Chapter Text
1.This self-serving villain isn’t really that self-serving
Shen Qingqiu only tangentially remembered inviting Huan Hua’s first disciple to visit Qing Jing Peak, and even less he remembered promising to host him. It was the eve of the second summer since the Immortal Alliance Conference, and the System had not bothered Shen Qingqiu for exactly two years and three months, which was, incidentally, just how long it had been since he’d last laid eyes on his white lotus of a disciple, full of nerves and excitement, gaze bright and cheeks flushed at the prospect of making a name for himself in the coming competition.
Well, he had. Luo Binghe had placed first —not that it would matter to him once he emerged from the Abyss a different person— and now a bagful of spiritual stones sat on the tiny desk Shen Qingqiu had fit in the side room of the bamboo house for Luo Binghe’s use and which had remained mostly untouched, since Shen Qingqiu’s sticky disciple tended to gravitate around his master like a little moon, always keeping his fluffy curls well within reach of Shen Qingqiu’s wandering hands.
Flexing his fingers around the cup of flavorless tea he’d poured out of habit and politeness, Shen Qingqiu tried to wrench his thoughts back on track. The point… The point was, Shen Qingqiu had not been expecting Gongyi Xiao ever to call upon his careless offer —an offer Shen Qingqiu had extended only to save face when caught snooping around the borders of a nominally allied sect without true reason, and that wouldn’t have been necessary had Shen Qingqiu not… had Luo Binghe still been home.
“Elder Shen,” said Gongyi Xiao, kneeling prim and proper in front of Shen Qingqiu, who, perhaps unfairly, couldn’t keep himself from measuring him against the impossible standard Luo Binghe had set and finding him lacking, or rather, finding himself missing the bubbling energy Luo Binghe carried about like a buzz of electricity, or the bright, dimpling smiles he never failed to toss around like candies to a pack of spoiled children, or… But Gongyi Xiao was unsmiling, his gaze grave and heavy when it shifted from the teapot to the fan Shen Qingqiu had abandoned on the table, before finally coming to rest just shy of Shen Qingqiu’s own eyes. “I am uncertain whether I should even be telling you this, but…”
He glanced downwards, at the white belt Shen Qingqiu had put on after a hideous nightmare had woken him at dawn; he’d forgotten about it, the motions of mourning so deeply ingrained in his new, endless routine of waiting and waiting for Luo Binghe’s term in hell to be over, for him to return, for the torture to start, that he’d hardly needed to put thought into the performance.
(Ning Yingying had brought him breakfast, that morning, and begged to brush his hair, and he’d allowed it, half-fearing that this sort of simple closeness would be twisted against him soon but unable to refute her fragile hope. She’d asked about the sword mound, asked will Shizun eat today, and Shen Qingqiu had wondered who it was, exactly, he was performing for: was it even a performance when all around everyone wanted him to simply stop?)
Shen Qingqiu picked up his fan. Unprepared to host an outsider, he hadn’t remembered to switch it for one of the elegant, tasteful works of art the original goods had collected in deference to his poser act: and so Gongyi Xiao was treated to the sight of the orange tassel and yellow jade Ning Yingying had chosen especially for her master, and Luo Binghe’s shaky painting of a pair of falcons flying against a crowded background of clouds. Inappropriately, they’d quoted a love poem from the Classic, one Shen Qingqiu himself had had to learn by heart in school as a child. This beginner’s fan was Shen Qingqiu’s most prized possession, the first gift he’d received from his disciples, although his carrying it about betrayed the sort of sentimentality Shen Qingqiu instinctively recoiled from; and Gongyi Xiao seemed to take great note of it, which prompted Shen Qingqiu to lower his hands into his lap as if to hide.
“Elder Shen,” Gongyi Xiao said again, bracing himself; Shen Qingqiu curved his lips up ever so slightly, wanting to encourage him. “I’m afraid my Huan Hua Sect has wronged you deeply,” the young hero confessed in a rush, pale-faced. “The disciple you lost, Luo Binghe, he isn’t dead!”
I know he isn’t, Shen Qingqiu nearly replied, made stupid with shock —for how could Gongyi Xiao be telling him this, when three years remained in which his Binghe would stay trapped within the Endless Abyss, enduring inhuman torment while building the kind of power that would then allow him to cover the Heavens with the palm of one hand? Nipping at the heels of his stunned disbelief came ice-cold suspicion: is this a trap, he thought next, but couldn’t quite see what could be accomplished in providing Shen Qingqiu with an advanced warning that the fate he dreaded was closer to him than he expected.
“My master has sealed him beneath the Palace,” Gongyi Xiao whispered, and Shen Qingqiu’s mind emptied to make space for a different type of chilling terror. “I saw it myself. It… I think… Luo Binghe must be Tianlang-jun’s son, and my master has never forgiven him Su-shijie’s death, Elder Shen, so of course he would… But Luo Binghe is also your disciple, and he didn’t do anything wrong, did he?” Here, Gongyi Xiao sent Shen Qingqiu a look he’d seen countless times coming from his charges, a stubborn little thing that wanted in equal measure for praise and for challenge. “And he’s really… Elder Shen, there was a lot of blood.”
It took Shen Qingqiu a while for Gongyi Xiao’s words to sink in, for them to make sense, to pierce the numbing ringing in his ears. Luo Binghe’s demonic heritage wasn’t supposed to become public knowledge until after he’d established himself in Huan Hua, after he’d taken his scum teacher into his custody for torture, after Yue Qingyuan had been lured into his trap, after the entirety of his revenge arc had concluded and Shang Qinghua had started the process of turning what was once a gentle, righteous, white lotus character into a heartless despot willing and ready to trample the world underfoot. A small fry such as the Old Palace Master had barely featured as the man who had given his granddaughter over for Luo Binghe to marry before stepping aside and vanishing into obscurity, so how come he was now powerful enough to trap the protagonist himself like he was some B-level demon?
System, Shen Qingqiu called, trying to preserve his composure while Gongyi Xiao watched him with anxious concern. System, is the protagonist halo still active?
[Answering user: while the System is in hibernation, the protagonist halo is temporarily suspended. Please continue to work hard for the safety of the protagonist!]
A chill ran down Shen Qingqiu’s spine; the acrid taste of bile coated the roof of his mouth and a sense of retroactive horror rose up his throat when he realized the System had tricked him into throwing Luo Binghe in the Abyss with the assurance that he would survive both the plunge and the trial even if there was no such certainty at all! Were it not for Luo Binghe’s outstanding skill, he might have died, and it would have been Shen Qingqiu’s fault, Shen Qingqiu’s hand that had pushed him to his end.
“And you are certain,” Shen Qingqiu said hollowly, clinging to his fan like it might save his life. “You are certain it was my Binghe that you saw?”
He had not meant to say it quite like that —my Binghe, as if after what he’d done Shen Qingqiu had any right to claim Luo Binghe as his own— but Gongyi Xiao merely nodded, and curled the golden fabric of his sleeves around his fingers. “I heard his name,” he explained, and Shen Qingqiu’s heart sank with the last of his hopes.
He went fishing for the stupid author first.
As ever, it seemed Shen Qingqiu had given his sorry excuse for a shidi much more credit that he deserved —he’d had the gall to think Shang Qinghua might be of assistance, even, or at least provide him with some insights as to what, exactly, Lao Gongzhu must have done to trap Luo Binghe so thoroughly. Halo or no halo, Shen Qingqiu knew the disciple he had raised, knew the extent of his skills, his cunning mind, his level-headedness; he knew, also, that despite Xin Mo’s unsettling interference those qualities had only sharpened in the Abyss. The capture and sealing of Tianlang-jun had been the product of the joint effort of at least a dozen sects, and were it not for Yue Qingyuan’s Xuan Su, there would have been little chance of success regardless. Obviously Luo Binghe was yet young and inexperienced, but even so, it seemed absurd to think Lao Gongzhu alone would be capable of subduing him.
