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He was instantly recognizable as a cultivator. Would-be cultivator, Xiao Jiu should say. For all the countless fables of centuries-old immortal masters appearing as fresh-faced youths, anyone with a working brain to go with their eyes would be able to tell the teenager currently standing at the front desk of the inn requesting a room was exactly what he appeared to be: a teenager, probably no more than 15 years old.

(Shang Qinghua—or rather, Shang Jian—was in fact, at this moment, 17 years into his second life. He would hit his growth spurt late, and even then it wouldn’t be very impressive. But it’s probably better Xiao Jiu didn’t know this, or he would have thought Shang Qinghua even less impressive than he already did.)

Even with the fancy, high-quality robes and the jade token tied to his belt that loudly proclaimed his identity as a member of a wealthy and important cultivation sect (although which one, Xiao Jiu wasn’t sure—He knew Huan Hua Palace cultivators wore a similar yellow, although they pretentiously called it gold, from the members of that sect who had passed through town previously. But the cut and style of these were different than he remembered those being), this was obviously a mere lowly disciple, probably one who hadn’t even formed a golden core yet. You only had to look at what was conspicuously absent from hanging at his side; no sword, no cultivator!

Even so, it was probably only because he so clearly belonged to a cultivation sect that no one said anything about the fact that he was streaked head to toe in blood when he walked in.

“Ahaha, mud! It’s mud,” the disciple laughed nervously as he accepted the key to his room. “Ah, clumsy me, I took a tumble.” He scratched at his arm self-consciously, and some rust-red flakes drifted down. “...Some rain last night, huh?”

Xiao Jiu rolled his eyes from his place with the broom by the door.

He supposed he should be thankful the blood was mostly dried and not dripping, as he looked over the boy critically. It meant he wouldn’t be needing to scrub any stains out of the floor later.
__________

Although the other kids in the human trafficking ring would taunt Xiao Jiu relentlessly (only when they had safety in numbers and Qi-ge wasn’t around—which he wasn’t anymore, having snuck away in the night shortly before Xiao Jiu was given to the inn. He wouldn’t take Xiao Jiu with him, saying [reasonably, although Xiao Jiu didn’t want to hear reason] that the slavers would be much more likely to come after them if they lost two children than if they lost only one. But he promised to come back for Xiao Jiu when he was either rich enough to buy him or strong enough to take him away from them anyway), telling him he was going to end up being sold to some brothel to wash the sheets, the truth was that he was far more likely to end up on top of the sheets than pulling them off.

Even from a young age, he was uncommonly beautiful—the kind of beauty that causes the heart to flutter with a mere glance (an asset when begging in the streets; people feel more pity for pretty children in poor circumstances, as if ugly children somehow deserved their fate)—and was set to only grow more lovely as he grew. The slavers knew they’d be able to fetch a hefty price for him when the time came (as long as they could close the sale and get him out the door before the buyers had a chance to become familiar with his personality—all sales are final!), and so that anticipated payoff was worth the wait and cost of keeping him alive until he was old enough that a pleasure house would consider taking him. It would certainly be more than the offer the innkeeper had made for him.

But there was nothing wrong with renting him out for labor here and now, as long as it was nothing that left any kind of disfiguring marks that would hurt his future value, the slavers had decided.

Which is how Xiao Jiu found himself washing sheets after all, on the day Shang Jian arrived.
________

This cultivation disciple must think ordinary people are complete imbeciles, Xiao Jiu thought. It was plainly obvious to anyone with half a brain between their ears that he was hiding a demon in his room, if it could even be called hiding, considering how pathetic a job he was doing of it.

Just for starters, Xiao Jiu had been ordered by the innkeeper to stable the would-be cultivator’s horse, and when he went outside, there was a demon slung over its back like a bag of grain! Shoddily draping a saddle blanket over it isn’t a disguise, dummy!

The disciple came back out, presumably to retrieve said demon, and yelped when he saw Xiao Jiu standing there. He then hastily explained that this was merely his friend, who had taken very ill on the road.

Ill, his ass. Its skin was blue!

But maybe the teen wasn’t entirely off-base, because no one besides Xiao Jiu appeared to have noticed. But then, Xiao Jiu had long suspected the people who regularly surrounded him (Qi-ge being an exception, of course) were lacking a little upstairs.

Xiao Jiu momentarily thought about snitching on the would-be cultivator to the innkeeper. He’d only rented a room for one, after all. He was supposed to pay more for a second occupant. But in the end, what did Xiao Jiu care whether the inn made more profit, when he’d see none of it? What did he care what the boy planned to do with the demon?

If he was planning to torture it up there, the world would be a better place without it. So he didn’t say anything as the boy heaved his “friend” off the horse, wrapped his arms around its shoulders, and proceeded to drag it backward up the stairs, its feet bouncing off every step.

He felt significantly less charitable upon noticing the demon had bled all over the stairs.
__________

Over the course of the next four days, it became abundantly clear that the cultivation disciple was not torturing the demon.

