan swallows and chuckles bitterly, “I hate that you can say that. I thought I was past this.”

“Being past something doesn’t mean it never reacts,” the doctor says. “It just means you recover faster. Which—” he taps the tablet “—you did.”

Shen Yuan turns his head slightly, staring at the window. “Am I stuck here?”

The doctor considers him. “You’re here until I’m confident you’re safe to leave.”

“Okay, so forever.” Shen Yuan let his head fall onto his knees hopelessly, “…I hate this place.”

“I know,” the doctor says softly. “You always have.”

There’s a pause.

“You want to tell me what yesterday did to you?” he asks, pulling up a chair instead of looming over him. “Or do you want to sit quietly for a minute first?”

Shen Yuan closes his eyes, “…can we sit,” he says after a moment, voice low. “Just for a bit.”

The doctor nods. “Yes. We can do that.”

He settles back in the chair, unhurried, and the room finally feels like it’s stopped pressing in.

The hospital smelled like antiseptic and resignation.

Shen Yuan eventually joined him and sat in the other plastic chair with his knees drawn slightly inward, phone warm in his palm, listening to the distant rhythm of beeping machines and the murmur of other lives being measured in numbers. The walls were an inoffensive shade of beige, as if the building itself was trying very hard not to upset anyone.

It didn’t help.

“Shen Yuan?”

He looked up.

The doctor smiled in that careful way; polite, professional, already tired. Annoyingly similar to Mu Qingfang, but at least he could tell that this doctor was sincere. Paper crinkled beneath him as he perched on the edge of the examination bed. The doctor skimmed through his chart, fingers tapping the tablet in a steady, practiced rhythm.

“So,” the doctor began gently, not looking up yet, “how have you been feeling since your last visit?”

Shen Yuan considered the question.

“…Okay,” he said finally. Then, after a beat, added honestly, “Tired.”

The doctor nodded, as if that answered more than Shen Yuan had actually said.

“Any dizziness? Shortness of breath? Chest pain worse than usual?”

“Yes,” Shen Yuan said, because lying felt pointless. “But it’s kind of my baseline.”

That earned him a small, sympathetic huff of breath.

"And are you... aware of how you got here?"

"No."

"Your elder brother checked you in last night and we performed tests. We understand that your memory may be hazy as you seemed to look out of sorts. You were responding to patients and doctors in a hostile manor that we haven’t seen from you prior."

Damn it, Shen. Qing. Qiu. 

“We reviewed your latest scans,” the doctor said, tapping the tablet again, slower this time. He finally looked up, eyes kind but unflinching. “There’s been progression.”

Shen Yuan didn’t move.

He’d known that word for a long time. It lived in the back of his skull, packed away with all the others he pretended not to hear.

Progression meant forward.

Forward meant closer.

“We adjusted your medication last time to slow it down,” the doctor continued. “And for a while, it did. But at this point—”

He paused and Shen Yuan’s fingers curled into the hem of his jacket.

“At this point,” the doctor said carefully, “we’re no longer looking at management as a long term solution.”

The sentence hung in the air between them, sterile and perfectly enunciated.

He shifts in the chair, tablet resting on his knee, fingers laced together. When he speaks, his voice is the same one he’s always used with Shen Yuan but there’s a gravity to it that makes Shen Yuan’s stomach sink before the words even come.

The doctor takes a breath. “What’s been happening isn’t something we can fully reverse.”

Shen Yuan blinks once.

“We’re going to try everything we can,” the doctor continues. “Treatment. Management. Slowing progression. But I need to be honest with you.”

“You’re very sick,” the doctor says. “And without a miracle, we’re talking months. Not years.”

Silence.

The monitor keeps beeping. Somewhere down the hall, a trolley rattles past. Life continues with infuriating normalcy.

“…months,” Shen Yuan repeats blankly.

“Yes.”

“Huh.” He stares at the ceiling again. “That’s… less than I thought.”

The doctor watches him closely. “How are you feeling right now?”

Shen Yuan considers the question. Searches himself for something; panic, terror, grief.

Finds nothing.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “Kind of… empty.”

“That can happen,” the doctor says softly. 

Shen Yuan nods like that makes sense. “So what now?”

“Now we plan,” the doctor replies. “We start immediately. And we take this one step at a time.”

“…okay.”

The doctor hesitates, clearly expecting more. When it doesn’t come, he reaches out and rests a hand briefly on the side of the bed, “I’m not giving up on you,” he says. “Not even close.”

Shen Yuan turns his head slightly, meeting his eyes. “I know."

“We’ll continue treatment,” the doctor added quickly, perhaps unsettled by the lack of reaction. “There are options for comfort, for quality of life—”

“I know,” Shen Yuan said softly.

He really did.

The doctor watched him for a moment longer, then sighed. “Do you have support? Family?”

“My sister,” Shen Yuan replied. “And… yeah. People.”

He didn’t specify who.

The doctor nodded, satisfied enough, and began outlining next steps—adjustments, referrals, follow-ups—but Shen Yuan’s attention drifted, words blurring together into background noise.

