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Chapter Text

Mu Qingfang very rarely partook in the type of shenaniganry his sect siblings indulged in. He was, therefore, woefully unprepared for the experience of closing his door and turning around to find the Lord of the Northern Wastes lurking in the shadows of his living room.

That is to say, he yelped and jumped a little, which was a perfectly understandable human impulse he refused to be ashamed of. Mobeijun showed no reaction, but then again, it would have been more concerning if he had.

Cang Qiong had dealt with the Demonic Court long enough to know its quirks; life truly worked in mysterious ways.

“Hello?” he said, mildly, trying to pretend he hadn't just produced a funny sound.

“Shang Qinghua needs help,” rumbled Mobeijun.

“An emergency?” asked Mu Qingfang, hand already swiping at one of the packs he always left by the door.

Mobeijun hesitated.

“No,” he said. “It is a… concern.”

…was he about to explain human reproductive anatomy to the King of the Northern Desert? No, no, no assumptions. Do not look alarmed and do not frighten the petitioner.

“Sometimes,” the king continued, oblivious to Mu Qingfang's plight, “Shang Qinghua stops.”

“…stops,” Mu Qingfang repeated, coaxingly.

“Yes,” he said. “Stops.”

They looked at each other.

“Could you elaborate?” Mu Qingfang asked.

The Northern King moved at last, stepping away from the dark like a mighty statue come to life; his eyes glinted cold within the single shadow that fell across his face.

“He will be writing,” Mobeijun rumbled, “and he will stop. He will be talking, and he will stop. He will be listening, and then— he will stop.”

His hand rose in an aborted movement that shifted into crossing his arms, and Mu Qingfang had the impression that the Northern King was, in fact, agitated.

“Describe this stopping to me,” said Mu Qingfang at last, setting his travel bag down and moving to his desk; he tugged out some fresh note paper with one hand while motioning to the cushion nearby with the other. “Spare no detail. Does he freeze in place? Does he collapse? Does it look like sleeping, or like being in a trance? Meditation? Do his eyes move? How can you tell he is stopping, as you say?”

Mobeijun knelt at the cushion, slowly, so intensely intimidating it wrapped back around to being awkward. He didn't seem aware of this impression, however— his gaze was already turning inwards with recollection.

“He sets the brush down,” Mobeijun started. “Not in his usual way,” he added, in what was perhaps haste; his fingers twitched in another quickly suppressed movement. “His hand— goes slack. His line meanders. He lowers the brush, slowly. It rolls on the ink. The character is not finished. He sets both hands on the desk, and they are loose. His eyes are—”

His voice cut off. Mu Qingfang looked up from his writing to find Mobei-jun's face had tensed.

“…they are unseeing,” he said, with visible effort. “Far away.”

“It sounds like a trance,” said Mu Qingfang to himself, resuming his notes. “Is it the same in the other occasions you mentioned? He's in the middle of an action, and gradually settles into stillness?”

“Yes,” said Mobeijun. “Shang Qinghua is speaking, and his words peter out. He is listening, and he does not react.”

He pressed his lips together.

“…at first, I believed him tired,” he said, with something almost like hesitance. “Distracted. Lost in thoughts.”

“Did you try to call his attention?” asked Mu Qingfang, although he could guess at the answer; Mobeijun was here, after all.

And he was nodding, much as Mu Qingfang expected. “He will not react,” he said, and the deep rumble of his voice was heavy with echoes. “Unless I am… physical, he will not react.”

Mu Qingfang wrote that down. “How long do these episodes usually last? Have you made note of it?”

“Yes,” said Mobeijun. “If I touch him, he starts, and he is normal. If I don't, he—” again that tense hesitation— “…does not.”

His hands clenched over his knee, and Mu Qingfang watched him glare down into the floor in a surprising display of emotion.

“Today,” he continued, “I let him. I watched him. He breathed. His eyes flickered subtly. There was no other movement. His hands lay on the desk where he'd loosened them. He sat on a stool and strayed to neither side. There was no change for two sichen. Then I… touched him. On the shoulder.”

He laid a huge palm on his own shoulder, as if reliving the memory.

“And he started.”

Mu Qingfang hummed at his notes. “Describe this starting. Is it like a jolt? Does it seem uncomfortable? Breaking out of a trance is usually disorienting, even upsetting.”

But Mobeijun was already shaking his head.