Constantly running up and down the stairs—ten, fifteen, twenty times a day!—fetching food and doing laundry and hauling up fresh water for the bath, always more water for the bath (Xiao Jiu had initially been ordered by the innkeeper to carry the water up for him, but the cultivator-wannabe had immediately stepped in front of the stairs, blocking his way, and protested with false kindness, “No need to bother the kid over it! I’d prefer to do it myself,” as he yanked the bucket from his hands, when it was clear as day that he simply didn’t want Xiao Jiu to see into the room), even waking him from a sound sleep in the dead of night without any hint of remorse just to ask him for a leaf fan to help cool down his “friend”—he was really waiting on the demon hand and foot!

Cultivators weren’t all they were cracked up to be if this one had managed to find himself in servitude to a demon.

Again, Xiao Jiu thought about saying something. If the townspeople knew there was a demon here (and a wounded demon at that, if the blood was any indication), they’d rally their strongest and bravest (even if that bravery came from a liquid kind of courage) and raise their weapons and put an end to the thing. But in the end he didn’t.

After all, what did he care if some cultivator was too stupid to escape when the opportunity arose? Xiao Jiu would have plunged a knife into that thing’s heart by now. So why should someone so stupid get his freedom when Xiao Jiu didn’t?

Whether he would, eventually, have approached Shang Jian with an offer to kill the demon for him with the typical overconfidence of an eleven year old who knew he was gifted in exchange for being taken with him to his sect, was, as in all things for a slave, taken out of his hands before he had the choice to decide, with the arrival of a new batch of cultivators in the village.

__________

Xiao Jiu didn’t see them himself.

At the time, he didn’t know there was anything to see. He had actually rather been enjoying himself, glad to be outside hanging laundry to dry rather than peeling turnips in the sweltering kitchen. Here he could savor the breeze that lifted the cloth and cooled his skin, finally offering relief from the hot, humid air that had hung over the town like a heavy blanket for the past week.

Later he’d hear from the cook’s boy, who’d been buying eggs in the market (and it might have been Xiao Jiu sent on this errand, but for some cruel happenstance of fate that had seemed like good fortune at the time), how the breeze seemed to arrive with them, the wind dramatically blowing back their long, gleaming hair and billowing their sleeves, and how the sun seemed to shine brighter just so it could glint off the swords hanging at their sides.

But he hadn’t been there; not when they arrived, not when they left. He hadn’t been there, to show them what he could do, the cultivation tricks that he’d learned on his own without any instruction, and how he was so much better and smarter than all these cattle, and he could be so much more useful to them than sweeping floors and shoveling donkey shit.

He wasn’t there to leave with them. If a cultivator had wanted to take him, there wasn’t anything the innkeeper could say, and his slavemasters wouldn’t dare chase them down for his price, if they could even catch up to a flying sword. But he hadn’t been there.

They were asking about bandit activity, and demon incursions.

Their missing shipment of goods had been discovered half a day’s ride outside of town. The cart had been abandoned on the side of the road, the front wheel splintered and the axle cracked. This was not so uncommon a sight; the roads were not well maintained so far out from the capital, and the heavy spring rains had left them more potholed than usual.

However, what was less explainable were the bodies. They’d been found stacked in the woods just out of sight of the road, each intact corpse punctured with multiple stab wounds—for those preserved at the bottom of the pile, at least. It was harder to tell for the ones the viper-tongued vultures had gotten to.

The goods themselves were mostly intact and untouched—no one who’d stumbled across the scene in the days since had apparently cared to steal unguarded books of poetry—but the money was gone.

However, not all the disciples sent to escort the shipment had been accounted for among the bodies.

Had anyone seen their shidi?

These cultivators wore blue in a lovely deep jewel tone, the cook’s boy had reported. Not at all like the sunny yellow their guest wore, even more so because their robes were so clean and obviously well-kept. But they’d introduced themselves as disciples of Cang Qiong, and as everyone knew, Cang Qiong Mountain Sect was really twelve different sects, each with its own sect leader and unique cultivation stye. For some reason, presumably because they had to share the same close quarters (if an entire mountain range could be called such), they preferred to present themselves as one sect (Xiao Jiu suspected this was in large part because it made it easier for them to gang up on the other sects when it came to shows of strength. It wasn’t unusual to hear cultivators griping in the dining room about “high and mighty” Cang Qiong).

It could easily be that the young cultivator on the third floor simply belonged to another sect among the many peaks of Cang Qiong, and he was the only other cultivator in town... so the cook’s boy didn’t hesitate to point out the guest, who’d been trying to hide behind a sign advertising a ‘buy one, get one half-off’ deal on congee.

And lo and behold, the dashing young man in blue had addressed the other as shidi, who’d rather reluctantly greeted him back by name, calling him Wei Qingwei. They left together with the others then and there, but not before the lead cultivator in blue had tipped a handful of copper coins into the cook’s boy’s hand and patted him on the head in thanks.

He’d spent half on dried plums, and although he offered one to Xiao Jiu after recounting the tale, Xiao Jiu was so furious at having missed his chance he wanted to slap the boy hard enough across the face to send the sweet fruit flying from his mouth.

The innkeeper, who had also been listening, scowled and slapped the boy across the back of the head for him. “Why’d you let him leave, stupid kid? He hadn’t checked out! Does he think we’re a trash service, to remove his things for him? Does he think what he paid already covers all the water and linens he used?”

