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Lay my curses out to rest (won’t you stay with me, my darling?)

art by yours truly!

Luo Binghe had always planned to reunite with his master after the Abyss —if nothing else, his demonic blood would not be satisfied, kept apart from the person who was the center of his world. He might have even considered the possibility of a struggle between the two of them, ultimately overcome once Luo Binghe succeeded in reminding Shizun of the affection and trust they’d held for one another, imparting upon that mercurial master of his the truth that Luo Binghe’s rightful place was at Shen Qingqiu’s own side, and not among the demons.

Never, not even if asked to make up a thousand different scenarios, would he have imagined this .

This: Shizun, reclined in his arms, his body heavy with poison, the elegant curve of his neck intimately frightening, blood blooming like a morbid flower across the torn sleeve of his ruined robe, and a single broken wing trailing silver-blue feathers upon the ground.

But wait, dear reader, let us rewind, and see how it was exactly that Cang Qiong’s very own Shen Qingqiu ended up in such an unfortunate situation.

It had all started with Ning Yingying.

Or, rather, with a request for aid she had received while browsing the marketplace at the foot of Cang Qiong mountain, and that she’d brought up to her Shizun instead of her Zhangmen- shibo because if she had to choose between watching Shen Qingqiu kneel before A-Luo’s sword mound without either food or drink and sending her beloved master off on an errand that would have perhaps been more suited to a group of disciples… Well, it was good for Shizun to get some fresh air —a change of scenery, perhaps, would be enough to dislodge Shen Qingqiu from the grief he was stuck in… Ning Yingying hoped. 

Lately (ever since the Alliance Conference, the death of A-Luo) Shizun seemed to look for any excuse not to be in the bamboo house —sometimes Ning Yingying wondered if it wouldn’t be best for her master to find a different place to live; or if he could be persuaded to visit a mind-healer, at the very least; but she was not A-Luo, who had the guts and thick face necessary to go to Mu Qingfang behind Shen Qingqiu’s back and the unshakable certainty Shizun would forgive him the transgression and submit to his doctor’s orders because Luo Binghe’s wide-eyed cajoling was simply irresistible. 

So Ning Yingying and Ming Fan had silently helped Shen Qingqiu pack; had promised to look after the sword mound; had assured him they would make the correct excuses with the Sect Leader; had in turn extracted a promise from their master that he would take care of himself and return unscathed; had descended the mountain and sent him off with a tight hug from Ning Yingying and a meal they all knew he was not going to eat.

The mission was fairly straightforward: cleaning out a nest of six-tailed vampire bats and investigating the rise in fierce corpses that was most definitely related to the extremely ravenous little beasts. It should take Shizun a week at most to come and go, with plenty of time to spare for sight-seeing and creature-studying.

Ning Yingying lit a stick of incense and prayed that nothing would go wrong.

Everything did, obviously, go wrong.

Even without the System’s direct interference (although Shen Qingqiu wouldn’t put it past the fucker to find new ways to screw him over while hibernating) it seemed like Shen Qingqiu couldn’t help but trigger every single wife-plot he happened across —including ones that weren’t supposed to show up until the very end of the original story.

There had been no nest of vampire bats, and no fierce corpses. Shen Qingqiu was going to have a word with Ning Yingying regarding citing her sources, for it appeared like his most enthusiastic disciple had lured him straight into a trap —a trap that, again, should have been dealt with by the overpowered protagonist when he was already well in his thirties, Emperor of the combined Realms and husband to countless mostly forgotten beauties. Was Shen Qingqiu holding out a secret hope that his Luo Binghe would not precisely go down that particular path? Provided he was three jars into his wine, Shen Qingqiu might even admit to it.

It hadn’t been good for the Realms to be merged. 

And Luo Binghe had not been happy! The ending of Proud Immortal Demon Way had been a cowardly cop-out, entirely unsatisfying, and Binghe absolutely deserved better!

The sweet white lotus was gone, of course, Shen Qingqiu refused to delude himself into thinking otherwise, but perhaps, perhaps , this Binghe who was well-loved and respected on Qing Jing, who not only had the favor of Ning Yingying but of many other shidimei and Mu Qingfang besides that, would be satisfied with getting his revenge on his scum teacher alone and then move on to greater and more rewarding pursuits, freed of the burden of betrayal. After all, Shen Qingqiu had offered his favored disciple an education that far surpassed that of his peers, to compensate for the Abyss and because Binghe himself was simply just that talented: and thus Shen Qingqiu had removed one of the primary motivations behind original Bing-ge’s general restlessness and obsession with playing catch-up with the cultivation world; in fact, very soon, it might be that the cultivation world would have to catch up with Luo Binghe!

Ah, but better focus on the problem at hand. Not like Shen Qingqiu would get to see Binghe’s glory, anyway! What good was tormenting himself with that he could neither change nor influence? As if his little lamb would ever trust Shen Qingqiu’s advice again! And why should he…?

So Shen Qingqiu had stepped into what Shang Qinghua had helpfully named cursed land , and gotten turned into a bird.

This cursed land was a travelling, not-quite-sentient being that sought out tortured souls in order to expose their innermost troubles (as it fed on negative emotions) and in the spirit of gratitude or symmetry produced in exchange a boon that would, in theory, help its victims resolve their conflicts. Unfortunately, the cursed land was neither human nor capable of fully understanding humans (or demons for that matter) and its gifts ranged from annoying to deadly —barring the intervention of the protagonist’s Heavenly pillar, which was always up for a challenge, all other attempts at resolution had amounted to disastrous failures.

Shen Qingqiu was certainly not blessed with the wife halo that had enabled original love interest number… Shen Qingqiu wanted to say 215… to emerge unscathed from the ordeal. And even had he managed to remain in Luo Binghe’s good graces, Luo Binghe was currently in an entirely different Realm, fighting for his life against the abyssal beasts. Shen Qingqiu definitely counted among the many who would get the very short end of the stick and be completely devoured by this animal-by-day-person-by-night type of fairy-tale spell. No doubts there!

His first instinct, after gathering his bearings, was, unsurprisingly, to fly back to Cang Qiong. Although he had personally brought Mu- shidi more grief than most members of their sect combined, Shen Qingqiu still felt the doctor harbored enough good will towards him that he would at least attempt to find a way around this fresh new curse already twice-doomed Shen Qingqiu had managed to acquire. It would, ultimately, be an exercise in futility (if this enchanted transformation did not change him into a mindless beast first, then the havoc it was wreaking on his meridians would unquestionably kill him; barring that, in three years at most his dearest disciple would be out of the Abyss and ready to enact his revenge) but at the very least Qian Cao Peak’s curse-breakers would have the opportunity to study such a rare case as the one Shang Qinghua had shoehorned in the midst of a demonic succession struggle for a bit of gratuitous papapa and promptly forgotten about.

The reticent, prideful maiden who had originally been cursed had turned into an equally delicate-looking although ferocious swan (the regular kind) and not the demonic crane Shen Qingqiu currently embodied, with its sword-like beak and the creepy extra sets of mouths hidden underneath his wing-feathers. Shen Qingqiu felt there was something he was forgetting about the entire mess…

Ah, yes.

Hadn’t Shang Qinghua lifted half of that plotline from the Russian tragic ballet Swan lake ? Shen Qingqiu distantly remembered watching a production on TV with his sister. Wasn’t the swan so beautiful it was constantly in danger of getting hunted? Wouldn’t a demonic beast be in even more trouble, should a trained cultivator spot him? 

Now, Shen Qingqiu had been plagued by misfortune since before transmigrating into the role of the scum villain to a much beloved, supremely overpowered character, but had mostly sailed through his second life willfully ignoring the consequences of such bad luck. However, in this case, even he had to admit to it — I jinxed myself! Fucking hell — for he was indeed spotted by a trained cultivator, the War God in the flesh, Bai Zhan’s absentee Lord Liu Qingge, on his way back to his own Peak. His keen eyes alighted on Shen Qingqiu, narrowing, and a wave of murderous intent rolled towards him.

Not even a month ago, this extremely efficient shidi of his had dumped seven perfectly preserved carcasses of demonic creatures on Shen Qingqiu’s porch, in a severely misguided attempt at ‘lifting his spirits’ (Ning Yingying’s words) and distracting him from his ‘ceaseless mourning’.

Sorry, shidi , this master has no intention of joining the ranks of your kills ! 

Wisely, he flipped himself over and fled. Mere wings, no matter their strength, could never be a match for Cheng Luan: but Shen Qingqiu knew his bestiaries better than anyone in this wretched porn-driven world, and pushed the limits of his abilities, flying higher than a human could go and then employing the decent reserves of demonic qi stored inside his too-long throat to propel himself into something that wasn’t quite an ice-demon’s space-portal, but achieved the same result. In moments, he was hovering above the borderlands. 

And here is where Shen Qingqiu lost the plot: having settled into his transformation, he found himself operating according to instincts he could neither explain nor restrain, and ventured straight inside the demonic Realm, following what he distantly recalled were the common migration routes of a species such as his. Unease prickled his skin, and his entire body burned from the effort or perhaps the cumulated fatigue of his most recent travels, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t plan ahead, felt only the hunger he had been steadily ignoring for two years straight and the need to pick a safe and secluded spot to land and (Shen Qingqiu refused to believe this was his life) build a nest.

He thanked the Gods and Buddhas that he couldn’t lay eggs.

When he surfaced from the strange haze that had descended upon him, Shen Qingqiu was halfway through devouring a raw fish he had plucked from a rather fetching river —if he wasn’t mistaken, the shape and color of the bedrock would place this river within the western plains of the Realm, where the climate was akin to that of a marsh and provided the perfect ecosystem for waterbound creatures to thrive. If only Shen Qingqiu had hands and a notebook on him, he would most certainly spend the day sketching out the varied, inappropriately named but magnificently crafted critters that surrounded him. Instead, he had fish entrails on his beak and a desire to vomit that could not be resolved —his throat twisted, too long by far, but yielded nothing, and despite his hair-raising (or, well, feather-raising) disgust he was still choking down chunks of slimy meat. He really, truly wanted to die! Even Without-a-Cure wasn’t as bad as this —this utter and complete loss of control that spelled his immediate future for him with chilling clarity, plunging him into a life and actions that were far more alien to him than the original goods’ had been at the time of his transmigration.

So lost was he in this new and exciting flavor of existential dread that Shen Qingqiu utterly failed to realize he was no longer alone, and that a pair of contemplative, starry bright eyes had alighted on him, following his movements. By the time he felt the (familiar?) prickle of that stare behind his head, Luo Binghe had already lounged for him, successfully locking his wings to his sides using a painless and flawlessly drawn set of binding talismans.

The shock of seeing the protagonist —his disciple , Binghe Binghe Binghe— so soon and in such an unexpected place was drowned in the overwhelming cocktail of emotions and impulses that swamped him entirely the moment Luo Binghe curled an arm around him and stuck him to his chest: unable to access the healthy and perfectly reasonable fear he had nurtured for the boy he had betrayed and who would soon murder him, Shen Qingqiu went fully limp in that solid hold, half-drunk on relief (Binghe was uninjured, he was out of the Abyss, the wait was over), affection (Shen Qingqiu’s head hung from Binghe’s shoulder, hidden by a lush spill of impeccable curls, and the smell and texture plunged him under a wave of nostalgia so thick for a moment he deluded himself into forgetting the past two years) and other things he could not really decipher. 

Again and again his mind circled the same thought: Binghe! Grown up and near! Shen Qingqiu wanted to put him in a nest.

That unexplainable and yet awfully pressing need terrified him almost as much as the predetermined fate of the scum Shizun, but he couldn’t seem to summon the matching physical responses (his stomach did not tighten, his heartbeat did not quicken; instead, he was becoming steadily more boneless, sinking into his disciple’s warmth and long-missed presence) and so he clicked his beak, unnerved, desperate to escape the entire confusing situation and yet incapable of even screeching out a protest.

Responding to Shen Qingqiu’s distress, Luo Binghe unhelpfully patted his back, clucking and coaxing: “It’ll be alright, Master bird, this Venerable won’t harm you.”

Shen Qingqiu’s bird brain, which apparently wanted him dead, believed him.

Luo Binghe returned to the Palace (his Palace) late in the afternoon, making use of Xin Mo’s high-cost portalling ability in deference to his new catch which would definitely object to being carted over a fifty- li distance on foot and while essentially trussed up like a chicken destined to become a meal. Shizun… Shizun had claimed Moonstone blue cranes were extremely territorial and quite aggressive if provoked, but this particular specimen Luo Binghe had acquired appeared to be strikingly biddable, to the point where he hadn’t even felt the need to restrain its deadly weapon of a beak. Said beak was instead rooting about in his hair in what was unmistakably a preening motion, gently parsing through the curls without as much as tugging on the roots.

A few months had passed since Luo Binghe had (forcefully and repeatedly) impressed upon Mobei-jun of the North his sentiments regarding the part the ice-demon had played in kickstarting Luo Binghe’s exile from his home and most importantly from Shen Qingqiu’s side, and almost as many since he had beaten Saintess Sha Hualing to within an inch of her life for bringing Without-a-Cure onto Qing Jing Peak; both demons now served under him, and had assisted him in claiming the vacant Emperor’s seat, which was his by birthright and also by virtue of his claim on Xin Mo that proved him worthy of command while simultaneously making it extremely difficult for people to challenge him.

In truth, Luo Binghe despised that sword: both for the steep price of blood and violence it commanded and for the filthy, warping whispers it slithered within his mind that sought to find purchase in his heart and lure it astray. So far, he had managed to resist its pull, but theirs was not a sustainable balance.

So Luo Binghe had occupied the Central Palace and immediately set about ensuring it was fit for habitation, because he yet harbored hopes of re-conquering his master’s approval (perhaps by uniting the demonic Realm under an unshakable rule and reducing his subjects’ incursion onto human lands) and bringing Shen Qingqiu over to, at the very least, stay for short visits and, if Luo Binghe played his cards right, advise him. Shizun was exceedingly fond of beasts and creatures, this Luo Binghe knew for he carried upon his person the notebook Shen Qingqiu had compiled before the Conference which had somehow ended up among his provisions, though Luo Binghe was reasonably certain he had not packed it. Shizun was fond of beasts and creatures, and because of this Luo Binghe had opened an entire courtyard in the Palace to fill with many such specimens, each with its own carefully tended-to enclosure, in the hopes of enticing his confusing master into giving a demon such as he was a chance.

(Luo Binghe must hold on to hope that it was possible to mend the rift Shizun had opened by slicing Xiu Ya into his chest, for the alternative was much too bleak to contemplate. What would the point of his continued existence be if he could not reclaim his place in the world? If Shen Qingqiu’s heart was forever closed to him? But in the face of the Abyss, Shizun had said I don’t want to kill you , and so Luo Binghe, though angry and hurt enough that his back teeth ached and the claws hidden under his nails itched to come out and sink into warm flesh, clung to the stubborn conviction that not all had been lost, and steered his mind towards a marginally lighter path).

He deposited the Moonstone crane gently upon the ground once he had crossed the barrier that would prevent it from escaping, and snapped it free of its bindings. Here, Luo Binghe might have expected the bird would immediately take flight and test the boundaries of its new (appropriately spacious) pen in a desperate bid for freedom; instead, the creature flapped its wings twice, stretched its neck this way and that, and with a single leap settled back upon Luo Binghe’s shoulder, turning its attention to the fine hairs crowning his forehead. “This Venerable is capable of brushing my own hair,” Luo Binghe said inanely, wrapping both hands around the crane’s powerful torso to dislodge it from his person. “Master bird should acquaint yourself with your new home.”

The crane —which was peerless both in elegance and in the exquisitely patterned shades of its velveteen feathers— tilted its head to watch him with a single jade-green eye. It clicked its beak at him, a quick, anxious chitter, and Luo Binghe couldn’t help the urge that prompted him to crouch down and offer it his hand. He was supposed to attend court in less than an incense time, but as the Emperor he could afford the occasional late showing, and decided briefly to indulge his curiosity. “This Venerable will return tomorrow in the morning,” he told the bird who was nibbling his fingertips with heartbreaking gentleness. 

Mantling its feathers, the demonic crane stretched itself up to its full height; astonishingly, Luo Binghe received a head-pat from a bird.   

Luo Binghe did indeed return in the morning as he’d said. 

Shen Qingqiu had fallen asleep in the clear pond sometime in the evening, and had woken up suddenly in the middle of the night, back into his human form with wet boots and wet robes and shivering from the chilly wind that had picked up. His unfortunate right arm ached something fierce as Without-a-Cure savaged his spiritual veins unchecked. Meditation did little to contain its ruin, and in the end Shen Qingqiu had resigned himself to curling up on a mossy patch of ground, away from the water and hidden behind a cluster of trees, to try and get some rest. There was no way he could even attempt to break through Luo Binghe’s intricate web of talismans and spells that made his enclosure an impenetrable prison, not with his cultivation as stunted and sputtering as it was. 

And besides, wouldn’t Luo Binghe recognise the energy signature of the master who had taught him most of what he knew about qi and its use? It was best to lay low, attract as little attention upon himself as he could, and hope his disciple decided at some point to bring him out of his luxurious and species-appropriate pen, perhaps to show him off to one of the wives, granting him a chance to try and escape.

The fear had of course returned with a vengeance, even if the System hadn’t. Although Luo Binghe had evidently come out of the Abyss and there had been plenty of contact between them (Shen Qingqiu had preened his hair , wasn’t that equivalent to kissing for birds and done only between coupled partners or perhaps parents and chicks? Did Luo Binghe even count as Shen Qingqiu’s child of sorts when he’d really only raised him for less than three years before dropping him into utter hell…?) the infernal Google Translate voice had not pierced the sacred quietude of Shen Qingqiu’s mind, counting down points and penalties and mocking his misery.

How queer. Could Shen Qingqiu believe himself rid of it, or was this another one of the System’s tricks?

In the end, Shen Qingqiu had succumbed to his own exhaustion and the pounding headache Without-a-Cure had wrapped around his temples, and slept the night away, woken only once he had shifted back into a crane and Luo Binghe had entered the enclosure to go and sit on a stone bench with a scroll. The sensible fear was immediately replaced by elation, and again that absurd need to put together a nest for his disciple to hide in, safe from the machinations of the cruel plot. 

For the second time in as many days, Shen Qingqiu found himself with a beak full of fish; disgust rippled down his spine and tightened his creepily elongated throat, but unfortunately it wasn’t enough to override the stupid bird-brain which would never allow him to let go of his squirming, choking prey. Instead, Shen Qingqiu lifted himself elegantly from the pond, flew across the enclosure he was trapped in, and went to drop his catch straight into the current demonic Emperor’s lap. 

Luo Binghe, predictably, flinched, nose curling in horror and displeasure, and stared down at his ruined robes and the silvery wet fish spreading a smelly water stain all over the precious spider-silk. Shen Qingqiu understood this was the appropriate response to having a slimy, cold and dead thing fall in direct contact with one’s thigh, and yet experienced the (expected! Perfectly reasonable!) rejection like a blow to the chest—Binghe was his disciple and therefore his responsibility he must provide for, and he looked thin and pale, and if his catch wasn’t sufficient then Shen Qingqiu surely only had to procure a better one, bigger perhaps, or of a different flavor…

He shook his head, fluffing up his feathers, restless and full of anxieties. Then, he watched Luo Binghe wrap the sorry fish in a cloth and vanish it within his qian kun sleeve, and his mood greatly improved. Thankfully, he remembered to wash his awful fish-beak in the pond before he gave in to the lure presented by Binghe’s fluffy mane of curls, gently preening with attentive care, not wanting to pull or upset any eventual knot. 

