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“Shishu,” the disciple bows respectfully, a politely curious look on their face as they rise again. “How can this An Ding disciple help you today?”
Mu Qingfang smiles down at them, just as polite if not fond. His shixiong’s disciples are always so unfailingly kind and helpful, no matter how many times you might regretfully interrupt them in their duties. Usually, he would take the time to converse with whoever it was that he’d manage to distract, but today time is unfortunately of the essence.
“I’m in need of a specific artifact that was brought in from a Qian Ding disciple night hunt around three months ago. My research has led me to believe it might be the only thing that can help my latest batch of patients.”
Recognition enters the disciple’s eyes.
“Ah, you mean the Zui Xian and Tian Kui disciple study group that had that incident with explosives this morning? Shishu must have been working with them nonstop, the effects sounded ghastly.”
The An Ding rumor mill is certainly nothing to sneeze at. Mu Qingfang is pretty sure that these particular disciples know of events in the sect long before anyone else aside from the instigators ever do.
“They indeed were — are, in fact, and I apologize for being in a bit of a hurry here, shizhi, or I would definitely stop for a chat —”
“Oh, no need,” the disciple smiles, turning around with a gesture for Mu Qingfang to follow. “The artifact entry logs are kept in the archive right over here. We can track down what you’re looking for in a breath.”
So they say, Mu Qingfang thinks. He knows, however, just how many artifact storehouses exist within the crevices of An Ding peak — nearly larger in number than that of Tian Kui, which is saying something — and the artifact he’s after could be in any one of them.
It’s best to have faith in this disciple, though. They know what they’re doing, and An Ding peak is nothing if not intensely organized, courtesy of his very diligent shixiong.
After all, they could all remember the last An Ding peak lord and his characteristic unordered chaos. Mu Qingfang’s discipleship days had been hell, when he considers the towers and towers of requisition forms that had been filled out and consequently lost and had to be filled out again before they got anywhere. Really, Shang Qinghua had had his work cut out for him when he’d ascended into the position — perhaps unwillingly, Mu Qingfang sometimes thinks quietly to himself — and the fact that they’re barely into their second decade as peak lords and An Ding has already been flipped around into a well oiled machine is —
It’s practically a miracle.
But, Mu Qingfang will not do his shixiong’s untold hours and hours of hard, gruelling work the disservice of thinking that. Clearly, Shang Qinghua had put all efforts into solving an insurmountable and almost impossible task, turning it to his advantage, and if Mu Qingfang himself felt like he was drowning in his own work after ascending to be Qian Cao’s lord, he can’t imagine what it must have been like for Shang Qinghua, inheriting all of… all of that.
Twenty minutes later, the disciple is leading Mu Qingfang out of the archives, a frown on their face as they head in the direction of the storehouse that had been listed on the file.
The frown is unusual for the disciples of this peak, and it’s making Mu Qingfang a little anxious.
“Is everything alright?” He asks, adjusting the sleeves of his robe.
The disciple looks at him from over their shoulder and they look — displeased, almost.
“The storehouse that artifact is in…” they say, slowly. “Only shizun can open it.”
Mu Qingfang blinks.
“And where is Shang-shixiong now?” He asks, and the disciple's frown deepens, the displeasure more clear now.
“He is in his home,” the disciple says, seeming rather unwilling to tell him. Mu Qingfang frowns. “... Resting.”
Oh.
No wonder they are so reluctant to tell him. Mu Qingfang presses his lips together, frowning in thought. Shang Qinghua rarely sleeps, despite how often Mu Qingfang and their other martial siblings nag at him, mostly because the mountains of paperwork that keeps An Ding (and thus, the sect itself) running, as well as the other administrative duties that pile up around him don’t leave much time for such leisure.
He is similarly displeased as the An Ding disciple he’s following, to be interrupting such a rare chance for his shixiong to be indulging a chance to exercise in his most basic needs.