Months.

He thought of Qing Jing Peak, shrouded in mist and of a man who pretended not to care. Of a conference looming on the horizon, full of blades hidden behind smiles. How fun it is to have such control over your body, how fun the world is when you have free will, how fun life is when you have a choice.

You’re running out of time, his brain supplied helpfully.

When the exchange ended, Shen Yuan thanked the doctor, because politeness was muscle memory, and the man walked back out into the hallway like nothing had changed.

The world looked the same.

Cars passed through his window. People laughed. A woman scolded her kid for dropping an ice cream.

Shen Yuan stood blankly at the hospital wall for a long moment, breathing carefully, phone heavy in his pocket.

“…Huh,” he murmured to himself. Then, after a pause, quieter, “Guess I really need to make this count.”

After all, Shen Qingqiu hated sentimentality and Shen Yuan wasn’t ready to say goodbye yet.

The room is quiet.

For ten seconds, maybe more, nothing happens.

Then Shen Yuan’s chest tightens so suddenly it feels like being hit.

“What the hell,” he whispers, the words scraping out of him.

He pushes himself upright, hands shaking, breath coming too fast now. His heart starts pounding, loud enough that it feels like it’s drowning out the monitor.

“No,” he says, sharper. “No, no—”

He drags a hand through his hair, fingers tugging hard, like he can physically pull himself back into control. It doesn’t work.

His vision blurs.

“I don’t want to die,” he mutters, voice breaking. “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.”

The words loop, relentless, louder each time in his head.

I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.

Anger surges up to smother the fear, hot and ugly. He slams his fist into the mattress, then again.

“This is bullshit,” he chokes. “I just got free. I just—”

His breath stutters, turns ragged. He presses his palms to his eyes like he can force the tears back in.

“I don’t want to die,” he says again, softer now, devastated. “I’m not ready.”

The room doesn’t answer.

The monitor keeps beeping.

And Shen Yuan curls in on himself, shaking, furious and terrified and grieving a future he hasn’t even had the chance to miss yet.

...

Shen Di didn’t announce herself when she entered the room hours later and found him in his room pretending very hard to be busy—setting his phone down, picking it up again, adjusting a book that didn’t need adjusting.

She closed the door behind her, “Good news?” she asked casually.

Shen Yuan nodded without turning around. “Yeah. You know how it is.”

She leaned back against the door, arms crossing. “You’re lying.”

Shit!!!!!!!

“…I’m tired?” he tried instead.

“Yeah,” Shen Di said softly. “So am I. Try again.”

Then Shen Yuan laughed; it came out wrong—too sharp, too sudden—and he scrubbed a hand over his face, fingers pressing hard into his eyes like he could physically hold himself together that way, “They told me,” he said, staring at the floor, “that I should think about… arrangements.”

Shen Di’s breath caught.

He kept going, words spilling now that the seal had cracked, voice low and uneven. “Not in a dramatic way. Just—options. Planning. Like it’s a trip I should pack neatly for! Yay! Maybe the make a wish foundation will give me a free tote bag or something! Lucky me!” 

She pushed off the door and crossed the room in three steps, grabbing his wrist before he could pull away.

“How long,” she asked, voice tight.

“Months,” Shen Yuan said. Then, after a pause, because honesty felt pointless without completeness, “Not a lot of them.”

For a second, Shen Di didn’t say anything at all. Then her face crumpled, fast and ugly and real, and she pulled him into her arms so hard it knocked the air out of him, “You idiot,” she choked, forehead pressed into his shoulder. “You absolute, stupid—why didn’t you tell me that it was getting worse?”

“Uh- I didn’t- know? No- I… I didn’t want you to look at me like I’m already gone,” he said, voice breaking at last. “I didn’t want to be… managed. Or pitied. Or watched.”

She frowned, “I thought you were better.”

“Yeah?”

“…yeah. You’ve been happier. And… and I felt… like…” Shen Di choked and looked away, waving her hands around as she frowned, “As if there was some… magical guardian angel who's been keeping you happy and safe and protected.”

He clutched at the back of her shirt, fingers trembling. “I’m scared,” he admitted, barely above a whisper. “I keep pretending I’m not, but I am. I don’t want to die.”

Shen Di pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes red and furious and full of love. “Then don’t do it alone… I know you’re mad at those two, but they’re your brothers,” she said. “You don’t get to protect me nor them from this. I’m your sister and we are your siblings. That’s literally our job.”

He let out a shaky breath, something between a sob and a laugh. “I keep thinking if I act normal long enough, it won’t be real.”

She cupped his face, thumbs brushing under his eyes. “It’s real,” she said gently. “And you’re allowed to be angry. And terrified. And selfish. You’re allowed to fall apart. This is awful and it sucks and it’s unfair and cruel and-”

He leaned into her touch like he’d been holding himself upright by will alone. They stayed like that for a while, sitting on the edge of the bed, her arm around his shoulders, his head tipped against hers, the world outside continuing on as if nothing monumental had just been spoken aloud.