Roughly prying the remaining coins from the boy’s hand and booting him back into the kitchen, the innkeeper pointed a finger at Xiao Jiu. “Go make yourself useful and see if he left behind anything we can sell to make up the difference.”

__________

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, hand pressed to the door, other wrapped tightly around the small knife he would be beaten black and blue for having if he were discovered with it.

It must have only been moments, but it felt like eternity.

If he took too long to complete this task, the innkeeper would start to get suspicious, maybe wonder if Xiao Jiu was planning on stealing for himself the loot the cultivator left behind, hiding it somewhere the innkeeper wouldn’t find right away.

In other circumstances, maybe that would be exactly what Xiao Jiu would be doing. But he couldn’t come risk anyone else coming in here. Not before he got to.

So he took a deep breath and flung open the door.

The demon was there, lying on the bed, and he involuntarily took a step back before realizing it hadn’t moved. Waiting a moment, he cautiously closed the door behind him and stepped closer, knife held warily in front of him.

The demon was asleep. Or maybe unconscious would be a better word, because it hadn’t awoken at his approach either. Now standing beside it, he could hear its slightly labored breathing and see the sweat beading on its forehead and bare chest, bringing an embarrassed flush to his own face at the immodesty.

It was the first time he had ever seen a demon up close. It was shockingly human in appearance. Aside from the blue skin (which really wasn’t all that blue), it could have passed for a handsome young master.

And that was the other surprising part. The demon was young. Older than him, but not by too much. Maybe Qi-ge’s age. He hadn’t noticed earlier, because he hadn’t gotten a very good look before the cultivation disciple had stepped in and spirited it away, and it was just so much bigger in general than humans that it’d be easy to mistake it for an adult. But looking at it now, it was obvious, all gangly long limbs like a colt. If it was this big before it even finished growing, how big would it get, he wondered.

All the more reason to kill it now, he supposed, but he just continued rubbing his thumb over the knife handle and didn’t move to slit its throat.

He wasn’t really sure what to do. He’d finally settled on offering it its life in exchange for it killing his masters when he realized its eyes were open and staring straight at him.

He reared back one step in alarm before gathering up the fear he felt and shoving it down deep enough so it wouldn’t surface again. Leaning forward with one hand pressed against its bare chest for balance, he held the knife to its throat.

“Listen up, beast. Because I’m about to explain what–” was as far as he got before a hand wrapped around the wrist holding the knife and began to squeeze. He instinctively jerked his arm, but the grip was like an iron band, and he couldn’t move it either closer to cut or farther away to free himself.

The demon sat up, still clutching his wrist, before wrenching the knife free from his grip with the other hand and casually shoving Xiao Jiu away from it. It didn’t even use its full strength and it still sent Xiao Jiu sprawling onto his back two meters away.

It examined the shoddy tin knife, pinching the blade between its fingers, frost spreading from its deliberate touch. Then it bashed the knife against the frame of the bed and smirked in satisfaction as it shattered, brittle from the cold of the ice demon’s magic. “Oops,” it deadpanned.

Xiao Jiu glared fit enough to burn a hole through its head, but stayed where he was on the floor, understanding very well the situation he was now in.

The beast swung its legs over the side of the bed, and stood, pausing a moment as if waiting for the room to stop swaying before turning its gaze back to Xiao Jiu.

“Where’d the other mouse go,” it demanded in a deep, sleep-scratchy voice.

Xiao Jiu just continued to glare, but when a low growl began to build in its chest, he turned his head away with a scoff, peering up through his eyelashes to disguise where he was looking.

“Where do you imagine, beast?” he spat. “Back to his sect.”

The demon blinked in confusion, before its expression hardened.

“No.”

Xiao Jiu faltered. “What do you mean, no?”

The demon didn’t answer, clenching its fists at its side hard enough to make the knuckles creak, stare directed at the floor in deep thought. Then it strode over to the small table, picked up the chair beside it, and threw it against the wall hard enough to shatter it into splinters. Then it kicked the table clear across the room where it crashed down again, split in half down the middle.

Xiao Jiu jumped to his feet and backed up against the wall as the demon stood there heaving in angry, shuddering breaths, eyes darting around the room searching for the next target of its rage.

“Have you gone mad?!” Xiao Jiu hissed. “Stop it! Stop right now!”

The demon’s eyes immediately found him again at the sound of his voice, but the tension in its shoulders released as it seemed to remember itself.

“This prince doesn’t take orders from a mouse,” it sneered, shattered ceramic of the dishes that had formerly been resting on the table crunching under its feet as it moved back to the bed.

Xiao Jiu eyed it warily, wondering if it was going to send the bed flying next, but it merely sat down, resting its chin on its steepled fingers. “Where is Cang Qiong from here?” it questioned. “What direction?”

Xiao Jiu squirmed uncomfortably. “I...don’t know,” he eventually responded, face burning.

The demon sighed. “Useless,” it grumbled.

“I’m not useless,” he hissed back through clenched teeth. “Just you wait. I’ll kill you someday, and you’ll see exactly how useless I am then.”

The demon’s eyes narrowed, and then it chuckled, but it wasn’t at all a happy sound.