“Is there anyone else who can open the storehouse?” He asks, hopeful. “A hall master, perhaps? An elder?”
The disciple shakes their head. “Shishu, these artifacts are labeled highly dangerous and are kept away from where they might be accidentally misplaced with the more menial artifacts. Only Shizun has the array that unlocks the wards to open the storehouse.”
Mu Qingfang huffs, annoyed. While it’s good that there are such stringent defenses and security in place around such objects, it’s causing a rather big inconvenience for them right now.
“I don’t like it, but I suppose we must trouble your Shizun, then,” he sighs, and the disciple’s frown turns into a scowl.
“Qingfang?” Someone shouts down from above, and they both glance up against the glare of the sun as a body comes falling from the sky.
For a moment, he’s concerned, but that is quick to abate. It’s only Liu Qingge.
“Shidi,” he says as kindly as he can. Unfortunately, his stress comes through nonetheless, and Liu Qingge is quick to pick up on it.
The man glares, furious at something that he could only guess at. “What’s going on.”
“My patients are in need of an artifact that’s kept in a storehouse only Shang-shixiong can open,” Mu Qingfang explains a little hesitantly.
His shidi, after all, has always been one to react to situations without thinking them through first. He’s not sure An Ding would appreciate Liu Qingge meddling in this.
“Where is he, then?”
“He’s sleeping,” the disciple who has been aiding Mu Qingfang says, a little flatly. They’re looking anywhere but at Liu Qingge.
The two martial siblings exchange a look. Liu Qingge had been there when Shang Qinghua had finally experienced the consequences of neglecting his rest — not that it had necessarily been Shang Qinghua’s fault, whatsoever — and both he and Mu Qingfang would love for it to not happen again. Unfortunately—
“Let’s go then.” Liu Qingge says, turning on his heel and stalking off.
“Uh,” the disciple startled. “That’s — shishu, the leisure houses are the other way—”
“I’m not waking Qinghua up,” Liu Qingge says, a little abrasively. “He needs his rest. Take me to the storehouse.”
“Only Shang Qinghua can open it, though?” Mu Qingfang asks, but hurries after his shidi anyway.
Liu Qingge huffs. “I’m Bai Zhan peak. As if a door is going to stop me.”
The An Ding disciple lets out a vocal groan and runs to keep up with them.
A door, it appears, can indeed stop Liu Qingge.
The man steps back, huffing and puffing, with a glare on his face that could stop a demon lord in its tracks. It’s not an enemy that’s garnered his ire here, though. No, it’s the double wooden doors of the storehouse that’s nestled neatly into the underside of a cliff facing away from the rest of the peak.
With a grunt, Liu Qingge runs his shoulder into the doors again. The wood creaks and moans under his barrage, but doesn’t give even the slightest movement that they even felt his impact.
Liu Qingge steps back. He wipes a hand over his brow, and growls. “What the fuck.”
“I told you,” the disciple says, exasperatedly. They wave their arms in the air a little as they speak. “Only shizun can open the door!”
They’ve amassed quite a crowd of other An Ding disciples as an audience to Liu Qingge’s fruitless endeavor by now, and they all nod and murmur in agreement with their martial sibling.
“It’s just a door!” Liu Qingge says, scowling, and that’s when another person falls out of the sky.
He lands neatly in the center of things, sliding a spirit sword back into his belt, and gazes at the lot of them with a pleasant if neutral expression.
“What’s happening here?” The Sect Leader asks calmly. Beside him, Shen Qingqiu falls neatly to his feet, sheathing his sword as well as he stares at their group with a curious expression.
Liu Qingge grunts out a wordless complaint, crossing his arms over his chest and looking away moodily.
“Zhangmen-shixiong,” Mu Qingfang steps forward, apologies on his lips. He wrings the hems of his sleeves in his hands. “It’s my fault. I need an artifact from this storehouse for my patients, but only Shang-shixiong can open it. He’s asleep, though, and we didn’t want to bother him.”