“He… used… to jump, at my touch,” he admitted, slowly. “But no longer. Even before this. Today, when I touched him, he—“

The hand on his shoulder tightened.

“…he blinked,” said Mobeijun. “He looked up at me, and he smiled.”

Mu Qingfang hummed again, putting on his most professional face. He was never going to unknow the fact that the King of the Northern Desert was a sap, was he.

“He was upset,” said Mobeijun, suddenly, brushing off his daze. “When he saw the hour. He was upset, then. But not before.”

“So,” Mu Qingfang tapped the handle of his brush on his desk, “he does not react as if snapping from a deep trance, nor seems aware of the passage of time. I gather that he acts normally after waking from these episodes?”

“Yes.”

“Anything else of note?”

Mobeijun was silent for a considerable amount of time. Mu Qingfang let him. This poor man had probably spent his entire monthly allotment of words trying to describe someone else's symptoms, he'd earned this much patience.

“Today,” he said, eventually, “his eyes…”

He hesitated again.

“I do not know… if it was truly there,” Mobeijun continued, slowly. “I watched his eyes for very long. I was impatient. I was… trying to find something.”

Hoping, Mu Qingfang didn't say. Hoping for a sign that something was actually wrong, for an explanation that would justify the ongoing anxiety. Completely common, perfectly understandable. Such acknowledgment was unlikely to be appreciated at the moment, however.

“I saw it for one moment,” said Mobeijun. “I did not blink— but I… moved. I shifted closer, and it was gone. I stepped back, I changed angles. I watched for longer. Nothing.”

“And what did it look like?” Mu Qingfang asked.

“A small light,” said Mobeijun, “chasing itself around his pupil. A fading tail in its wake.”

Mu Qingfang noted it down.

“That is all,” Mobeijun said, standing from the cushion.

“I see,” said Mu Qingfang, setting his notes aside to dry and standing in turn. “Is Shang-shixiong in his residence, or yours?”

“I brought him and bade him sleep,” he said at once.

“Excellent,” said Mu Qingfang. “I will see him first thing in the morning, and forward any findings through Luo-shizhi.”

The Northern King strode into the nearest shadow without so much as a nod; Mu Qingfang shrugged to himself and retired for the night.

The morning saw him knocking at Shang-shixiong's door for a whole incense stick before breaking in and finding the strangest, creepiest goddamn thing he'd ever laid eyes upon.

“What's wrong?” asked Shen Qingqiu, anxiously, as he hurried into the house with Binghe at his heels.

The An Ding Peak Lord's receiving room was airy and well-appointed, appropriate for his station, but hardly prepared to contain so many nervous disciples; they pressed into each other to open a path towards an unassuming corridor, cramped like a servant's path— as opposed to the other, more visible hallway extending from the entrance.

Wei Qingwei hovered at one of several doors, Hong Jing in his grip. Within, three more peak lords shuffled awkwardly around a narrow bed, while Mu Qingfang and two of his disciples attended its occupant; with Shen Qingqiu's arrival, the chamber was filled to capacity.

“What the hell is that?” Binghe asked, stepping ahead of his frozen husband.

That was a shimmering, translucent plaque, covered in glowing letters, which hovered above the unconscious Shang Qinghua and bathed the room in an eerie, bluish light.

“We'd all like to know,” said Qi Qingqi. “Hong Jing isn't reacting and the rest of us are clueless, so we can only hope Shen-shixiong can figure something out from the writing style.”

“Before this master does,” said Shen Qingqiu, “he is going to ask a stupid question.”

The room's occupants turned to look at him.

“You can all see that, right?” he pointed his fan vaguely at the plaque's general direction. “That thing? Everyone here can see it?”

They were already nodding as he spoke, Liu Qingge going as far as poking the apparition with Cheng Luan's scabbard. It went right through, as if he were touching smoke. As if it were a mirage.

Shen Qingqiu nodded, and lowered his fan, eyes distant.

An expectant silence rose.

“Shizun!” Binghe cried, suddenly, grasping Shen Qingqiu by the waist; he searched the room and then tugged his husband towards the bed, pushing roughly past Yue Qingyuan.

“I'm fine, Binghe,” said Shen Qingqiu, but his gait was stumbling and uneven, to their surprise. Once sat, he made no move to stand, instead burying his head in his hands with a tired sigh.