Eventually, Shen Yuan exhaled slowly, “…Hey,” he said. “Don’t tell them yet.”

She snorted softly, wiping at her face. “I wasn’t planning to. I’d like to live.”

A weak smile tugged at his lips, “Thank you,” he said.

She bumped her forehead against his. “We’ll figure this out,” she promised. “One day at a time. And if you try to carry this alone again, I’ll… uh. Delete your accounts?”

He laughed quietly, real this time.

“Deal.”

When Shen Di returned home, he was unfortunately left alone with his thoughts.

When push comes to shove; who would even care?

It’s not that he was a very social person. He wasn’t one with many friends either— aside from internet friends he met, but he doubted it would mean much if he simply disappeared offline forever. Proud immortal demon way had been wrapped up with a terribly shit ending and all his stories were finished.

There was nothing left to look forward to.

Shen Di would care. His brothers would care.

He… thinks.

Shen Yuan sighed.

What a selfish man he was. For someone always surrounded by people, he always managed to feel alone.

…would that guy care?

Chapter Text

Shen Yuan woke up expecting the sterile brightness of a hospital ceiling, the faint chemical sting in the air, and the steady, mechanical beeping that measures life in intervals.

Instead he is greeted by the muted warmth of wooden beams overhead and the gentle spill of morning light through thin paper windows, and for several long seconds he simply lies there, disoriented, waiting for the smell of antiseptic to reach him and finding only the faint scent of tea and cooked rice drifting upward from below.

Slowly, dread begins to coil in his stomach.

He lifts one hand into view and is met not with hospital tape or bruised skin but with long, pale fingers emerging from layered white sleeves trimmed in green silk, and the sight is so familiar, so unmistakable, that irritation flares through him before reason can catch up.

“Oh," he mutters, voice hoarse but undeniably refined in a way that does not belong to him, "Right." 

His first spike of anger is sharp and immediate, fueled by memory and humiliation, because the last time he woke in a strange place as Shen Qingqiu it had involved silk curtains and very questionable life choices, and so he bolts upright, scanning the room with suspicion already curdling into outrage.

If this was a brothel, he was going to throttle that bastard-!!!

But as his eyes adjust and he properly takes in his surroundings, the panic falters, replaced by confusion; the room is plain, furnished only with a low wooden table, a modest tea set, neatly folded outer robes, and Xiu Ya resting beside the door, the walls unadorned and the bedding simple but clean, the entire space possessing the quiet neutrality of a countryside inn rather than the dramatic excess of somewhere scandalous.

He exhales slowly.

“…Alriiiight,” he murmurs, rubbing his face. “Not a brothel. That’s progress!”

When he swings his legs over the bed and stands, he braces for weakness or the lingering fragility of illness, but his body responds with smooth, effortless balance, spiritual energy humming faintly beneath his skin in a way that feels almost insultingly robust, and when he presses a hand against his chest he finds only a steady, powerful heartbeat rather than the fragile ticking clock he had been told to expect.

Is it bad that he's weirdly jealous????! Screw you and your hot immortal body, Shen Qingqiu!

A laugh escapes him, thin and unsteady, half hysterical and half relieved, because this is either the most elaborate hallucination his mind has ever constructed or he has been thrown back into the one place where mortality seems negotiable.

It's strange being in a room as plain as this, and even then, it's hardly plain! But compared to Shen Qingqiu's ravish lifestyle? Yeah. This is cheap, dirty, spit in your face, piss poor. Shen Yuan got up and began to inspect every cranny of the place in case this was apart of some elaborate plan. The only strange thing he found was a letter that had perfectly neat handwritng.

'Shen Yuan,

Take the day off. From now on, you are forbidden now grounded banned from ever speaking to the sect leader or Liu Qingge again. I will not answer any questions about why; that is just how it is. You have no room to complain as I am being a very willing host allowing for a parasite like you to inhabit my body so-' 

And the rest of the letter just continued on the same path.

Shen Yuan groaned and he used his trusty fan to whack himself in the face a few times, partly for the incoming headache and also to whack Shen Qingqiu.

Augh! Here Shen Yuan is! Trying to PR manage the ever living hell out of Shen Qingqiu's life (which he was actually kicking ass at), only for the stupid child fucker to mess it up! AGAIN!

How do you even lose two people in the span of, like, one day? Shen Yuan is quite frankly more surprised he didn't end up murdering Binghe instead. At least then he would believe it- but- but- just-...!!

REALLY!????!  

Shen Yuan screams into his sleeves before straightening his robes out of instinct and fleeing the room. 

The staircase creaks softly beneath his steps as he descends into the common area, where a handful of tables sit scattered across the wooden floor and an elderly innkeeper stands behind the counter tending to a pot that emits a comforting cloud of steam, and when the man notices him he immediately brightens.

“Ah, immortal master, you are awake,” the innkeeper says with polite deference.