There’s a brief moment where the surrounding An Ding disciples all make quiet noises of agreement or gratitude, and Shen Qingqiu looks pleased to hear his admittance. Liu Qingge closes his eyes without a word, stepping away from them to go and pace off to the side.
He’s never been one to deal well with a failure, which he will certainly see this as, Mu Qingfang muses to himself a little pityingly.
Yue Qingyuan is silent for a moment, and he gazes at them all with a look of examination. Their Sect Leader has always been an intense sort of man, and decades ago it had always made Mu Qingfang a little bit nervous to be in his presence. But now, it only brings him comfort, the knowledge that their sect is headed by someone so immovable.
“Is it time sensitive?” Sect Leader directs at Mu Qingfang, after a moment.
He purses his lips, tightly, and nods.
Yue Qingyuan lets out a sigh, closing his eyes in reluctance.
“We will have to trouble Shang Qinghua, then.” He says, much to the displeasure of everyone there.
Mu Qingfang huffs a tiny breath of amusement. Trust Zhangmen-shixiong to always be unafraid to address the calamity in the room, even — especially — if no one else will.
“Can’t this wait?” Shen Qingqiu asks, almost plaintively, as he nonetheless trails after the group of his martial siblings. “Wait, what am I saying, this absolutely can wait. Everyone, let’s leave and come back later.”
“Unfortunately, it can’t,” Mu-shidi says apologetically. At least he looks like he’d rather be doing anything else. “My patients need this specific artifact as soon as possible. I’m not sure what might happen to them should we delay any further than we already have.”
“That’s not Shang-shidi’s fault.” Shen Qingqiu points out, only for Liu Qingge to scoff.
“If he’d been were he was suppose to be, we wouldn’t have wasted all that time trying to open the storehouse,” the Bai Zhan lord grunts, displeased.
“You mean you wouldn’t have wasted time trying to open the storehouse,” Mu Qingfang refutes, waspish, and Liu Qingge looks away, shoulders up near his ears as he’s scolded. “Don’t blame Shang-shixiong for something you did.”
“No one can open this particular storehouse except the An Ding peak lord.” Yue Qingyuan adds, also apologetically but less so than Mu Qingfang.
The Sect Leader’s expression is impenetrable, lacking any visible guilt over the fact that they’re all about to storm into Shang Qinghua’s leisure house and drag him away from one of two things: important paperwork or a desperately needed nap.
Either case equally rubs Shen Qingqiu all the wrong ways. He’s just about to demand that they all desist again, when Mu Qingfang turns and shoots him a wholly upset look — he doesn’t want to be doing this either, but he’s right. Lives are on the line, here.
Shen Qingqiu lets out a sharp sigh. He’ll have to see if he can’t arrange another time for his bro to get some sleep in, if that’s what Shang Qinghua is indeed doing. And judging from the quietly, subtly annoyed expressions all the An Ding peak disciples took on once they’d realized what their martial uncles were about to do, Shen Qingqiu is ninety-five percent sure that is what’s going on here.
Sorry, bro. You’ll just have to bear with them for now.
Their group alights upon the communes of An Ding, stepping off their swords and onto the tiled ground right in front of the peak lord’s residence.
“Perhaps it is best that Shen-shidi do the honors,” Yue Qingyuan says, like a coward, after a moment of them all gazing at the door and not moving.
Shen Qingqiu shoots the man with an acidic look. “Yue-ge seems hesitant. Why is that? It’s not like Shang-shidi bites.”
“You and I both know that he does,” Yue Qingyuan retorts flatly, to the wide-eyed gazes of their fellow martial brothers. Shen Qingqiu smothers a snort. Oh yeah. “However, Qinghua does better to receive Shen-shidi than anyone else. So, it should be Shen-shidi.”