“What a strange creature,” Luo Binghe sighed, as perplexed as Shen Qingqiu had ever seen him. “Are you lonely?” he asked softly. “Perhaps this Venerable should find you a partner to live with you?”

Absolutely not! Shen Qingqiu had no interest in fighting for territory with an actual demonic bird, thank you very much! He snapped his beak in refusal, mantling his wings. “No?” said Luo Binghe, sounding surprised. “But, wouldn’t you like some chicks? Shizun…” Shen Qingqiu heard the shiver in his voice, the way his breath seemed to snag around the word, and pretended he hadn’t. “Shizun told me they are rather cute when they are little.” 

From a storage ring he produced the trusty notebook Shen Qingqiu had slipped him in secret before the Alliance Conference, a bestiary he had compiled without concerning himself with what the cultivation world expected a Peak Lord should know —he had wanted Binghe to have every possible instrument at his disposal when facing the Abyss, although in truth he had imagined his betrayed disciple would sooner throw the booklet in a lava river than accept help from the scum villain who had ruined his life. He had bet on Luo Binghe’s level-headedness in a crisis, his shrewd, practical mind, and he had bet right, for the notebook was intact, if rather worn, and Binghe handled it both with care and familiarity.

He gazed at the picture he himself had drawn in a hurry, three eggs of different shapes, a newborn, a fully-feathered chick and two parents, and wondered why Binghe hadn’t disposed of the booklet after it had served its purpose. “Look how pretty they are,” Luo Binghe sighed wistfully. “If there were chicks, wouldn’t Shizun want to come and see? Master bird should help this Venerable.” 

Shen Qingqiu swallowed, foreboding prickling along his spine. He had to leave before Luo Binghe made good on his threat and brought him over a… companion… to obtain the desired eggs. Also, Binghe, you are the Emperor of the demonic Realm! Have you no other plan but to lure your hateful teacher over using demonic beasts? Isn’t this a little far-fetched?

Well, Shen Qingqiu conceded, allowing Luo Binghe to pet his head, it seemed his disciple really did know him best.

Luo Binghe quickly formed a new routine, making space in his day to visit the crane’s enclosure at least once or twice, or, rather, arranging his affairs in order to be able to focus a bit more on paperwork (which could be completed from a bench rather than his own study) and less on receiving petitioners or hearing out disputes.

If Shizun could have seen him (and did not hate him) he would have probably been happy that Luo Binghe was spending time outside in the sun instead of ‘wasting his youth on chores all cooped up at home’. Of course, the Palace was as far from a home as Luo Binghe could imagine, and every moment he spent there he was on edge and constantly waiting to be attacked, but the principle still applied: and fresh air, he found, truly did improve his mood, if only just.

Perhaps this was also due to the fact that this last beast he had picked up for Shen Qingqiu’s future enjoyment seemed to be dearly fond of him for some reason, and kept fussing and fluttering about him like it thought Luo Binghe could not fend for himself —which, obviously, he could, but it was nice to be cared for so simply and earnestly: it was with great bitterness that Luo Binghe missed the way his much-indulgent master had spoiled him and petted him in the past, even when he’d long outgrown the need for such things. So he accepted the creature’s strange coddling, and came back for more.

Every day, a fresh fish was caught for him especially, sometimes before the crane had even fetched one for itself; Luo Binghe planned his own meals accordingly, and made up for the monotony of the fare by coming up with increasingly creative ways to cook the same food. It brought him back a sliver of peace to concern himself with such mundane matters, to finally remember what it was to feel like a person instead of the starving, wounded, blindingly-furious beast that had clawed its way from the Abyss; and likewise he began to hope that in the time that had passed since the Conference Shen Qingqiu might have missed the disciple he’d favored so much, that he might regret the choice to spurn him without even granting Luo Binghe the chance to explain.

He knew he had been wrong to practice demonic cultivation in secret, knew how damning it must have appeared in the midst of a demonic invasion that had already taken dozens of lives, how terrible it had certainly been for Shizun to find out about his hidden heritage so violently and at such a delicate moment. But for his master to try and kill him outright! Luo Binghe still found that hard to believe —could not believe it, for the sake of his heart and to protect the future he yet envisioned for himself.

Of course Shen Qingqiu was wary of demons! Even just across the handful of years Luo Binghe had been at his side, his master had needed to face down Sha Hualing’s presumptuous attack, had permanently ruined his meridians because of Without-a-Cure, and had nearly gotten killed by Mobei-jun’s ice-blades when his qi was low and he was trying to protect a disciple who he immediately after had discovered had been lying to him for quite some time. Of course he would be furious! When Luo Binghe had realized he was immune to most poisons, curses and ailments he had felt such hatred towards himself only the thought of his master’s (pointless!) sacrifice had kept him going. 

But, Shizun couldn’t really have wanted him dead, right?

It wasn’t fair. Shen Qingqiu had told him he believed demons had the same capacity for good and evil as humans, but then, he had also said Luo Binghe wasn’t like the rest, for a Heavenly demon (he now understood this for himself as well) existed on a different power-scale entirely, capable of such destruction Luo Binghe had hardly dared imagine before he’d been the one to dole it out in the Abyss. He had experienced the blood-lust and murder-frenzy Shen Qingqiu had warned him about, and had glutted himself on it for weeks and weeks until he’d near-exhausted the boundless reserves of his qi and had forcibly dragged himself from that point of no-return. 

“Why aren’t you afraid of me, Master bird?” Luo Binghe asked of the creature that was currently nestled on his thigh with its long neck curved about his shoulder and its beak swiftly combing through his curls. “Can’t you sense what I am?” 

The crane’s claws dug gently into his flesh as if in reproach, and it clicked its beak at him, chittering out a little hooting response. Luo Binghe smoothed his fingers down the silken curve of the bird’s spine, careful not to upset the grain of its magnificent feathers, and held very still as that sharp beak approached his face, ever-so-lightly pinching his cheek. “You are not at all behaving like Shizun said you would,” Luo Binghe informed the ludicrously tame demonic crane. “Shizun is never wrong about beasts —well, hopefully he was wrong about me — so that is very strange indeed. Were you somebody’s pet that got lost?” 

Offering him a distinctly unamused glare, the crane fluffed up its wings and left its comfortable perch upon Luo Binghe’s thigh. This bird seemed to understand speech to an extent, and was quite easy to offend, Luo Binghe had learned, but even easier to coax —more often than not coaxing itself all on its own.

In fact, Luo Binghe had only to focus on a report sent by a vassal clan for a few moments before his crane returned bearing a small branch full of ripe berries; elegantly perched on the farthest corner of the bench, the bird smugly showed off its prize, which it had clearly brought over for Luo Binghe (for the crane did not like being watched as it ate, and often went to hide) looking like it wanted a bit of cajoling. Luo Binghe extended his hand and brushed his knuckles against its cheek. “Master bird is too generous to this Venerable,” he said, and caught the branch before it was flung straight into his papers. The crane’s feathers rippled twice, and then it was once again worming its way in Luo Binghe’s lap, settling in as if it was a throne.

The berries were very sweet.

Shen Qingqiu came to the conclusion that he really couldn’t control this bird form of his at all.

Well, perhaps a little.

Look, it was just nice to get the chance to dote on the protagonist again! Even blackened, even in the middle of conquering the demonic Realm, Luo Binghe was still so fluffy and bright, like a little star that had somehow decided its time was well spent walking amongst regular people. And the gap moe! Irresistible! Luo Binghe would step into the enclosure, tall and menacing and terribly handsome wearing the demonic equivalent of a Dragon Robe, and then he would do something extremely cute like crouch down to pet a random demonic crane on the head, or let that very same creature perch in his lap, or share strips of dried fruit (Shen Qingqiu’s favorite! Preserved in honey and still tender on the inside!) and Shen Qingqiu’s confusing instincts would go haywire.

He hadn’t spent this much consecutive time with Luo Binghe even back when they lived in the same house! Yes, they used to take some of their meals together, and Shen Qingqiu’s dependable white lotus was generally available when his master had need for something, but they each of them had their own specific duties, after all, and it wasn’t like Shen Qingqiu could have just stopped running his Peak to hang out with the protagonist, no matter how appealing the prospect. Now that he was functionally an unemployed, lazy bird, he could keep Binghe company while he attended to the Empire’s affairs and fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat pressed against his ear. Aside from this weird need he felt to feed his disciple, Shen Qingqiu had no other pressing responsibilities, and could be as much of a salted fish as he desired!

If you looked at it sideways, this curse could even count as a vacation of sorts! Minus the brutal death via poison that would follow, of course, but then again, wasn’t it a much kinder fate than becoming a human stick? Luo Binghe would be deprived of his vengeance, which wasn’t at all right, but Shen Qingqiu had always been the sort of self-serving person who would seize an opportunity such as this one with both hands, wanting to spare himself some pain. Instead of having to face Binghe’s justified hatred for him and endure torture at his disciple’s hand, he could let Without-a-Cure run its course, and spend his last days getting pampered and playing with Binghe’s perfect curls.

Ah, but he hoped the rest of his charges on Qing Jing Peak did not think their master had abandoned them…

He had been rather absent from their lives since the Conference —another perk of being a crane was the temporary respite it provided from the dread that filled him to the point of suffocation when he was in possession of all of his faculties and could remember with masochistic clarity Binghe’s stricken face on the edge of the Abyss, the tears that had lined his soot-covered cheeks, the bright flash of blood on his chest that Shen Qingqiu had never meant to spill, his desperate pleas… As a bird, removed from his memories like a play he’d only half-watched, his singular concern was for the present, and his present contained a slightly-overworked but generally benign Luo Binghe, raw fish, and warm hands smoothing out his feathers with impeccable care. 

All this to say, Shen Qingqiu had not tried very hard to escape his enclosure. At night, he often found himself too sluggish to move much, for his spiritual veins were clogged and his limbs laden. Even the fear that mere days before had been a powerful motivator for him was difficult to recall through the haze of the poison, the fever it ran in his blood, the ache that pulsed in his joints. Mostly, he slept, and attempted meditation, and did his best to wash himself despite the chill that still clung to the water at the beginnings of the warm season. So far, he had been fortunate in that it hadn’t rained yet, and that his disciple had not sought him out in the dark, perhaps aware that his favored crane belonged to a diurnal species.

This was the first time Luo Binghe brought over other demons to see him, however.

Shen Qingqiu clicked his beak in displeasure at the sight of his disciple surrounded by people —their time in the enclosure was private, there was no need for interlopers! He really had better get a move on with that nest, and be sure to build it only large enough to comfortably fit Luo Binghe, perhaps safely shielded by the soft fragrant curtain of a willow’s pliant branches… Barely drawing himself from the fantasy, Shen Qingqiu, who had been ready to fly over in order to greet his blackened lotus by the bench, went to perch on a tree instead, peering suspiciously down at their guests.

It surprised him how emphatically he disliked their presence. Was this another after-effect of his being a bird? Moonstone demonic cranes were aggressively territorial, especially during the warmer months and if guarding mates or offspring, so it wasn’t entirely inconceivable that his instincts would react when something he deeply valued was intruded upon by invaders. As he looked, he kept noticing more and more incongruous details that set him on edge —Luo Binghe was appropriately charming, of course, not a hair out of place as he smiled genially for his audience, unruffled, poised, truly a dark hero for the ages. It was the way his guests behaved that did not sit right with Shen Qingqiu. 

Four demons in total, or perhaps a single demon who had the ability to split themself in four, walked with Luo Binghe down the beautiful path snaking across the courtyard, allowing any visitor to pass unscathed among the many beasts Luo Binghe had trapped there. These guests were exceedingly polite (which, Shen Qingqiu recalled from the original novel, was definitely a red flag when it came to demons, although Luo Binghe might not yet be aware, considering he had only just established his reign) and dressed in identical outfits of layered gauze in white and purple. Ah, was that a gentian flower painted on their chests?

What the hell was this! Why was the plot in shambles! Luo Binghe was —he was much too young to deal with this particular opponent! They were going to douse him with a poison that, at this stage, might severely impact the progress of his demonic cultivation and completely erase the advantage he had painstakingly obtained in the Abyss! 

Fruitlessly, Shen Qingqiu called out for the System in his mind, and the blood in his veins chilled when he received no response —shouldn’t that accursed thing come back online since the protagonist was about to face a serious threat? A good narrative should design its antagonists so that they grew along with the champion’s abilities, gradually raising the bar for danger until the final show-down saw the unquestioned hero conquering the ultimate evil and emerging wounded but triumphant. Proud Immortal Demon Way hardly counted as passable, let alone good, but even that hack author had known not to mess with this one law: do not send your protagonist to fight something that he cannot feasibly defeat.

But there it was —Luo Binghe was going to be offered a flower, and as he reached for it the flower would turn into a needle, and it would cut through his palm, and—

Shen Qingqiu had to do something .

Anything! 

But what?

What?

Calling upon the demonic qi residing in his throat, Shen Qingqiu threw himself head-first against the barrier marking the edges of his enclosure. It hurt, to push through Luo Binghe’s array: not as much as Without-a-Cure on a bad day, but enough that Shen Qingqiu had to make a conscious effort not to screech in agony and recoil, which was probably what clever Binghe had counted upon when picking a containment spell to hold powerful beasts. Not deadly, but definitely nothing that an animal would willingly endure. Shen Qingqiu, however, was not an animal, and was quite used to ignoring discomfort, and so he flapped his wings and pointed his beak and sprinted forward. All the air fled his lungs and his vision swam, feathers mantling as he battled his instincts and pretended he couldn’t feel the flamelike touch of a Heavenly demon’s qi licking over his skin.

Then, he was out, and without giving himself a moment’s grace, he launched himself between his disciple and the guest who was about to harm him. The noise that came out of him was truly unbecoming, but he paid it little mind, driving the sharp point of his beak straight through the throat of the nearest demon. His wings were spread, exposing an unsettling amount of jaws, hissing as he reared back and adjusted his trajectory, wanting to ensure the poisonous flower was dropped where it couldn’t reach his Binghe.

As they gurgled out their dying breaths, the spliced demon twitched, body jerking unpredictably.

Two things happened at once: first, the needle dragged a path across Shen Qingqiu’s right wing (and it was always the right hand, wasn’t it? Perhaps Shen Qingqiu should simply cut it off…) and second, the red sun of the Realm slipped below the horizon.

Luo Binghe had been ready to catch the crane as it fell —was already berating himself for how slow he had been, how incautious, that this friendly bird he had become attached to had seen the danger coming before him and sought to protect him from it— but he stumbled when, instead of feathers, he grabbed onto a flutter of green silks and ink-like hair. The man who slumped boneless against his chest was jarringly familiar, and the last person he had ever expected to see in the middle of the demonic Palace, panting around yet another unknown poison he had taken in Luo Binghe’s stead.

“Shi… Shizun?” he called, like a child, dropping to his knees to make a cradle with his body for pale-faced, choking Shen Qingqiu. “Shizun, can it be… can it be you?”  

It was. While countless ways existed in which one might steal the shape of another, it was near-impossible to trick a Heavenly demon’s senses: Shen Qingqiu’s signature scent, even drowned among the smells of pond water and vegetation and earth, was unmistakable, especially to Luo Binghe who had made his Shizun his home. Shizun, who was now reclined in his arms, his body heavy with poison, the elegant curve of his neck intimately frightening as blood bloomed like a morbid flower across the torn sleeve of his ruined robe, from which a single broken wing trailed silver-blue feathers upon the ground.

Although Shen Qingqiu’s eyes were open wide, it was evident he couldn’t see. Luo Binghe bit harshly into the meat of his own palm, stuck two fingers inside his master’s wet mouth, and poured his own blood within in a desperate attempt at halting the progress of the multiple curses fighting for dominance inside his veins. Shizun’s human arm flailed; his long nails scorched raw lines down Luo Binghe’s jaw, across his neck, until finally Shen Qingqiu found purchase in his robes and flipped himself, hunching his shoulders and listing to the side. Luo Binghe had to grab him by the waist so he did not entirely topple over, unsupported by the injured wing which was flickering in and out of existence, and then Shen Qingqiu’s spine arched violently and he heaved red and cloying pink onto the ground.

In the Abyss, Luo Binghe had witnessed far worse sights than this (had eaten worse things too) but the terror he experienced on the daily then couldn’t hold a candle against the bleak, devastating panic squeezing around his lungs; for a moment, he thought he might spit out his heart, so quickly it was beating. Again, Luo Binghe tried to feed Shen Qingqiu his blood parasites, and narrowly avoided getting his fingers bitten off as his master convulsed, spurred by inhuman strength.

“Shizun! Shizun, you need to swallow— please!” he begged, but Shen Qingqiu threw up again, and his breath was wheezing. “Don’t die! Shizun!”

Shen Qingqiu squirmed, gasping for air, and his hair fell forward in a mess, hiding his face from view. Luo Binghe slipped away from beneath him to instead support him from behind, afraid he might choke himself, and stuck his forehead against his master’s neck. I must save him , he thought, and then: only I can save him .

A chilling, blessed calm descended on him. Without further hesitation, Luo Binghe grabbed Shen Qingqiu by the jaw, pried his mouth open and poured fresh blood in; then, unheeding of the way his master flailed and groaned, he sealed his lips and nose with a palm and massaged his throat so that he would swallow. “Stop moving!” Luo Binghe hissed, locking his knees about Shen Qingqiu’s, trying to contain him as they struggled, Shizun against the excruciating pain of the poison and Luo Binghe against Shizun. “Enough!” 

The blood parasites had spread across Shen Qingqiu’s system —and in a blink Luo Binghe had him limp and still, wide-eyed with fear but otherwise entirely at Luo Binghe’s mercy. “I’m sorry,” he sighed, lifting him up in his arms. “I don’t know another way to help you.” 

Shen Qingqiu’s head flopped against his shoulder; he let out a rattling breath, then lost consciousness entirely. Perhaps it was for the best, as the crane’s wing had finally disappeared, exposing his master’s unlucky hand: and there, alongside the dazzling pink injury that tore his flesh in two, were the marks of Without-a-Cure, as dark and festering as the day he had received them, and Luo Binghe only saved himself from a second fall to the ground because he was terrified of jostling his master too much and causing the poison to reach his heart. “Shizun, what… what have you done to yourself?” 

As he concentrated on mending the truly horrifying chaos of Shen Qingqiu’s body, Luo Binghe considered his options. He soon found out his blood mites meant nothing against Without-a-Cure, only capable of fixing as far as the most surface-level damage; as for the curse that had turned him into a bird, or the new poison Shen Qingqiu had added to his collection, Luo Binghe could scarcely make sense of them enough to stall their advance for a while. He required assistance, and medical expertise he simply did not have: the way forward was obvious, but Luo Binghe was not sure where it would lead, if his master had spoken of Luo Binghe’s true nature to his fellow Peak Lords, if he would even be allowed entry into Cang Qiong. If it came to that, he could simply steal Mu Qingfang, bring him to the Palace, and keep him until Shizun recovered…

He reached for the sword which had been besieging his mind with calls for violence and sickening suggestions, then stopped mid-way, thinking better of it, afraid it might try and harm the master whose spiritual qi Luo Binghe had started carefully circulating. Shifting Shen Qingqiu’s weight on a single arm, Luo Binghe divested himself of the golden pins and earrings that marked his status as Junshang of the demonic Realm, shed the first two layers of his complex, heavily embroidered robes, and fashioned a human glamor for himself and for Xin Mo. 