Binghe bared his teeth and clawed at the plaque, only to pause as his hand met resistance.

“Yes,” said Mu Qingfang, from his seat by the bed. “The image is solid to the touch, but only that of a hand. Objects fly through as if there was nothing but air.”

“Elbows and kicks are the same,” Liu Qingge added.

Binghe studied the thing more carefully, even as he edged between it and the recovering Shen Qingqiu.

“These letters are readable,” he said. “Strange, and some of them look made-up, but most are recognizable. You shouldn't need Shizun to decipher this text, or guess at the purpose of all these dots.”

“It's less about deciphering than about establishing its provenance,” said Yue Qingyuan in turn. “The compact strokes and direction of reading are clearly deliberate, but not characteristic of any style that we know of. We hoped Shidi could point us to a source.”

“A description would have sufficed!” Binghe snapped. “Surely someone outside of Qing Jing has the skill to copy a few sample characters? Instead you drag Shizun all this way only so he may return to the library!”

“Binghe,” said Shen Qingqiu.

“Is his martial family so inconsiderate of his health—”

“I know what you saw in it, Binghe.”

Binghe guiltily shut his mouth.

Shen Qingqiu rose to his feet, and set his hands on Binghe's shoulders with a smile before gently pushing him aside.

“This master could read it from the door, as soon as we arrived,” he said, calmly approaching the mirage. “I appreciate your concern, but you shouldn't hide this from me.”

“So you know what it is?” asked Liu Qingge.

“This master cannot say, but—”

“But you can read it, right?” Qi Qingqi interrupted. “Surely you at least know where this type of calligraphy is from.”

“Allow me to rephrase,” said Shen Qingqiu, with a touch of annoyance. “This master is not permitted to speak of what this is.”

The tension within the room ratcheted up exponentially.

“…but I know what it is,” he admitted, “and I can read it, yes.”

Binghe lunged for Shen Qingqiu's hand in a spasmodic movement, and returned Shen Qingqiu's questioning glance with a look of terror.

“I'm fine, Binghe,” said Shen Qingqiu, kindly, but he made no movement to free his hand from Binghe's grip— instead tucking his fan into his belt before reaching towards the floating plaque.

He touched it unhesitatingly; under the push of his fingertip, the block of text floated up and then back down.

“One may call this a window,” he spoke, steady as if speaking to a class, “through which this text is being shown to us from… somewhere else. The source of this text is beyond my understanding, I'm afraid, and the little I have gathered I cannot speak of— but I have interacted with its like. And I can say this much: in my experience, these instructions should at least be humored, or the consequences will be dire.”

“Instructions, you say,” Liu Qingge grumbled.

Shen Qingqiu nodded, and began to read out loud.

Shen Qingqiu stopped, looking nonplussed.

“Shizun?” asked Binghe, anxiously. “What does it say? I was trying to follow along, but I think I hit the end.”

“…exactly,” said Shen Qingqiu, slowly, his fingertip pushing the text up only for it to bounce back down. “It stops mid-sentence. This is highly abnormal.”

“Did it run out of surface to write on?” asked Yue Qingyuan, peering into the Window.

“Not possible,” Shen Qingqiu answered, confidently. “This type of Window can and has contained much more text than this. Not to mention,” he pointed, “the sentence stops halfway to the edge. There's still surface in which to display further text. No, the— source— simply appears to have stopped writing…?”

He laid a palm onto the window, a frown marring his features.

“This is… concerning. Out of character,” he said under his breath, as if thinking aloud. “Yes,” he continued, louder. “It's out of character, even in its textual voice. The way it's using the word please is unlike previous instances.”

“What does that mean?” asked Liu Qingge, with the look of a normie thrown into a pit of nerdery.

“In my previous dealings with this thing,” said Shen Qingqiu, “it only ever used the word please in order to be…” his lips twisted in contempt, “…irritatingly condescending.”

“Could this be an impostor?” Yue Qingyuan suggested.

“A terrifying possibility,” Shen Qingqiu conceded. “Certainly one I don't know enough to refute. But any impostor capable of taking its place should be able to mimic its writing style better than this,” he continued, thoughtfully. “Its usage of the word please— it's the closest I've ever seen this thing beg.”