It stood once more and stalked toward Xiao Jiu. Against his will, he flattened further against the wall, the little lizard part of his brain telling him to look small and play dead and hope the predator went away.

The demon loomed over him, caging him in, and bent down close enough he could feel its breath against his face, cool and dry rather than the warm, humid puff of air he had preemptively flinched against.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, little mouse,” it murmured. “I don’t take too kindly to that.”

Xiao Jiu made sure to look it in the eye as he replied–they were so blue, it was almost mesmerizing; had anything ever been so blue as this?

“I always keep my promises. Scum who don’t ought to fall over dead.”

The demon gave him a considering look, then stepped away, giving Xiao Jiu space to wriggle away and dart to the door if he dared.

“Farewell then, but only for now. Find me when you can put up a decent fight. This Mobei-Jun will be waiting.”

A jagged hole opened in the air behind them, shadows pooling out from it like spilled water, swift and silent, incongruous in the brightly-lit room with the sun pouring through the open window.

The demon turned, stepped through it, and disappeared. The hole sealed up again after him, and the shadows left behind on the floor danced and shivered, shriveling and dying in the light without anything to anchor them anymore.

And as if the demon had timed it just so, the moment the last fleck of shadow vanished like a flake of ash from a secret missive burned to nothing in the flame of a lamp, the door slammed open and the red-faced innkeeper stood there taking in the destruction of the room.

Xiao Jiu keep his spine straight even as the blows rained down. He wouldn’t let something as stupid and transient as this break him. He had a promise to keep.

__________

His time at the inn having ended abruptly, Xiao Jiu was sent back to the slavers, and eventually caught the eye of the pretty little young mistress of the Qiu family. So years past and things proceeded the way an author who hadn’t yet lost his desire for a meaningful story had once detailed out in an ambitiously plotted outline, tragedy after tragedy, until Shen Jiu arrived at Cang Qiong, tired and bloody, and in the company—and, perhaps, debt—of someone who he’d once loved (and maybe still did), but someone who’d broken a promise.

And another Shen Jiu may have not put much stock into promises anymore, after a seeming betrayal of the magnitude he’d suffered. But this one, ooh, a promise had kept him going. Even when he no longer believed Qi-ge was coming back to come take him away. Even when he no longer believed they’d be cultivators together, he knew he’d still be a cultivator. Because he’d made a promise. Mobei-Jun wouldn’t have spent this time idly, either.

And he knew he hadn’t, when he spotted someone he hadn’t thought of in years scurrying across the rainbow bridge.

“Who’s that?” Shen Jiu cut in, interrupting Yue Qingyuan’s happy chatter as he led him around the peaks.

Yue Qingyuan blinked in surprise. Xiao Jiu had barely spoken a word to him since they’d reunited, and it made him a bit nervous, but now of all times for him to finally express interest, it was because of…

“Shang-shidi? Oh, that’s Shang Qinghua, the head disciple of An Ding. Do you...know him?”

“It’s none of your concern,” Shen Jiu replied dryly, ignoring all further attempts to engage him in conversation. But he noted the name of the peak, and made plans to visit. After all, there’s only one reason why Shang Qinghua could possibly still be alive. Slaves who fled didn’t get away, not from masters like that. So clearly, he hadn’t gotten away at all.
__________

Gossip was distasteful, but you could learn a lot that way.

“If Shang-shixiong’s cultivation is so poor, why was he chosen as head disciple?”

Despite his sharp and disdainful words, the intent of them was not to accuse, as his Qing Jing Peak shixiong believed. Rather, the intensity of his questioning was much more self-motivated.

Shen Jiu’s own cultivation was...not great. Despite a natural aptitude that manifested early, his late start in acquiring formal training, and quite frankly, years of abuse both physical and mental at the most critical age, had nearly crippled his cultivation system before it even had a chance to develop properly and strengthen.

As any martial arts teacher knows, it is much harder to unlearn an improper form than to learn the proper one from a blank slate. Shen Jiu’s naive and fumbling attempts (and dangerous successes) to manipulate his qi while running wild on the streets, and later the twisted instruction of Wu Yanzi, had done permanent damage. The Qian Cao Peak healer who had looked him over upon his arrival to Cang Qiong had rather imperiously suggested that it was better he not attempt to cultivate at all than to put too much weight on a crippled limb as he would be attempting.

Shen Jiu had told him where he could shove his recommendation.

If a weak late bloomer like Shang Qinghua, who had still only been an outer disciple when he was already older than Shen Jiu was now, could elevate to that position, he needed to know how it was accomplished.

Because if Qi-ge—no, he wasn’t that to him, not anymore—if Yue Qingyuan had abandoned him for a lofty title, then Shen Jiu could replace him with the same.

“Ah, well, there weren’t many candidates willing to take the position,” his shixiong had replied honestly.

Shen Jiu frowned. He knew enough to know that not all peaks in Cang Qiong were treated equally. Since the head disciple position on the first peak was already filled, Qing Jing was the obvious choice, ranking second as it did; all the better to look down on those who ever dared to think themselves better than him. But An Ding was not an insignificant peak. It was ranked fourth out of all twelve.