When Shen Qingqiu came to him with the news, Shang Qinghua put forth two jars of rice wine, a cup of peanuts and absolutely no tea; and looking supremely unconcerned, he’d leaned back against an overflowing cupboard, playing with a brush, and received Shen Qingqiu’s analysis with the sort of indifference that told Shen Qingqiu without ambiguity that Shang Qinghua was failing to grasp the gravity of the situation. Now, Shen Qingqiu had never been an ambitious man, nor one who found particular joy in the suffering of others, but there was very little in the world that could incite him to violence quicker than Shang Qinghua’s shifty, evasive gaze, the sight of his half-open mouth as he searched his twisted brain for knowledge he should most definitely have and retain, and that instead evaded his reach.
“Is it even possible for Binghe to be sealed? Permanently so, I mean,” Shen Qingqiu insisted, leaning in, palms flat against the table, cup of wine untouched, idly wishing in the back of his mind that he could simply crack Shang Qinghua’s skull open and pull out the answers himself. “Gongyi Xiao seemed certain he’s been trapped for at least a few months, and I…”
Shang Qinghua wrapped an arm around his folded leg and dipped his chin onto his knee. “Bro, what’s a few months in a cultivation setting? Have you forgotten we’re all immortals here?” he said lightly. “Luo Binghe could stay trapped for a hundred years and come out like a great conqueror to raze down the world and no one would bat an eye at that.”
“A hundred years?” Shen Qingqiu hissed through gritted teeth, and squeezed his fingers tightly around his closed fan (he’d switched it for a nameless yet pretty silken thing from his back-up stash, for he couldn’t stop himself from wringing the wooden frame, and hearing it creak and groan he’d feared breaking the precious gift he was safeguarding in the bamboo house, proof that his Binghe had once been warm and happy and kind). He clacked the guard against the table in threat. “Don’t even joke about it!”
“Well, what do you want me to do with this?” Shang Qinghua demanded. “He hasn’t even had his fight with Mobei-jun yet! And besides, since your System said the halo’s off…”
Shen Qingqiu straightened. Perhaps it would be best to take a direct approach. “What kind of array can trap a Heavenly demon, anyway?” he asked neatly, unnerved by the way Shang Qinghua kept turning his brush in circles between thumb and forefinger. “How many people does it take to cast? How many to break? Would it need to be adjusted to account for Luo Binghe’s human half?”
The brush went flying when Shang Qinghua spread his arms, projecting ignorance. “How am I supposed to know? I wasn’t even there for the sealing of Tianlang-jun!” he said, and Shen Qingqiu lacked the strength to remind him he was the one who’d planned Tianlang-jun’s fate in the first place. “And besides, why do you even care so much? Isn’t this the solution to all your problems?”
“My problems?” Shen Qingqiu repeated distractedly as his agitation rose in pitch, tingling down his spine and up his wrists. “What problems?”
“You know,” Shang Qinghua panted, emerging from where he’d flattened himself against the floor to retrieve the brush that had rolled beneath the cupboard. “I don’t get why you’re so concerned! Shouldn’t you be relieved? The vengeance plot won’t happen. No protagonist, no human stick! If you look at it this way, hasn’t Lao Gongzhu done you a favor?”
No protagonist, no human stick!
No protagonist, Shang Qinghua said, as if the idea of leaving Luo Binghe (Luo Binghe, who Shen Qingqiu had raised, Luo Binghe that was going to kill him, Luo Binghe who was barely twenty, trapped inside a cave, alone, in the cold, with nothing but Xin Mo for company, Luo Binghe who had been Shen Qingqiu’s pride, so bright, so good, so forgiving, Luo Binghe who Shen Qingqiu had betrayed, who was lost, blackened, changed) to rot under a qi-suppressing seal did not faze him at all. As if it was nothing but another plot point, words on a page, easily dismissed and just as quickly forgotten.
Shen Qingqiu ran the flat of his tongue across his upper teeth. He stared at Shang Qinghua who sat sprawled in front of him, stared at his pot of wine and scattered papers, at the healing bruises from Mobei-jun, the calculated detachment of his gaze, and wondered what it was that he was even seeing. Then, without another word, he stood and left.
So Shen Qingqiu made a plan.
He visited Yue Qingyuan of his own volition and without having to be coaxed into it, and spent some time exchanging pleasantries and drinking osmanthus tea from the trees that grew down the southern slope of Qiong Ding mountain. Yue Qingyuan was almost insultingly pleased to find Shen Qingqiu well, and was easily persuaded into granting him a three-week leave to pursue his interest in researching the flora of their world. On his way back to the bamboo house, Shen Qingqiu stopped by the Sect archives, and using the token he’d pilfered from an unresisting Shang Qinghua the previous winter, he withdrew all accounts on the subject of Tianlang-jun’s sealing.
Finally, he called for Ning Yingying.
She was, out of all his disciples, the one who’d taken Luo Binghe’s presumed death the hardest; but, far exceeding Shen Qingqiu’s expectations, Ning Yingying had not let that loss stunt her growth, throwing herself in her cultivation and the running of their Peak, taking on more and more responsibilities as the months progressed and she came into her confidence. And just like Luo Binghe, she possessed a face thick enough to tease or —very delicately— reprimand even her own master on occasion.
“Shizun! Shizun, what’s wrong?” Ning Yingying cried upon entering the bamboo house. Shen Qingqiu wasn’t certain how it was that she’d divined his disquiet, for he’d been very careful about keeping his composure, and half his face was hidden by his fan regardless. She poured him tea, and set a little box of rice cakes between them. “I got these from the kitchens,” she offered. “They’re not as good as A-Luo’s, but Shizun, please, have some.”
Shen Qingqiu held in a sigh, wondering why it was that everyone should concern themselves with his eating habits, and obligingly took a bite; he saw the way Ning Yingying’s shoulders dropped with relief, and resolved to finish the entire cake even if he had to choke it down. “Yingying, this master requires your help… and your silence.”
Ning Yingying was no longer the girl who would go babbling about whatever queer notion crossed her mind. A flicker of worry entered her peach blossom eyes, and she pursed her lips. “Anything Shizun needs,” she promised, because she was his good disciple —that the original scum villain could abuse her priceless faith to turn her into some cloistered fool was nothing short of a crime, in Shen Qingqiu’s opinion.
As the afternoon shadows lengthened across the pale golden floors of his house, Shen Qingqiu told Ning Yingying the reasons behind Gongyi Xiao’s sudden visit to Qing Jing, and the truth of Luo Binghe’s nature, which Shen Qingqiu himself had kept hidden from his Sect for years. “I must find a way into Huan Hua and Lao Gongzhu’s graces if I am to free Luo Binghe,” he said finally, stretching out his arm so that Ning Yingying could squeeze his hand between her own as she soundlessly wept. “But as it stands, since he has my disciple trapped, I doubt Lao Gongzhu would allow me within twenty li of his Sect.”
“Shizun, let this Yingying go instead,” she said at once, but Shen Qingqiu shook his head.
“Your Qi-shigu has told me Lao Gongzhu has a reputation for lechery among female cultivators,” he explained, patting her shoulder. “I intend to exploit this, but not by putting you in danger.”
She wiped the tears from her cheeks and settled back into a proper kneel, folding her hands in her lap. “Then… is Shizun planning to disguise himself?”