Then, unwilling to waste any more time, he summoned Mobei-jun.

When Shen Qingqiu next awoke, he would have believed himself still dreaming were it not for the insufferable pain lancing through his right arm: for even through his blurred vision he could see not only that he was laid onto one of the private beds in Mu- shidi ’s clinic, but that Luo Binghe (blackened Luo Binghe who should despise him) was holding his uninjured wrist in a delicate grip, feeding him a trickle of spiritual qi that felt magnificent (and terribly nostalgic) against his ruined meridians. Fluffy black curls filled his vision when his disciple (still?) leaned in and called: “Shizun?” 

Shen Qingqiu closed his eyes, retreating back into the haze of pain and sedatives swirling inside his body; belatedly, he realized he could not move, and that the roof of his mouth was layered in the bitter taste of blood and herbs, but couldn’t quite summon the appropriate concern for it, wondering whether Luo Binghe had managed to feed him his deadly parasites (of course he had! How else would Shen Qingqiu be still alive?) and what he planned to do going forward. Exhaustion dragged him under, but he still caught confusing snatches of conversation between Luo Binghe and Mu Qingfang.

“It’s a good thing that Shen- shixiong has been travelling so much lately, and brought back the leaves and bark of a double-edged wandering willow, or this master wouldn’t have known what to do about this particular poison,” Mu Qingfang said, and Shen Qingqiu felt somewhat vindicated, especially considering that most of his martial siblings had given him incessant grief regarding his sudden drive to explore the world on his own. “Although I would have much preferred Shen- shixiong had not put himself in danger so frequently. Hopefully now that Luo- shizhi has returned…” 

Mu- shidi ! Do you mean to imply that this master cannot look after himself and needs Luo Binghe to mind him? And you have the gall to ask why this Shen doesn’t visit you often… 

He had no way of making his displeasure known, for his limbs were forced still by skillfully applied needles, but the irritation was quick to fade when Luo Binghe started washing his hair with a wet cloth (he could, distantly, remember throwing up all over himself and maybe also Binghe’s imperial robes, which would have certainly caused his dread and horror to spike were it not for the fact that he was high on painkillers). The gentle pull of his disciple’s fingers against his scalp lulled him into a false sense of security, and he knew, he knew he should not lower his guard, but he was so tired, and surely he was allowed to take advantage of this unexpected moment of respite? 

He dozed off a little while Mu Qingfang stitched the open wound on his arm, and woke up after the doctor had drained the sedatives from his system and extracted the needles from his flesh; Luo Binghe was holding his head up with a hand, pressing a plain white cup against his lips. The stink of it was atrocious.

Shen Qingqiu froze. “Shizun should drink his medicine,” Luo Binghe said softly, and Shen Qingqiu did, feeling like he had been thrown into an alternative universe in which he had not pushed his precious white lamb into the Endless Abyss and it was thus expected for his disciple to still care for him so. Mu Qingfang’s concoction tasted only marginally better than it smelled, but Shen Qingqiu was well used to imbibing all sorts of revolting potions by then, and had subsided on a diet of raw fish for the past week, so the drink did not even trigger his gag reflex —a small mercy, considering his throat and stomach ached fiercely after the violent heaving he had put them through.

Luo Binghe took the cup away once it was empty; the side of his face was marked with strangely even scratches, and Shen Qingqiu raised his hand to touch before remembering he should be scared it would be removed from his wrist. But Luo Binghe had brought him to Qian Cao for healing, and Mu Qingfang was right there in the room mixing medicine and watching them out of the corner of his eye, and perhaps Binghe did not intend to begin his revenge arc just yet… So Shen Qingqiu touched his fingertips to the curve of Binghe’s jaw, and saw that the cuts matched the curves of his too-long nails, and some great sorrow filled his chest.

“This master is sorry,” he sighed, “I hadn’t meant to hurt you.” 

A sharp yet shaky breath pushed past Luo Binghe’s lips, and his starry eyes were glossy with a wet sheen, and Shen Qingqiu was extremely confused by the faint aura of yearning and despair that surrounded him —when first they’d met, Binghe had been a starved, beaten, unloved thing, but he had grown, Shen Qingqiu had made sure of it, so why should he look like he might shatter at the slightest pressure— but before he could push past the still-dispersing cloying haze of sedatives to wrap his mind around this unexpected development, Mu Qingfang clicked his tongue in warning at him and drew Shen Qingqiu’s hand away, back on the bed.

“This master is glad Shen- shixiong is feeling better, but would it be too much to ask that you refrain from unnecessary use of your spiritual power for the time being?” 

Luo Binghe’s gaze darkened, but Shen Qingqiu got the feeling his disciple’s annoyance was not reserved for the doctor, but rather for his master… He shivered. “This Shen will endeavour to be more careful in the future,” he said, quickly collecting himself —ah, where was his fan? He was completely at a loss as to how to navigate this situation, and without the System to leash his actions and force him in a predetermined direction, he couldn’t quite make sense of what this newfound freedom entailed. 

Mu Qingfang nodded curtly in Shen Qingqiu’s direction. “This shidi can only hope,” he muttered, closing his fingers around Shen Qingqiu’s wrist to cycle his qi for him. Then, instead of addressing his patient as he should have, he turned to Luo Binghe to give his assessment, leaving Shen Qingqiu reeling from the painful sense of déjà vu that assaulted him: in the past, it had been his closest disciple who took care of his health, having insisted upon it and obtained permission at sixteen, and Mu Qingfang had grown used to forwarding any concerns directly to Luo Binghe. “I trust Luo- shizhi has not forgotten how to clear Shen- shixiong ’s meridians?” said the doctor lightly, waiting for Luo Binghe to nod. “I have managed to stabilize Without-a-Cure as it was before the current transformation curse Shen- shixiong is under acted on it, but every evening once the transformation ends you will need to clear your master’s meridians, and watch for any sign that the poison is advancing again.”

Luo Binghe pursed his lips. “This shizhi will watch Shizun with extreme care,” he vowed, in a tone that had Shen Qingqiu simultaneously hot about the ears and nearly nauseous with trepidation. “Does Shizun perhaps have any information regarding the curse that we might use to unravel it?”

Shen Qingqiu chewed on the inside of his cheek. He wasn’t about to expose himself for being stupid enough to get caught in a wife-plot! What was he meant to say, this master knows of a case that was cured through the power of Heavenly demon dick, or rather, the power of admitting to wanting a ride ? He’d quite literally prefer to die. “This master isn’t certain how I came across such a curse. So far, I have been able to maintain an awareness of my own self during the day, even though it is difficult to contain the more… animalistic instincts associated with the transformation. However, I believe it is only a matter of months before the transformation becomes… ah… a permanent one.”

Mu Qingfang shook his head: “I am afraid it will not come to that. Without-a-Cure is only temporarily subdued, and will burn through your meridians and then through your body very soon. Three weeks, if we’re very careful.” 

“This master understands,” said Shen Qingqiu, who had expected such a thing. The already chilly temperature of the room dropped by another few degrees; ah, Binghe! Your murderous aura is truly unparalleled! The tiny hairs at the base of his skull pricked with discomfort as the considerable weight of the protagonist’s frustration landed squarely onto Shen Qingqiu’s head. Of course, Luo Binghe must feel his plans to bring his scum teacher to justice had been thwarted by such a fast-acting curse! But Shen Qingqiu, as previously stated, wasn’t so selfless as to actively work against his own interests in this! The mushroom bodies had only just begun to grow, after all, so the only choice he had left concerned the flavor of death that awaited him. 

In that case, let him be a bird, please!

“Thanking shidi for his care,” Shen Qingqiu added, working hard to ignore the hole his disciple was burning on his forehead with his glaring. “May this master return home for the time being? Qing Jing’s library might yield more information regarding the curse, and I would truly appreciate a bath.”

Mu Qingfang regarded him quietly for a long moment with something heavier in his gaze than simple worry; then he nodded. “That might be for the best, provided you take Luo- shizhi with you. This master will visit you tomorrow in the evening, and we can decide together what information to share with the rest of the Sect.”

Luo Binghe waited until they had reached the bamboo house before rounding on Shizun.

In the Abyss, he had dreamed (and dreamed and dreamed and dreamed ) of returning home, of walking the Rainbow Bridge at his master’s side, taking in the spring air of their mountain, of listening to Shen Qingqiu chatter about his day-to-day life and the subjects he was currently researching. He should be weeping for joy to have his heart’s desire delivered to him so easily, but it was soured, so terribly soured, by the frightening truth that Shen Qingqiu was dying —would die, soon, three weeks were less than a blink, and they had wasted days and days playing about in the enclosure, instead of searching for a solution, and it hurt, almost as much as Xiu Ya had hurt, to see how little his master trusted him.

The door closed behind them, and Shen Qingqiu, who had been watching him silently from above the leaf of his fan, who was so tense it made Luo Binghe’s skin crawl by reflex, leaned against the nearest wall and raised his chin ever so slightly to look him in the eye.

He was guarded in a way Luo Binghe sincerely thought he did not deserve, for what had he done except save him and heal him and follow him like a dog looking for its next beating…? What had he done to warrant such suspicion? And such grief, too, heavy in the set of Shen Qingqiu’s mouth, in the bruises under his eyes, the white-knuckled grip he held on his fan.

Luo Binghe wanted to assist him, to gather his elbows in his hands and guide him to sit, but he wasn’t sure how to approach him anymore, and so instead he snapped at him. “Why didn’t you ask for help, Shizun?” he hissed, and felt Shen Qingqiu’s flinch like a physical injury. “If you were human at night, why didn’t you come to me? Do you believe me so lowly that I—”

Shen Qingqiu turned his head to the side. “Binghe, enough. This master wouldn’t just choose to die if… If there was a different option.”

Now that the immediate anguish of loss was receding, Luo Binghe was starting to remember that he was actually quite angry at his master. “Wouldn’t you, Shizun?” he rebuked him, raising his voice, overwhelmed and desperate and feeling like they were once again standing at the edge of an Abyss, like he was reaching and reaching while Shen Qingqiu fled. “Forgive me, but I find that hard to believe.” 

Shizun frowned, closed his fan. Luo Binghe hadn’t noticed yet how wasted he looked, how thin, but as he watched him shrink into the wall he wondered if it was only exhaustion that kept his master from running away from him. The thought served to further incense him, taking root inside his mind, and he bared his teeth as the human façade he had so carefully crafted slipped from him. “You may hate me now, but don’t think for a moment that I don’t know you, Shizun!” he cried, stalking forward, and despised the dust which clung to the hems of his robes, and the emptiness of the house, and the helplessness of Shen Qingqiu’s gaze, the resignation. “I am the one who knows you best in the entire world, do you think I can’t tell that you’re hiding something?” 

The corner of Shen Qingqiu’s mouth twitched. 

Luo Binghe had been horrified, horrified , to see how easily his master had accepted Mu Qingfang’s diagnosis; but Mu Qingfang hadn’t been surprised at all, and Luo Binghe hadn’t even considered the possibility that he could have rejoined the cultivation world to find Shizun was gone, that had he not decided, in this instance, to catch a demonic crane for himself then Shen Qingqiu would have died, without even attempting to save himself, and as he contemplated this monstrous truth he could hardly bear to directly look at, he came to the disturbing realization that it was not a new truth at all.

“You’ve been courting death ever since I was fifteen,” he whispered, and Shen Qingqiu blinked at him, taken aback, as if he hadn’t noticed. “Surely you realize how dangerous it is for you not to take your medicine! At the Conference, you came down to fight demons in the middle of a Without-a-Cure episode! You went against Mobei-jun, what did you think would happen to you? You did that with Sha Hualing too, Shizun, I’m not stupid, I see you when you do these things.” 

He couldn’t help but reach forward, then, and grasp his master’s hands and the fan he was squeezing in a white-knuckled grip, and Shen Qingqiu’s mouth had parted in silent shock, and Luo Binghe could smell the poison on him and wanted to growl at it, to cry and yell and stomp his feet like a child whose mother was dying, and he felt how cold his master’s fingers were in his, how prominent each delicate bone, and understood that this was truly the end of the world —of his world, at least. “But you can’t die, Shizun, do you hear me? After all you’ve done to me! How dare you think you can just die —”

Shizun’s dark eyes were devoid of their usual gentle shine. “After all this master has done to you, do I not deserve to die?” Shen Qingqiu corrected him softly.

Luo Binghe reeled back. “No,” he said, and dropped his arms, devastated, and his anger reached a fever pitch —was it even anger if it sat in his chest like a wound, like Shen Qingqiu had reached in with his bare hand to tear out his heart? But it was heated and loud and burned his tongue as it grew, and he had to exercise a conscious effort not to hold his master’s wrists so tightly they would snap. “Shizun, I swear to you, if you die, I will follow you all the way to the Naihe Bridge to bring you back!” he snarled. “Wasn’t it enough that you threw me away? Would you abandon me like that! Do you hate me that much, Shizun?” 

Shen Qingqiu’s breath was short. “I don’t,” he protested. “I couldn’t.” And he gazed at Luo Binghe and he was full of sorrow, like earlier in Mu Qingfang’s clinic when he had used his precious qi to heal some shallow scratches on a Heavenly demon’s skin, and Luo Binghe did not understand, how the master who had thrown him to his death could speak his name so sweetly. “Binghe…” 

“I don’t believe you,” Luo Binghe said, hollow. “If you didn’t hate me, you wouldn’t let yourself die,” he added, leaning in, and now he could also smell the medicine on Shen Qingqiu’s lips; he considered how completely he had loved this person, how it hurt to love him still while two years existed of his life in which they had been apart, in which Shen Qingqiu had not known him. He tried to make sense of the concept of there being many more such years, if Shizun died. “Tell me the cure, Shizun, and then I’ll believe you.”  

His master’s gaze flickered across his face, down to his hands, then the window. “The cure for what?” he asked, as if stalling for time.

“For this curse, what else!” Luo Binghe yelled, barely resisting the urge to shake his master until his teeth rattled, to shake the truth loose from his mouth. “Unless…” What else? Why had Shen Qingqiu needed him to specify? A terrible, terrible conclusion entered Luo Binghe’s mind. “No. No, Shizun —you can’t know what the cure for Without-a-Cure is. Surely, not even you would…” 

He trailed off, searching for reassurance in his master’s face; what he found —an evasive, guilty shifting of his eyes— hit him so violently he took a step back. Still linked, their hands bridged the gap between them. “But you do. You do, you’ve always known, and you’ve never said.” 

It had been nearly five years —five years in which Shen Qingqiu could have been cured, had he only mentioned… His master turned away, and Luo Binghe grabbed his chin to halt the motion. “Look at me! Stop lying , Shizun!” he begged through clenched teeth; he could feel the sharp tips of his own fangs draw blood into his lower lip, and wondered what it was Shen Qingqiu saw when he looked at his face. “Tell me what the antidote is, and I’ll get it for you. Shizun! Tell me, or must I look for a plant that will make you?” 

“I refuse to do that to you!” Shizun barked, and then his free hand flew up to cover his mouth, eyes widening as he heard the thing he had confessed aloud.

“ To me?” Luo Binghe pressed, seizing that small mistake with all of his focus. He had already tried his blood and it had fallen short —but perhaps his clever master who always knew too much, much more than a cultivator should, perhaps he had information no one else could access, on Heavenly demons and their abilities, or maybe a blessed plant or artefact that was so unreachable as to be only available to one who could survive the Abyss… In that case, even if he must return to that living hell, Luo Binghe would go, and get the cure before the poison killed his master, and prove himself worthy of once more standing at his side.

But Shen Qingqiu was no longer in the habit of relying on him, and slid away from his slackened hold, head and shoulders pressed against the wall and a fine tremor running through his limbs. “Please,” he sighed, as if Luo Binghe was doing him an injustice in wanting to save him. “This master would like to retire now.” 

“Fine, Shizun,” Luo Binghe conceded, smarting with yet another rejection. “Fine. If you won’t deign to speak to this lowly beast, I will find other means.”

Shen Qingqiu’s knees gave out entirely, and he slid down to the floor. “What lowly beast? Luo Binghe, don’t demean yourself,” he sighed, but his disciple had already furiously slammed the door behind himself, leaving him alone in the bamboo house to contemplate the results of this first fight of theirs.

Luo Binghe had never raised his voice at his Shizun before, Shen Qingqiu distantly thought, purposely slowing down his breathing into something approaching meditation, for he did not wish to exhaust himself until after he had taken a bath —which he would have to prepare alone, since it was the dead of night and he had managed to drive Luo Binghe away with a single conversation— but then again, what was he meant to say? What did Binghe expect of him? Should he have told him the truth about dual cultivation, just to be laughed at, or worse, for Luo Binghe to feel obligated towards him and force himself?

He flexed his hands, watching the shift of tendon and bone and the slight tremors running through his wrists; the lingering warmth of Luo Binghe’s hold was rapidly failing, but Shen Qingqiu felt it still when he rested his face in his palms and sighed. Of course Luo Binghe would yell at him, it was the least he deserved —his disciple was no longer the unfailingly submissive little lotus of before, who would always do as asked and stare up at his master with innocent adoration: he was the man who had fought his way through the Abyss and rightfully resented Shen Qingqiu for throwing him there; not to mention the fact that, as an Emperor, he no longer owed his old Shizun any sort of reverence. 

But then, why would he be so insistent that Shen Qingqiu be saved? At first, Shen Qingqiu had believed Luo Binghe merely wanted to ensure his master’s end happened on his terms and after an appropriate length of punishment; that theory of his had crumbled in the face of Luo Binghe’s snappish demands that Shen Qingqiu trust him with the truth —not to mention the fact that his sullen, near-childish grievances seemed to hinge around his absolutely mistaken conviction that Shen Qingqiu hated him.

How he had reached that conclusion, Shen Qingqiu understood perfectly. But why should he care? What did it matter, ultimately, whether Shen Qingqiu had pushed him out of hatred or cowardice or any other reason? He had still done it, he had still shoved a sword in his disciple’s chest and all but murdered him…

And yet, Luo Binghe had held his hands.

Tightly, painfully so, enough that faint bruises were already blooming on the tender pale skin of Shen Qingqiu’s wrists —but although Luo Binghe’s anger remained a frightening, terrible thing, the way he had clung to him had been truly pitiful, heartbreaking instead of intimidating, and Shen Qingqiu didn’t know what to make of it.

He wanted to beg forgiveness, but could there even exist such a thing? In what world could his Binghe forgive him? If Luo Binghe tried, Shen Qingqiu would have to scold him for being too foolish and tender-hearted to the point of allowing people to walk all over him and take advantage! 

Pushing past the ache in his joints and the faint dizziness circling his head, Shen Qingqiu went and slowly prepared a bath for himself. The water jar kept in the cool storage room of the house was thankfully almost full, and as he carried bucket after bucket he thought of Luo Binghe doing this for him every morning for three years, bright-eyed and enthusiastic and happy to be of assistance. Sometimes, if Shen Qingqiu was especially tired after an episode of Without-a-Cure, his conscientious white lotus would even dry and comb his hair for him, and arrange pillows at his desk so that he didn’t have to strain himself overmuch as he worked. 