“But the new generation will ascend in as short as the next decade. And surely a peak lord is a peak lord, regardless of the...prestige of the peak itself,” Shen Jiu hedged, not wanting to admit to any ignorance surrounding the politics between the peaks.

His shixiong laughed, and Shen Jiu burned with embarrassment and anger. “Oh no, shidi! Don’t be that way! It’s a good question,” he smiled, gesturing the younger boy to follow him down the path to the music halls. “An Ding is...not like the other peaks.”

His look turned thoughtful, pace slowing a bit as he considered how to explain.

“What do you know about it?”

“...It’s the logistics peak,” Shen Jiu answered, suspicious.

“That’s correct,” his shixiong agreed, dropping seemingly without thought into that tone the older disciples used when teaching lectures to the younger students. “Disciples of An Ding won’t receive lessons on the Four Arts, like Qiong Ding or Qing Jing, nor do they train for martial prowess, like Wan Jian or Bai Zhan. They don’t even particularly focus on cultivation. Theirs are more common, arguably more useful, lessons.”

“I noticed hardly any of their disciples have their swords,” Shen Jiu offered, trying to hide his curiosity.

“Mm. You will likely hear others call An Ding ‘unambitious,’ and this is how they will explain their disdain.

“But while that may appear true on the surface, the problem with An Ding is actually...quite the opposite.”

Shen Jiu’s eyes narrowed as his steps slowed, gaze fixed on the back of his shixiong’s neck as he continued along at an unhurried pace, hands clasped casually behind his back.

“Shixiong, explain,” he ordered sharply.

The older disciple tutted at the rudeness of the demand, but turned his head back to face him, a slight smile on his lips as he gestured to his shidi to keep up. “Shidi may have noticed there are few adults on An Ding?”

He had noticed, so nodded cautiously.

“An Ding tends to collect three types of disciples,” his shixiong explained, numbering off on his fingers.

“First, the common folk. Those with no exceptional attributes that would allow them to stand out in the entrance tests or flourish on a peak with a specialized focus. These are the ones who come to Cang Qiong to learn their letters and numbers. Picking up some minor cultivation tricks is a nice benefit, but not truly necessary for them. They have no loyalty nor true interest in our sect, but consider performing the labor and errands assigned to outer disciples a fair form of payment for their schooling. And there are no binding oaths taken by outer disciples, so they politely take their leave of the sect and return to an improved life with the learning they’ve purchased with the years they gave to An Ding.

“Next are those who recognize that Cang Qiong has more to offer.”

“Cultivation,” Shen Jiu concisely concluded.

“No,” his shixiong corrected gently. “Connections. They, more so than the first group, want to use us.”

Shen Jiu dropped his gaze, unsure what the feeling roiling in his belly was. Indignation that these common scum would dare to think they could outmaneuver a sect as prestigious as Cang Qiong, when they had half the knowledge and less than half the power a cultivator had in his pinky finger?

(What had he fought to get here for? Why the effort, why the blood, the sweat, and the tears, if being a cultivator wasn’t enough reason to demand respect?)

Or could it have been hidden smug satisfaction, that these elitists on the mountain who would have treated a dog more kindly than they would have him back when he was a slave, could be used so easily and callously?

Or was it the uncertainty of who he was in this scenario, now: the one being spit on or the one doing the spitting?

“We use them, too,” the shixiong went on breezily, unnoticing of Shen Jiu’s inner turmoil. “These become dedicated students of logistics rather than go about their chores like a rented mule, and many go on to become wealthy and successful, or find placements working for people of significant influence and power after leaving the peak behind. And since they owe our sect a debt for giving them the tools and knowledge to elevate themselves from nothing, we add new merchants to our supply chain ready to provide us discounts or priority on goods, get leverage for favorable trade deals, tariffs, and treaties, a source of information from inside allied or enemy organizations, and so on.

“I thought Shang-shidi would be one of these,” the senior Qing Jing disciple frowned, “but he’s thrown himself head-first into his head disciple duties and gives no impression he has any intention of leaving.”

‘Of course not,’ Shen Jiu thought hysterically, ‘he needs to be in a good position to pass information about the cultivation world along to his demon.’

“The last are those who do stay, graduate to inner disciples and eventually become masters, and devote their careers and place their pride in personal projects. Endlessly improving this or that system or function,” the disciple made a vague gesture. “Supply chain is not my area, you understand. But because they seem content in their rank, they are named unambitious.

“It’s a complicated business, logistics,” the disciple hummed thoughtfully. “Here on Qing Jing, if a cultivator devoted years of his life to mastering a single piece of music to perfection, we’d treat him with proper respect and awe for his dedication to his art. But because we do not understand what is it those An Ding disciples are doing behind the scenes, because they make things run so smoothly specifically so that we do not see, we assume they are doing nothing at all and call them lazy!

“An Ding disciples, more than those of any other peak, have ambitions. But those ambitions almost always lie outside the sect. And when they do lie here, they don’t contribute in ways we can see. And that’s the real reason the other peaks dislike An Ding, even if they can’t quite articulate it. An Ding sect...they’re not one of us.”