Shen Qingqiu nodded. He’d considered his options very carefully, drawing from Proud Immortal Demon Way to compile a list of any and all wifeplots that had taken place inside and around Huan Hua; but there was little he could count on besides his own wit (unless he tried to start an inter-Sect war, which he could, because Yue Qingyuan would probably support him, but he wouldn’t, for he valued the lives of his disciples and martial siblings too much to rashly put them in danger), and so he’d finally settled onto the age-old Mulan plot, in which a young woman who didn’t know yet she was going to become Luo Binghe’s umpteenth wife dressed up as a man to lead an army, pull off a heist, or infiltrate a Sect. Shen Qingqiu’s case was different, obviously, in that he was going to have to pretend to be a woman in order to lower Lao Gongzhu’s defenses and break Luo Binghe out of Huan Hua, and also in that the conclusion of this plot would not be a wedding but a murder.
“Precisely. This is where I need your help,” said Shen Qingqiu curtly, refusing to be cowed by the practicalities of such a scheme: this was about saving Binghe’s life, and had nothing to do with Shen Qingqiu’s thin face and prickly pride. “You must teach me how to dress appropriately, how to wear my hair, how to speak and how to move. And after I leave, I will need you to do one more thing for me.”
Ning Yingying did not appear overly surprised that he would go to such lengths for Luo Binghe’s sake; in quick, efficient motions she cleared the table for him when he indicated he had want of it, and so Shen Qingqiu set down a bagful of money and unrolled a map between them.
“This is silver I withdrew from my personal accounts; look here, see? Between Bailu forest and our Sect’s territory there’s a stretch of unclaimed land.” He pointed at an area he had circled out in cinnabar that night. Ning Yingying frowned, uncertain, so he set about describing his reasoning: “I cannot know in advance the state I will find Binghe in; and he will most likely require some time to recuperate, but I fear taking him to Cang Qiong too soon.”
Here, Ning Yingying opened her mouth to object; Shen Qingqiu forestalled her with a raised hand. “Firstly, because that is where Lao Gongzhu will come looking for him the moment he realises he’s gone,” he said, which was true, though not the full truth. “Secondly, because I cannot be certain he will be safe here. He is a Heavenly demon, and heir to their throne.”
The table rattled when Ning Yingying threw herself forward across it. “Shizun, of course he’ll be safe! No one on Qing Jing would dare harm a hair on A-Luo’s head, not after you mourned him so dearly!” she cried stubbornly. “And all of the shidimei adored him besides, so…”
“Yingying, our Sect is not composed of Qing Jing Peak alone,” Shen Qingqiu reminded her tersely. “Much needs to be arranged and discussed before I can bring a Heavenly demon home to be my disciple; and this assuming Binghe will not choose to pursue his birthright in the demonic Realm, where he’ll be given the respect he’s due.”
“A-Luo would never choose to be parted from Shizun,” Ning Yingying groused, refusing to let go of her argument; Shen Qingqiu recognized that she, lacking all the facts (lacking knowledge about the harm Shen Qingqiu had wrought onto Luo Binghe), felt her master was unfairly downplaying Luo Binghe’s devotion to him. Of course, it was precisely because he was aware of the extent of such devotion that Shen Qingqiu saw no way in which Luo Binghe and he could ever reconcile. “Oh, but if he must go to the demonic Realm, won’t that mean Shizun will go too? Please don’t! Bring A-Luo back home instead!”
“Ning Yingying,” Shen Qingqiu called her back to attention, unwilling to let her poke the wound of his betrayal any further. “I need you to take this money and purchase a house as far removed from settlements as you can manage; put it under a false name, and stock it with food that will keep well.” From his sleeve he drew a slip of paper and passed it into her hold. “Stick this talisman on a wall so I’ll know where to find it.”
Ning Yingying’s wrists shook. “Shizun, are you really leaving the Sect?”
Shen Qingqiu waved her concern off. “Three weeks from now, Yingying, you may come see me. We’ll discuss what happens next then,” he said, quickly, to mask his guilt. He did not believe, in truth, that she would find either him or Luo Binghe should she go and look, for three weeks would be enough for Shen Qingqiu to free his disciple and thus ensure his own demise, and certainly Luo Binghe would not waste time in carrying his scum teacher off for torture; but offering Ning Yingying that false assurance was the fastest way to get her to cooperate. “If something should go wrong, do not come after us on your own: bring this letter to your Yue-shibo instead.” He paused. “Will you do this?”
“Shizun can count on me,” Ning Yingying promised, settling her jaw. “But, Shizun, what about Without-a-cure? Liu-shishu hasn’t yet returned from his travels: who will cleanse your meridians?”
Shen Qingqiu had not planned that far ahead. Without-a-cure or not, wouldn’t he be losing his limbs regardless? But then again, his disciple who repaid each right and each wrong in kind might count Shen Qingqiu’s rescue of him against the long list of the original’s abuse and then the Endless Abyss, and find it in himself to deal out a merciful kill. It wasn’t that Shen Qingqiu was afraid of suffering, but he did not wish to suffer at Luo Binghe’s hand… “Binghe, if he’s well enough,” he eventually replied, folding the map for Ning Yingying to carry. “If not, this master will manage.”
Ning Yingying did not take the proffered map. “Shizun!” she snapped, “I won’t do it if it puts you in danger of getting poisoned!”
“Would Yingying feel better should this master see Mu Qingfang before leaving?” Shen Qingqiu allowed, mentally making space for one more visit the next morning. When Ning Yingying nodded forcefully, smiling big enough to split her face in two, he raised his eyes to the ceiling, feeling his heart squeeze, if only just a little. What filial disciples he’d raised! “Very well, then, let’s see about the clothes…”
Lao Gongzhu was every bit as slimy as Shen Qingqiu remembered —even more so within the confines of his own territory, shrouded in gold and enshrined in thick stone. He sat on a high-backed chair like it was the throne of the Emperor, surrounded by a circle of elders and other officials, wrapped in gilded thread and precious silk; the faint lines at the corners of his mouth deepened when he smiled, shark-like, teeth glinting in the dim lighting of Huan Hua’s great hall.
Shen Qingqiu smiled back, soft and small, and circled his arms to bow with delicate grace, averting his eyes. His stomach churned with the kind of restless anxiety that bit at his fingertips and the nape of his neck (exposed, for Ning Yingying had put up his hair in full, twisted layer after layer into a single bun and held in place by a silver pin). Walking into Huan Hua felt like stepping into the void, or plunging inside a nightmare; Shen Qingqiu pushed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, trying to wash it of the taste of blood, chiding himself silently for being so easily influenced, for giving in to the jitters that crawled in shivers down his spine.
“Sect Leader,” Shen Qingqiu greeted, and did not quite recognise his own voice. “This humble one is grateful for the hospitality you have offered, and your Head disciple’s gracious invitation.”
Lao Gongzhu inclined his head and lifted himself from his chair, soundlessly descending the marble steps connecting the raised platform he and his entourage were gathered on with the rest of the Hall. His cultivation was as high as his years were many: it curled, invisible, into the air, subtly probing around Shen Qingqiu’s own. Shen Qingqiu quietly suppressed the flow of his qi, pretending not to have noticed the Sect Leader’s intention; instead, he neatly folded his arms before his belly and waited.
Satisfied, the shark extended his hand. Masking his disgust behind another delicate smile, Shen Qingqiu raised his own and let it be kissed, hardly recognizing the shape of his fingers, thin and dainty and whiter than his usual complexion.