Remembering how sweet Luo Binghe had been in the past brought a tight, tangled sort of discomfort in his throat. As he finally shed the robes he had worn for too many days straight and stepped into the water, Shen Qingqiu finally gave serious thought to his future. Contrary to what Luo Binghe seemed to believe, he did not actively wish to die —had merely accepted death as his due for playing the role of the scum villain to one who did not deserve it. Although, it might be easier to die rather than live with the guilt and knowledge of what he had done to the righteous white-bellied gentle disciple who had trusted him so sincerely despite the abuse the original goods had heaped upon him. In truth, Shen Qingqiu wanted… Even though he knew the most he could hope for was indifference, more than anything, he wanted for Binghe to smile at him again. 

The motions of cleaning up, drying off and combing his hair in the silent bamboo house were really very lonely. Shen Qingqiu dragged himself to his bedroom, hungry but too tired to do anything about it, and instead of face-planting onto the bed like his body was begging him to he went to fetch one of the books on curses that had belonged to the original flavor and that had gotten pushed into a corner under the sheer amount of texts Shen Qingqiu had accumulated since his transmigration. Perhaps there was something he had overlooked regarding this spell he was under, something Shang Qinghua had neglected to mention but that nonetheless was recorded in some cultivation manual or another. 

He owed it to Luo Binghe (and Mu- shidi , who kept having to fish him out of such situations) to at least try and find a solution; even if such a solution most likely did not exist, putting in the effort had to count for something, right? And perhaps Binghe would not be quite so furious with him if he showed he was willing to do the work, if he made it clear he had no desire to ‘abandon him’ as he had accused. 

It was too quiet on the Peak so deep at night. Now that Luo Binghe had returned (that he was, presumably, wandering the grounds in a frenzy) Shen Qingqiu felt his absence more keenly than when he’d been in the Abyss. How strange.

Luo Binghe went to run laps around the Peak.

The fresh night air and the ink-drop sky above provided a much-needed counterpoint for the restless fury burning through his veins (both his demonic blood, set in turmoil because Shizun’s life was under threat and there was nothing for him to defeat but his master’s own stubbornness, and Xin Mo’s insidious influence, beating like a sea-storm against the shores of his mind). He was, in truth, much too old to still be running laps, but the repetitive exercise drained the excess energy from his body and helped him beat his conflicting urges into submission. He completed thirty circuits with ease (and not a small amount of satisfaction, for his younger self would have collapsed jelly-legged after at most twenty) and then another ten for meditation.

Then, once his breath had evened and his claws no longer itched quite so loudly to be taken out, he left Qing Jing entirely and sought out Mu Qingfang, who had proven himself to be more of an ally than Luo Binghe had expected, readily entrusting Shen Qingqiu’s health and safety to him despite his apparently unjustified absence —Luo Binghe had been relieved and so, so confused to find Shizun had breathed not a word on the matter of his nature, that he hadn’t even removed Luo Binghe’s name from the ledgers of their Peak, counting him as his disciple still. He could seize that unexpected advantage, that small concession on his master’s part, and use it to reclaim his place at Shen Qingqiu’s side, but only if Shen Qingqiu himself survived…

“Mu- shishu ,” Luo Binghe called, grateful to see that the doctor was still awake in his study, bent over his research. He had not flinched when Luo Binghe had come in through the window, merely set aside his papers and arched an eyebrow expectantly, and Luo Binghe himself had little time to waste, and sat by him quickly. “I’ve spoken with Shizun, and it seems… It seems he is under the impression that I can cure Without-a-Cure, but he won’t explain. Does Mu- shishu have an idea as to what that could entail?” 

Mu Qingfang blinked in genuine surprise. For a moment, Luo Binghe’s heart sank, and then the doctor’s eyes lit up in recognition, and he waved a hand to activate the privacy spells surrounding his study. “Luo- shizhi would have to trust in this master and let me make an examination of your demonic heritage for me to give a reliable answer.” 

Luo Binghe licked his lips. In retrospect, he might have been overconfident (and Meng Mo with him, who had seen no fault in his assessment) in believing a cultivator such as Mu Qingfang, whose knowledge of qi and curses was second to none across the Realms, would remain ignorant of his true nature. The question remained of why he hadn’t denounced him, but Luo Binghe set it aside. “Very well, Mu- shishu ,” he said, guarded. “This one is part Heavenly demon; perhaps half.” 

“Heavenly demon? That is quite unexpected. May I?” Obligingly, Luo Binghe offered up his wrist; Mu Qingfang’s spiritual energy probed delicately at his veins, completing many turns before the doctor pulled away and smiled. “Hm. Shen- shixiong is right, your demonic qi is strong enough that it might burn out the poison from his veins entirely. It would, however, require full dual cultivation—”

“Dual cultivation?” Luo Binghe couldn’t help but interrupt, aghast. “That’s it? He made it sound like it would be —but then, why wouldn’t he— I don’t understand.”

Mu Qingfang got up from his desk; Luo Binghe watched him, ears ringing and thoughts in a jumble, as he methodically searched through his bookshelves. “Before now, Shen- shixiong must not have known what manner of demon you were,” said Mu Qingfang, taking down several leaflets in rapid succession. 

Luo Binghe shook his head, closing his hands into fists as he pushed down the memory of that day in which his master had thrown him away, how frightening the emptiness of his gaze had been, the ice in his voice. “But he found out. He found out during the Conference, and still he—”

Having also procured a number of jars, Mu Qingfang placed his booklets onto the desk and sat down again. “He sent you away to the demonic Realm, did he not?” he ventured gently. “He must have wanted to protect you. In the middle of an invasion, turning up a Heavenly demon would have resulted in your execution, and perhaps even his. You would have been accused of being a spy at the very least…” 

“But if I could have cured him—”

“Luo- shizhi , are you aware of what happened to the last Heavenly Emperor of the demonic Realm?” Mu Qingfang demanded. Luo Binghe nodded, because Mobei-jun had told him, perhaps to discourage his plan of taking over the Huan Hua sect in particular, or perhaps because he believed (erroneously) that Luo Binghe cared about the birthparents who had abandoned him. Mu Qingfang reached for his wrist again, as if confirming something for himself. “Of course Shen- shixiong wouldn’t let that history repeat with you. And he did mourn your absence most dearly. In fact, this master intended to speak with you in private regarding Shen- shixiong ’s recovery and perhaps a meal plan for the coming months… Provided we manage to break this shapeshifting curse in time.” 

Luo Binghe forcibly brought himself back to the present. “Mu- shishu will have at his disposal all the resources of the demonic Realm and my imperial Palace,” he offered at once. “If Mu- shishu would agree to visit…” 

The doctor smiled, and began to write down a list of plants and remedies that could only be found across the demonic lands; most of them, Luo Binghe had stocked in his coffers at the Palace, and could have delivered to Cang Qiong at a whim. “This Mu will be honest: as far as medicine goes, the cultivation world could only benefit from strengthening peaceful ties with the demonic lands. It would be my privilege to visit.” Mu Qingfang paused. “There is the matter of the Sect Leader to address.” 

“I will request Shizun’s assistance for that,” Luo Binghe decided, feeling like he understood his master a little more after this. I refuse to do that to you , Shen Qingqiu had yelled, and of course the person who fretted when Luo Binghe spent too much time cooking him elaborate meals would not be comfortable demanding a treatment as intimate as dual cultivation from a disciple in his care, no matter how much said disciple might wish he would. “As for Without-a-Cure…”

“Luo- shizhi is certainly aware Shen- shixiong is not the type who would ask for such a thing, especially not a beloved disciple,” Mu Qingfang sighed, unknowingly echoing Luo Binghe’s thoughts. “This master will provide you with the necessary materials, and trust that you can persuade him,” he added matter-of-factly, and Luo Binghe silently admired his composure. “Now, I would like to discuss that sword you’ve brought over with you…”

Half a shichen later, Luo Binghe left Qian Cao Peak with an extra qian kun pouch, a new array of medicines for Shen Qingqiu to take, and a brighter outlook on the troubling situation they were in.

He returned to the bamboo house to find his master on his knees before his bed, spine in a twist as he slept with his face reclining in the crook of his folded arm. His right hand hung near-lifeless at his side, knuckles brushing the floor; the nails were tinted faintly violet, as if frost-bitten. Quietly, Luo Binghe lowered himself to his height, and brushed delicate fingers through his messy hair, thinking Shen Qingqiu made for a rather sorry sight —the pallor of his skin, the bruises under his eyes, the wetness of his lashes, not to mention the prominence of his bones, all spoke of neglect, of resignation: and his sleep was restless.

As slowly and gently as he could, Luo Binghe lifted him from his crumpled-up position and laid him onto the bed; it was easy not to wake him, and even easier to banish the nightmare from his mind so that he could be at peace. Shen Qingqiu hardly stirred as he was moved, and so Luo Binghe untied the laces of his boots and slipped them off, and then covered him with a blanket, and sat by him to see that he was comfortable. The poisoned hand was cold as ice when Luo Binghe rubbed it between his own, pouring a controlled trickle of spiritual energy into his master’s starved and battered meridians; Luo Binghe’s heart squeezed and overflowed, and a tear or two dropped from his eyes.

Shizun had said he did not hate Luo Binghe —even trapped in the body of a crane, Shen Qingqiu had protected him, had hunted fish for him, had preened his hair and warmed him with his feathers. Mu- shishu had told him Shizun had mourned his absence dearly, that he must have wanted to shield him from the judgement of the cultivation world by throwing him away, and though it seemed like wishful thinking Luo Binghe felt the chances of it being true might be higher than he had hoped. After all, Shen Qingqiu had not chased him from their home or from the Peak, appearing willing to go along with whatever Luo Binghe requested of him (unless that request was of honesty, but then again perhaps Luo Binghe had merely been too rash, forgetting his master was best cajoled instead of forced). 

Like a thief, Luo Binghe stole a kiss from the back of Shen Qingqiu’s hand. Getting answers from Shizun, although appealing as a prospect, would have to come second: first Without-a-Cure must be dealt with. Shen Qingqiu’s refusal to admit to the solution was a problem in and of itself, even if it wasn’t altogether unexpected that Luo Binghe’s reticent, thin-faced master would find difficulty in articulating such an appeal, especially considering the alarmingly self-destructive guilt he nurtured regarding his choice to send Luo Binghe in the Abyss.

After all this master has done to you, do I not deserve to die?

No matter. Luo Binghe had once coaxed his master into (figuratively, but occasionally not only) eating out of his hand, and though this time he had days instead of years in which to persuade him, he was confident in his ability to replicate such a miracle.

Shen Qingqiu did not hate him. Shen Qingqiu had grieved him to the point Mu- shishu was concerned with the harm he had caused his own body for it. Resolve thus strengthened, Luo Binghe flowed back to his feet and went to cook.    

A shichen before dawn he had a light, doctor-approved meal on hand and the beginnings of a plan. When he leaned in to faintly brush his lips against Shizun’s temple (an exercise in restraint) he found his skin had thankfully warmed somewhat, and that his cheeks and the bridge of his nose were delicately flushed with life. “Shizun,” Luo Binghe called quietly, covering his master’s sharp shoulder with a palm. “Shizun, I’m sorry to wake you up, but you must eat something.”

Shizun blinked his eyes open; he looked and sounded entirely spent, and a bit confused. “Ah, Binghe?”

“Yes, Shizun, it’s me,” Luo Binghe said, pitching his tone as soft as he could; then he grasped Shen Qingqiu’s too-thin wrists and helped him sit up. He couldn’t quite resist the urge to comb through the tangle of his master’s silken hair with his fingers, but Shen Qingqiu, half-asleep, silently leaned into the touch, which suited Luo Binghe’s purposes (and long-held desires) extremely well. “This disciple made congee and steamed vegetables for you.”

At the sight of Luo Binghe’s food, Shen Qingqiu’s lips parted, and he drew a sharp breath through his teeth, shaking himself out of his stupor; Luo Binghe watched with the same trepidation he’d felt the very first time he had taken the chance to feed his beloved master, watched the way Shen Qingqiu’s hands curled around his bowl, the flutter of his lashes as he inhaled the fragrant smoke drifting from the still-hot congee, the way his spine progressively loosened with each bite. “Shizun, is it good?” he asked finally. 

“Of course it’s good,” Shen Qingqiu replied at once, staring down at his empty bowl with sorrow in his eyes. “Binghe’s cooking has always been this master’s favorite.”

Luo Binghe glowed with the praise. He uncovered the pot he had brought to the table specifically hoping to be able to serve Shizun seconds, and ladled half a portion back into the bowl. “Then there’s more if you’re up to it,” he offered. Shen Qingqiu smiled, a hesitant, barely-there, precious thing, and slowly ate another spoonful, appearing to savor the flavors with greater care now that the initial hunger had passed. 

Having successfully seen to his master’s immediate recovery, Luo Binghe moved on to laying the foundations for permanently ridding him of every ailment. He straightened, folded his hands in his lap, and looked up at Shen Qingqiu with somber yet needful eyes: “Shizun, this Binghe will be presumptuous and ask for your help.”

Shen Qingqiu set his spoon down. “My help?”

Luo Binghe nodded, smiled; it was tentative offer, there and gone in a blink, but Shen Qingqiu felt the relief of it like a punch to the gut, and leaned into the table a little, bracing himself to try and keep his dignity as an immortal master somewhat intact despite the many different ways in which it had been tested as of late. It seemed preposterous to think that his disciple, now a demon Lord, would ever require the aid of one such as him, but Luo Binghe nodded again, and with elegant motions prepared tea for the two of them, unhurried, like he was unaware of how Shen Qingqiu was hanging onto the minute shifts of his expression with the sort of painful desperation he had hardly ever felt in his life.

There was a certain collected charm to Luo Binghe’s gestures that had not been present before the Abyss, something he might have grown into in his own time, and that had instead been violently thrust upon him. Regardless of how it had come to be, the steadiness with which he moved carried the unmistakable allure of the adult protagonist, poised and centered and secure in his desires and goals; he poured the tea, and Shen Qingqiu watched the curl of his fingers on the teapot and the impeccably smooth golden line he drew in the air from the short snout of the pot, and thought that although Proud Immortal Demon Way had never skipped a description of the petrifying beauty of Luo Binghe in action, it had forgotten about the moments of stillness, of quietude, the fall of Luo Binghe’s curls down his shoulders as he set the cups on the table, the flutter of his lashes, the way moonlight colored his skin in silver.

As a boy, he had not been like this, or perhaps it was Shen Qingqiu’s perception of him that had changed: still, looking at him now, straight-backed, taller than his master (when in the original they had been of a height, and this slight, insignificant detail was everything, everything to Shen Qingqiu, for it showed that he had not failed his disciple entirely, that those three years of warm meals and instruction and care had made a difference) he was suddenly breathless, and at a loss, uncertain how to summon the fond indulgence Luo Binghe had once inspired in him.

The tea was brewed precisely to Shen Qingqiu’s tastes. Luo Binghe sipped from his own cup, slowly, and then lifted onto his master a pair of starry, earnest wide eyes, a remnant of his youth that somehow did not shake his matured appearance at all, only serving to turn it softer, approachable. And perhaps his lashes were a little dewy, and his lower lip jutted out a bit; and suddenly whatever he requested, Shen Qingqiu would have given him.

“I spoke with Mu- shishu earlier and he… is worried about Xin Mo’s influence on my mind,” said Luo Binghe, which was not at all what Shen Qingqiu had been expecting. “He and Wei- shishu want to try and sever its connection to me; Shizun is the greatest expert on demonic artifacts —this Binghe would welcome your advice.”

Shen Qingqiu cleared his throat, staring at the sword in question, entirely at a loss, for the System had insisted Luo Binghe should be thrown in the Abyss for the express purpose of retrieving Xin Mo, and yet now his disciple wanted to be rid of it before he had even had a chance to make its power known to the world. “But with Xin Mo, you would be invincible —shouldn’t Binghe have it under control? Dual cultivation should be enough to…”

Luo Binghe reached out across the low table and boldly took his master’s hand; this time, the hold was delicate, and warmth immediately began to seep into Shen Qingqiu’s too-cold skin. “Shizun, if dual cultivation has the same effect as battle-slaughter, then this Binghe doesn’t even care to try,” Luo Binghe told him seriously, all-but-admitting to never having been intimate with another in such a way despite having had plenty of opportunities, and wasn’t that a thought? Shen Qingqiu was only saved the indignity of openly gaping because he had been in the process of drinking his tea while his disciple spoke. “I have used Xin Mo to escape the Abyss. It has served its purpose. I have no wish to become invincible, nor to spend the rest of my existence ensnared in its lure. Shizun, will you help?”

Shizun wanted to cry! Luo Binghe, how have you managed to remain so good? Unable to restrain himself at all, Shen Qingqiu smiled. “Of course I will help Binghe.”

The contained set of Binghe’s shoulders relaxed; he ran his thumb up and down Shen Qingqiu’s knuckles, and leaned in even more, fixing a demanding stare on him. “And Shizun must let this Binghe help him in turn,” he said. “Shizun mustn’t die.”

“Why?” Shen Qingqiu asked plainly. “This master hurt you, betrayed you. Why would you—”

He couldn’t quite push himself to finish that sentence; Luo Binghe did not need him to. “Shizun, were you not also kind to me? You took a deadly poison for me… twice,” he sighed, and picked up Shen Qingqiu’s ruined right hand too, bleeding qi into it like it was second nature to him. “I don’t want to be angry at you anymore. I don’t want to hate you,” said Binghe softly, watching as Shen Qingqiu’s nails returned to an acceptable pink color instead of the painful purple of a stunted circulation. “About the Abyss, Mu- shishu explained. And, you saved me again. You care for me still.” 

Here, he looked up at Shen Qingqiu for confirmation; Shen Qingqiu produced no denial, and so Luo Binghe’s smile strengthened, gaining confidence. “So I want to be gentle with you. I want… I want to be the way I was when I lived here, with you.”

Privately, Shen Qingqiu thought this was all too good to be true; but he was dying anyway, and he could afford to believe it even if in the end it might turn out to be a lie, and besides, whatever it was that Luo Binghe saw fit to do to him was exactly what Shen Qingqiu deserved. The least he could do was help him uproot the cursed sword from his mind before it became too late. “Binghe should re-forge Zheng Yang. This master kept the shards,” he said finally. “It will lessen Xin Mo’s power, if you mend the bond with your spiritual sword.”

Luo Binghe’s eyes were especially glossy: the hope in his gaze turned Shen Qingqiu honest, and as the bamboo house grew lighter around them he hurried to confess that his dear disciple had been awfully missed, perhaps to make up for the things he had refused to reveal before. “And Binghe should… should come back home, for good. Your room is the same as it was before,” Shen Qingqiu said in a rush. “This master —at the Conference, I was scared, I panicked. I thought that we would die. The things I said to you… I meant none of them, none.” He disengaged a hand and instead brought it up to pat that fluffy black head. “Binghe is Binghe.”

“Shizun!” Binghe cried, face all scrunched up, and scrambled to round the table before throwing himself in Shen Qingqiu’s arms in a tangle of expensive robes. He stuffed his face into Shen Qingqiu’s shoulder, wailing out a truly desperate sound, and Shen Qingqiu’s heart constricted as he sank his fingers in his disciple’s hair and gathered him even closer. 

“Binghe, this master really…”

Pink and golden light washed over the pale wooden floor of the room, and for a moment everything glowed as if on fire, and then Luo Binghe fell forward with an anguished yelp, lacking support —Shen Qingqiu flapped his wings frantically to regain his balance, and poked his head against Luo Binghe’s wet cheek. Poor child! he thought, carefully nibbling at his jaw and chin for comfort, Shen Qingqiu hadn’t even hugged him properly! 