Shen Yuan straightened and waved his hand around with a dramatic flourish, inclining his head with measured grace, “Mn. This one rested adequately.” The lie slips out with ease, and he briefly marvels at how naturally this body performs arrogance even when the mind inside it is scrambling. He speaks as he is moving toward a table with a few snacks on it. 

“Will immortal master be traveling onward today?” the innkeeper asks.

Shen Yuan lifts the teapot and pours himself a cup without waiting for permission, as if he has always belonged here. “Possibly. Has anyone inquired after this one?”

The innkeeper shakes his head. “It has been a quiet morning.”

“Good,” He replies, taking a slow sip, savoring the warmth as proof of reality.

For a fleeting, absurd moment, he wonders whether this is some metaphysical loophole, some cosmic patch that has granted him extra content after an early game over, and he is just beginning to contemplate the implications when the universe violently interrupts his thoughts.

There is an explosive crack as the far wall caves inward, wood splintering in a dramatic burst of debris, and through the newly created hole storms a figure radiating cultivated fury.

“SHEN QINGQIU—!!!”

The tea nearly goes down the wrong pipe.

“Liu Qingge?!” Shen Yuan sputters, coughing once before snapping his fan open and swatting dust away from his robes with indignation that eclipses shock. “Have you forgotten the revolutionary concept of doors? Sure! You might be rich and pretty but that doesn't mean you're above opening ugly looking doors!!" 

The war god lands in the centre of the room amid drifting fragments of timber, his sword still sheathed but his presence brimming with urgency, and yet instead of continuing whatever assault he had prepared, he simply stares.

The staring continues long enough for irritation to reassert itself.

“Why are you looking at this one as though I have grown a second head?” Shen Yuan demands sharply. Then proceeds to feel around the empty space around his head to make sure Shen Qingqiu hadn't mutated whilst he was away. 

Liu Qingge’s expression shifts in a way so subtle and so unexpected that it unsettles him more than the wall explosion had, because the rigid severity melts into something unmistakably softer, and then, impossibly, the stoic peak lord smiles.

“You’re back,” He says quietly.

Shen Yuan blinks, thrown off balance in a way that no physical strike could have accomplished. “Back from where? Upstairs?”

“Yesterday,” Liu Qingge says, ignoring the deflection, “were you possessed?”

“This peak lord has always inhabited this body,” Shen Yuan retorts loftily, though there is a faint thread of tension in his voice now.

“Then,” The other continues evenly, “About what you said…”

Ah, Right. Shen Qingqiu said something yesterday to the poor guy... Welp... He was meant to be forbidden from talking to Liu Qingge, right? But technically, Liu Qingge is the one talking to him. So. Ahem...

The fan stills mid motion, “…We are never discussing that again,” Shen Yuan says coldly.

The corner of Liu Qingge’s mouth twitches. “That tone,” he observes. “That is how I know.”

“How you know what?”

“That you are yourself again,” Liu Qingge replies, and this time the softness in his gaze is unmistakable. 

Shen Yuan scoffs on instinct. “This one was never lost.”

“The tone.” Liu Qingge adds blandly.

”Lah, what tone?!” 

The innkeeper, who has been silently contemplating the cost of repairs, slowly crouches behind the counter.

Liu Qingge steps closer, lowering his voice just enough that it loses its public edge. “Are you in danger?”

For a brief, disorienting instant, Shen Yuan remembers the hospital room, the doctor’s measured pity, the crushing inevitability of an ending, and the thought that perhaps he had already died and this was some strange afterlife glitch feels dangerously plausible.

Shen Yuan grimaced and he slowly shook his head, "...No... I don't think this one is..." 

The Bai Zhan peak lord frowned, "Then why are you here?"

"PFft!' Shen Yuan cackled and spun around on his heel, "Here?! Here? Here. Hm. Good question! Where is here?"

“We are three towns away,” Liu Qingge states, eyebrow having a seizure, "You don't know?"

Shen Yuan lifts his chin. “Well obviously I know! I was just checking you knew." 

Liu Qingge shoots him an unimpressed look, "Obviously I know. I was checking on you." 

"Well, you checked, and I am here, and here is here, and here is three towns away, so goodbye!" Shen Yuan chirped, abandoning the tea set in favour of attempting to push the giant unmoving boulder which is Liu Qingge. 

The boulder crosses his arms and hisses, “Why did you leave without notice?” 

Shen Yuan closes his fan with deliberate finality and gave up instantly on trying to move him, “This conversation ends here.”

Liu Qingge’s eyes gleam faintly with relief that he is clearly attempting to hide beneath mock irritation, and as they stand amid broken wood and drifting dust, trading barbs like nothing extraordinary has occurred, Shen Yuan becomes acutely aware of something that had felt impossible mere hours ago.

Shen Yuan clears his throat with exaggerated refinement, flicking invisible dust from his sleeve as though the last several minutes have been nothing more than a mildly inconvenient social interruption rather than an existential revelation paired with structural vandalism.