“Well, if this thing is begging,” said Mu Qingfang, suddenly, from his spot at Shang Qinghua's wrist, “and it should be humored, then we may as well go ahead and summon the Northern King. I did promise to check in on Shang-shixiong and forward my findings. Surely this qualifies?”

They stepped back out into the receiving room, leaving the two disciples to care for Shang Qinghua.

“Mobeijun knows the inside of Shishu's home,” Binghe was saying, as he dug out a token from somewhere in his robes. “And given that he went so far as consulting Mu-shishu on the matter, he's sure to put two-and-two together as soon as he comes in and throw a tantrum. He's attached,” he summarized, with a careless and unbelievably hypocritical shrug. “This will require a delicate touch; I'll call him outside and handle his temper. Wait here, Shizun,” he told Shen Qingqiu, tenderly brushing the fingertips of his slack hand, then turned to the door.

Only to immediately stop and look around at the gawking disciples, as if only just aware of their existence.

“You… might want to go back to wherever,” he told them, mildly, before resuming his stroll.

Disciples rushed in his wake like a tumbling current, scurrying away from the courtyard, while Qi Qingqi took care of defenestrating stragglers. The paper windows shook, curled and deformed under a sudden onslaught of frost; there were screams, then a number of concerning sounds, and the sunlight dimmed sharply as orange flashes burst into the ominous gloom.

Running disciples and swaying trees threw their elongated shadows onto the decorated screens; Shen Qingqiu took a step towards the nearest window, but was tugged back by Liu Qingge.

At last Binghe threw the door back open.

“Well, that was a waste of both our times,” he groused, striding in with an emphatic roll of his eyes; Mobeijun stalked in at his heels. The door closed on a courtyard turned apocalyptic wasteland.

They were both pristine.

“Where's Qinghua?” Mobeijun asked immediately.

“Unconscious in a cubicle,” said Binghe.

Then he threw Mobeijun face-first into the floor, even as stalagmites spontaneously sprouted across the receiving room.

“Unconscious,” Binghe repeated, slowly, perched on Mobeijun's back while pushing his head down. “Not dead. Not even wounded. Keep your wits.”

This seemed to pacify the demon enough that he allowed himself to be led to the aforementioned cubicle.

“What is that,” Mobeijun sort of asked, flicking his chin a millimeter or so in the direction of the Window.

“You can think of it as a mysterious entity whose demands are as unreasonable as they are obnoxious,” said Shen Qingqiu, with his characteristic stern face. “The fact that this demand is only a little bit obnoxious raises the alarming possibility that it's trying to be reasonable.”

Mobeijun squinted at the words, then raised a finger.

“That is my name,” he pointed.

“Yes,” Shen Qingqiu confirmed, and then continued, with only a hint of hesitation. “This one has thought a little further on this message. In all my previous dealings with this entity, it has presented itself as a neutral spectator, offering suspicious boons at a price. But despite causing inconvenience and even issuing threats, it has proven helpful on occasion.”

He paused, seemingly struggling with himself. “…I daresay it holds us no ill will,” he said at last.

“Shizun, you just said this thing issued threats!” protested Binghe, a hand upon his master's arm as if ready to push him out of the way of some imaginary strike.

“That I have,” said Shen Qingqiu, slowly. “That it has. But in hindsight, this one wonders just how… limited it might be in its capabilities.”

Mobeijun was trying, and failing, to cover the Window with frost.

“It has never been actively malicious,” continued Shen Qingqiu, oblivious to Mobeijun's actions. “And the way it refers to something extraneous within Shang-shidi's mind… this one wonders whether this entity might be trying to help in its own abstruse way.”

“I don't like this thing, whatever it's trying to do,” said Binghe, who'd been subtly inching his way between Shen Qingqiu and the Window for the past minute or so. “Mobei and I hold the most power within the Demon Realm, and Shizun's merest gesture can move heaven and earth—“

“It can move you into moving those,” Qi Qingqi mumbled to herself.

“—and part the very oceans. Demanding our intervention within Qinghua's mind puts us in a vulnerable position!” Binghe continued, impassioned. “If this turns out to be a trap, it would cripple both the Demon Realm and Cang Qiong!”

“What do you mean?” asked Liu Qingge. “Vulnerable how?”

The look Binghe shot him made it clear that he was judging the War God's intellectual capabilities and finding them wanting.

“The thing wants us to search within Qinghua's mind,” he sneered. “How do you expect us to, by crawling inside his mouth? Obviously, we're supposed to dreamwalk.”