As these words rang in Shen Jiu’s ears, his shixiong comment, “oh, here we are! If I’ve made you late for qin lessons, give Zhang-xiong my apologies.”

And for the rest of the day, although he kept an ear always turned to the instructor, Shen Jiu could not stop turning his shixiong’s words around and around in his head.

__________

“Shang Qinghua.”

The man in question looked up. “Yes?” he responded politely, a bland customer service-friendly smile splashed across his face. It was a very familiar expression to Shen Jiu, as was the “go fuck yourself, I’m busy” look screaming from his eyes.

“Is there something I can help you with?” is what his mouth said instead.

Shen Jiu gave his older martial sibling a thoughtful look, before sliding the door closed behind him, leaving the two of them alone in the An Ding peak lord’s office.

“Hmm. Yes, but I haven't quite decided what yet.”

The expression on Shang Qinghua’s face didn’t change, but the general feeling of “I swear to all the gods, I will stab you in the eye with this inkbrush if you don’t piss off in the next 30 seconds” that he was emanating intensified.

“I’m sorry to hear that…” there was a pause as Shang Qinghua clearly tried to clock how important Shen Jiu was. “...shixiong,” he eventually decided on. “Maybe you can come back later when you’ve remembered?”

“Oh, no. I haven’t forgotten anything. But you clearly have. But that’s alright. I’ll help you remember.”

The smile on the head disciple’s face faltered, growing a bit uneasy.

“Eh? What was that?”

“Five years ago, you were in a town called Kaishi. You stopped at an inn, because your friend had fallen ill. He must have been very ill indeed, he was so off-color. But I recall very vividly the way you nursed him back to health so devotedly. That’s the kind of loyalty you don’t see too often these days, so it tends to stick in the mind.”

With each word, Shang Qinghua’s face grew more and more pale until he shakily put down the clipboard he was holding onto the desk with a clack.

“Yes, of course,” he murmured, sounding like he was about to throw up. “Of course I remember. Ah, shixiong, do you mind if we continue this conversation somewhere else? My leisure house, maybe.”

Shen Jiu raised an eyebrow. What was it they said about never following someone to a second location? If Shang Qinghua was a little smarter, or a lot dumber, he might decide the best way to handle this blackmail threat was to simply get rid of it.

“Please,” Shang Qinghua cut in, pleading, desperate.

But he thought he had Shang Qinghua pegged right.

“...Very well.”

Shang Qinghua silently gestured to the younger boy to follow him, exiting the rear of the building and following a short curving path to a small cabin.

He gestured Shen Jiu in ahead of him, then cautiously closed the door.

If Shen Jiu had been expecting the formalities and tip-toeing around the threat to continue, he was mistaken.

“What do you want?” Shang Qinghua immediately pressed.

“We find ourselves in a very unique situation, don’t you agree? One that won’t be resolved in just one simple request fulfilled,” Shen Qingqiu carefully replied.

“Who are you?” Shang Qinghua asked again, incredulous, like he simply couldn’t fathom the words coming out of Shen Jiu’s mouth.

“This one is called Shen Jiu.”

At his name, Shang Qinghua, if possible, went even more pale. “What?” he murmured to himself, gripping his hair. “I can’t believe this is really happening right now. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! System, what the fuck, bro?!”

Figures other peaks would already know his name with the huge commotion Yue Qingyuan had made bringing him here. When the agitated ranting devolved into a foriegn language, Shen Jiu couldn’t help but quirk an eyebrow, but sat down at the table and begin idling paging through the materials there while waiting for the other to calm down.

Half-finished schedules of work for An Ding’s outer disciples, what appeared to be records of Cang Qiong’s medical suppliers (some of which appeared to originate from the demon realm, hmmm), and– Shen Jiu quickly slapped the last book shut again and pushed it toward the edge of the table in distaste, cheeks slightly pink. Men truly were pigs.

Shang Qinghua was still pacing in a tight circle fit to wear the floor smooth, wringing his hands, before he stopped abruptly in place, eyes flickering as though he were remembering something he’d read, and was bringing it up again in his mind’s eye. Then he spat, “Fuck you, System-bro!” and suddenly and unexpectedly kicked the table quite savagely, causing it to screech as the legs dragged across the floor with the force of impact.

Shen Jiu leaned back out of the way, unimpressed at the temper tantrum, and Shang Qinghua’s shoulders jumped slightly, as if only now remembering that the subject of his ire was in the room.

“Shixiong,” he began. “How do you even know what I was doing, and– and who I was with in Kaishi?”

Shang Qinghua truly didn’t remember him, then. But he wasn’t really all that surprised. Most people didn’t take the time to remember the face of servants, much less one that they’d only met the once, and years ago at that. And even though Shen Jiu had the upper hand here and now, the idea of admitting he’d been the slave at the inn left a foul taste in his mouth, felt like losing his tight hold on the situation.

“Don’t you have any pride?” he asked haughtily instead. “You are six years my senior, and you call me shixiong.”

Shang Qinghua was visibly floundering at the abrupt turn in the conversation. “Ah, Shen-shidi, then?”

Shen Qingqiu’s eyes narrowed. No, he didn’t like that at all.

“So you’re insubordinate as well as a coward. Qing Jing is ranked second among the peaks. An Ding is only fourth. I should be addressed as shixiong.”