Luo Binghe’s hands closed around his torso, beneath his wings which Shen Qingqiu spread again to replicate an embrace; then his disciple sniffled and sank his face in the soft fluffy feathers covering Shen Qingqiu’s chest and began to cry in earnest, sailing through the threshold of artful tears and landing straight into sobbing hysterics territory. “Don’t leave me,” he gasped, over and over, shaking with his entire body as he grasped and clung and begged and rubbed his cheeks against him. “Shizun, don’t leave, don’t leave, please .” 

And there Shen Qingqiu realized Luo Binghe was scared —terrified, in truth, and not even attempting to hide it at all— that the screaming and hissing and posturing of earlier and the lovely congee and perfect tea of now were all born of the same fear, that not only did he want Shen Qingqiu to live, the idea of his dying upset him to the point of howling tears. He felt, abruptly, that this child had been dealt a truly awful hand by plot or fate or whatever forces existed which toyed with their existence. Not only had Luo Binghe been made to endure the torments of the Abyss, torn from his home while believing he would never be accepted back, he couldn’t even vent his anger properly (as he should, at least a little!) against the person who had spurned him, because that person was his beloved mentor with whom he had just reconciled and who was on the verge of death.

So he was scared instead, and stubborn, refusing to give up on him.

Ah, Binghe , Shen Qingqiu sighed within his mind, curling his neck to rest his head atop Luo Binghe’s, this master is right here. This master… This master will do his best .

Once he was done crying all over Shizun’s pretty blue feathers, Luo Binghe, absent Shen Qingqiu’s, had to wipe his face on his own sleeve. Having busied themselves fighting and subsequently making up, neither the great protagonist nor his scum villain teacher had thought to concern themselves with what their next moves ought to be now that they were back on Qing Jing: how would they explain Luo Binghe’s return, and Shen Qingqiu’s strange absence during the days? Should Luo Binghe lock this suspiciously tame and affectionate demonic crane of his within the confines of the bamboo house, to avoid him being seen and accidentally killed? Would he not suffer, unable to fly or play in the water as he so clearly enjoyed?

While Luo Binghe concerned himself with these matters, the crane who was also his master was studying the half-finished bowl of congee on the table, and after brief contemplation pushed it carefully towards his disciple’s hand. “Ah, Shizun, this Binghe is not hungry yet,” Luo Binghe protested, but Shen Qingqiu insisted, and so Luo Binghe finished off his master’s portion, trying not to focus overmuch on the intimacy of sharing Shen Qingqiu’s own spoon, which had just been in his mouth. He was not entirely successful, but worry was still at the forefront of his mind, forestalling any unfortunate reactions he might have otherwise had.

“Shizun-ah, I can’t keep wearing very obviously demonic clothes in the middle of a cultivation sect,” Luo Binghe said, standing up from the table. He chanced a glance towards the side room, while knowing well that, even if his master had not disposed of Luo Binghe’s things in the almost three years of their separation, nothing in there would fit him. Unhelpfully, the crane was combing through his feathers with his beak, appearing supremely unconcerned by the very real dangers of their situation. “Well, Shizun, this Binghe sincerely hopes you don’t mind sharing.” 

Shen Qingqiu trailed after him as he went to retrieve a set of rarely-used (and thus, rarely-made-public) robes from Shen Qingqiu’s own wardrobe, but politely perched upon the desk instead of venturing beyond the privacy screen. Luo Binghe found himself once again caught between the actualization of most of his youthful desires and the distressingly warped way in which they were delivered. He blushed to find himself so completely surrounded by his master’s scent, and at the same time trembled with chilling terror at the prospect of failing him and permanently losing the affection he had only just learned had never actually been taken from him.

From the moment Shen Qingqiu had collapsed into his arms, Meng Mo had firmly shut himself off from Luo Binghe’s mind, fed up by that point with his obsessive yearning; he had, because he valued his own continued existence, agreed to look into the transformation curse Shizun was under: but it had been a while already and no information had come from him. Luo Binghe was disquieted to find that this ancient dream-demon who even the Abyss had left unfazed had no ready solution for the problem at hand.

Feeling nostalgic, Luo Binghe styled his curls in the circling braids Shen Qingqiu used to enjoy putting in hair in their downtime. Attracted by this well-known ritual, the crane fluttered over and sat in the crook of Luo Binghe’s elbow to provide symbolic assistance in the form of more preening —Luo Binghe wasn’t certain how much he could or even should read into it, but before he could fully lean into the indulgence, a knock sounded at the door, and Shen Qingqiu arched his neck, hissing and mantling his wings as if expecting a threat.

Securing his incensed Shizun in a firm hold that would ensure he did not go barreling forth to pick a fight with whoever had dared intrude upon his territory (Luo Binghe’s memory supplied him suddenly with the vivid image of Shen Qingqiu skewering an entire demon with his beak to protect him and wondered if it was concerning that he should feel so heated and pleased about it) and went to see who it was. 

“Luo- shizhi ,” said Mu Qingfang from outside. Behind him hovered Ning Yingying and Ming Fan, wearing matching looks of horror and trepidation, one wringing her sleeves between tense fingers and the other tapping his foot in impatient anxiety. “This master would like to visit Shen- shixiong at this time, if it is agreeable to you both.”

Luo Binghe considered the crane’s furious snarling and decided he could probably restrain Shizun without destroying the house overmuch if there came the need, and thus opened the door to let the guests in. 

“A-Luo!” Ning- shijie cried at once, throwing herself at him while soundly ignoring the ferocious and ferociously territorial creature currently attached to his arm. “A-Luo, you’ve returned!”

Before she could make contact, Shen Qingqiu screeched, causing her to falter; clearly, Mu Qingfang hadn’t had time to brief either her or Ming Fan on their master’s situation. “Shizun,” Luo Binghe called softly, running his thumb through the tiny, velveteen feathers covering the crane’s cheek. “That’s Ning- shijie , don’t you know her?”

The menacing screeching stopped; Shizun tilted his head to the side, blinking those strangely bright green eyes towards their guests, and then he let out a slightly mournful hoot and flew over to fuss at his disciples. “A-Luo, did you just… Shizun ?” Ning Yingying asked with a remarkably steady voice for one whose eyes were as wide as saucers. 

Shen Qingqiu had finished pulling her ribbons even; he stuck his beak through Ming Fan’s too-tight topknot, offered Mu Qingfang a conciliatory nibble to the palm, and then inevitably made his way back to Luo Binghe, who had expected such a thing (as it was in line with Shizun’s habitual behavior) and effortlessly caught him in his arms —the crane’s claws dug little pinpricks of pain in his flesh, which he didn’t even bother acknowledging past making a silent note to mend Shizun’s robes afterwards, given how quickly such superficial wounds healed for him now. “There is… much to say,” Luo Binghe began, thinking fast (he really should have consulted Shen Qingqiu for this!) as he invited his martial siblings and the only respectable Peak Lord (barred Shizun) to sit at the table which he had fortunately cleared of the remnants of his master’s meal.

“Shizun has been cursed again,” Ming Fan supplied, frowning sourly in the direction of the crane who was making himself comfortable in Luo Binghe’s lap. “How bad is it this time?”

“ This time ?” Luo Binghe hissed, turning towards Mu Qingfang. The doctor had knelt at his side and was carefully examining Shen Qingqiu’s right wing (which bore no sign of injury, or Without-a-Cure for that matter). “How often has this been happening…?”

“Ah, A-Luo, you must understand, Shizun did not take your absence well,” Ning Yingying said with the kind of tact Luo Binghe had never received from her. She was no longer the sprightly girl of before, he noticed with a sudden and renewed sense of loss; had she mourned him too? They used to be childhood friends: she was the only one to whom he’d confided his plans to woo Shizun when they grew up; she had helped him with his talisman work and he had coached her with the sword, and now they were both so different. “It’s good that you came back. Perhaps he’ll be better now…”

“You shouldn’t have left at all,” Ming Fan spat, and it was only the soft warmth of Shizun tucked in his arms that prevented Luo Binghe from snapping his jaws at him like the demon he was. After Shen Qingqiu’s intervention had put a stop to the bullying, his and Ming Fan’s relationship had generally been one of indifference, but by no means had Luo Binghe forgotten the abuse his shixiong had dealt him when he was a child. “He wouldn’t even eat for two years.” 

Luo Binghe pressed his lips in a thin line. He had not left by choice, but he could hardly confess the circumstances of his disappearance without accusing his master of something —whether attempting to murder a personal disciple, or hiding and protecting a demon, both variations on the truth could put Shen Qingqiu in a heap of trouble, which they absolutely did not need on top of everything. “I fell into the Endless Abyss and then the demonic Realm. I found Shizun while I was making my way home, and you should be glad for it, because he would have died if I hadn’t.” 

Ning Yingying flinched. “Mu- shishu , is it that bad?” 

“I’m afraid so, Ning- shizhi ,” Mu Qingfang sighed. “Luo- shizhi , do you perhaps know where…?”

“A Moonstone blue crane stores its demonic spiritual energy in the throat,” Luo Binghe recited from memory. He tilted a pliant Shen Qingqiu’s head backwards to expose his long neck and marked a point with his index fingers. “It should be around here.” 

Mu Qingfang conducted the rest of his examination in silence. “I believe we could slow the transformation process of this curse considerably by overloading this body with foreign energy.”

“Would it harm Shizun in this form?” Luo Binghe asked, absentmindedly petting the elegant feathers of Shen Qingqiu’s train-like tail. “Or cause him pain?”

“I do not believe so,” Mu Qingfang replied. “He might be more tired, in the evenings, but then again, I expect he would be regardless. Luo- shizhi ’s unique cultivation is best suited for this purpose, and Shen- shixiong doesn’t seem to mind your touching him, so that is what we will do for now, and until we find a permanent solution.”

Luo Binghe nodded. Ming Fan ran a hand down his face and sighed. “I will section-off the forest behind the bamboo house so Shizun can stretch his wings a bit. And bathe in the pond? Should I tell the kitchens to stock up on fish?”

“Shizun is perfectly capable of catching his own fish,” Luo Binghe defended instinctively, and only belatedly realized how ludicrous that sentence sounded, with or without context. Wisely, he elected to move on. “Earlier, Shizun mentioned he had retrieved the shards of Zheng Yang. Do you perhaps know where he might have stored them?”

If it was possible, Ning Yingying’s gaze grew even more somber. “Ah, A-Luo, come along, this shijie will show you.”

Shen Qingqiu did not take well to the sword being moved, even though he had been the one to suggest it, and it was only proper that Zheng Yang should be returned to its rightful owner. He had followed Luo Binghe outside because he longed for fresh air and would very much like to remain near his disciple who did not hate him (they had only just reunited) but he grew more and more agitated the closer they got to the sword mound. Ning Yingying was speaking softly to Luo Binghe about it, but Shen Qingqiu hardly registered her words, suddenly seized by a panic so bitter it nearly blinded him —those broken shards were all he had left of his precious white lotus, how could he allow anyone to take them away? Couldn’t he keep this one, untarnished thing?

Of course, Luo Binghe was right there, wearing Shen Qingqiu’s clothes, willing to stay in the bamboo house for the time being; he had not been lost forever, and arguably there was no need for Shen Qingqiu to cling quite so hard anymore to the memory of his disciple’s youth. He knew this, and yet, he couldn’t seem to corral the overwhelmingly violent fury that rose in him at the sight of a hand on the perfectly preserved scabbard, of a shadow blackening the round stone that Shen Qingqiu had placed there which simply said Luo Binghe . 

How many times had people tried to pull him from his mourning? He couldn’t let the sword mound be destroyed, he couldn’t —

“Shizun!” 

The haze that had fallen over him so disturbingly quickly lifted at the sound of Luo Binghe’s sharp, urgent voice, to which, it seemed, he would always respond, even when swamped with foreign instincts forced upon him by a curse. Shen Qingqiu came back to himself to find that he was crouched and screaming before Zheng Yang, and that Luo Binghe had put himself between his master and Ning Yingying, that he was protecting her from Shen Qingqiu, and she was crying, big, silent tears, not afraid of him perhaps but still afraid, and there was a fresh cut on Luo Binghe’s hand, dripping red, and Shen Qingqiu’s sharp beak was wet with blood…

Horrified, he fled into the bamboo forest.

He had never imagined himself capable of such explosive anger —yes, he was occasionally loud in his displeasure, but he only ever fought when forced and if he saw no alternative way out of a situation; for him to be so quick to turn on Ning Yingying, his own disciple that he had raised… but he hadn’t recognized her in that moment. Shying away from that thought, Shen Qingqiu hid within a thick patch of foliage, stuffed his head beneath his left wing, and desperately wished for twilight to come.

Luo Binghe found him much sooner than that, of course. For one, he was a Heavenly demon, with senses that far surpassed what any human cultivator could achieve; and besides, he had fed Shen Qingqiu blood gu to save his life, which was as good as sticking a tracking device on him. “Shizun?” he called, gentle, crouched down on hands and knees into the forest as he tried to peer at Shen Qingqiu’s contorted figure. “Shizun, come out, it’s alright.” 

It wasn’t alright. Shen Qingqiu tittered and pressed himself further into the tall bamboo shielding him. Luo Binghe extended his hand, and Shen Qingqiu couldn’t resist its lure, wanting to inspect it for damage: the skin was smooth and unblemished, but Shen Qingqiu could still taste iron on his tongue, and turned his head away a second time. “Shizun, I know you didn’t mean it,” said Binghe quietly, and brushed his fingertips below Shen Qingqiu’s eye, a barely-there touch. “And so does Ning- shijie . Nobody got hurt, and everything is fine, so come out, please?” 

Unfair! How was Shen Qingqiu meant to sulk and wallow in existential terror when his sweet disciple beckoned him so? He was most definitely not yet ready to face the world and the realities of his curse, but he could not summon within himself the strength to reject Luo Binghe even for this. Unfurling his neck, he delicately ran the flat of his beak across his disciple’s knuckles, and made his way out of his hiding space. Luo Binghe grinned at him and started plucking broken leaves and other similar detritus from his feathers. “Shizun, let’s go to the cold pond, hm? This Binghe will work on his research outside.” 

Full of fondness for this sticky disciple of his, Shen Qingqiu fluffed up his wings and leapt into Binghe’s arms when invited; he pressed his head against Luo Binghe’s heartbeat, and was asleep before he’d even begun to move.

Shen Qingqiu busied himself with building a nest while Luo Binghe steadily worked through the books his master had left scattered by the bed earlier in the night. He was not expecting success on the first try, but for every page he turned having found nary a clue as to what, exactly, Shizun had been cursed with, he felt his heart sinking a little more. It was obvious their best bet would be dual cultivation; although Luo Binghe had long yearned to be intimate with the beloved of his life in such a way, he feared the shortcuts he would have to take in order to get them there, and the convoluted twists and turns of Shen Qingqiu’s mind, the way he willfully blinded himself to all that Luo Binghe confessed.

In the end, neither of them were in very high spirits. For lunch, Luo Binghe steamed the fish Shen Qingqiu caught, serving one to his master who appeared especially grateful not be eating it raw; he washed his hands in the cold pond and Shizun came to play about a bit, collecting droplets of water like dew onto his silvery blue feathers. The afternoon passed slowly: Luo Binghe went through the rest of his study materials with the beautiful crane curled up in the crook of his non-dominant arm, direct in his affection like Shizun rarely was, and then when the air cooled and the sky began to darken, he carried his master back home, that he may have some privacy to safely shift into his true form.

Shen Qingqiu’s face was ashen and his wrists shook visibly behind the hems of his wide sleeves. He looked desolate, frightened even (Luo Binghe knew this, from the brightness of his eyes and the tilt of his mouth and the way his fingers twitched for want of a fan) and like he would be crying, were he a different man. “Binghe, this master… I… I don’t know what came over me,” he said, standing stiff by the entrance of their house like one who had forgotten how to feel at ease there. “I would never… to Ning Yingying —and you were hurt…”

Luo Binghe knew how far his master could take the worries that ate at him if he let them run wild unchecked; he remembered the disconcerting horror that had crushed him in the Abyss after he’d found himself possessed by the rage born of the awakening of his unsealed blood, and how he had longed to bury himself within Shen Qingqiu’s arms and be safe there. “If Shizun feels guilty, how about you grant me a favor?” he offered, successfully breaking Shen Qingqiu’s destructive train of thought by catching him off-guard. “Wouldn’t that be fair?”

Shen Qingqiu licked his lips; swallowed. “Binghe is right,” he said, straightening his spine as if bracing himself for some kind of terrible retribution. Luo Binghe now knew this to be a reflection of his master’s remorse, and not any sort of indictment on Luo Binghe’s character, and so did not let his master’s trepidation poke at the tender underbelly of his own vulnerability.

“Shizun should stay very still, as a favor to this Binghe,” he whispered, and filled the small distance between them in a single step, and hugged him tightly.

“Binghe!” Shen Qingqiu cried in startled indignation. “What are you…”

But the protest died off when Luo Binghe refused to budge; instead, Shen Qingqiu drew a sharp breath, willing to accept his current circumstances because they were indeed quite favorable —Luo Binghe running hot and all while his master’s skin was at best lukewarm— and softened the line of his spine. Luo Binghe measured the breadth of Shen Qingqiu’s waist between his palms and found it offensive in its lack of give, immediately resolving never to allow his master to miss a meal. Then he drew one hand up, to sink into that alluring spill of dark hair which had featured prominently in many of his dreams; Shen Qingqiu stiffened again, perhaps divining the shifted intimacy of the gesture, and shivered in response.

Luo Binghe ground his teeth together, hanging on desperately to his control, and waited for his master to relax anew before completing the motion and cupping his head between gentle fingers. It was strange, to realize he was now grown enough to wrap himself completely around this man who had seemed to him not only unattainable but larger than life, a distant glacier which may pour forth spring water but could not be moved from atop its mountain. But he was there, worn out and fallible, made human by the uncertainty with which he endured this simple affection he was unaccustomed to. 

Shizun, Luo Binghe thought, ought to be kissed and squeezed and held so often he forgot to jump and recoil from it; he ought to be loved so well as to be changed entirely from it, like Luo Binghe himself had been when he’d moved into the bamboo house to learn from his master and tend to him. 

Slowly, Luo Binghe reminded himself. Shizun was a creature of comfort and habit: his first instinct when pushed was always to retreat, so Luo Binghe should instead very gently lead him to his desired outcome, carefully eroding the already blurred boundaries of their relationship, one line at a time, so that Shen Qingqiu would not be alarmed by too sudden a change but sink into it naturally. Despite how shaky the ground between their feet still felt, Luo Binghe’s blood ran within his master’s veins, allowing him to read Shen Qingqiu’s body-honest reactions to him and to their proximity.

Wrapped up in Luo Binghe’s embrace, his thin-faced Shizun tittered and deflected and burned with shame; but his breathing pattern had relaxed, his muscles were loose, and the weight of his head was entrusted entirely to Luo Binghe’s shoulder. The rabbit-quick beating of Shen Qingqiu’s heart was unaccompanied by the usual markers of fear, denoting perhaps a return of Shizun’s commonplace fretful anxiety —or the interest Shen Qingqiu remained firmly oblivious to, and that Luo Binghe had caught in his master’s gaze here and there before the Conference, and rather often since they had reunited.

The problem, as always, was getting his Shizun to a point where he would recognize such a thing within himself, and then decide to act on it.