Ning Yingying had draped him in jade greens, well-worn and elegant without appearing overly strict; she had bound the sleeves of his flowing ruqun for ease of movement, and tied the usual white belt high above his waist —for Shen Qingqiu had decided, after Ning Yingying had made a heated case for it, to lean into the ‘mourning widow’ imagery and take advantage of the vulnerability associated with such a position. Xiu Ya’s sheath and hilt had been carefully wrapped in old, softened leather, and now hung from his back in the style of wandering cultivators. An illusionment charm had been sewn into his inner robes, gentling his appearance in the eyes of anyone who would look and blessing the face of the scum villain with the kind of lovely countenance that wouldn’t have been out of place among Luo Bing-ge’s harem of beauties.
Mercenary, greedy Lao Gongzhu was not unmoved: his fingertips swiped unmistakable lines across Shen Qingqiu’s palm, making his hair stand on end as he employed every scrap of self-control he possessed to stop himself from flinching back. “I have lost my cultivation partner only months ago,” Shen Qingqiu said in a low, artfully curated tone, and rested his free palm atop his heart. “It is a great and unexpected relief to be met with such kindness.”
“Of course,” Lao Gongzhu said warmly, and Shen Qingqiu wanted to take a knife to that smile, to tear into him for what he had done to Luo Binghe. That hand which had finally retracted had spilled the blood of Shen Qingqiu’s disciple, had nailed him into the ground, stripped him of his power and his dignity, without reason, without guilt, and was keeping him prisoner at that very moment. “Madame is welcome to rest in Huan Hua for as long as she wishes. Who knows, perhaps we might persuade you from your path of wandering…”
“Sect Leader flatters me,” Shen Qingqiu demurred with another bow.
“Xiao-er, show the lady to a guest room in the Southern wing,” Lao Gongzhu commanded; Shen Qingqiu watched him gaze at his young disciple, who stood silent and composed at the entrance of the Hall, and found himself suppressing a shiver. “Let us all meet later for dinner.”
Shen Qingqiu followed Gongyi Xiao out into the labyrinthine corridors of the Palace, feeling like he needed to scrub a layer of grime from his skin. The further he went into Huan Hua, the thicker the air grew, bearing down on his head and squeezing around his lungs, giving the eerie impression that the frescoed walls were closing in on him. “Thank you, for aiding me in this,” he told Gongyi Xiao as they walked side by side through the crowds of disciples that had been let out to take their break before the afternoon lessons began. “I am aware of how much you are risking.”
“It is the right thing to do,” Gongyi Xiao said simply, showing Shen Qingqiu into a spacious room. “The Southern wing belongs to my master. Our little mistress resides opposite from you… Elder Shen should be careful not to cross her path. And, there’s also a guest —another cultivator, although I am unsure as to why she is here. Please, make yourself comfortable. I’ll come and fetch you before dinner.”
With little left to do but wait, Shen Qingqiu inspected the room for spells and talismans, then put up his own for privacy and went to sit on the bed. After less than a day of travel, he was already so endlessly tired. At his request, Gongyi Xiao had taken a little detour to collect a certain plant that could be refined into the sort of flavourless powder which could be used to doctor wine, or, in a pinch, blown into the face of an assailant. Shen Qingqiu laid the leaves out to dry, unworried for they looked exactly like a handful of mint stalks, and spied a single emerald snake curling outside his window.
He did not care enough to investigate, and the creature was barely thicker than a finger, not a threat at all: he watched it poke out a black tongue before vanishing down the gutter, then closed his eyes on a sigh and slipped into a dream.
Demonic qi cut through the air like a freezing gale, whipping through Shen Qingqiu’s robes and pulling at his hair, but instead of the clean smell of winter, the darkness was thick with the stench of death and rot, sulphur and poison, so heavy Shen Qingqiu was finding it difficult to swallow down nausea. A reddish glow illuminated bits and pieces of the landscape —if it could even be called that, for in truth all around Shen Qingqiu was nothing but cooling lava, poured over a tangle of creatures caught mid-flight or contorted into gruesome fights, their innards spilled forth and perfectly coated in black, expressions twisted and starving. The ground beneath his feet was oddly giving, pulsing like a heartbeat.
He turned his head up but there was no sky, only stone, veined with shivery, electric blue and dripping with an acidic mist that melted even the reinforced fabric of Shen Qingqiu’s robes, puncturing round little holes in his sleeves as he shielded himself.
Then came the crying.
He knew the sound of it, for it had visited his nightmares over and over since the Abyss had opened, and he knew, also, what it was that he would find once he reached the source; still, he couldn’t help but rush through the burning fog, caught by the need to see the dream to its end —to see his white lotus of a disciple one last time.
“Binghe!” he called, against his better judgement, and gagged at once when something wet and cold tried to crawl its way inside his mouth. Furiously, he wiped at his lips with the back of his hand, and it came out stained red: the mist had turned into rain, weighing him down, like a hundred hands pulling at the hems of his robes, at his ankles, dragging him backwards; his lungs ached fiercely, and so did his heart, but he pushed through, he had to. “Binghe, Binghe, where are you?”
Luo Binghe’s panicked yell tore the fabric of the dream apart. “Shizun!” he wailed, and Shen Qingqiu blindly followed the rasping sound of his voice, scraping his palms as he barely caught himself from falling into a pit; and then the nightmare twisted, and Shen Qingqiu’s boots slipped on gold-encrusted marble, and the air abruptly cleared of rain and smoke and debris. Shen Qingqiu caught his breath, tasted iron.
And there was Luo Binghe, kneeling with his legs spread in the middle of the empty Huan Hua hall, arms raised above his head by a pair of chains that held him half-suspended from the ceiling. His head was bent, hair a spill of black across his chest; when he looked up, his eyes were as red as the blood that pooled beneath him, wide with fever and delirium. It took him a moment to absorb the truth of Shen Qingqiu’s presence, but as soon as he did, he started thrashing against his restraints, hard enough that fresh wounds opened on his wrists and his bones creaked. “Shizun, he’ll kill you, he said, he said he’ll kill you—”
This isn’t how the dream goes, Shen Qingqiu thought, and flung himself forward, into the sticky heat of his disciple’s blood, trying to catch his face between his palms.
“Binghe! Binghe, stop, stop, you’re hurting yourself,” he begged, frantic, feeling like something had reached a claw into his stomach and pulled, feeling like he’d never repay this poor child for all the suffering he’d had to endure, feeling like he couldn’t bear the sight of him, in pain, miserable and maddened, and yet at the same time couldn’t tear his eyes away from that crimson, reproachful glare. “Look at you… Binghe—”
Little tears hung from Luo Binghe’s lashes, and they fell in the cup of Shen Qingqiu’s palms, scorching lines into his skin. “It hurts, Shizun, it hurts so much,” Luo Binghe gasped, and his teeth were caked in crusted blood, his flesh littered in cuts and bruises, for the sealing array had robbed him of his healing, and no one had cared to come and clean him.
“Hush, I know,” Shen Qingqiu said softly, lifting his sleeve to his disciple’s ashen face. “I know, let me help.” He wiped at the corners of his mouth, mopped away the sweat from his brow, and gently checked him over for major injuries. “Hold still,” he muttered as he felt Luo Binghe’s chest heave beneath his fingers, felt him twitch away and then towards the touch, as if he wasn’t sure which was worse, the contact or its absence. Searching for the source of all that blood, Shen Qingqiu glanced downwards; Luo Binghe was barefoot: the tendons of his ankles had been severed.