“Well,” he says smoothly, turning slightly away from Liu Qingge as if the matter is settled, “since this one has confirmed that he is, in fact, himself, and since you have confirmed that you are, in fact, a ravenging demon to architecture, perhaps we may now part ways.”

Liu Qingge does not move.

Shen Yuan continues, voice growing silkier, more pointed. “Bai Zhan Peak must surely be suffering in your absence. Bandits roam unchecked, training dummies weep in loneliness, walls stand tragically intact…”

“…”

Still nothing.

“Right. Forgot that happens even when you are there,” Shen Yuan’s eye twitches, “This one,” he adds delicately, “requires solitude. Reflection. Tea. Preferably without further explosions.”

Liu Qingge folds his arms. “No.”

The response is so blunt that Shen Yuan nearly chokes on indignation.

“No?” he repeats.

“You’re coming with me,” Liu Qingge says, as if announcing a change in weather.

“Coming—where?” Shen Yuan demands, fan snapping open in outrage. “This peak lord does not accompany people who break buildings for sport.”

“You need air,” Liu Qingge replies calmly.

“I am currently surrounded by air. Thanks to the hole-”

“Fresh air.”

“This air is perfectly adequate!” He scoffed, “Are you insulting poor people air?” 

Liu Qingge steps forward and the other instinctively steps back.

“You got kidnapped,” Liu Qingge says, tone no longer teasing. “Return now. Do not dismiss this.” 

“I am absolutely dismissing this,” Shen Yuan retorts, already retreating toward the innkeeper as though the elderly man might function as a legal barrier. “This one is quite stable now. Perfectly stable. Stable enough to remain indoors.”

Liu Qingge’s hand shoots out and Shen Yuan barely has time to gasp before he is unceremoniously grabbed by the wrist and yanked forward with terrifying efficiency.

“LIU QINGGE—!!”

In one fluid motion that feels deeply illegal, Liu Qingge draws his sword, steps onto it, and pulls Shen Yuan up with him as though hoisting particularly dramatic luggage.

The sword lifts.

The ground drops.

The innkeeper screams again.

“I WAS NOT CONSULTED—” Shen Yuan shrieks as wind slams into his robes and hair, the sudden ascent stealing what little dignity he has left. “PUT ME DOWN THIS INSTANT!”

Liu Qingge does not put him down.

Instead, he adjusts his grip around Shen Yuan’s waist with irritating steadiness to prevent him from tumbling to a very unfortunate end.

“Stop flailing,” Liu Qingge says over the rush of wind.

“I am not flailing, I am protesting!”

“You’re screaming.”

“BECAUSE I AM BEING KIDNAPPED!”

”At least you’re aware of it this time.”

Shen Yuan sputtered, “That doesn’t make it better— in fact I think it makes it worse!!” 

The countryside blurs beneath them in streaks of green and brown as they soar higher, the wind tearing at his sleeves and flattening his carefully maintained composure into pure chaos.

“I will file an official complaint,” Shen Yuan yells, clinging despite himself because survival instinct refuses to be dignified. “This is unlawful transportation!”

“You can barely stand on a sword today,” Liu Qingge replies, gaze forward, voice maddeningly calm. “You’re shaking.”

“I am not shaking,” Shen Yuan snaps, absolutely shaking.

They crest a ridge, and the air changes, cooler, thinner, threaded with the clean scent of pine and distant water, and Liu Qingge finally begins to descend toward a quiet mountainside overlooking a vast sweep of forested valleys.

The sword lowers smoothly onto a flat outcropping of stone.

The moment his feet touch solid ground, Shen Yuan stumbles off and whirls around in outrage, hair disheveled, robes windswept beyond salvation, “You brute,” he fumes. “Do you have any concept of consent? That’s kinda problematic. I’m gonna cancel you.” 

“You would not have come willingly,” Liu Qingge replies.

“Correct!” Shen Yuan throws his arms up. “Because I did not wish to come!”

Liu Qingge steps off the sword and sheathes it, entirely unbothered by the storm of indignation before him.

The mountain air is crisp, the sky an endless blue stretching overhead, clouds drifting lazily beneath the cliff’s edge. The world feels wide here, open and impossibly alive.

Shen Yuan is still ranting.

“I had tea,” he continues, pacing dramatically near the edge before thinking better of it and retreating two steps. “I had a plan for the day. None of those plans involved involuntary aviation!”

Liu Qingge watches him quietly.

The wind catches the ends of Shen Yuan’s hair, lifting them in soft currents, and for a moment the agitation falters as the sheer vastness of the view forces itself into his awareness.

“You needed space,” Liu Qingge says finally.

“I had space,” Shen Yuan insists weakly.

The war god squinted and grumbled, “What happened?”

The other glared, “You happened.”

“You were about to suffocate indoors.”

The words land too accurately.

Shen Qingqiu bristles. “This one does not suffocate.”

“Kay,” Liu Qingge snorts.

Silence falls between them, broken only by the wind threading through the trees below.