Luo Binghe was well aware indeed that there were many who desired him at first glance —it was a different matter entirely whether any of those people, human or demon alike, would keep their fancy upon knowing him, though of course Luo Binghe had no desire to test such a thing as his own affections had long fixed on his master and never strayed, not even when it had seemed like he had forever lost Shen Qingqiu’s favor with little hope to retrieve it. For his part, Shizun held in his hands the complete knowledge of all Luo Binghe was and had ever been, having also visited his childhood memories when they’d been trapped within Meng Mo’s nightmare. It was a given (at least, Shen Qingqiu seemed to treat it as such, despite the Abyss) that his master cared for Luo Binghe regardless of any notion of physical attraction.

Mu Qingfang had given Luo Binghe a very strict timeline in which to deliver his cure upon Shen Qingqiu; but unlike most medicine, such a cure could hardly be imparted by force and without consent —Luo Binghe was not sure he could ever bring himself to, not even if it saved his master’s life— and so he must seduce him.

It pleased him to notice, at least, that Shen Qingqiu had hardly attempted to break their embrace: his thin hands were instead locked about Luo Binghe’s waist, and even his heartbeat had mellowed, sounding like he was moments from dozing off straight into Luo Binghe’s arms. Luo Binghe clenched his jaw as tears welled in his eyes —only a week earlier he had believed his master would never speak a kind word to him again, and now he had him tender and warm in his arms, and he was dying— then turned his head and delicately brushed a kiss onto Shen Qingqiu’s hairline.

The smell of his skin and hair-oils made his mouth water; Luo Binghe swallowed and with great effort (for Shen Qingqiu’s very life hinged on his success in this foolish, impossible endeavour) restrained himself, and waited to see whether his master would object. But Shen Qingqiu leaned further into him, humming under his breath, and tightened the grip of his own hands, and thus Luo Binghe whose heart was in his throat kissed this most precious person of his, on the forehead, twice, and then, more boldly, onto his cheek.

“Luo Binghe!” Shen Qingqiu yelped, jumping backwards as if scalded. His entire face blushed red —which Luo Binghe definitely considered an improvement from his usual deathly pallor— and his gaze was shifty and somewhat wild. “That…!”

Smiling unrepentantly, Luo Binghe reeled him in by the wrists and squeezed him. He deliberately made his movements graceless and a bit impulsive, appealing to that side of his master which was incapable of resisting any sort of childish begging. “Shizun, I’ve missed you so,” he confessed, because it was true but also to distract Shen Qingqiu from the liberties that had just been taken. “Shizun isn’t allowed to let me go ever again.” 

Shen Qingqiu’s arms returned after a moment of deliberation. “Ah,” he said simply, and rested the sharp point of his chin onto Luo Binghe’s shoulder. “This master wouldn’t dare.”

He followed Luo Binghe to the kitchen to watch him make dinner.

On paper, he recognized he was being perhaps a little clingy, but the shame of it did not seem to register: he had been so utterly lonely absent Luo Binghe that he felt justified in wanting to squeeze what time they had left for all that it was worth, and besides Luo Binghe evidently did not mind that his master trailed after him like a shadow, instead feeding him bits and pieces of fruit, vegetables and even raw dough as he worked, and plying him with tales of his conquests in the demonic Realm. 

That rather intense hug he had received (plus kisses?) had thrown Shen Qingqiu off track, if only by a bit. He’d always known Luo Binghe to be an affectionate person, constantly angling to receive head-pats from his master and generally standing or sitting closer to him than strictly expected of a disciple, however favored. Shen Qingqiu had never truly rebuked him for it, not quite seeing the harm of it, and he wondered whether he was now reaping the fruits of that indulgence. 

He rubbed the flesh of his cheek between his fingers, as if Luo Binghe’s short pecking kisses had left some scorching evidence he might feel out, and then snatched his hand back into his lap when he caught his disciple watching him with just a hint of smugness in his gaze. The faint, self-satisfied grin that quirked Luo Binghe’s lips ought to have incited terror within him: Shen Qingqiu was nearly overcome by a flash of fondness so great it threatened to burst from the clench of his teeth, for Luo Binghe had worn that same delighted expression whenever Shen Qingqiu picked him especially for one job or another, or complimented his food, or his sword-forms, or his appearance. 

Hm. When had Shen Qingqiu’s wires crossed that much?

The meal was, as ever, magnificent, but also, for Shen Qingqiu at least, somewhat harrowing. Luo Binghe seemed determined to make up for the two years and change of their separation by speed-running a progression in their relationship which definitely had not been there when he was a teen. He passed Shen Qingqiu food from his own bowl using his own pair of chopsticks; he brushed their fingers together when he offered his master a fresh cup of tea or a platter of prettily sliced fruit to choose from; he held a frankly unsettling but impossible to resist amount of eye-contact. Most damning, Luo Binghe had decided, with remarkable aplomb and resolutely pretending like this was in any way normal, to kneel at Shen Qingqiu’s elbow instead of in front of him. The bamboo house might have been the residence of a Peak Lord, but it was still quite modest in build, and sized to fit a single person besides —the dining table was small enough that they were all but pressed together on their sides.

Shen Qingqiu could smell the ginger and kitchen-smoke on Luo Binghe’s hair, and it was distracting.

He said nothing to contain Luo Binghe’s behavior, however, unsure how to articulate a scolding and lured in by the comfort of his disciple’s warmth tucked up against him. He ate his dinner, took seconds when Luo Binghe pushed them on him (it was no hardship, after all, to glut himself on the protagonist’s divine cooking) and got waylaid putting braids in Luo Binghe’s soft curls while they savored a few sips of wine after their meal. Shen Qingqiu went to bed, then, to try and chase off the light headache that had been plaguing him since the curse —perhaps before— and enjoyed two shichen of blissfully dreamless sleep (no nightmares! Thanking Luo Binghe for his care) before his disciple woke him up again, insisting on feeding him a full breakfast earlier than the crack of dawn.

Mu- shidi showed up to clear Shen Qingqiu’s meridians and adjust his prescriptions according to the progression of Without-a-Cure in his veins; Shen Qingqiu submitted himself good-naturedly to the examination, left Luo Binghe to deal with the practicalities of measuring out herbs and remembering dosage and frequency of treatment, and applied himself to convincing his long-suffering shidi that it was best to keep news of Shen Qingqiu’s unfortunate curse under wraps for a while longer —Shen Qingqiu wasn’t ready yet to be assailed by a line of pre-emptive mourners, and although he vaguely missed those martial siblings he was closest to, he didn’t want to face their overbearing attentions when he was already busy mending things with his disciple. Mu Qingfang, bless him, promised he would not go tattling to the Sect Leader about Shen Qingqiu’s condition; if he survived, Shen Qingqiu was going to prepare (well, have Binghe prepare) him a gift basket full of elaborate food and rare medicinal plants.

When morning came, Luo Binghe sat himself at the Peak Lord’s desk and started sorting through the staggering amount of paperwork Shen Qingqiu had negligently let accumulate in the past month: everything from budgetary concerns to the plans for the renovation of one of the teaching halls. Shen Qingqiu watched his disciple forge his master’s calligraphy, torn between pride and alarm at the sight. Luo Binghe could probably impersonate him rather faithfully, given an incentive! 

Once again trapped in his crane form, Shen Qingqiu spent the day dividing his time between the cold pond where he was building his nest, and the bamboo house because he really couldn’t seem to unstick himself from his disciple for too long. It was just so good and right to have him back home, puttering about doing his chores and appropriating part of Shen Qingqiu’s workload and meticulously cleaning after the scattered mess of Shen Qingqiu’s things —not that there was much of a mess to clean up this time, considering how stubbornly Shen Qingqiu had avoided Qing Jing in the most recent past…

Fuck, but Shen Qingqiu wasn’t at all ready to give up on this —on his life and his disciples and his friends and Binghe who had returned, Binghe who smiled at him and clung to his hands like he was still a little sprout hanging from his master’s sleeve, Binghe who was powerful and menacing but still so good, still Shen Qingqiu’s white lotus, maybe a little singed, but emerging bright-eyed and forgiving from the mud and injustice the world had thrown at him. How could Shen Qingqiu let go of him now? How could he stand to miss the glory of what Luo Binghe was bound to become? 

He had made peace with his own death because he had thought it would bring Luo Binghe closure to kill the person that had hurt him so; instead, Binghe had dropped everything (an entire Empire!) to mind Shen Qingqiu’s affairs for him and let his foolish master sit on him to preen his hair with a beak that had (most definitely!) not just been full of bamboo branches he’d picked up straight off the ground. 

To be fair, Binghe was treating Shen Qingqiu’s crane form like a cuddly stress toy to compensate for the indignity of lowering himself to reviewing night-hunt reports and correcting composition homework. So perhaps it was an acceptable trade, for which Shen Qingqiu sacrificed a good portion of his thin face by allowing his disciple to pet him head to tail and play with his primary feathers and even stick curious fingers inside the many open mouths littering his wings. 

Really, Shen Qingqiu did not want to die. But what was he meant to do? Aside from the fact that he genuinely had no idea how to unravel the transformation curse because he could not fathom what sort of boon the cursed land had meant to bestow, the only way to stop Without-a-Cure from devouring his meridians, thus giving himself and Luo Binghe a more relaxed timeline for research, was to permanently clear it from his veins, and to do that, Shen Qingqiu would have to dual-cultivate with the protagonist.

The protagonist, who was a man, a disciple Shen Qingqiu had raised, and who really… deserved better than to be treated like three quarters of the female leads in Proud Immortal Demon Way had treated him. Hadn’t Shen Qingqiu already trampled all over Luo Binghe to save his own life? Once was more than enough, was it not? How could he think to burden Luo Binghe with this sort of choice that really wasn’t even much of a choice in the first place? Wouldn’t it be almost like forcing him, since he was adamant in wanting to save his master?

No, Shen Qingqiu decided. It was best for Luo Binghe never to know.

The following night, Luo Binghe took care of Shen Qingqiu’s hair. 

He combed through the fine, silken strands until they flowed like water in his hands, and then took advantage of his master’s poison-induced drowsiness to brush barely-there caresses down his spine and along the sides of his elegant neck. Shen Qingqiu shivered, then leaned forward to rest his chin in the cup of his palm with something of a frown twisting the curve of his lips. “Binghe-ah, could you fetch this master a cloth and some cold water? This headache is getting a little unbearable…”

Luo Binghe froze from where he had been teasing the delightfully blushing curve of Shen Qingqiu’s ear and stepped around the vanity to fix his distressing teacher with a glare. “Shizun has a headache?”

Shen Qingqiu turned his face to hide his expression behind long, faintly trembling fingers. “Ah, has this master forgotten to say…?”

Begging the Guanyin for patience, Luo Binghe unceremoniously turned his master around on his seat and placed his fingertips delicately onto his temples, providing a short, circular massage that saw Shen Qingqiu’s lashes fluttering in relief. “No, Shizun, you have not said,” Luo Binghe snapped, feeling, once again, more than a little slighted by this master of his. “You are of course aware that I could have sent my blood mites to remove the ache at any point, had you but told me of its existence? Shizun, I’m trying to be respectful of you —must I actively keep you under observation?”

He expected Shen Qingqiu would bristle at the suggestion, and either ignore it as he did most unpleasant notions or outright reject it; instead, Shizun folded his arms around his chest and hunched his shoulders, again with a hint of misery in his eyes, and said: “Perhaps,” to which Luo Binghe could only stare. “This master… I have been rather scatter-brained as of late,” Shen Qingqiu slowly explained. “I expect it is a consequence of the curse, but… I would appreciate it if Binghe were to check, from time to time, that I do not… embarrass myself, or put others in danger.” 

Shizun must still be shaken from the sword mound incident —Luo Binghe silently noted he should make arrangements for him to see Ning- shijie soon, so he could begin to put some of the guilt behind him. “Of course, Shizun,” he said in the meantime, taking his master’s injured hand both as reassurance and to slip a bit of spiritual power into it. “Anything Shizun needs, your Binghe will provide.” 

For the pleasure of it, and because Shen Qingqiu offered no protest, he helped his master into his sleeping robes, then went to fetch a fresh jar of water and a cup for his bedside; while Shen Qingqiu slept, he planned on making a nightly trip to the well-furnished Library of Qing Jing (although he remembered Shizun steadily reading through all of its contents when Luo Binghe was a teen, new scrolls and texts had certainly been added in the interim. Also, Shizun had not been actively searching for curses then) or perhaps the imperial Palace in the demonic Realm.

When he returned with the water in hand, Shen Qingqiu was still sitting up in bed, looking heartbreakingly beautiful in white, with his loose hair and open gaze. “Binghe hasn’t slept once since returning to Qing Jing,” he said, waving Luo Binghe closer. “Surely that isn’t healthy?” 

How dearly had Luo Binghe missed the way Shen Qingqiu fussed about him! He smiled, and to occupy his hands so that they did not wander where they yet shouldn’t, he went to smooth out the creases in the bedsheets that his master had barely upset turning in. “Shizun, in truth, I haven’t slept much at all,” he told Shen Qingqiu, selecting the excuse his master was most likely to accept. “There’s too many nightmares.”

Shen Qingqiu’s serene face slipped into a frown. “Would Binghe like for this master to stay up with you?”

Luo Binghe exhaled a slow breath, so in love he might just fall apart for it. “No, Shizun, you need your rest.” 

For a moment, he contemplated whether he should explicitly spell out to his master the reason why he would elect to forgo sleep in order to cover as much ground with his research as he could; but Shen Qingqiu was right, in observing that Luo Binghe was starting to feel the weariness and irritability that accompanied so many nights spent at work, and that he would eventually be forced to succumb to exhaustion regardless of how insistently he pushed himself. And as he gazed upon his master, at the delicate dip of his collarbones left exposed by his single layer, the stubborn set of his chin as he undoubtedly readied himself for an argument, the faint wetness that lingered on his lips… he was suddenly struck by inspiration, and slipped off his boots and outer robe, and sank a knee onto the bed. “Forgive me, Shizun. This Binghe will be presumptuous.”

Shen Qingqiu blushed crimson, from the bridge of his nose to his chest, and for a moment looked like he would bolt like a spooked hare. But Luo Binghe merely lay himself down at his side, and made no move to reach for him, although the scent of his sheets and the warmth of his body in the air were driving him mad with longing. “Oh,” said Shen Qingqiu, after a moment, and also stretched out, rolling onto his side so they could watch each other. “That is alright. Shizun doesn’t mind.” 

Against all expectations, it was Shen Qingqiu who crossed the line Luo Binghe had quietly drawn for his master’s comfort: he patted Luo Binghe’s head with the lightest touch, and then started playing with his hair. Luo Binghe could have wept for joy —but he merely shifted his curls so they spilled in the small space between them, and admired his beloved master (the tiny line that popped into life on the left corner of his mouth when he focused, the rapid-pace dance of his fingers, the absentminded hums that sounded at the back of his throat) as he inadvertently closed the distance until their knees knocked together and Luo Binghe could feel Shen Qingqiu’s breath fan the outside of his shoulder.

With his hair now five braids richer, Luo Binghe shifted his weight on an elbow, drawing his master’s attention to the fact that they were all but pressed together in bed. 

“Shizun, be still,” he warned, before shame caught up with that thin-faced man and caused him to try and abscond from the Peak entirely. Shen Qingqiu received the kiss Luo Binghe dropped onto his forehead with notorious bad grace, and fled the next by rolling onto the farthest edge of the bed and covering his face with a sleeve. Luo Binghe laughed, and dragged him back in by the hips, delighted to find that Shizun allowed him this, as well, body soft and pliant in his hold even as he cried outrage.

“Who taught you to be so cheeky with your master ah?” Shen Qingqiu complained, while Luo Binghe wound himself around him, chest to back and legs entangled, and buried his face in Shen Qingqiu’s lovely hair.

“Shizun,” Luo Binghe sighed by way of a reply. Having successfully snuck his left arm underneath Shen Qingqiu’s head and pillow, he curled the right around his ribcage, searching for the steady (if a little hurried at present) beat of his master’s heart. “This Binghe merely thought to circulate Shizun’s qi for a while before we sleep,” he put in, having just decided on precisely that course of action. “Shizun did this for me some years ago, do you remember?” 

Shen Qingqiu huffed and kicked the heel of his foot against Luo Binghe’s shin in light reproach. “Should I go and throw myself in the Cold Pond?” he asked dryly, and Luo Binghe had to swallow the urge to either laugh at him or bite him in response. 

“Whatever Shizun wishes.” 

“Hm,” Shen Qingqiu said. He reached backwards to blindly pat Luo Binghe’s head, then curled a little deeper into himself, sinking the side of his face in the soft pillow he favored so much. “Just sleep, Binghe-ah,” he sighed. “Both of us will have to wake up soon.”

Dawn found Luo Binghe still asleep, and Shen Qingqiu trapped beneath his arm. The transformation had woken him, as had the apparently instinctive tightening of his disciple’s hold in response to the shrinking of Shen Qingqiu’s frame. Tucking his legs under his belly, Shen Qingqiu laid his long neck about the pillow and watched Binghe’s rest for a while, the dark line of his long lashes and the way his mouth parted around each steady breath; he looked unbearably sweet, unguarded and freed of the tension that had lived in his brow and around his lips since the moment they had reunited. 

It took Shen Qingqiu a while to extricate himself from that warm, inviting embrace, but he felt Luo Binghe might be embarrassed to find just how thoroughly he had squished his master, and Shen Qingqiu himself was growing uncomfortable with how much he enjoyed being thus flattened. He had to sacrifice a few feathers to Luo Binghe’s grasping fingers, but eventually managed to drop onto the smooth wooden floor of the bamboo house and abscond via the open window. 

Restlessness crawled up and down his skin, spelling things he absolutely refused to hear —Luo Binghe and he had shared a bed; more than that, they had slept wrapped around each other so tightly not even Shen Qingqiu could misconstrue the associated implication and romantic undertones. Binghe had kept a hand sealed atop Shen Qingqiu’s heart throughout the night! Shen Qingqiu had muzzily half-woken at some point and rolled over to stuff his face in his disciple’s chest and slip his feet between his calves! Yes, Luo Binghe ran hot and Shen Qingqiu was constantly freezing —that did not make it any more appropriate! Just how many liberties was Shen Qingqiu taking, exploiting Luo Binghe’s very understandable need for closeness that possibly stemmed from the horrors he had endured in the Abyss? 

He threw himself wholeheartedly into the building of his nest, flying about the familiar confines of his bamboo forest, to satisfy his bird instincts and silence his human fretting. The work was repetitive and extremely soothing, requiring more intuitive engineering than he would have guessed: bamboo leaves suited his project perfectly, adding a golden-brown look to the ensemble of sticks, cattails and soft moss that satisfied Shen Qingqiu on a deep level, for some reason. 

When Luo Binghe came to see him, the day was yet young, but the nest was complete. Shen Qingqiu, who had tentatively resolved he would be more careful in maintaining proper boundaries with his disciple, immediately flew over to meet him, filled with the need to ensure he was hale and whole. “Hello, Shizun,” Luo Binghe said quietly, letting himself be dragged to the very edges of the cold pond by an increasingly enthusiastic bird. “I’d like to keep you company today. May I?”

Shen Qingqiu showed him the way to the nest. Come in, Binghe, come in!  