Before the horror of it could sink in, Luo Binghe reared back like a spooked snake, snarling with fully-lengthened fangs. “You’re not real,” he hissed, and the darkness returned like a physical presence, so thick Shen Qingqiu couldn’t see past the tip of his nose —alarmed, he curled his fingers into the front of Luo Binghe’s tunic (it creaked within his fist, stiff like leather) and felt for his face. One of those fangs grazed the bone of his wrist, then Luo Binghe turned his cheek into his master’s palm. “Please, I don’t… I don’t understand,” he whispered, his breath the only point of heat into a world of muted chill.
“It hurts,” Luo Binghe repeated, again and again, sobbing helplessly. “You hurt me.”
Terror seized Shen Qingqiu at the words —he wasn’t fast enough to retract his hand, and then Luo Binghe bit down on it, locked his jaw, a searing pain that numbed Shen Qingqiu’s scalp and filled his mouth with saliva. “Binghe!” he cried, listening as his disciple began to choke, weeping still as he spat out blood and coughed around tendrils of black twisting ichor. “Binghe, please!”
The dream fell apart.
He tumbled down the unfamiliar bed, landing in a heap on slick marble before making a beeline towards the washbasin. Shivering, bathed in cold sweat, Shen Qingqiu plunged his hands —one of which bore the faintest but unmistakable mark of teeth into the palm— in fresh water and scrubbed his face, trying to scrape away the lingering terror along with the grime of this ill-advised nap he’d taken. He gazed at himself in the pink-hued mirror sitting on the vanity, and it returned to him the double image of the young woman he was pretending to be and the worn out immortal master he was in truth, both wide-eyed and deathly pale.
Had he really met Luo Binghe, his own Luo Binghe, the disciple who was trapped within the bowels of Huan Hua Palace, inside the nightmare?
I hope not, for his sake, Shen Qingqiu thought, slowly piecing himself back together. His own imagination was certainly capable of producing such a spectacle based only on Gongyi Xiao’s succinct accounts and the guilt which gnawed constantly at the back of his mind; there was no reason to believe Lao Gongzhu would be quite as merciless with Luo Binghe, who was, after all, not only Tianlang-jun’s son, but also Su Xiyan’s. I can’t lose it this quickly, I really can’t.
Meticulously following Ning Yingying’s instructions, Shen Qingqiu applied the slightest trace of rouge to his lips and cheeks to mask his disquiet, and painted a pale huadian in the shape of a flower upon his brow. His hair had tangled as he tossed and turned, so he unravelled it, ran his fingers through the locks and put it up again with the white lotus pin he’d taken from the miscellaneous box of Luo Binghe’s things that had been left scattered around the bamboo house. His back teeth ached, and his heart kept hammering violently against his ribs.
Still in his inner robes, Shen Qingqiu gloved his hands and went to chop the unassuming little plants he’d laid to dry into fine pieces, which he then collected into a stone mortar he took from his secret qian kun pouch. Into the mix went a medicine he’d begged from Mu Qingfang before leaving Cang Qiong —a simple remedy for pollen-induced headaches— which would activate the poison in the leaves while neutralising the sharp minty flavor they carried. To obtain the fine powder he was aiming for, Shen Qingqiu sketched three delicate drying talismans into the air, covered his nose and mouth with a cloth, and applied them to the vials he would hide in his sleeve.
That left him just enough time to get dressed in soft, gauzy layers before Gongyi Xiao came calling at his door. Patting down his gowns so they lay flat, Shen Qingqiu picked up a round fan to cover his face with and went, side-stepping the little mock-viper slithering right beneath his feet. Is Huan Hua having an infestation…? he wondered, and then put the incident from his mind, too busy remembering how to walk and hold his head appropriately to focus on anything but the impending dinner and the act he’d have to successfully pull.
It took another two days and a half for Shen Qingqiu to finally encounter the opportunity to put his plan in place; he spent that time stealthily memorizing the layout of the Palace and Lao Gongzhu’s habits, making a show of seeking out private, isolated spots to train and pretending like he was seriously considering the idea of joining the Huan Hua Sect. The chill never left him, nor did the sensation of silently being observed —Lao Gongzhu’s eyes were often on him, clouded with a calculating, dark sort of interest that made Shen Qingqiu’s skin crawl.
Nonetheless, he played his character well —he lowered his lashes when the Sect Leader addressed him, and spoke in mournful, reserved tones, and put on the kind of jewelry he knew would exalt the lines of his bare neck without being ostentatious, letting himself be watched and coveted from afar, and then up close. He took his meals at Lao Gongzhu’s table, eating dainty portions to cover up for the fact that to him the food tasted like so much ash, and letting that pompous, self-aggrandizing man flatter himself into believing he’d captured a young woman’s attention. Shen Qingqiu knew Lao Gongzhu to be both shrewd and cruel, but the façade this man presented was almost as good as the original scum villain’s —albeit opposite in nature, full of welcoming smiles, righteous speeches and warm wisdom… Honestly, Shen Qingqiu would have much preferred a knife in the back!
This was the person who held Luo Binghe’s life in his hands, the sole threat to the protagonist’s bright future, and here Shen Qingqiu was, taking his elbow so that Lao Gongzhu could (needlessly) escort him across a (gaudy) garden, all the while soliloquizing about how seamlessly he’d managed to organize Tianlang-jun’s downfall.
He didn’t see any more snakes, but when he woke in the middle of the night (for his sleep was fitful and broken by increasingly monstrous nightmares) he couldn’t shake the feeling that they’d somehow found their way into his bed, cold inside his inner robes. In the dark, his room seemed laden with shadows, as if the negative picture of the Abyss had been superimposed over the white walls with their peach blossom frescoes and silken drapes, and his stomach turned and twisted with anxiety, squeezed by an unseen hand.
The dreams were always full of blood (Binghe’s blood!) and left behind traces he couldn’t fully get rid of for hours, along with a creepy sense of anxiety that urged him to hurry hurry hurry before it was too late.
On the third evening of his permanence in Huan Hua, Shen Qingqiu screamed himself awake after having been cast into the role of an Abyssal creature that had managed to tear Luo Binghe’s belly open. He bent his head in the fold of his arms and bit harshly into the fabric of his inner pants to stave off the impulse to vomit. The sight, the feel of Luo Binghe’s warm flesh around his fingers, the give of it as it parted and yielded blood and entrails alike wouldn’t leave his mind, repeated over and over like a punishment he definitely deserved and still couldn’t bear. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he panted. “I didn’t think… I didn’t know it would be like this.”
(Except, of course, he had. He’d read those chapters, could name each monster and list all of Luo Binghe’s encounters and fights in chronological order. The thought of the suffering his disciple was going to endure in the Abyss had tormented him for years before he’d sent him there, and then after. Still, as he swallowed down bile and blood, he considered that the pain had never been as real and as damning as in that moment.)
(Shen Qingqiu would free Luo Binghe, and then Luo Binghe would torture him to death, and it wasn’t even going to be enough to tip the scales of debt between them).
Unwinding himself from the wet tangle of his sheets, Shen Qingqiu stood on shaky legs and tried to make sense of his breathing. He gave himself a ke in which to recuperate, and carefully collected his usual cold composure about himself, then freshened up and put on a yellow robe which would hopefully appeal to Lao Gongzhu’s possessive pride; he slipped a length of immortal binding cables inside his left sleeve, the vial of poison in his right, and plastered on his best gently grieving smile. Alright, let’s have it!
The sun was barely setting when Shen Qingqiu entered the wide balcony that opened onto a splendid view of the forest surrounding Huan Hua. He nodded to the woman who had just collected her things to leave —a cultivator in pale turquoise whose eyes looked vaguely haunted and whose face was shaped like a heart. She reached out and touched Shen Qingqiu’s elbow to stall him, frowning as she stared.
“Jiejie, you seem familiar,” she said in a searching tone. “Have we met in the jianghu, perhaps?”
