Chapter Text
1. Shen Qingqiu
Shen Qingqiu observed Luo Binghe sitting across from him on a small cushion on the other side of the table, shoulders tense, gaze lowered, posture stiff. The young man looked prepared for punishment, even though he hadn’t done anything wrong, just existed.
He had been in the sect for five years. Shen Qingqiu didn’t know exactly how old the disciple was, but he probably wasn’t even fifteen yet. He’d guess thirteen, maybe twelve. He had never bothered to check Luo Binghe’s records, afraid that looking at them would reveal details he didn’t want to see.
It was so familiar it hurt.
Shen Qingqiu cleared his throat, drawing the boy’s attention. Luo Binghe flinched.
“You don’t have to be like this, Luo Binghe,” he said, attempting a gentle tone, the kind of gentle approach he’d been trying to adopt with his Qing Jing disciples for the past six years, ever since Shang Qinghua had casually remarked that if he kept acting that way, he’d end up with a qi deviation.
Luo Binghe blinked, surprised, as if he hadn’t expected any clemency, and lowered his head even more. Shen Qingqiu fell silent again, observing.
It wasn’t the first time he’d seen this reaction. The last time, however, had been from Qinghua, his shidi, who used to shrink at any scolding with the same kind of hesitant smile and eyes full of alarm.
He never knew why Qinghua was like that. He never had the courage to ask.
Now, seeing Luo Binghe, he realized, maybe there was never just one reason.
The suspicion had begun slowly, years ago, when he first saw Luo Binghe’s curly hair. It was only after he’d told the boy to wash up for his initiation tea ceremony that the thought settled in his mind.
The boy returned with his hair loose, still damp, and Shen Qingqiu froze for a moment. Dark, thick, curly strands, almost identical to Qinghua’s when he wore his down, which had become rare in recent peak lord meetings, but Shen Qingqiu remembered clearly.
He also remembered the way Luo Binghe had frozen during that ceremony. He didn’t move once while serving tea, trembling slightly, spilling a few drops, but never taking his eyes off the rim of the cup. He wasn’t a good server. He hadn’t been properly taught. Even so, he tried his best, as if that ritual were his only chance.
Since then, Shen Qingqiu had tried to be kind, even without feeling much empathy for the boy who was possibly his martial nephew, his only one, a bastard seemingly unacknowledged by his own father. He tried to see the boy as just another disciple. But… it wasn’t that simple.
Luo Binghe was obedient. Calm. He had only one friend, who caused more trouble than help, and occasionally interacted with disciples from other peaks, especially the ones from An Ding, who loved sneaking snacks to him during deliveries and pretended it never happened.
Shen Qingqiu pretended not to hear whenever his own disciples gossiped about An Ding’s clear preference for Binghe. Entertaining that thought would only feed an idea he wanted to avoid.
Luo Binghe didn’t progress naturally. He progressed like someone fighting to survive, with an innate talent for everything he did, as if fate had chosen him as its favorite and refused to let go. Yes, he had talent, for swordsmanship, music, writing, even cooking.
Everything Shen Qingqiu demanded, Luo Binghe excelled at. But there was always that tension in the air. That constant rigidity in his body. That silent desire to please.
Luo Binghe looked at him with the same fear Qinghua once did, back when both were head disciples of their peaks and forced to interact during weekly meetings in an effort to build a familial bond that never formed. Later, the boy’s gaze had changed, more alert, less scared. But still full of caution.
It was different from Qinghua’s clumsy fear, the kind that made him freeze and start rambling nonsense as if no one were listening. Luo Binghe wasn’t clumsy, nor talkative. He was... too careful. Too quiet. Too aware.
As if he were always walking on glass.
Shen Qingqiu would never expel him from the sect. Luo Binghe didn’t seem sure of that.
And Shen Qingqiu, who wasn’t a monster, not the one everyone thought, couldn’t look at him without wondering:
What if?
What if Luo Binghe really is Qinghua’s son?
The idea was absurd. Qinghua had never mentioned any relationship and never seemed to care about anyone or anything outside his disciples, whom he often called his ducklings. He’d never shown interest in anyone outside the sect. He was nervous, awkward, clumsy with affection.
Shen Qingqiu had never seen him touch anyone intimately, aside from Wei Qingwei and Mu Qingfang, who had grown closer to him in recent years.
Besides, Shang Qinghua and Luo Binghe didn’t interact. Shen Qingqiu would know if they did. They’d never exchanged more than formal greetings. And yet… Shen Qingqiu remembered seeing him once, watching the boy with a strange expression. Not affection.
Not tenderness. Something more like… guilt.
Maybe he was imagining things. Maybe it was all just coincidence: the hair, the nervous ticks, the social discomfort.
But Shen Qingqiu knew his shidi. He’d been observing him for years. He also knew that Shang Qinghua carried secrets, things he never told anyone and never let anyone notice. And that Luo Binghe, as talented and composed as he was, had to have come from somewhere.
The doubt never left him.
Shen Qingqiu took a deep breath, forcing his thoughts back to the present.
“How have your classes been?” he asked in a neutral tone.
Luo Binghe quickly looked up, surprised by the question, and for a brief moment, something almost childlike crossed his face. The genuine surprise of someone not used to being asked about themselves.
“They’ve been going well, Shizun,” he replied formally, but with a hint of excitement. “I’ve been practicing more calligraphy. The hall master said I improved a lot this past week.”
Shen Qingqiu nodded, watching him carefully.
Luo Binghe gestured as he spoke, one hand tracing a small arc in the air to illustrate something about the brushstrokes. When he finished a sentence, his left eyebrow lifted slightly.
It was the same.
The exact same gesture Qinghua used when trying to explain an idea that only made sense inside his own head, an idea none of his martial siblings would ever understand. The raised brow, the pause between phrases, even the way he tucked the strands of hair falling over his eyes.
And the hair... long, thick, always looking slightly messy, even when tied or styled. The color, the shine, the way it moved when he turned his head.
Shen Qingqiu didn’t need to compare them side by side. The resemblance was there. Not loud, not obvious. But visible. Subtle like a well-kept secret.
“Do you like your music lessons?” he asked, feigning disinterest.
“I do, Shizun,” Luo Binghe said, nodding slightly. “I didn’t know I’d be able to play properly, but now... it’s one of my favorites.”
“You have talent.”
Shen Qingqiu’s voice came out lower than intended. It was always hard to say that to his disciples, especially Binghe. And once again, he saw that expression on the boy’s face: a mix of surprise and embarrassment, as if he didn’t know how to accept a compliment without apologizing for it.
Just like Qinghua.
Even the brightness in their eyes was similar.
Damn it.
Shen Qingqiu leaned back slightly, trying to keep his composure. But inside, his chest grew tighter with every word.
Luo Binghe said nothing for a moment, just lowered his gaze and smiled, small and subtle.
“Thank you, Shizun.”
And Shen Qingqiu wanted to say something, wanted to ask:
Do you know Shang Qinghua? Do you know your parents? Has he ever talked to you? Has he ever looked at you like you were more than a stranger? Like you were his son and he wanted to take you back to An Ding with him? But the words died in his throat.
Because if he said anything, if he opened that door. Maybe he’d never be able to close it again.