Shen Yuan swallows.

He hates that Liu Qingge saw anything.

“I could have walked,” he mutters.

“You would have locked yourself in another room.”

“…I might have.”

Liu Qingge’s mouth curves faintly. “Exactly.”

Shen Yuan exhales sharply, folding his fan with unnecessary aggression before settling onto a flat stone with all the dignity of someone who was absolutely not screaming moments ago. “You are insufferable,” he declares.

“So are you,” Liu Qingge replies, stepping closer and standing beside him, gaze fixed on the horizon. “That’s how I know you’re fine.”

Shen Yuan scoffs, but the sound lacks bite.

The mountain air fills his lungs cleanly, steadily, without the sterile weight of hospital walls or the oppressive closeness of small rooms, and though he would rather die than admit it aloud, the tightness in his chest has eased.

The wind has settled into something gentler now, combing lazily through the pines below and tugging at the loose strands of Shen Yuan’s hair as he sits on the flat stone, pretending very hard that he is not still recovering from being forcibly abducted via sword.

Shen Yuan sighed, “…I wasn’t kidnapped by the way. I guess I just needed a break.” 

Liu Qingge stared resolute at the ground, “Did you get the break?”

”…Yeah,” He smiled lopsidedly despite himself, “I think I did.” 

He has just reached the point where his breathing feels properly steady, where the horizon has stopped spinning and the world no longer feels like it might yank itself out from under him again, when Liu Qingge, who has been uncharacteristically… normal, turns to look at him.

“What did you do with the sect leader yesterday?”

The question drops between them like a thrown blade.

Shen Yuan blinks. “I beg your pardon?”

Liu Qingge’s expression is unreadable, though there is something intent in it now, something that replaces the earlier softness. “You and Yue Qingyuan were alone for nearly an entire afternoon.”

Shen Yuan feels an immediate, visceral spike of defensiveness. “And?”

“And,” Liu Qingge repeats evenly, “he left looking like someone had just informed him of an impending funeral.”

The fan stills and Shen Yuan snarls, “That is hardly this one’s responsibility,” he says coolly. “The sect leader is a grown man. If his face falls apart, perhaps it is due to his own dramatic inclinations.”

Liu Qingge does not look convinced.

“You were not yourself,” he continues. “You were… different. And afterward, he would not speak about it.”

Shen Yuan’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, “Oh?” he replies lightly. “And since when did Bai Zhan Peak take such a deep interest in the emotional expressions of Qiong Ding Peak?”

“Since you were involved.”

The answer is immediate.

Annoyingly immediate.

Shen Yuan scoffs. “This one cannot sneeze without it becoming a sect wide incident.”

“You told him something,” Liu Qingge says, not accusing, but certain. “Something that unsettled him.”

Shen Yuan’s gaze drifts deliberately toward the valley below, as though the rolling sea of green is far more interesting than this line of inquiry, “This peak lord says many things,” he replies. “It is not my fault if others choose to be unsettled.”

The wind shifts.

For a fleeting second, Shen Yuan feels that same echo of the hospital room, the weight of months, the panic, the mantra, and he almost laughs at the absurdity of it all, because apparently in every world, he is destined to unravel in front of witnesses.

“This one does not require saving,” he says at last, tone carefully neutral.

“I did not say you did.”

“You implied.”

“No.”

Shen Yuan shoots him a glare, “You can’t just- that’s not how conversations work!”

Liu Qingge wags his finger slowly in his face, “No. I assumed the prissy scholar would have known these things. But what do I know?” He hummed and checked his fingernails, “This one is just a brute after all.”  

The prissy scholar groaned, “Oh come on, don’t speak like that. We’re friends, are we not?” 

Liu Qingge’s mouth curves faintly. “Friends?” 

He raises a brow, “No?” 

The war god rolls his eyes, “You said otherwise yesterday.” 

“I see. Okay, then I retract that!” Shen Yuan mutters.

“You cannot retract a public announcement.”

“Watch me.”

Liu Qingge’s gaze softens again, though he tries to mask it beneath a dry tone. “Okay.”

That lands harder than anything else and Shen Yuan looks away, “Ridiculous,” he says, but the word lacks conviction.

“Mn,” Liu Qingge replies noncommittally.

Silence stretches, heavy but not hostile.

After a moment, Shen Yuan lifts his chin slightly. “If the sect leader’s composure is so fragile, perhaps you should return and comfort him. I am told you break walls for those you care about.”

Liu Qingge huffs a quiet breath that might be a laugh, “He does not need walls broken.”

“And I do?”

“Gnrh.”

Shen Yuan glares.

Liu Qingge meets it steadily, then adds, almost casually, “If you hurt him, I would have noticed.”

There is no threat in it—only fact.

Shen Qingqiu arches a brow. “Are you implying this one is incapable of subtlety?”

“I am implying you are incapable of lying well when emotional.”

The audacity.

Shen Yuan stands abruptly, robes snapping in the wind. “This conversation has exceeded its welcome.”