Unlikely, young lady, since this Shen’s face is fake! Fake! Fluttering his lashes to affect confusion, Shen Qingqiu produced an apologetic smile. “I do not believe we have been introduced,” he murmured, bowing slightly, and rattled off the name he’d let Ning Yingying pick for him. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, miss…?”
“Qiu,” the woman told him. “Qiu Haitang.”
Fuck! Shen Qingqiu thought emphatically. The original goods’ fiancée! Wasn’t she part of Luo Binghe’s revenge plot? What is she doing here already? What the hell is going on! Lifting his round fan to cover his lips so she wouldn’t see them tremble with nerves, Shen Qingqiu bowed again, and promised to meet Qiu Haitang for lunch the following day while planning to be far and away from Huan Hua Palace, albeit most certainly in the protagonist’s clutches.
Finally alone, he took himself to the marble railing of the balcony and bent over it, watching the sky and counting down the minutes until the predatory old man descended on him. It didn’t take long at all —Lao Gongzhu seemed to be in possession of great quantities of free time and an uncanny ability to sniff out vulnerability from miles away— until the doors behind him slid open again, and an uninvited hand was placed onto his shoulder.
Shen Qingqiu straightened, glancing upon his quarry. Lao Gongzhu’s eyes were slightly glossy (enough to suggest he’d drunk a little wine already, and would be amenable to more), and he was looking at Shen Qingqiu like one who was seeing a different person in his stead, the way Shen Qingqiu might have looked at Gongyi Xiao once or twice since first meeting him. “I hope madame would welcome a little company,” said Lao Gongzhu, pawing at Shen Qingqiu’s upper arm. “It is hard to be alone when we have lost a person that’s dear to us.”
Lost, Shen Qingqiu scoffed in the privacy of his mind, leaning so hard into the railing his hips ached, as if you aren’t directly responsible for Su Xiyan’s death. As if you haven’t imprisoned her son…
“They say loss is made more bearable in the presence of a friendly soul,” Shen Qingqiu sighed, stealing the line word for word from the latest installment of a trashy novel he’d started following when Luo Binghe was seventeen. “But I do not wish to inconvenience the Sect Leader with my mourning.”
“Nonsense,” Lao Gongzhu said curtly, sliding his arm around Shen Qingqiu’s shoulders, the heavy sleeve of his Huan Hua finery in itself a cage. “Come, my young friend, and let us keep each other company.”
Shen Qingqiu chittered and tittered, suppressing the desire to break the man’s nose, and followed Lao Gongzhu into his rooms.
The smell of cloying incense was overpowering. Shen Qingqiu kept his gaze fixed on the rich carpet blanketing the floor, hyperaware of Lao Gongzhu’s gaze on him, of the weight of his steps directly behind him, the shape and presence of his body as it moved through the secluded space. Golden-hued night-pearls were lit and dotted the elegant furniture: on a low table, a jar of flowery wine sat, along with two cups —Lao Gongzhu must have come seeking out the solitary widow with a purpose, then. Shen Qingqiu could only be glad for the coincidence that had so easily allowed him to walk this close to his success.
Stealthily, he dropped his hand-fan in such a way that it would make no sound; then, after making a show of embarrassed reluctance (enough to brace himself to face the white glint of Lao Gongzhu’s smile) let himself be guided to kneel by the table, and watched Lao Gongzhu pour for him. And there —a flutter of pale pink, invisible to the untrained eye, half-shaded by the hem of Lao Gongzhu’s sleeve as he slipped something in Shen Qingqiu’s cup, too quick to be noticed unless one was looking for subterfuge or ill-intent. It was almost funny, the way their plans aligned, but Shen Qingqiu was at an advantage, for it had never occurred to him to underestimate his opponent, and he’d come prepared.
He raised the cup to his lips but didn’t tip it yet, lifting a pair of hesitant, guileless eyes onto the shark waiting to take a bite out of him. “It has been so long since I’ve let myself indulge,” he murmured, lowering the cup again. Lao Gongzhu studied his motions, and did not appear at all impatient, though he had to be. Blinking, Shen Qingqiu patted down his own sleeves and the tender yellow silk of his gown, and startled delicately. “Ah! My mother’s fan…!”
Lao Gongzhu flowed back up to his feet with a flourish. “It must have fallen, madam, there’s no need to fret,” he said, chivalrous even as he pushed the spiked drink closer to Shen Qingqiu’s hand, which he’d rested onto the table. “There, I see it. Let me fetch it for you. And please, drink.”
Suppressing a smile, Shen Qingqiu licked his lips to give them an impression of wetness; then, as soon as Lao Gongzhu’s back was to him, he poured the wine back into the jar, dripped his poison inside, and set about filling both cups. He sighed, relaxing the line of his spine even as he spilled the clear, fragrant liquid ever-so-slightly onto the table, feigning sudden clumsiness. “Ah, I had forgotten that wine could be so sweet…” he sighed, and weathered the hungry spark lighting up Lao Gongzhu’s eyes. “But I feel self-conscious, drinking alone…”
Thinking himself the victor, Lao Gongzhu knelt by Shen Qingqiu’s side of the table, and laid a palm on his knee (Shen Qingqiu tamped down the instinct to recoil, and was silently glad he’d refused Ning Yingying when she had insisted on accompanying him) while with his free hand he put the poison to his mouth. It was a fast-acting concoction, which Shen Qingqiu had carefully measured so its effects would be just this shy of deadly —leaving him plenty of time to find his disciple and abscond with him, but without implicating Cang Qiong in the murder of a Sect Leader.
“I wish I could kill you without consequence,” Shen Qingqiu snarled as soon as Lao Gongzhu dropped on him. The wine stained the carpet and Shen Qingqiu’s white belt; the old man’s hands, livid and immediately bruised, curled into claws, grasping at him. Disgusted, Shen Qingqiu kicked him to the floor, where he stayed, twisting and spitting foam from the corners of his mouth. “Creepy old pig.”
With the tip of his boot, he pushed the sputtering Lao Gongzhu onto his side so he wouldn’t outright choke, and met his blood-shot eyes with a dispassionate look of his own, dissolving the illusionment charm that was sapping away at his energy reserves. There was no point anymore in pretending to be anyone other than Shen Qingqiu, for his identity would be exposed the moment he freed Luo Binghe —since Luo Binghe was yet unknown by most, and Shen Qingqiu had never shown himself anything less than devoted to his disciples, it wouldn’t be difficult for anyone looking into the matter to trace this little heist back to him.
Quick and efficient, he tied his length of immortal binding cable around Lao Gongzhu’s shivering form, then, unwilling to take any chances, wrapped a strip of silk about his mouth to gag him. “You won’t die of this,” he said coolly, stepping away. “If I find what I’m looking for, you can have your nap and we can part ways as friends.”
A raspy groan sounded from Lao Gongzhu’s throat. Shen Qingqiu swept his sleeves back and moved on to the adjacent study, ready to rifle through the Sect Leader’s papers to find out what manner of array he’d used to subdue a Heavenly demon. “Now… where are you keeping my Binghe?”
It was a long way to Huan Hua’s deepest dungeon. Shen Qingqiu experienced every second of that protracted descent vividly, the time dilating as he slipped past even the Water prison (for the burning acid wouldn’t have been enough to restrain Luo Binghe alone, and might have even interfered with the sealing enchantments) and deeper into the earth. The chill was dry, cruel, cutting the exposed skin of his hands and cheeks, and every breath he took tasted of iron. He sensed, without knowing how, a malicious presence hanging thick in the air, reaching for him as if a hunter laying out a trap for a deer.
Still, he pushed forward.