Luo Binghe studied the elaborate platform floating above water. “Shizun’s nest is obviously the prettiest,” he complimented, crouching down so that they were at eye level with each other. Shen Qingqiu fluffed his wings, flattered, and delivered an affectionate nibble to his disciple’s fingertips. “Would Shizun allow this one to make an addiction? This disciple wouldn’t want to damage Shizun’s nest.” 

Pondering whether to be offended, Shen Qingqiu hissed a little; at the back of his mind, where he kept his good sense, he recognised the fact that it was quite absurd to expect a fully grown man to step inside a nest of fragile leaves held together by wishful thinking and a bit of mud, but the expectation was there, and was rendering Shen Qingqiu terribly antsy. Luo Binghe, who was clearly the smartest protagonist to ever protagonist, produced from his sleeve a talisman which would safeguard the nest’s delicate structure, and Shen Qingqiu moved aside so that he could apply it.

And then he watched, befuddled, as the Emperor of the demonic Realm removed his boots and socks and walked into the water without even flinching from the cold. “Thanking Shizun for the hospitality,” he said, in the same tone he had once used to defend Shen Qingqiu’s Binghe-given right to gorge himself on snacks and sweet things whenever the fancy struck, which made it Luo Binghe’s (also stubbornly defended) job to ensure such treats were always readily available to him. So Luo Binghe sat in the nest, drenching his robes and pants, picked up a book and began to study.

Feeling ridiculously pleased with himself, Shen Qingqiu alighted at his disciple’s shoulder and started preening Luo Binghe’s delectable curls. Occasionally the diligent white lotus lifted his nose from his papers and asked a question which Shen Qingqiu tried as best as he could to answer, but mostly they remained silent, basking in the good company; Shen Qingqiu idly considered taking out his weiqi board, wanting to see whether his disciple had improved and if he could beat him still —Shen Qingqiu would be so happy to be once again solidly trounced by the lethal combination of Luo Binghe’s excellent sharp wit and devastating pouting looks! 

At noon, Ning Yingying and Ming Fan came to visit. They could not all fit in the nest, and thus settled on a blanket Ming Fan spread onto the shore: between them was a wooden preservation basket bearing, presumably, their lunch. Shen Qingqiu, painfully aware of how inadequate Qing Jing’s fare truly was, thought he ought to add a bit of substance to the meal… and so found himself, once again, spearing slimy fish on his beak. Four! One after the other! How utterly revolting! 

Binghe received his own with practiced ease, not even allowing a single drop of water to touch Shen Qingqiu’s precious books; Ming Fan and Ning Yingying were both unprepared, but they were also Shen Qingqiu’s good disciples, and obligingly extended their hands to bear this vile and slightly stinky indignity, intoning: “Thanking Shizun for the care!” as if it was normal for an immortal master to drop dead things at his charges. 

Perhaps it was, on the beast Peak —nobody knew what truly went on there, and nobody had the guts to ask.

Because he was a prodigy and a gift from the gods, Luo Binghe offered to clean and grill the fish on a round stone he washed and heated for that very purpose. And did he always carry seasonings on his person? So thoughtful! So overqualified! Deserving of everything nice and good in the world for sparing Shen Qingqiu the horror of gulping down raw fish again! Speaking of foul things, Shen Qingqiu went to fastidiously dunk his beak in the water to remove any and all signs of his kills. 

They ate together, chatting quietly. Ning Yingying caught Luo Binghe up on the affairs of Qing Jing, and some gossip about the rest of the Peaks —thankfully leaving out any references to Shen Qingqiu’s ‘grieving widow’ stint, as she infuriatingly liked to call his perfectly acceptable both in length and intensity mourning period— while Ming Fan, who had grown up into a man of few words, whittled a little crane figurine out of a sliver of bamboo. Shen Qingqiu observed their conversation from the comfort of Luo Binghe’s lap, blinking affectionately at his disciples like a cat; when Ning Yingying scooted closer and asked if she could pet him, he silently offered her his head, and, feeling still somewhat guilty for the scare he’d given her the previous day, let her wrap an orange ribbon around his neck.

In the evening, he unwound the ribbon, folded it, and asked Luo Binghe to store it somewhere it would not be lost.

“Binghe has a cold,” said Shizun, interrupting Luo Binghe as he was grinding herbs for his master’s midnight dose of poison repellant medicine to wrap an extra outer robe around his shoulders. It was the soft, well-loved one Luo Binghe had taken off the roster a few months before the Conference, and that Shen Qingqiu consequently only wore while at home; the pattern was, funnily enough, centered around a dance of embroidered white cranes. Fussily, Shen Qingqiu closed the hems of the robe around Luo Binghe’s collars, patted his shoulders, and finally pressed a chilling palm against his forehead. “You shouldn’t have spent all that time in the water.”

Luo Binghe sniffled, curling his nose as he downed a cup of ginger tea; the smell of it scorched a path up his nostrils, which was the entire purpose of the endeavour, however unpleasant. “But Shizun made a nest especially for me. How could I have refused you?” he objected, tilting his head up to fix Shen Qingqiu with the kind of wide-eyed gaze that would quickly make him drop the argument.

“Easily. Sensibly,” Shizun replied, clucking his tongue as he laid a gentle finger against Luo Binghe’s chin to tilt his head this way and that. “Listen, sometimes this master finds it hard to control the… the birdlike instincts, but I am always aware of when they are ludicrous. Now I’ll expect you to be there every day, and that…”

Smiling, Luo Binghe caught Shizun’s hand between both of his own and brushed a light kiss onto the knuckles. “That is absolutely fine,” he insisted, unwilling to cede terrain. “Shizun-ah, I’m a Heavenly demon, the cold will be gone in a few shichen at most.”

Shen Qingqiu chewed on his lower lip, tapping his foot against the floor, free hand tucked onto his hip, a picture of put-upon disapproval as he found himself unable to refute Luo Binghe’s argument; conversely, Luo Binghe felt his own smile brighten and grow as he once again was nearly crushed by the great relief of having returned: of having his master pout at him and whirl his closed fan in circles as he searched for a suitable rejoinder, looking homely in his loosened layers and braided hair. “Binghe should still take better care of himself,” Shen Qingqiu muttered eventually, bending down at the waist to flick Luo Binghe’s zuiyin most delicately, so delicately in fact it wasn’t even a scolding anymore. “Just because you heal faster doesn’t mean you were never hurt in the first place.” 

Charmed, Luo Binghe offered his Shizun an obedient nod, the kind that made his curls jump and his master’s hand jump after them to scratch and pat his head. When it came to such things, Shen Qingqiu was nothing if not predictable, and Luo Binghe exploited their familiarity to draw him down to kneel with him on the same cushion. Shen Qingqiu’s silken robes fanned like a flower around him.

“Shizun,” Luo Binghe said, because he loved the call-and-response of it, the way Shen Qingqiu’s ever-shifting eyes fell on him and there remained, still, waiting to hear him speak. Luo Binghe stretched out both palms towards his master, curling his fingers in invitation. “Shizun, let me check your meridians.” 

It was with fond exasperation that Shen Qingqiu set aside his fan to rest both hands on top of Luo Binghe’s; spiritual power moved in a circuit between them, a flowing glow of energy that caused static to sizzle across their skin, and Luo Binghe closed his eyes for a while, focusing on simply feeling: feeling the painful bite of Without-a-Cure inside his master’s veins, feeling the sweet, river-cool flow of that much-abused qi and the depths of the well of cultivation that fed it. This, too, was a form of intimacy, the sharing of qi from one body to the other, the careful mending of Shen Qingqiu’s damage brought forth by Luo Binghe’s possessive, blood-hot life-force.

Shen Qingqiu’s cheeks were rosier after they were done, and his hands no longer trembled. Luo Binghe did not relinquish their touch, instead twining their fingers tightly. “Will you ever tell me how this curse can be lifted?” he asked quietly, and managed to keep the accusation from his voice and the softness of care in his eyes.

“Binghe, I… I really do not know,” Shen Qingqiu sighed, leaning in as if it might prove his sincerity, and then, finally, he explained: “This curse is extremely subjective, depending entirely on one’s state of being at the moment of crossing through the cursed land; but this master’s mind is always… very full. I cannot be certain what it is that the curse latched on, and even less what would settle it.” He paused to swallow, staring down at their joined hands. When he looked back up, that flicker of grief Luo Binghe had glimpsed so often in his eyes had brought new lines on Shen Qingqiu’s beloved face. “Binghe, I… I am sorry. For this and… the rest.” 

Luo Binghe squeezed his master’s fingers and told himself to be grateful for the chance to rescue Shen Qingqiu this time: that he should stop expecting his master to have all the answers, and help him down the pedestal Luo Binghe had placed him on in his youth. In the past years, Shen Qingqiu had made many mistakes, he had said so himself: had erred in sending Luo Binghe away, and again in walking across a cursed land without taking notice of his surroundings, and was, at that very moment, refusing treatment for a deadly poison to avoid asking his disciple to dual-cultivate with him. This did not make him less beloved, or less precious in Luo Binghe’s eyes, but it did make him human; attainable and, above all, in desperate need of consolation.

“Shizun shouldn’t worry. Your Binghe will fix it for you,” he promised, and watched Shen Qingqiu’s face contort in a rather indecipherable mix of emotions before settling into faint amusement. Luo Binghe immediately wanted to make trouble for him. “But if Shizun is feeling sorry, then perhaps he might grant this faithful disciple a kiss?”

Shen Qingqiu’s jaw slackened ever-so-slightly and he blinked twice as if unable to fully process that request. “If —If that is what Binghe wants,” he managed after a little while. Luo Binghe had honestly only meant to tease, and hadn’t expected his master would indulge his shameless invitation, but he held still, breathlessly waiting to see what Shizun would do. Straightening his spine, Shen Qingqiu lifted himself up on his knees and freed his right hand that he used to tilt Luo Binghe’s head down a bit; then, with remarkable composure, he brushed a light yet lingering kiss onto his forehead. Shen Qingqiu’s heavy braid slithered over  his shoulder and onto Luo Binghe’s, carrying with it the scent of his skin.

“Shizun.”

With a pleased hum, Shen Qingqiu sat back on his heels; a hint of smugness played around the corners of his mouth, and it was that, more than anything —Shen Qingqiu’s self-satisfaction at believing he had somehow outmaneuvered his disciple— that caused Luo Binghe’s control to snap, inspiring in him that same aggressive bout of feeling one might experience when watching an especially adorable creature go about its day. He chased after his retreating master like he was starving, caught the back of his head in one palm and his waist in the other, and drew him once again up and closer, till they were pressed together and Shen Qingqiu’s hands had come to grip Luo Binghe’s borrowed robe which had fallen open at the chest.

He met Shen Qingqiu’s startled eyes for but an instant, and then kissed him, properly, drinking in the resulting half-choked gasp and clicking their teeth together when he overbalanced, nearly toppling his poor master over in his enthusiasm. His lower lip smarted where Shen Qingqiu had bitten him —accidentally, he thought, for his master’s black lashes had closed as soon as their mouths had met, and now he was hanging on to Luo Binghe’s curls with both long-fingered hands, submitting to Luo Binghe’s frantic kisses with great fondness if not active participation. 

Encouraged, Luo Binghe tightened his hold on Shen Qingqiu’s hip (marking the shape of the sharp bone there) and moved to press a smattering of loving kisses all over his master’s face, upon his eyelids and on his brow and down the elegant slope of his nose and against the faint curve of his cheeks, as he’d long wished to do; then he licked into that panting, inviting mouth, and this time Shen Qingqiu seemed better prepared for it, and returned the kiss with an abundance of caution but definite interest.

Luo Binghe’s heart sang —and then it sank, almost at once, when he drew back, wanting to see the reddened color of Shen Qingqiu’s lips, and saw instead the absolute bewilderment in his master’s gaze, and realized that somehow Shen Qingqiu had come to no conclusion that might benefit them. Was it possible for his master to still misunderstand him so completely? 

But it seemed, at least, that he had become aware (or close to it) of his own desire, for a hint of fright had entered those dark eyes of his, and the grip of his fingers around Luo Binghe’s was tight with nerves, so tight in fact his wrists had begun to shake again. So, as gently as he knew how, Luo Binghe consciously loosened the tension that had risen between them, pecking kisses on Shen Qingqiu’s face and hands again while his master caught his breath and perhaps his courage. “Thanking Shizun for the indulgence,” Luo Binghe murmured, before beating a strategic retreat: “This Binghe will prepare a bath for you.” 

Shen Qingqiu spent the following day mortifyingly glued to Luo Binghe’s side. 

All that preening, he decided, was definitely romantic in nature —any doubt he might have clung to had been thoroughly erased by the unexpected kiss, and, even more unexpected, Shen Qingqiu’s reaction to it. Not only had he gone along with it (which, considering his history with his spoiled and favored disciple, Shen Qingqiu was forced to admit was rather in character of himself) he had even reciprocated at a point! He had liked it! 

Worst of all —it had been a terrible, terrible kiss, way too emotionally charged and full of fangs (although Luo Binghe’s fangs were, in Shen Qingqiu’s humble opinion, extremely cute and wonderfully fascinating, this did not in any way mean Shen Qingqiu wanted them piercing the tender flesh of his lips). Luo Binghe’s grasping hand at his waist had left bruises (Shen Qingqiu had not spent a good portion of his bath digging his fingers in to test if they were real. He had not ) and the taste of ginger tea on Luo Binghe’s tongue had imprinted itself forever in his mind and would probably always bring a blush to his ears as he remembered just how dearly and desperately his precious disciple had been holding on to him, and all the little, unguarded, happy sounds that had been coming out of his throat, and, and—

And Shen Qingqiu wanted to bang his head against a wall repeatedly. This time, he couldn’t even blame Airplane for putting him in such a situation —although perhaps he could, since it was definitely Airplane’s fault that an amorous Luo Binghe was peerlessly handsome and utterly impossible to resist. Honestly, how had Shen Qingqiu been meant to resist when he was already so overinvested, when he cared so much and so insistently for his Binghe, when he wanted him near and content at all times, when, had it not been for the System, Shen Qingqiu would have kept him firmly at his side, safe and protected under the influence of Qing Jing, to raise new disciples together and go on night-hunts and come home to the bamboo house…

Oh, he was… he was in all over his head, he realized, from his place sitting in Luo Binghe’s lap, with his neck curled around Luo Binghe’s shoulders like a scarf and his beak conveniently hidden by that waterfall of perfect curls he was so fixated on. Perhaps he should have understood this sooner about himself, from how ready he had been to let Luo Binghe murder him, or how constantly they had orbited around each other long before the Conference, or even still, from the domesticity they had so effortlessly slipped back into the moment Luo Binghe had returned.

Forget the kiss, wasn’t brushing each other’s hair intimate enough in this setting? Not even in his previous life had Shen Qingqiu allowed another person close enough to do for him and with him all the things Luo Binghe took care of: his disciple had kept house for his master for years, and it was remarkably clear now that Shen Qingqiu had missed his mark by a mile when worrying Luo Binghe would resent being treated as a servant, because it was evident he viewed himself as something of a wife instead!

Preposterous. 

Ah, but then, wasn’t it more believable that there could be a different motivation behind Luo Binghe’s most recent behavior, one that did not involve accepting the frankly ludicrous notion that the stallion protagonist destined to have a harem in the hundreds might fancy his male old teacher? Even had Luo Binghe not been the center of the world, in what universe would any young, promising student (who was also a demonic Emperor on the side) be satisfied with the uneventful existence Shen Qingqiu led on Qing Jing, instructing his disciples and grading homework and essentially baby-sitting a Peak full of overeager children? 

Shen Qingqiu mantled his wings, observing the white lotus at work out of the corner of one eye. Luo Binghe was steadily scribbling notes on shifters and transformation curses and artifacts that might keep a soul anchored to a certain body, and he was doing so in impeccable calligraphy and with the kind of dedication Shen Qingqiu had rarely witnessed, even from him. 

When they’d fought, Shen Qingqiu had almost revealed the truth about the solution to Without-a-Cure. Could it be that Luo Binghe had snatched that sliver of information (key information: namely, that the cure hinged around him) and found out he need only take his master to bed to rid him of the poison that would soon kill him? 

Possibly. It would certainly explain the outpour of affection Shen Qingqiu had received from his disciple who had never shown an inclination towards such things before. Sure, as a youth he had trailed after Shen Qingqiu like a duckling, but that was because Luo Binghe was a thirsty little sponge desperate to absorb any knowledge thrown at him, and Shen Qingqiu happened to greatly enjoy providing such knowledge for him; and yes, sometimes, when he was especially happy or excited, Luo Binghe had rushed in and embraced his cold and aloof Shizun, who permitted it for a bit and then brushed him off with pointed fan-whaps. None of this in any way implied Binghe wanted to jump his master’s bones! But lately, all of Luo Binghe’s hugs had been laced with qi , and most of his pets and caresses as well (even now, Shen Qingqiu could feel the buzz of demonic energy being pushed along his veins through their contact). 

Their one kiss was an outlier, in this respect, but perhaps Luo Binghe had been merely testing the waters. Shen Qingqiu had, after all, accidentally revealed he was both aware of the nature of the cure and resolutely disinclined to acknowledge it; and sweet Binghe who wished to save him was checking to see whether his thin-faced master would be open to accepting such a cure, and warming him up to the idea by gradually upping the ante of the physical intimacy they shared between themselves.

And Shen Qingqiu had fallen for it, because he was so painfully weak to even the suggestion that Luo Binghe might shed a tear or feel in any way rejected that he ended up giving in to all of his requests, no matter how outlandish. 

But he had missed Binghe so much. 

Nibbling his way up and down Luo Binghe’s jaw, Shen Qingqiu brushed the tip of his beak delicately through fluffy, ginger-scented curls and felt quiet resignation sink into his bones: whatever Binghe asked of him, he would permit, for he did not have it in him to refuse him, not when his disciple cared for him so dearly and readily, and was even willing to offer up his own body to the cause of saving Shen Qingqiu’s life.

Silently, as he let Luo Binghe’s clawed nails drag shivers from his spine, he wondered at how he would adjust when, after the cure had been administered, Luo Binghe no longer felt compelled to cuddle and touch and stick so close to his master they were practically sealed together. He had grown too used too quickly to this new intimacy, enough that he could already tell it might in all likelihood hurt to be deprived of it again. But Luo Binghe had his own bright future ahead of him, and Shen Qingqiu was his teacher, and would be severely remiss in preventing such a future from coming to fruit because of his own selfish desire to hold on to his fantasy of a shared home.

Luo Binghe should remain free and untethered, and Shen Qingqiu satisfied to have his deference and his ear, and to be the one to watch him go as he went forth to seek his glory. At most, he could hope for his Binghe to write and visit often: that, he thought, might not be too great of an imposition…

That night, after Shizun had freshened up, Luo Binghe served him a few of his favorite dishes —spicy and crispy meat slices, marinated eggs, soy-sauce fried rice garnished with fresh green onions, and seared okra with grated peanuts on top— and watched him try and fail not to become flustered every time Luo Binghe so much as glanced his way. 

A heavy tension stretched between them like a silken spiderweb, woven in the air by Luo Binghe’s impulsive kiss: Shen Qingqiu was on edge, fidgety, behaving like he had in the days leading up to the Conference, though the flavor of his anxiety was obviously quite different. Luo Binghe felt privileged to be able to recognize such a thing in his master, who, to an outside observer, would in all likelihood appear as cool and collected as he ever was, if a little lost in thought. Still, Luo Binghe knew it was up to him to resolve and dispel this tension, as Shen Qingqiu would never ask after Luo Binghe’s intentions or for the cure that would save him, fully believing he was doing his disciple a kindness instead of horrifyingly disregarding his own well-being for no acceptable reason.