Liu Qingge does not stop him this time, but as Shen Yuan moves toward the cliff’s edge; carefully, this time, Liu Qingge says quietly behind him, “What exactly did you say to the sect leader?” 

Without turning back, Shen Yuan replies, softer than before,

“I don't know."

Chapter Text

Liu Qingge had never been a patient man.

It was something everyone in the sect understood without needing it spoken aloud. His temper was sharp, his words sharper, and his tolerance for evasiveness was almost nonexistent. Questions, to him, demanded answers. 

Or, at least, dumbed down answers that his stupid tiny brain could comprehend. 

Honestly! To think Shen Yuan use to find this guy cool! What an annoying narc!

“…You don’t know,” Liu Qingge said at last.

Across from him, Shen Yuan barely reacted. He let out a soft huff, the sound edged with boredom rather than concern. Instead of answering properly, he lifted his hand and turned it idly, examining his nails as though the conversation had already lost all value.

“Yes, I did say that,” he replied. There was no urgency in Shen Yuan's voice and definitely no attempt to clarify. If anything, it sounded deliberately unhelpful. 

Liu Qingge’s expression tightened and his brows drew together, eyes narrowing as irritation began to rise again, “What does that mean?” he demanded. “Were you not there? How can you not know what you said to the sect leader?”

The question should have cornered him. It should have forced something out, like an explanation, a correction, anything!

Instead, Shen Yuan flinched.

The reaction was immediate and exaggerated to the point of absurdity. He gasped loudly, shoulders jerking as though struck. His hands flew up to cover his ears, fingers pressing tight against the sides of his head, “Stop yelling!” he cried, his voice pitching higher in sudden complaint. “Ah—ah… too sensitive…”

Liu Qingge startled and stepped back without thinking, his body reacting faster than his mind. His eyes widened slightly, alert and wary, as if he had just triggered something unpredictable.

The man looked ready to throw himself off the cliff side at this point as his eyes darted back and forth frantically at Shen Yuan and his sword. Then he squinted and paused, “…Stop that,” he said.

Shen Yuan didn’t stop. He wavered where he stood, still clutching his ears, his expression pinched like he was enduring something unbearable, “No, really! It hurts!” he insisted.

There was a tremor in his voice and a fragile edge that might have fooled someone less familiar with him.

Liu Qingge hesitated.

It was subtle, but noticeable. He stepped forward again, slower this time, studying Shen Yuan carefully, “…Really?” he asked.

Shen Yuan dropped his hands, “No.”

Silence followed.

“…Shen. Qing. Qiu,” Liu Qingge hissed.

Shen Yuan only smiled. It wasn’t a large expression. Just a small, crooked curve of his lips but it carried enough smug satisfaction to make Liu Qingge’s irritation spike all over again.

Shen Yuan stretched his arms lazily, as if shaking off the entire exchange. His movements were unhurried and casual, “Anyway, why are you so fixated on that?” he said. “It was nothing important.”

“You are avoiding the question.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

Shen Yuan hummed softly, as if considering it. Then he shrugged, dismissing the matter entirely, “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does.”

“It doesn’t.”

There was a pause before Shen Yuan turned slightly, angling himself away just enough to signal disinterest, “Shidi, this one did not come all this way to talk about something so trivial.”

That caught Liu Qingge’s attention immediately, “All this way?” he repeated.

Shen Yuan didn’t rush to explain, letting the words sit for a moment before responding, as though the answer should have been obvious from the beginning, “Obviously,” he scoffed, “Did you think I came out here for no reason?”

Suspicion returned, sharp and immediate, “No peak lord mentioned a mission,” Liu Qingge stated. “You were not assigned one.”

Ah. Well shit? Shen Qingqiu, bro, man! You’re seriously breaking my balls, ok!? You really didn’t give me wiggle room for… any fake alibis!?

Whatever. Damage control, quick! Quick!!

Shen Yuan scoffed quietly, before coldly spitting out behind gritted teeth, “Of course they didn’t, they hate me.”

The statement settled between them.

Liu Qingge didn’t argue against it because he couldn’t.

The sect was not kind to Shen Qingqiu. That much was known, even if it was rarely acknowledged outright. There were tensions, grudges, quiet resentments that had built over years.

…also, it was just incredibly easy to hate Shen Qingqiu. That man is a one tough haemorrhoid in the ass.

Still, something about it didn’t sit right.

“Then why,” Liu Qingge said slowly, “have you been… different?”

Shen Yuan glanced at him, “Different?”

Liu Qingge’s expression darkened again, “You have been… friendlier.”

“Friendlier!” Shen Yuan cackled, tilting his head slightly as though tasting the word. His lips curved faintly, but there was no real warmth in the expression. “Is that what you think?”

He did not pause long enough for an answer. In truth, he did not seem to want one.

Instead, he shifted his weight and let his gaze drift elsewhere, as if the conversation had already begun to bore him. “Perhaps shixiong is simply in a good mood,” he continued, his tone careless, almost flippant.