This assertion caused some agitation among the gathered Peak Lords.

“I hate to say this, but he has a point,” said Qi Qingqi. “This is a dicey proposition.”

“This one was under the impression that you were an unparalleled master of the dream arts,” said Yue Qingyuan, turning to Binghe with troubled eyes. “Could this thing truly match your skills?”

Binghe breathed a long, frustrated sigh through his nose— and, after a subtle glance at his master, straightened his posture.

“Shibo flatters me,” he said, politely. “In terms of raw power, sure, I am unmatched. But I'm also skilled enough to know my limitations. The dream world is as malleable as it is fragile, and just as sufficient power may break through the subtlest snare, so can a sufficiently subtle snare subdue even the greatest power.”

He shrugged, mulishly.

“I would go alone without flinching,” he concluded. “I would not risk Shizun.”

“Then go,” said Liu Qingge.

“I've tried,” mumbled Binghe, his shoulders rising minutely. “I can't.”

With slow deliberation, Shen Qingqiu's fan rose from behind Binghe's ponytail and firmly whapped the crown of his head.

“This disciple only meant to scout ahead!” Binghe wheedled, turning on his heels at once and shrinking down before his master's unimpressed gaze. “This lowly one had only Shizun's safety in mind!”

“I am aware,” said Shen Qingqiu, dryly. “What did you find?”

“Nothing,” he confessed, his contrition suddenly real. “The way was blocked for me.”

“And what about Elder Meng Mo?” Shen Qingqiu asked.

Binghe blinked.

“He isn't part of the list,” he pointed out, waving vaguely at the Window.

“No,” Shen Qingqiu conceded. “But he parasitizes your dreams. Once we entered Shang-shidi's mind, he would be coming along regardless, would he not?”

“Who the fuck is that?” asked Liu Qingge.

Shen Qingqiu flapped his fan at him in dismissal.

“If I have learned one thing from interacting with this entity,” he said, “it is to leverage any loophole it presents. Elder Meng Mo is neither alive nor a spirit, and cannot be separated from you without risking harm to both. This entity cannot accomplish the latter, much less the former. So,” he raised his closed fan in an elegant movement, “send him forth. At worst, his way will too be barred.”

Binghe gazed long and deeply at Shen Qingqiu, then nodded; and then, without a hint of hesitation, gently embraced his master.

Technically speaking, Binghe could talk to Meng Mo with eyes wide open, and track his movements without wasting a second of awareness. But hey, it wasn't like anyone knew as much, right?

So he publicly snuggled up to his wonderful, brilliant Shizun, buried his nose into the base of that long jade neck, and poked his recalcitrant demon teacher into working all while taking deep, slow, silent lungfuls of Shizun's scent.

Mmmmmmm.

He lingered for five minutes, and then took pity on Shang Qinghua.

With a show of languid, sleepy blinking, he reluctantly drew back, raising his head to drink in Shizun's gentle, indulgent gaze. Oh, what a lovely blush dusted Shizun's cheeks, softer than any rose powder!

Meng Mo mentally kicked him a few times, and he begrudgingly turned to the waiting interlopers.

“Shizun was correct,” he announced. “Elder Meng Mo faced no hindrance, and was able to contact Shang-shishu.”

Meng Mo's report was as followed: He was able to reach the outermost layer of Shang Qinghua's consciousness, but no further. Even so, Shang Qinghua was able to answer questions and hold a conversation. In fact, he was aware of the waking world, enough to keep up with the conversation going on outside— but he was still unable to wake himself up, or act upon his physical body. And his dream world was… strange.

“Whatever ails Shishu, it's probably nested in a deeper layer,” Binghe concluded. “This could be helpful, or very bad. The outermost layers handle interactions with the physical world, but they also provide a buffer against the chaos of the innermost mind, where old memories swirl and linger. It's not an evil place,” he added. “But heart demons tend to feed on these half-forgotten and buried secrets. So whatever it is, it's either contained, or festering, or both— and we don't know whether it's foreign or a creation of Shang-shishu's own nightmares.”

Shen Qingqiu sucked air in through his teeth, his composure momentarily dropped.

“A creation of Shidi's subconscious mind would be foul indeed,” he murmured, a frown marring his brow.

Yue Qingyuan, Qi Qingqi and Liu Qingge glanced dubiously at Shang Qinghua.