Gongyi Xiao had left in the morning to attend to a minor haunting in the nearby city; he had left because Shen Qingqiu hadn’t wanted to involve him in his own downfall (no matter how one looked at it, he had doomed himself: as a master raising and rescuing a demonic disciple, as a victim releasing his would-be murderer, as a renowned cultivator infiltrating and robbing a sect, this venture of his would destroy his reputation, not to mention the risk to his life). Gongyi Xiao was also the sort of good child Lao Gongzhu had not deserved: and so he’d passed into Shen Qingqiu’s hands in secret the full layout of Huan Hua’s famed prisons, and the list of all the guards’ shifts for the night.
So Shen Qingqiu nimbly avoided detection, and walked down the maze-like, twisting stairs (ignoring the chill climbing inside his bones; ignoring the way his mind wanted to spin, dizzied by the plunging void that would readily welcome a false step) until he found himself face-to-face with a dead end. There, he placed his palm over the perspiring wall, curling his tongue against the burnished smell of the air, and drew up the complex talisman he’d found among Lao Gongzhu’s notes and that he’d memorized after a few tries.
No such thing as a hidden door appeared, or even a cavity through which he may pass: instead, the brick surface suddenly gave under his weight and sucked him in, the pressure around his ribcage so great he feared for an instant the bones might crack. Then he was spat out to stumble on clacking marble —the same gold-speckled floor that had been plaguing his dreams— as a veritable avalanche of demonic qi slammed into him, sending him careening against rough, hollowed rock.
Binghe, he wanted to call out, but his lips were glued together, and even when he managed to wrench his mouth open, not a sound came out —just the frantic beating of his heart, the rush of blood thundering in his ears. Bracing his fingers lightly against the nearest wall, he gathered his wits about him enough that he could continue, ignoring the prickling anxiety that begged him to turn back and away, to flee.
The tunnel he found himself in seemed to have no end. It must have been part of the mine that had originally made Huan Hua so rich as the sole Sect that dealt in the trade of secular goods, for beneath his palm Shen Qingqiu could feel the marks left by scalpel and explosives both, and above him the vaulted ceiling was stained black, black, black, deeper than the night sky. He kept walking, feeling that it was taking him too long to cross but wondering whether it was just his imagination, his creeping terror, tricking him into believing he was making no progress at all. At least he had a direction —forward, towards that suggestion of yellow light that surely marked the place Luo Binghe was kept in.
Chest heaving, Shen Qingqiu quickened his pace, running and running until the entire landscape bloomed red and orange around him —his feet encountered thin air, and he fell into the Abyss.
His stomach lurched as his heart tried to jump out of his throat. Sweat drenched his robes as he was engulfed with the sort of heat one might associate with a roiling volcano, and his sleeves and gowns flapped as he let himself simply sink down, too shocked by the absurdity of his situation to react appropriately. It was only when he caught a glimpse of jagged rock and reaching tentacles beneath him that he remembered to call for Xiu Ya, stepping onto its clear blade only moments before making contact with the ground. It’s not real, it’s not real, he begged within his mind, resolved not to be swayed from his purpose.
Pointing the tip of his sword up, where he could see the purple-gray of solid stone and the place he was trying to reach, Shen Qingqiu rubbed forcefully at his own face. Was he truly that easily spooked? Was it the overabundance of demonic energy, causing him to see things? And why was Xiu Ya stained with blood all of a sudden?
He barely managed to land without incident, horrified at the sight of the sticky blood twisting around his nails, up his knuckles, circling his wrists. Staunchily pretending not to either see nor feel, Shen Qingqiu stubbornly climbed up the tightening passage that should lead to his disciple’s prison, but it was growing increasingly difficult to move. One after the other, electric blue strings wound themselves around his body, their grip constricting, buzzing with power and pulling him backwards. It was like getting caught in a spiderweb, if the spider was twice as big as an adult man and the silk was as thick as good quality immortal binding cable.
“Binghe!” Shen Qingqiu finally yelled. “Luo Binghe, where are you?”
[Warning! Warning! OOC! OOC!] chimed the things holding him still, a thousand overlapping tinny voices that pierced his ears and swept a shot of terror in his veins. Was this the work of the System? Had he come close enough to his disciple that it had rebooted, immediately setting about making Shen Qingqiu’s life unbearable? Furiously, he pushed against the tangled string crawling through his robes and against his skin, coughing harshly when it locked a tendril firmly around his throat and pulled, but he couldn’t even begin to extract himself from it. Instead, he found himself forced to throw his head back in order to prevent it from sliding into his mouth.
“Binghe!” he called again, but what could Luo Binghe do? He was trapped, bleeding out, probably unable to hear him —and even if his disciple had somehow been in a position to help him, why would he?
And yet: “Shizun!” came the ready reply.
Shen Qingqiu went weak at the knees out of sheer relief, and then stiffened again, for how had that voice sounded so young? He blinked, dazed, and then a whirl of black and white launched itself at him. “Shizun!” cried Shen Qingqiu’s white lotus of a disciple, round-cheeked and sprightly, still sporting the faintest traces of baby fat. In his hands he gripped a freshly-picked Zheng Yang, which he used to start hacking against the bluish cords restraining his master.
With a heavy sigh, Shen Qingqiu turned his head away.
This was the dreamscape.
When had he fallen asleep? Shen Qingqiu couldn’t tell, but now that he’d realized, it was painfully obvious. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and woke up.
The reality was worse than the nightmares.
Luo Binghe was indeed chained to the ceiling, arms pulled upwards until they strained, knees spread beneath him as he balanced into that torture, unable to sit for his chains were too short, unable to stand because the tendons of his heels had been severed, left to fester and bleed onto the floor. He was gasping, continuously, mouth open and dripping red as he mumbled incoherent words. His robes were crusted with Abyssal residue, torn open at the front by the claws of some beast or another, and through the ruined fabric Shen Qingqiu could barely make out the crusted wounds marring his disciple’s chest, suggesting he’d never even crossed into the demonic Realm at all.
“Binghe,” Shen Qingqiu whispered. “Binghe, oh…”
That light exhalation was enough to snap Luo Binghe awake —he arched his neck and bared his teeth in a fruitless snarl, gaze still unfocused, but when it finally landed on him naked terror filled that gaunt, miserable face, shattering Shen Qingqiu’s heart, who nonetheless had earned himself such suspicion. He wondered, as he slowly, carefully, walked forward into the cell, as his mouth became coated with the stale air and the stench of old and fresh blood, whether Luo Binghe recognized him at all in his feverish stupor, or if he simply saw the figure of a man advancing on him while he was defenceless, stripped half-naked and humiliated.
So he knelt, to make himself smaller, and reached up, wanting to cup Luo Binghe’s empty cheek in his hand, wanting to push a coil of spiritual power into that battered body to speed up its healing, but Luo Binghe roared in helpless fury and shook his bespelled restraints to try and escape him. Wiping the splattering blood from his eyes before it could blind him, Shen Qingqiu steeled himself against the instinctual fear Luo Binghe’s fierce, violent intent engendered in him and lifted himself up to reach the shackles that were the linchpin around which the entire sealing array was hinged.
His disciple’s stained fangs clicked and snapped, perilously close to his exposed ear. Shen Qingqiu hummed softly in a vain attempt at soothing him, chanting the simple melody Qing Jing taught to every young disciple who was only starting to learn guqin. As fast as he dared, Shen Qingqiu unravelled the intricate sequence of spells binding Luo Binghe to this cave-turned-cell, while Luo Binghe panted hot breaths against his throat, trying to twist his head as far away from Shen Qingqiu as their tangled position allowed.