“That is not an explanation,” Liu Qingge replied at once, his voice tightening with restrained frustration.

Shen Yuan’s smile did not falter. If anything, it sharpened, gaining a faintly mocking edge. “It is more than you deserve,” he said, the words delivered lightly, they were nothing of consequence.

Irritation settled heavily across the war god’s features, but before he could press further, Shen Yuan had already moved on as if the matter had been settled entirely. “I am looking for something,” Shen Yuan said.

The shift in topic was abrupt enough to be jarring, but it was not careless.

Liu Qingge noticed. Of course he did. He was not easily misled.

And yet, despite that, he followed.

Hook, line and sinker!

“What are you looking for?” he asked, his tone clipped.

“A mushroom,” Shen Yuan replied without hesitation.

There was a pause that stretched just a fraction too long.

“…A what?” Liu Qingge asked, as though he had misheard.

“A mushroom,” Shen Yuan repeated, this time with the faintest hint of impatience, as though Liu Qingge were the one being deliberately obtuse.

For a moment, Liu Qingge simply stared at him.

The silence that followed was heavy with disbelief.

“You came all this way,” he said slowly, each word measured, “for a mushroom.”

“Yes,” Shen Yuan answered, entirely unbothered.

Another pause followed, shorter this time but no less pointed.

“…To eat?” Liu Qingge asked.

Shen Yuan turned his head then, and the look he gave was sharp enough to cut through the lingering quiet. His eyes narrowed slightly, and the faint curve of his lips shifted into something more pointed, more disdainful, “You really do think about nothing but food, don’t you?” he said.

“I do not,” Liu Qingge replied stiffly, “What else do mushrooms do.”

“Mm,” Shen Yuan hummed, the sound low and noncommittal, carrying just enough skepticism to make it clear he did not believe a word of it, “It is not for eating,” he continued, his tone turning mildly instructive, as though explaining something painfully obvious. “You should try thinking beyond your stomach for once.”

Liu Qingge’s jaw tightened at that, the muscle in his cheek shifting ever so slightly, but he did not rise to the insult directly, “Then what is it for?”

Shen Yuan smiled again.

It was the same expression as before; small, knowing, and thoroughly infuriating in its composure, “That,” he said, “is none of your concern.”

“It is if you are wandering alone outside the sect without orders,” Liu Qingge replied immediately.

Shen Yuan let out a long, exaggerated sigh, as though the burden of the conversation had suddenly become unbearable, “You are insufferable,” he muttered under his breath.

“What is it!” Liu Qingge barked without hesitation.

“A mushroom!” Shen Yuan yelled back with gusto.

Liu Qingge gawked angrily, “I- you-…did you find it?” The man moved closer as he spoke and circled him like some dangerous predator. Shen Yuan scoffed and laughed which made the war god pause and relax his shoulders, “You did? Okay, we can go back then-“

”Nope! I left Xiu Ya back at Cang Qiong.”

”…”

Shen Yuan gave a huge grin and an enthusiastic thumbs up, “Yep!”

“…then how’d you get here?” Liu Qingge hissed, face scrunched up so much that Shen Yuan thought it was about to disappear. It’d be a shame if such a pretty face disappeared like that…

“Well! Obviously, I walked.” Shen Yuan frankly had no clue how Shen Qingqiu managed to get there but it was probably shady. Or maybe he really walked? Airplane logic! He then brushed his robes out the way and gathered up all his dignity to flash a good chunk of his thigh, “See? This one never skips leg day. Can’t you tell?”

Liu Qingge’s face flushed completely red and he sputtered like an idiot. He pointed at the man but nothing came out. Eventually, it got a bit boring so Shen Yuan decided to yield. 

“Shen Qingqiu…” The Bai Zhan lord trembled, “If you are so determined to find this… then this shidi will accompany shixiong.” He cleared his throat, “I will ensure your safety.” he added hoarsely.

Shen Yuan paused at that and exhaled softly, his shoulders lowering just slightly, as though he were conceding to something tiresome rather than significant, “…Do as you please.”

His tone was dismissive and reluctant yet inside Shen Yuan was pissing himself in happiness. 

Escort!!!! Bodyguard! Bodyguard! Bodyguard!!

To tell the truth, he pulled the mushroom out his ass, but he had been thinking about it at the back of his mind for a while. He just never had a chance but now…

Well! Shen Yuan figured that if he was going to die, he may as well make sure it’ll only be him. 

The scum villain is an awful, disgusting beastly creature... but such villains only exist in fiction.

...

And even if Shen Qingqiu was still just an awful, disgusting beastly child predator then at least by keeping the scum alive, he could help out Binghe's future story and character arcs. 

He needs to preserve the narrative and strengthen Luo Binghe’s journey. Sharpen the edges of the story that was meant to unfold…

All for Binghe!

How cool would it be if the scum villain of the story stayed… alive?!? Haha! He just keeps reviving after Luo Binghe kills him! And reviving… and reviving……

All for Binghe.

Right?