Shang Qinghua made a quiet, closed-mouth groan in the back of his throat in frustrated exasperation, shoulders growing stiff as a fake smile made its way back onto his face—so obviously put on if you just looked, really looked, but no one who wanted to be served by someone with a congenial smile, as if it truly was their pleasure to do so, ever cared to look long or hard enough, as Shen Jiu well knew.

“Shi- shixiong, please. Have mercy on this one, and just… be plain about what you want from me. I can’t read minds.”

Shen Jiu wasn't sure what he wanted. The way his…shidi, he supposed, just let everyone step all over him... it rubbed him the wrong way.

So, instead, he simply scoffed. “This one is being ‘plain,’ as you say. I know about your demon–” he allowed himself to be cut off with an alarmed “Shhhhhhh!” as Shang Qinghua rapidly looked out the window, then yanked out some silencing talismans that were serving as a place marker in one of the many books littering the room and hurriedly slapped one on each wall.

“–and I know you are passing information to it. About Cang Qiong,” Shen Jiu continued, as if there had been no break in the conversation, once it was done and before any of the tension had time to leave his shidi’s shoulders. “Tsk tsk, shidi. What would they do to you, if they discovered you were a traitor to humanity?”

Shang Qinghua was silent. Shen Jiu had half expected him to burst into tears and drop to his knees to beg for his silence (he’d seen him plead quite pathetically when conversing with his fellow head disciples before, more than once). Or maybe for his shoulders to slump and head to drop, eyes averted as he meekly accepted whatever terrible fate he imagined Shen Jiu had planned for him.

So it was a shock to realize that the slight trembling of the older boy wasn’t fear, it was rage.

“And so? Am I supposed to owe any loyalty to them? Does this sect, who threw me to my death like a sacrifice—not even that! Like a distraction!—truly believe they’ve done anything to earn my loyalty?” he snapped.

Shen Jiu recovered from his shock, or at least did his best to hide it. “And the demons have earned it, I suppose? What did they offer you?” he was quick to retort.

Shang Qinghua looked away, crossing his arms. “Nothing, but at least it was something I picked for myself.” His eyes flicked back up to Shen Jiu’s, hard, but now slightly thoughtful.

“You still haven’t told me what you’re after, shixiong. Surely it’s not just to hold your knowledge over my head before you turn me in. If that’s all, at least give me a head start before you go to Yue Qingyuan.”

Shen Jiu had no plans to go to Yue Qingyuan with this, but couldn’t help retorting, “and why would I do that?”

Shang Qinghua gave him a kind, sympathetic smile. Not even a pitying one, but one like he genuinely cared. Which was ridiculous; from the An Ding disciple’s perspective, this was their first time meeting, and Shen Jiu had spent it doing nothing but threatening him.

“Forgive me for saying so, but I don’t believe you can take me out yourself, at least not yet. Your cultivation still isn’t very stable.”

Shen Jiu froze. How did he know? Were those rats on Qian Cao talking?

Shang Qinghua sighed and went to prepare a pot of tea, again peering back at Shen Jiu with that thoughtful expression, eyes briefly flickering to the side as though at the comment of someone else in the room, although when Shen Jiu followed his gaze there was of course no one there.

“You’re ambitious,” it was said as if it were a fact, without hesitation. “Do you want me to smooth the way for you to become head disciple at Qing Jing?” he asked, carefully, as if trying not to startle a newborn fawn. “The new generation will be ascending in just a few short years. There’s not much time left, if that’s your goal, and you’re already at a disadvantage…”

Shen Jiu decided not to ask how Shang Qinghua already seemed to know so much about him when he didn’t even recognize him on sight. The man was a spy—he obviously had his ways. But equally, he didn’t know Shen Jiu as well as he thought he did if he would bother asking something as ridiculous as that.

“No. I will become head disciple, but I don’t need help to do it,” he sneered.

Shang Qinghua carefully placed a bowl of tea in front of him. The smell wafting off it was delicate and fragrant. Expensive. Not at all what he’d expect the man in front of him to drink, so it must be intended for guests. Probably guests of the peak lord, since Shen Jiu had never seen Shang Qinghua allow anyone into his home before (for good reason, considering the things he had to hide). “So then?” Shang Qinghua asked.

“Tea is a good start,” Shen Jiu replied, taking a sip and savoring the taste. “This is good. I’ll have some delivered regularly to my bamboo house.”

Shang Qinghua shifted uncomfortably. “Well, actually this blend…” he trailed off at Shen Jiu’s pointed look.

“Ah, of course. Yes, I’ll make it happen.” He released a long, drawn-out breath and leaned back on his hands, a somewhat rueful, somewhat amused look on his face. “Anything else I can do to make Cang Qiong more comfortable for you?”

Shen Jiu hid a small smile behind the action of bring the cup to his lips. “I’ll make a list.”

__________

Shen Qingqiu swept into Shang Qinghua’s leisure house without knocking, as he had grown used to doing, with a complaint about those holier-than-thou bastards on Ku Xing and what petty revenges he needed the other head disciple to arrange for him already on his lips, before stopping at the sight of the very man he’d come to see.