“He receives you just fine,” Shen Qingqiu mumbles reluctantly, only to receive a slightly sad smile from the man, which, yeah. Okay. Maybe the other two transmigrators do need a bit more time to get over their shared history before they’ll feel comfortable enough to wake each other up from naps. Still, though.
“It’s your fault that we’re all here,” he tells Mu Qingfang, who bows his head in patient and humble acknowledgment. “You’ll come with me.”
“And I have medical knowledge,” Mu Qingfang says almost mischievously, though his face doesn’t change from the look of humble obedience, “in case anyone does get bitten.”
“Oh—” Shen Qingqiu glowers, and cuts himself off before the rest of the sentance, a snipey fuck you, could be verbalized. Mu Qingfang seems to get the spirit of his mood, though, and only smiles angelically back at him.
Which is, of course, when Liu Qingge, who hates being left out apparently, says, “Let’s go,” and walks forward to kick in the door.
“Honestly,” Shen Qingqiu gripes, hurrying after the man with Mu Qingfang at his heels. The three of them disappear into the house, leaving the sect leader outside, almost alone.
“One day,” the only An Ding disciple who’d stayed behind when the others had dispersed, says rather flatly as he stares disparagingly at the door’s broken latch, “I am going to assassinate Liu-shishu.”
“Apologies, Jin-shizhi,” Yue Qingyuan says in amusement, knowing not to take such words at face value. Liu Qingge was not exactly altogether popular amongst the An Ding disciples. “Qiong Ding will handle the repairs.”
“The doors to the vault are fine,” Jin Kao waves a hand, still grumpy as he stares dispassionately at the house before them. “Not even Liu-shishu is enough to scratch them. No, this is a simple fix for our An Ding, please Sect Leader don’t trouble himself.”
“There’s a shipment of luxury pastries from Tailing that just arrived, a gift to the sect.” Yue Qingyuan says instead, watching quietly as the head disciple’s eyes light up. “This shishu will have them delivered to the An Ding eatery, since there are far too much for Qiong Ding to eat alone.”
“Thanking shibo kindly,” Jin Kao bows, his grumpiness soothed away by the promise of sweets.
Ah, Yue Qingyuan thinks, the corners of his lips curving upward just a hint. These kids, so much like their shizun.
“Shang Qinghua,” Shen Qingqiu says, for the trillionth time it feels. He gives the motionless lump buried under the blankets another shake. “Wake up.”
“It’s almost like he’s dead,” Mu Qingfang chortles a little morbidly, but what else can you expect from a doctor? “Maybe we should just carry him? He can still sleep.”
“And have every An Ding peak disciple at our throats for kidnapping their precious shizun right out of his bed like a couple of scoundrels?” Shen Qingqiu asks, aghast. He’s not even joking, and he knows by the faces the other two peak lords make that they too can envision just that happening — and more. There truly are no disciples of any peak more protective of their shizun than the An Ding disciples.
He shakes the body again. “Seriously, wake up already!”
“Enough of this, we’re on a time limit here.”
Liu Qingge shoulders right past him and reaches down to grasp Shang Qinghua by the upper arm, heaving him up and out of the bed.
“Wake up,” he snaps, jostling his cargo furiously. “We need you to unlock a storehouse.”
Shang Qinghua gives a tired murmur and then slumps sleepily forward against Liu Qingge’s chest.
The Bai Zhan lord goes stiff, gaze shooting toward Shen Qingqiu as if for help, but Shen Qingqiu takes a big step back.
Nope, no help from here, shidi! You do something as dastardly as wake Shang Qinghua up from a nap, you deal with the consequences yourself.
Mu Qingfang looks away from the scene, as if to give them some privacy, but Shen Qingqiu can see the man’s shoulders shaking slightly with laughter. You ain’t slick, Mu Qingfang!
Liu Qingge shakes Shang Qinghua again. “Wake. Up! You need to come and open the storehouse!”