“Elder says that the meek tend towards much higher tiers of heart demons,” said Binghe, vaguely, his head cocked and eyes distant. “Apparently a diet of long-term disrespect, humiliation and anxiety results in a thicker and more potent form of resentment.”

Yue Qingyuan took a hasty step away from the bed.

“We stand at the precipice of a crisis,” he murmured.

“Zhangmen-shixiong is correct,” said Shen Qingqiu, ominously; Qi Qingqi cringed. “Should such a being take over our Shidi, or manifest corporeally, the damage could be unprecedented. I vote we prioritize his recovery at any cost.”

The peak lords stood in a grim circle, except for Liu Qingge, who was still staring at Shang Qinghua with a highly dubious gaze.

“Oh!” Binghe exclaimed, suddenly. “Apparently Shishu has opinions on who the fourth member of the rescue party should be.”

“Isn't that a little presumptuous of him?” Qi Qingqi asked, eyebrows raised.

Mu Qingfang slapped his knee tiredly. “See, this is what gives a man heart demons,” he complained.

“If there's a demon, I should go,” said Liu Qingge, stern and sure as a man finding himself back on familiar ground.

But Binghe had a quelling hand raised, once again focused inwards. “So Shishu agrees that if a heart demon is involved, then either Qingge or Qingyuan should join in,” he said, pretending not to notice as Shen Qingqiu tapped him with his fan for his rudeness. “But—“ he trailed off, “he apparently has an inkling of what this might be about, and should his suspicions be correct, he believes Sect Leader— Elder Meng Mo quotes— has a right to be there.” He lowered his hand. “Make of that what you will.”

“And what are his suspicions?” asked Qi Qingqi, archly.

Binghe raised a finger, glancing aside for one second. “He can't say,” he said at last. “Literally— he can't speak of it, and Elder felt a strain when he tried. It's definitely buried in a deeper layer of his consciousness. But he was sure.”

“Then we go,” said Mobeijun, gravely. He'd been silent long enough to be forgotten; the Peak Lords concealed their startlement with varying degrees of success.

Yue Qingyuan had the grace to nod, at least. “We go,” he said. “I trust Shang-shidi's judgment.”

“Hasn't he burned us once already?” Qi Qingqi pointed out, crossing her arms with a deeply unimpressed look.

“Thus I speak of trust, and not certainty,” he told her, gently, before turning to Binghe. “Guide us, Luo-shizhi.”

Binghe looked extremely pleased at the term of address.

Entering Shang Qinghua's mind required sleep, of course. Due to the delicate nature of such a procedure, Meng Mo— using Binghe as a relay— suggested they remain within Shang Qinghua's proximity; he also strongly advised them to be horizontal for the duration, in case of thrashing.

These simple guidelines became a source of great inconvenience when they found out Shang Qinghua couldn't be moved— not his body, not the bed. He did not seem frozen, or stuck, and Mu Qingfang had moved his arm without noting anything amiss, but all further attempts were bizarrely stymied; it was as if both Shang Qinghua and his bed weighed a mountain.

They'd have to make do with the positively cell-like cubicle.

In a fit of frustration, Binghe ordered Mobeijun to toss Shang Qinghua's overflowing desk through a portal to the nearest wherever; then he attempted, near hysterics, to bring in an ornate guest bed. At some point while cajoling Mobeijun into maneuvering said bed in through another portal he began to rant and rave at, presumably, Meng Mo, for, presumably, suggesting that his Shizun lay on the cold, hard, filthy ground as if he were Qingge.

Binghe was in the middle of assuring the air that yes, he could and would keep his master from falling off the bed even while unconscious himself, when Shen Qingqiu joined in; between the two of them, his teachers managed to talk him down from entire bed to just the bedding. Then Binghe prevailed upon Mobeijun to go fetch more bedding together, and the two soon returned with a palatial amount of cushions, pillows, silks and furs— all of which Shen Qingqiu had to keep Binghe from arranging into a single, highly exclusive nest.

And finally, they were ready.

The senior healers stood outside the door; the other Peak Lords left for the lounge to await developments. Mu Qingfang sat on Shang Qinghua's bed, gazing down as the rescue party shifted awkwardly onto the padded floor.

Then Binghe closed his eyes, and a second later the other three closed theirs, in tandem.