So Luo Binghe accompanied his master when he retired, citing a need to see to his hair (which was perfectly combed and glossy from Shen Qingqiu’s most recent bath) as an excuse to follow him into his private quarters. Shen Qingqiu did not quite meet his eyes, flushed and prickly in that dignified, catlike way of his Luo Binghe found terribly endearing, and tormented his pretty green fan; he made no move towards the comb.

Luo Binghe gently took the fan from him, set it on the vanity, and then tucked a loose strand of silken hair behind Shen Qingqiu’s reddened ear, lingering in the touch with his fingers barely cradling the sharp cut of his master’s jaw. “Shizun, this Binghe has a question,” he ventured, and immediately Shen Qingqiu’s gaze snapped to his, attentive. “And you must answer truthfully, won’t you, Shizun?” 

He waited for Shen Qingqiu to nod, and he did, stiffly, after a moment in which Luo Binghe listened to his master’s heart as it kicked into a desperate run. “I have seen that Shizun still cares for me greatly,” said Luo Binghe softly, and the sweep of Shen Qingqiu’s lashes against his thumb rolled through him like an earthquake. “But, do you also love me?”

Shen Qingqiu frowned, turned his face ever-so-slightly into Luo Binghe’s palm. “Is there a difference?” 

Luo Binghe paused to consider this, and all that he knew about his master, and his own feelings for him that were so tangled and layered as to make them near impossible to articulate into such a thing as like and dislike, affection and lust: from his master, he wanted everything, the good and the bad, adoration and disdain, every loss and every failure and every weakness, the joys of life and the small annoyances, all the thoughts and grievances that ran through his cunning, overworked mind, each word of praise that he felt at leave to voice and those that were left suspended and unrealized in the bright glow of his eyes and the faint, fan-shielded smiles that escaped him. Was there a difference between love and care? Perhaps not to Shen Qingqiu, and even if there had been, they had long crossed that line as they had many others. 

“Shizun is right,” Luo Binghe conceded, and tilted his head so that his master’s breath warmed his cheek. “Then, would you let me kiss you again? And take you to bed?” 

“And Binghe is really… sure about this,” Shen Qingqiu said slowly, wringing the hems of his sleeves between white-knuckled fingers. 

Sweet man , Luo Binghe silently sighed, half-despairing and yet in awe: how humbling, to be the person Shen Qingqiu put before his own needs; how frightening and cruel. He placed a light kiss onto his master’s temple, found it hot with a touch of fever, and promptly sent forth a flow of spiritual energy to dispel it. “Of course, Shizun, more than anything else,” he promised. “So, will you allow me?”

“Binghe may… may do as he likes,” Shen Qingqiu said, and pressed his hands against Luo Binghe’s chest; his pink tongue darted out to wet his lips. “This master… is willing.” 

The first kiss Luo Binghe delivered to his master’s mouth was delicate and short, for Shen Qingqiu was tense in his arms, wound up so tightly Luo Binghe feared he would collapse from the effort of it; so he applied himself to gentling him, and an idea began to form in his mind that his Shizun, for all his vast knowledge and elaborate scheming, was as unpracticed in these matters as Luo Binghe himself, and possibly less learned, too, having always shied away from discussion of such topics as dual cultivation as if they’d never concern him. So Luo Binghe kissed him until his lips parted, until the line of his spine softened and Shen Qingqiu began to lean on him; and then he settled a hand at his hip and dragged the other down his neck, dipping two fingers underneath his collars.

He felt Shen Qingqiu swallow, and the blood in his veins surged with urgency, ravenously greedy and yearning to see the beloved of his heart bared to him; but he firmly restrained his clamoring instincts and instead let his master set the pace of their intimacy, aware that his control would not last indefinitely, and that he needed Shen Qingqiu at ease with him and pliant before he could unleash upon him the burning wave of his desire. 

Standing in the middle of Shen Qingqiu’s bedroom, they kissed for a long while, unhurried; Luo Binghe glutted himself on the taste of the ripe fruit he’d fed his master after dinner, and slipped the elegant robes off his shoulders, one by one, until Shen Qingqiu was left in naught but his soft inner layer and the charming blush decorating his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Stripped down to his pants, Luo Binghe took advantage of Shen Qingqiu’s preoccupation with the sight of his naked chest and attached his mouth to the beautiful line of his master’s collarbone that had driven him to helplessly frustrated tears countless times in the course of his life; he nibbled and teased, earning himself the most precious sounds, understated and yet undeniably present, like a gift he hadn’t known to expect.

“Binghe, you… stop dawdling,” Shizun protested, having dropped most of his weight on Luo Binghe by then, “and get on with it.” 

Mu Qingfang’s informative material had been intimidatingly detailed; but Luo Binghe was Shen Qingqiu’s own stellar student, and had committed its instructions to memory for the sake of his master who would otherwise suffer from Luo Binghe’s inexperience (and his own, most definitely, considering how flippantly Shen Qingqiu had offered himself up, on his hands and knees and shaking with renewed nerves, without accounting for how painful such a thing would be to do unprepared).

Thankfully, Shen Qingqiu’s natural indolence worked in Luo Binghe’s favor —Luo Binghe laid him on the bed and kissed him soft and pliant, grinding their hips together in slow, deliberate motions that painted stars behind his eyelids, and took a brief detour to put Shen Qingqiu’s long and delicate-looking fingers in his mouth, watching arousal cloud his master’s gaze and quicken his breathing. He worked Shen Qingqiu open with a patience he hadn’t known himself capable of; the sheer overwhelming wealth of sensation brought about by their closeness was almost unbearable, tightening his throat as his control unravelled and he found himself insistently chewing on his master’s lips. The taste of blood in his mouth was a revelation, as was the weight of Shen Qingqiu’s trembling thighs folded around Luo Binghe’s waist. 

Shen Qingqiu hissed through clenched teeth when they joined, which wounded Luo Binghe’s heart with the bitter taste of culpability; but Shen Qingqiu’s arms circled his shoulders, nails digging into his back for purchase, and Luo Binghe carefully started to circulate his master’s qi for him, creating a circuit between their bodies, and focused on lessening Shen Qingqiu’s discomfort, and for a while they merely breathed each other’s air and did not move. 

The fingers of Shizun’s ruined hand came up to cup Luo Binghe’s cheek, tracing the shape of his mouth. “This master is fine,” said Shen Qingqiu softly, and was the first to shift in their embrace, causing Luo Binghe to shiver and squirm as he bravely resisted the need to rut into him like a beast. “Binghe worries too much.”

Binghe doesn’t worry nearly enough , Luo Binghe objected silently, but obligingly started up a careful pace, which had Shen Qingqiu alternatively wheezing in pain and pleasure. Then Luo Binghe sat up in bed and drew his master in his lap and with his hands cupping Shen Qingqiu’s sharp hips he guided him into seeking his own enjoyment —wanting him to see, to know that this was something Shen Qingqiu desired for himself and no other reason— and finally had him openly panting and calling his name and scolding him when he was too rough or too intense. 

Luo Binghe shut his eyes and stuck his face back into the curve of Shen Qingqiu’s neck, drinking in his scent and the pressure of his fast-paced pulse, and wished a day would come in which he’d rendered his master so thoroughly and irrevocably spoiled that he would not hesitate to demand satisfaction from his faithful disciple, that he’d wake in bed in the morning expecting to eat his breakfast from Luo Binghe’s own hand and concede to sleeping only after Luo Binghe had served him on his knees and had him flushed with ecstasy at least once.

As the heat between them grew and they figured out a rhythm that would not have them knocking elbows or becoming tangled in the sheets, Luo Binghe found it increasingly tasking to focus on transferring energy into Shen Qingqiu’s meridians. The fluttering kisses Shen Qingqiu was brushing all over his face and shoulders were extremely distracting (and would have moved him to tears, had Luo Binghe’s eyes and cheeks not long been wet with emotion) as was the pull of those elegant fingers into his curls. Still, Luo Binghe poured as much qi as he could grasp into his master, and feasted on his glowing skin, whispering does it feel good, Shizun , just to hear him bite out shameless! in breathless gasps, and Luo Binghe loved him so much he would have torn his dual cores from his dantian and offered them like cherries for Shen Qingqiu to eat; but even as he let Luo Binghe toss him about and cover him in marks, Shen Qingqiu patted his head and begged him to pace himself, to be careful not to give more than he comfortably could, fretting that he might drive himself into a qi deviation.

And so they passed the night.

When Shen Qingqiu woke up the bedroom was still dark, apart from the muted gleam of a few scattered nightpearls. His body ached fiercely, from his much-tormented hips to his tender, bitten-raw skin, and his lips were faintly bloodied; by contrast, his spiritual energy rushed unfettered through his meridians, yet bearing the sizzling mark of his disciple’s borrowed qi , and the dizziness and wear of Without-a-Cure had been washed clear of his system, leaving him for the first time in weeks fully alert. Inside, he could feel Luo Binghe’s blood mites hustle about, perhaps mending what remained of the poison-damage Shen Qingqiu had accumulated throughout the years.

Luo Binghe himself was lying on his side, propped up on an elbow and watching Shen Qingqiu with a delicate smile on his reddened lips. His curls spread like a halo all across Shen Qingqiu’s pillow: he was as blindingly handsome as ever, aglow with success and bright-eyed with relief. Shen Qingqiu, who had been wavering on the edge of shame, immediately softened at the sight of him, his sweet disciple who had saved him. Truly, no person existed that was half as good as Luo Binghe!

“Hello, Shizun,” chirped the precious fluffy sheep, and rolled over to press their lips together. 

Surprised, Shen Qingqiu went with Luo Binghe’s motion, finding himself suddenly crushed under the full weight of the stallion protagonist, whose fingers were wound through his hair and whose tongue was taking various liberties inside Shen Qingqiu’s mouth. Now, Shen Qingqiu had (belatedly) come to understand several things about himself in the course of the night —namely, that he might be slightly bent for the protagonist, and certainly beyond hope on a purely emotional level— and so wasn’t at all opposed to these developments. He returned Binghe’s enthusiastic kiss, and grabbed a fistful of lovely curls, and made himself comfortable trapped between the giving mattress and Binghe’s unyielding frame; but the trickle of qi Luo Binghe began to feed him with their contact cut through his rose-tinted delusion more effectively than a blade, soundly reminding him that Luo Binghe was only concerned for his health, and Shen Qingqiu should really relieve him of that responsibility soon…

Turning his head away, Shen Qingqiu scrambled to gather his wits and his dignity about him, and with some difficulty shuffled out of his disciple’s slackened grip and further up the bed, where he sat in a corner, feeling vaguely cold and terribly exposed; he wrapped his flimsy inner layer closed. “Ah, Binghe… there’s truly no need for all that,” he said, stretching his lips into what he hoped looked like a conciliatory smile while Luo Binghe also sat up and frowned at him. “This master is healed now, so… don’t force yourself anymore. I appreciate that you would do this for me, but… just the once is enough, Binghe shouldn’t worry.” 

Luo Binghe’s face fell, which caused Shen Qingqiu’s lungs to squeeze. “Shizun, you… you’ve really misunderstood,” he sighed, folding his hands in his lap; his curls fanned about his shoulders and down his chest, concealing Xiu Ya’s white scar atop his heart but not the pink scratches Shen Qingqiu had left all over his arms. “All this time, and you never noticed? I thought I was being shamelessly obvious, I… How can you say I’m forcing myself! Yes, if it weren’t for Without-a-Cure, I wouldn’t have been so… so hasty about all this, I would have courted you properly, but I would have regardless , Shizun, because there is nothing in this world I care about as well as you, and you should know this by now!”

Speechless, Shen Qingqiu stared. Luo Binghe had built up steam as he rushed through his confession, and now his cheeks were rosy and his eyes were glossy, and the heels of his hands were digging in the bedding as he leaned forward, ready to close the distance between them. “Luo Binghe, you are being absurd—” Shen Qingqiu managed to protest, because really, it was one thing for Luo Binghe to forgive him, but this? Surely he must be confused, after the many emotional upheavals he’d had to face in such a short time. “This master pushed you in the Abyss! That you haven’t killed me for it is already ludicrous enough, but for you to… to…!” 

Binghe’s starry eyes softened. “For me to love you,” he finished, gently, when he saw Shen Qingqiu couldn’t. “Which I really do, Shizun.” 

“That! That I cannot believe.” 

Unexpectedly, Luo Binghe’s smile returned, full of fondness. “But you must, Shizun. I am asking you to, and you owe me, don’t you? So believe me,” he said, ever-persuasive, and somehow glanced up at Shen Qingqiu through his lashes in such a way that when he reached out his hands Shen Qingqiu was powerless to take them, and was thus drawn back into his disciple’s warmth, tucked against his (still naked! Wonderfully plush!) chest. “Come here. You are my home, who else would I love if not you?” Luo Binghe asked, and Shen Qingqiu could have listed a hundred names for him but none of them came to mind right then. 

Light kisses were pressed into Shen Qingqiu’s open palms. Luo Binghe’s sooth-black lashes trembled, and he laughed gently when he met Shen Qingqiu’s somewhat aggrieved gaze. “You are infuriating and you make me so mad, is that what you want to hear? I live in constant fear that you will turn around and leave me again,” he admitted, prickling Shen Qingqiu’s heart with a hundred needles. “And yet, I adore you. I want you to only look at me. I want to be your favorite, and I want to live with you and be yours.” He lowered their joined hands and drew a deep breath, like he was bracing himself for Shen Qingqiu to reject him. How foolish: didn’t he know he was the center of Shen Qingqiu’s world? “I don’t care for strength and power if it means I can’t have you.” 

Shen Qingqiu laid his hand over the white scar he had inflicted on his disciple, and spoke quietly, with his eyes fixed on his own thin fingers. “Binghe has always been my favorite,” he said. “But what about your great future? What about marrying a nice sister like—”

Luo Binghe stuck his nose in the hollow of Shen Qingqiu’s cheek. “Shizun, if you say ‘Liu Mingyan’ I will bite you,” he hissed, not entirely playfully, and clicked his jaws open so that his lower fangs caught the side of Shen Qingqiu’s chin. He lingered there for a moment or two (Shen Qingqiu silently thrilled from the threat of it) before turning the pretend-bite into a smacking kiss. “No sisters, Shizun, don’t ask anymore,” he insisted, drawing his lips around the shell of Shen Qingqiu’s burning ear. “And I don’t see why I can’t have a great future and be Shizun’s wife at the same time.”

“My —my wife !” Shen Qingqiu sputtered, aching for a fan to smack him with. He knew he should have carried one to bed! “Shameless! Who taught you to be so cheeky!” 

Delighted laughter filled the bamboo house; Luo Binghe seized Shen Qingqiu by the waist and squeezed the breath out of him, falling backwards into the pillows and dragging him along. Shen Qingqiu’s stomach flipped and his forehead collided painfully with Luo Binghe’s exposed collarbone, but he couldn’t find it within himself to summon even a grain of irritation. “Ah, Shizun, Shizun, forgive me, I won’t tease you anymore,” Luo Binghe lied, for he kept laughing, to the point that there were tears in his shining eyes and the most disarming dimples in his cheeks. “Shizun…” 

Shen Qingqiu bared his teeth at him and rather ineffectually smacked his shoulder. “Impossible creature—”

He yelped when his disciple sat up in an impressive display of core strength. “Shizun! Shizun, it’s daylight,” Luo Binghe cried, and the joy on his face was like the breaking of dawn.

“Ah—” Shen Qingqiu said, glancing towards the window: the sky had paled into tender blue, and while they were busy fooling around a single sunbeam had intruded upon their privacy, drawing a little golden square onto the floor. Shen Qingqiu was still, undeniably, human, and currently weathering Luo Binghe’s celebratory amorous assault. He submitted to the relentless kissing good-naturedly enough, petting Luo Binghe’s hair as he thought. “Ah! In the end, it seems dual cultivation with a Heavenly demon really does solve every problem,” he muttered, feeling extremely lucky but also a little cheated by the narrative.

“Every problem, Shizun?” Luo Binghe chanted, somehow managing to invade Shen Qingqiu’s personal space further than he already had. His eyes glittered with mischief; Shen Qingqiu resisted the urge to avert his own. “Your Binghe is flattered,” the peerless protagonist purred, and ran his fingers in a seductive caress down the length of his master’s spine. “Wondering if Shizun would be interested in partaking a bit more, just for the sake of it?” 

Shen Qingqiu stiffened, turning red. What good filial disciple? Luo Binghe was a fiend who was going to break Shen Qingqiu’s poor hips in two and turn his hair white! They’d spent the entire night doing it, how could he be asking for more in the morning? 

Then again, Luo Binghe was young and had just enjoyed his first taste of sweetness (so had Shen Qingqiu, for that matter, but this wasn’t about him), and it was only natural for him to still be hungry. “Perhaps after breakfast,” Shen Qingqiu offered, a little stilted as he tried to hide the reaction Luo Binghe’s wandering nails were drawing from him. “This master… I’m a little hungry.”

Luo Binghe leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth. “En. Anything Shizun wants,” he promised.

After breakfast, Luo Binghe presented his master with a new fan.

“Are those my feathers?” Shen Qingqiu asked, wondering whether to laugh or cry. “Isn’t that a bit weird?” 

Luo Binghe pouted, eager to watch his master melt for him. “But Shizun, aren’t they extremely pretty?” he insisted, tilting the fan this way and that so that the sunlight broke in silver patterns over the blue feathers he had attached to the guard. “Shizun said I could court you. Are you going back on your word?”

Shen Qingqiu sighed, and reached up to pat Luo Binghe’s hair. “The fan is lovely,” he murmured, twining their fingers together, and eventually gathered the nerve to initiate a kiss himself, soft and drawn-out. “This master is looking forward to your next gift.”

[Congratulations, congratulations, congratulations! Good things must be said three times! User has triggered: ‘emotional honesty’ hidden storyline and speedrun the happy ending! 10.000 B points awarded! Protagonist satisfaction points: maxed! User has been working hard!]

Shen Qingqiu nearly fell from the bed when that accursed, frustratingly cheery voice rang painfully through his head. In fact, it was only Luo Binghe’s arm wound around his hips that prevented him from smacking his face into the wooden floor. They had been taking a (well-deserved!) break after rolling around in bed for a while, and Luo Binghe had dozed off, finally catching up on all the sleep he had been missing; Shen Qingqiu, for his part, had slept plenty, and was thus enjoying the splendid and intimate sight of his dearest disciple at rest.

“You!” Shen Qingqiu snarled at the System. “Where the hell have you been all this time! Binghe almost got poisoned by some B-level villains that popped up too early!”

[User’s transformation curse caused the System to disengage from User’s soul. We apologise for the inconvenience! Would User like for—]

Shen Qingqiu waved the glowing window aside. “Shut up,” he groused, turning over to hide his face in the crook of Luo Binghe’s neck. “This master is busy.”

The System, predictably, ignored him, and started listing points and achievements like it wasn’t encroaching on Shen Qingqiu’s (almost) marital bliss and long-needed if very brief vacation from his Peak Lord duties, which would end the moment one of his disciples or Mu- shidi came over to the bamboo house to check on him. Maliciously, Shen Qingqiu narrowed his eyes, and, now that he knew it was possible to part the System from his soul without dying, started planning out a way for his haloed disciple to destroy it.