The An Ding lord yawns, rubbing at one of his eyes in a way that absolutely has no right being as adorable as it is. “What? Get a disciple to open it for you, I’ve got… paperwork…”
All three of them exchange disappointed looks, knowing that once he’s fully awake, Shang Qinghua won’t be going back to sleep anytime soon. As long as he remembers there’s more work to be done, Shang Qinghua won’t even think about his bed.
Dammit. Shen Qingqiu might be required to, once this is all over, use drastic measures.
“No can do, Shang-ge,” he steps forward, reaching out to poke a finger into Shang Qinghua’s cheek. Soft! “Only you can open this storehouse. Come on, up and at ‘em.”
“At who?” Liu Qingge demands, confused. “Why don’t you two ever make any sense?”
“Not now, shidi,” Shen Qingqiu waves him off, nestling his shoulder under his bro’s arm.
Shang Qinghua leans drowsily into him, and breathes out a soft laugh, finding humor in the circumstance in a way only one who’s not entirely awake can.
Fine! If Liu Qingge can’t appreciate being on the receiving end of sleepy, cuddly Qinghua, then all the more for Shen Qingqiu!
He turns back to Mu Qingfang with the drowsy Shang Qinghua hanging off his arm, and purses his lips at the wide smile he sees on the other man’s face.
“Come on, let’s go,” he says, and Mu Qingfang holds open the door for them, an extremely fond air about him.
Yeah. It’s really hard to keep feeling stressed when you have the smallest peak lord acting like a kitten right in front of you.
They exit the house, and the expression that immediately twists head disciple Kao’s face could almost be called enraged, if it weren’t for the fact that every face that boy ever makes is overlayed with an extremely polite facade.
“Shen-shishu,” Jin Kao says, almost accusingly, and Shen Qingqiu gives the boy an apologetic smile.
“Sorry, A-Kao.” He says. He really is.
Jin Kao throws up his hands. “He won’t even be mad when he does truly wake, you know.”
“I know,” Shen Qingqiu says, following behind the boy as he turns to lead them back to the storehouse. “You will have to be upset with me for him, as always. Such a filial disciple.”
“This disciple begs Shen-shibo to not antagonize,” Jin Kao snipes back irritably.
Shang Qinghua turns and presses his cheeks against his shoulder with a quiet sigh, and Shen Qingqiu feels warm. Ah, his bro really is a cuddler, huh?
The look that Liu Qingge shoots at him now seems half embarrassment and half envy, as if he is regretting his decision to leave Shang Qinghua for Shen Qingqiu to deal with.
Ha. Losers; weepers, Liu-shidi.
Finally, they arrive at the storehouse, their collective spirits slightly damaged by the furious and accusatory stares the silent disciples on the journey here had pinned their group with. They hadn’t said anything, An Ding disciples are always so unfailingly polite and deferent. But their opinions were clear as day, unmistakable.
Shen Qingqiu will probably have to bribe the lot of them a hundred times after this in order to get back into their good graces. He’s been sliding by on the coattails of his bro, accepted by affiliates of being Shang Qinghua’s best friend. But, after this, they won’t nearly be so accepting of him. He’ll have to actually work for it! A pity.
It’s only when there standing before the massive, double wooden doors that had so perfectly road locked Liu Qingge’s violent attempts of opening them, that Shen Qingqiu realizes that a grievous mistake has been made.
“Oh.” He says quietly, watching as Shang Qinghua, now able to stand upright by himself, stretches his arms high above his head with a yawn. Shit.
“Shit,” he hears Liu Qingge mumble under his breath from behind him, and Shen Qingqiu almost closes his eyes to save himself from this torture.
No wonder Jin Kao had looked — still looks — so furious with them!
Shang Qinghua is only wearing two robes. His hair is done up in a rather messy bun at the top of his head with only a simple ribbon, and there are loose locks that had been missed that fall to curl just slightly and frame his face and neck. The neck of the robes he wears is open slightly, disheveled, and Shen Qingqiu coughs uncomfortably at the realization that the tattoos at the top of his friends chest, and the ones that swirl artistically about his collarbone and neck, are on clear display.