One after the other, the shackles snapped.
The return of Luo Binghe’s dual powers to him was an explosive affair. Like an avalanche, demonic qi poured in the room and threw them both against the furthest wall, which Shen Qingqiu met, back-first, before Luo Binghe’s entire weight crashed into him, sending him to the ground. Wet heat curled around his ears as he laid there, stunned and breathless with pain, unable to lift even a finger without agonized alarms ringing through his brain. Luo Binghe’s matted curls filled his entire field of vision, blurred into a dark mass that barely shifted as Luo Binghe, too, gathered his bearings. Growling, panicked, Luo Binghe tried to lift himself, but couldn’t, and his uncoordinated attempts bore heavily onto Shen Qingqiu’s abused ribs, dragging his head up and down against slippery stone.
“Binghe,” Shen Qingqiu murmured, with hardly any voice to make himself heard. “Binghe, let… let this master help.”
With great effort he shifted, forced both palms between his own chest and Luo Binghe’s, and pushed. Between the two of them, they managed to gather enough momentum for Luo Binghe to sit back on his heels, and Shen Qingqiu let himself be pulled upright with him. Dizzy, unable to clear the spots from his vision, he scrambled to push spiritual power into Luo Binghe, to at least fix some of the damage to his feet, but after only a trickle his qi stuttered and froze as Without-a-cure’s chill spread through his veins.
Sapped of all strength, he tipped forward. “Don’t touch me!” Luo Binghe roared, in a tone Shen Qingqiu couldn’t recognize. “Stay back!”
Shen Qingqiu was too slow: his head spun, and he had barely straightened his spine before his delirious disciple, finding his clawed hands too wounded to use, opened his jaw and sank his teeth into Shen Qingqiu’s shoulder.
He couldn’t help it —he screamed. Luo Binghe’s fangs had sunk deep enough that they were scraping bone, and it hurt, it hurt, scorching-hot, unbearable. He thrashed, desperate to dislodge that cruel bite, but managed only to tear further into his own flesh. “Please,” he rasped, and touched his uninjured hand to Luo Binghe’s burning forehead. “Binghe, please… We have to flee, we have to…”
Luo Binghe stilled; gingerly, he unlocked his jaws, and caught Shen Qingqiu with an arm around his waist before he could once again fall backwards. A soft, hollowed-out cheek dragged gently across the wound, and then Luo Binghe lifted his head, blinking red, misted eyes down at his master. “Shizun,” he called, heartbreakingly hopeful. “Shizun, are you really… Is it really you?”
“This master… was too slow,” Shen Qingqiu muttered, clumsily petting Luo Binghe’s curls. “Summon Xin Mo. We must… we must leave, now.”
“Shizun, I can’t… I can’t wield it like this,” Luo Binghe cried, his breath a rush, trembling all over. The crimson zuiyin upon his forehead had grown to encase his cheekbones, the slope of his nose, down to the corners of his bloodied mouth. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Shen Qingqiu held on to that handful of tangled hair to keep himself conscious. “Hush,” he sighed. “This master will do it for you, now call the sword.”
And so it was that Shen Qingqiu helped Luo Binghe close his stiff, livid fingers around the hilt of his cursed sword, and together they opened a portal to the safehouse Ning Yingying had bought for them; and the moment he crawled through, still clinging to Shen Qingqiu’s waist like he was afraid he might vanish, Luo Binghe dropped into a dead faint, having exhausted himself beyond endurance. Xin Mo started leaking resentful energy as soon as it clattered to the dusty floor; Shen Qingqiu left it there for the time it took him to drag Luo Binghe onto a bed, and then, gritting his teeth, returned to seal it with the same array Lao Gongzhu had used on his disciple, and a few drops of his own blood for good measure.
Next to it, he left the notes he’d taken from Lao Gongzhu’s study, in case Luo Binghe woke up furious enough to kill Shen Qingqiu outright and later found himself in need of Xin Mo…
And here was the moment when Shen Qingqiu was meant to flee. He should gather his ruined robes about himself, mop up the blood from his shoulder, and turn tail, buying himself a few months more of life. Somehow, he had rescued Luo Binghe —the System had come back online in the midst of their struggle when Shen Qingqiu had been too out of it to notice, so the protagonist halo had been restored, and it wouldn’t take long for Shen Qingqiu’s disciple to fully heal.
Yet, Shen Qingqiu lingered. Sweat was beading upon Luo Binghe’s forehead, and his skin was white as chalk. Shen Qingqiu couldn’t yet shake from his mind the horrifying picture Luo Binghe had painted, chained to that basement with a pool of drying blood between his knees; even now, his wrists were bruised blue and thin, fingernails purple where his circulation had been cut off for too long. He was curled up small and shivering onto his side, hidden by the matted spill of his hair, pitiful and a little tender, like a stray that had been picked up off the streets. Shen Qingqiu’s heart stirred as he remembered the day they’d met, the injuries Luo Binghe had worn, his fear, his disbelieving gratitude.
Despite himself, Shen Qingqiu sat on the edge of the bed, and gently but ineffectually cleansed Luo Binghe’s face with the hem of his sleeve before pressing his palm against his disciple’s temple to check him for fever. Luo Binghe turned into the touch, and then his hand came up, still somewhat cold, locking Shen Qingqiu’s in place. For a breathless minute, Shen Qingqiu held very still, expecting that grip to turn cruel, to feel, perhaps, the sharp claws adorning Luo Binghe’s fingers piercing into his flesh to tear it apart; but, retaining a hint of the sweetness Shen Qingqiu had so adored about him, Luo Binghe fit his cheek into the cup of his master’s hand and curled deeper into the contact, seemingly only then relaxing fully into sleep.
Shen Qingqiu hung there, with his arm half-extended, listening to his own heartbeat as it slowed back into something approaching normality.
This was a comfort Shen Qingqiu had offered Luo Binghe once already in the past.
At sixteen, Luo Binghe had just been granted permission to take missions on his own; but Shen Qingqiu had insisted on accompanying him on his first, wanting to observe the protagonist in action, and to ensure nothing went awry.
It was while they’d been making their way home (taking the scenic route, because Luo Binghe had always been too fretful to let Shen Qingqiu travel by sword for extended periods of time, fearing that Without-a-cure might cause an accident) that they’d come across a haunting. It was a rather gruesome affair, leaving behind a collection of mangled corpses, and by the time they’d managed to locate the creature, it had already secured its next meal —a mother and child it had torn from their home bordering the woods and dragged through the empty fields and the hungry silence of the countryside at night.
Shen Qingqiu had rescued the child, but it had been too late for the mother, who had placed her own body in the jaws of the monster to buy her son a moment more of safety; and later, when the child’s remaining family had offered Shen Qingqiu and his disciple a place to sleep, Luo Binghe had cried and cried, curled up like a little shrimp into the bedding he’d rolled out onto the floor, muffling his sobs inside the bend of his elbow. Shen Qingqiu had known not to humiliate his young disciple (a man already, by the standards of this world) by suggesting he should share his master’s bed like a small boy, and so he’d simply rolled over onto his belly and reached down to pat Luo Binghe’s head.
Luo Binghe had buried his wet face in the palm of Shen Qingqiu’s hand, sniffling quietly and clinging to the offered comfort, and Shen Qingqiu had not moved until well after dawn.
Even after so many years, Luo Binghe’s hold on him kept that same flavor of stubborn, near-possessive gratitude, as if that scrap of warmth was something he’d had to fight for and was ready to bitterly defend; and Shen Qingqiu found himself likewise inclined to simply sit in watch of him and let the hours pass, two parts dizzy with blood-loss, and one part stinging with heartache.