He’s not sure if any of the others even know about the tattoos. From the way Liu Qingge stares with wide eyes and a gentle frown, eyes locked at the point of Shang Qinghua’s nape, he figures the answer was no.
Shang Qinghua stands on his tip toes, yawning mouth in a perfect circle like a kitten, and he twists slightly as he stretches arms above him. Finally, he releases a pleased breath — one that makes all of their faces turn pink, even Yue-ge’s — and when he lowers his arms back to his sides, one collar of the robe slides down his shoulder.
“Okay!” Shen Qingqiu forces out, a little breathlessly. He shoots forward and yanks the robe back up, and then gets to work fastening them closed properly around his bro’s body, going as far as to undo the belt and retie it even tighter so that the robes have no chance to slip again.
He only realizes how handsy he’d just been when he backs away again, and he feels his face burn at the stares his martial brothers are sending him. Jin Kao’s eyes feel like hot coals burning into his back, harshly judging.
Shen Qingqiu clears his throat.
“Shang-ge,” he says simply.
“Hm?” Shang Qinghua hums, looking up at him and giving him a sleepy smile.
Stop that, Airplane! Stop that right now! You have no right looking so unfairly cute, and you’re doing irreparable damage to your bro’s heart. Have mercy!
Shen Qingqiu wordlessly points toward the storeroom doors, unable to speak.
Shang Qinghua’s brow furrows just slightly in confusion. “What?”
Stepping forward, Yue Qingyuan’s smile is gentle and domineering all at once.
“Shang-shidi, Mu-shidi has need of an artifact in this storeroom. Only you have the ability to open it. Apologies for taking you away from your rest.”
“No, no,” Shang Qinghua waves a hand dismissively, hiding another yawn behind his other palm. “I was going to get up soon anyway. Those immunization catalogues are not going to manifest themselves!”
“That’s my job,” Mu Qingfang comments despairingly from the side, his expression guilty.
Shang Qinghua waves his hand again, this time at the doctor. “You’re busy with the new influx of patients. I can do it.”
“But you should not have to,” Mu Qingfang mutters.
Shang Qinghua shrugs uncaringly.
“Such is life.” He says, and then walks forward to grab the handles of the storeroom doors. Without an ounce of hesitation and seemingly with zero physical effort, he throws them open and the doors glide forward as if they weight absolutely nothing.
Liue Qingge is openly gaping. Shen Qingqiu is pretty sure he’s not far from doing the same.
“What the fuck?” Liu Qingge demands, pointing at the open doorway. “How the fuck?”
With a muttered thanks, Mu Qingfang grips a sheet of paper in his hand and hurries into the storehouse to go and hunt down whatever artifact it was that started this entire debacle.
Shang Qinghua turns back to the and tilts his head. “Huh?”
“Liu Qingge I guess tried to open that himself a little while ago,” Shen Qingqiu tattles, earning himself a glare. “Apparently the doors didn’t even budge.”
If he sounds amused, it’s not like anyone will do anything to him because of it. He’d long since learned to let Liu Qingge’s glares slide off like water.
“Oh.” Shang Qinghua says. “That’s because you need the An Ding peak lord seal to open the vault. If you don’t have it, it won’t open. That’s how the array works.”
Squinting at the storehouse front, Shen Qingqi frowns. “An array like that would have to be prominent. But I don’t see one.”
“It’s buried.” Shang Qinghua says simply, smothering another yawn into his palm.
“Buried?”
He nods. “Twelve hands below the storehouse, in the foundation. And then it’s sister array is carved into the back of the doors, filled in again with cultivator’s claymite, and painted over with the same wood polish the doors were treated with. That’s why you can’t see it.”
“Seems kind of… excessive,” Shen Qingqiu says, a little stunned. Shang Qinghua turned an amused look toward him, his fingers fiddling absently with the sleeve of his robe.
“Bro, there’s an artifact in this vault that can rewrite someone’s physical biology into that of a heavenly demon. And another that will straight up level the entire mountain range if it’s pierced and broken by the horn of a Nightshade unicorn. I think my security measures are entirely justified.”
“Okay, yeah,” Shen Qingqiu agrees. The sound of his voice is a little distant. “I’ll just, uh, leave it to you…”
The knowing look that Airplane Shooting Toward the Sky gives him just then — it’s clear to Shen Qingqiu that many of the OP artifacts currently within the vault they stand before now had previously been plot devices from the PIDW manuscript, that Shang Qinghua had preemptively hunted down to contain somewhere he could personally ensure that they’d never be used for whatever potentially world-ending plot he had originally written them for.
Man. His bro has been doing god’s work all along, hasn’t he?
The thought, and the irony of that sentence alone, makes Shen Qingqiu’ lips quirk up in a smile.
“What if you forget the peak lord array somewhere, or if someone steals it?” He asks, the thought suddenly occurring to him.
“It’s impossible for me to forget it somewhere.” Shang Qinghua sounds amused.
“How? Is it like Riptide, always appearing in your pockets?”
“No, and I can’t believe you read Percy Jackson.”
“I had a boring childhood and books were my only companion.” Shen Qingqiu sniffs. Liu Qingge casts him an uncomfortable glance, and behind him Yue Qingyuan coughs like he’s covering a laugh.
Man. The guy needs to learn that they won’t be upset with him if he acts familiarly with them! Shen Qingqiu might have to rope his bro into a scheme to get Yue-ge to loosen up, at this rate.
Shang Qinghua chuckles. “No, I can’t lose it. And it would be very hard for someone to steal it. They’d have to know where and what it was, first.”
“Well?” Liu Qingge demands, looking over curiously. “What is it?”
Smiling, Shang Qinghua sticks out his tongue.
Shen Qingqiu is about to burst into laughter, so startled at the childish action Shang Qinghua had just unthinkingly commuted, and at the affronted expression currently gracing Liu Qingge’s face in return, but then he pauses.
Because there, in the middle of Shang Qinghua’s tongue, is a small, silver stud, nestled into the muscle.
“A tongue piercing.” He observes, hollowly.
Shang Qinghua pulls his tongue back in and smiles again. “Engraved with the An Ding lord seal. It goes with me wherever I am, and if someone wants to take it, they will have to reach into my mouth and rip it out.”
His smile turns a little mocking, then, and he stares evenly, “And for that, they will have to get close enough.”
Meaning, by that time whoever it is will be burned to a crisp a la lightning.
Or! If they’re truly that close, Shang Qinghua could just rip their throat out with his teeth! It’s not like he’s not done it before.
Shen Qingqiu feels a chill run down his back, and beside him Liu Qingge is staring at the quietly pleased Shang Qinghua in wordless fascination.
Mu Qingfang steps out of the storehouse, Jin Kao — who had apparently gone in after him when none of them were looking — at the man’s heels and hauling a small box that’s engraved with the depiction of a phoenix.
“I’ve found what I need,” the doctor says, smiling. “Thank you Qinghua…. What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” Shen Qingqiu says quickly, at the same time that Shang Qinghua turns to Mu Qingfang and says, “They were asking about where I kept the peak lord seal that opened the door.”
Mu Qingfang looks curious. “I didn’t see it earlier. Where?”
As Shang Qinghua once again cheerfully sticks out his tongue, apparently oblivious to the way that Mu Qingfang’s cheeks take on a pink hue — and the way Jin Kao turns to stare mutinously at the rest of them — Shen Qingqiu sighs, exasperated.
Oh well. At least no one has asked about the tattoos they’d all glimpsed earlier. That, at least, he knows his bro would prefer to keep on the downlow.
Man, it’s only midday and Shen Qingqiu already feels exhausted.