Shang Qinghua was squinting at his reflection in a polished mirror, daubing healing cream onto a swollen jaw and black eye. A tin of concealer sat on the table beside the cream, but by the annoyed expression on the An Ding cultivator’s face he already knew it wasn’t going to cover up the bruising.

He looked up at Shen Qingqiu’s arrival, and seemed embarrassed, briefly reaching out as if to sweep the jars into his sleeve to hide them before realizing what a lost cause hiding the jars would be when the reason for them was still so plainly evident in purple and blue on his face.

Instead he turned back to the mirror with a sigh, turning his chin this way and that as if wondering if it would look less awful if he could stand just right so as only to be viewed from a certain angle when speaking with someone.

Shen Qingqiu inexplicably felt fury rise in him. “Who did this?” he demanded sharply, stalking forward and stopping just before grabbing the other man’s face for himself to feel for fractures when he saw the preemptive flinch.

Shang Qinghua shot him a confused look, as if he was the odd one for asking such a question.

“I would think the answer is obvious, given where I’ve been,” he murmured, aggravated just at the memory of the incident.

Shen Qingqiu wracked his brain, trying to remember anything from Shang Qinghua’s long ramblings that he usually tuned out. ...Hadn’t he been complaining about being forced on a mission with Liu Qingge, part of this “get to know your future martial family better” agenda that the outgoing generation was pushing much harder recently now that the final heel-dragging peak lord had made his choice of successor?

“That brute!” Shen Qingqiu seethed, clenching his fist.

Shang Qinghua merely sighed. “It wasn’t him this time; he actually stepped in to save me from the others.”

“As if that’s better?” Shen Qingqiu snapped. “It shouldn’t have happened in the first place! I’m going to march over to Bai Zhan right now and–” he cut himself off at the expression on Shang Qinghua’s face.

At first he’d looked confused, but when his eyes cleared in understanding, there’d been deep hurt there for a moment before he wiped it clean, hiding it behind that fake face Shen Qingqiu hated so much.

“What?”

Shang Qinghua ignored him, pointedly turning back to the task of applying concealer.

“What! Do you not want me to?”

Shen Qingqiu knew immediately that the accusation in his tone would only make whatever had made his fellow head disciple so cross worse, but his pride wouldn’t allow him to let slip the apology he knew he should give.

Shang Qinghua’s frown deepened as he glowered at his reflection, then he set down the makeup brush with a huff.

“It wasn’t Bai Zhan. What made you think– ? Bro, I told you I would be making a trip to the Northern Desert this week. Remember? You were supposed to back up my alibi if anyone asked?”

Shen Qingqiu immediately felt a wave of guilt wash over him, made worse by that stupid little overly-familar (possibly affectionate) term Shang Qinghua still used for him even when he was angry. He had told him, Shen Qingqiu remembered it now, but he’d lost track of the days and didn’t realize it was this week.

He’d been busy with studies of his own, and hadn’t made time to visit Shang Qinghua like usual, to practice his qin in Qinghua’s leisure house, away from his jealous classmates, and to eat the sweets Shang Qinghua always had secreted away (for him, he knew); he hadn’t even realized Shang Qinghua was gone.

But Shen Qingqiu did not like being made to feel guilty. It was so much easier to be angry, and he already had such a convenient target.

“My point still stands,” he retorted, marching over to Shang Qinghua’s side and picking up the makeup brush. Encouraging the man to face him with a tugging hand on his knee, he tutted at how much worse it looked up close.

He could always tell when Shang Qinghua had been meeting with that demon of his because he would be sporting some new injury, but it usually wasn’t this bad. He’d wince in pain at the friendly clap of a hand on his shoulder; request tea to treat headaches, a butterfly bandage hidden beneath his long bangs; excuse himself from sword drills with the excuse he had too much paperwork to complete, and delegate chores involving heavy lifting with a hand discretely pressed to his ribs.

“He doesn’t hurt me because he wants to hurt me,” he’d explained once, sad and drunk. “He’s not a monster. He doesn’t like to hurt me, or at least I don’t think he does. It’s just that he’s too rough; he’s used to other demons who can take that kind of treatment better. But he doesn’t especially care that he hurts me when it happens.”

He’d sniffled then, rubbing at his nose and taking another slug from his wine jar (not the first of the night). “But it’s not on purpose,” he whispered, “and that’s why I can keep going.”

Shen Qingqiu didn’t like it, but Shang Qinghua did everything in his power to keep Shen Qingqiu and his “king” separate. Shen Qingqiu had no way to get to the demon short of physically traveling to his palace in the demon realm, and while he was loath to admit it, he wasn’t ready to fulfill his promise yet. The push to develop his cultivation enough to acquire his sword had left him weak and unbalanced.

Now, Shang Qinghua still looked upset, but he’d acquiesced to Shen Qingqiu’s help easily enough, sitting still.

“My king didn’t do this,” he repeated, making sure to look straight into Shen Qingqiu’s eyes. “But not all the demons in the palace have gotten the memo yet that I’m too important to be touched, so my king had to correct them. It wasn’t that big a deal.”

He wanted Shen Qingqiu to know he was being sincere, Shen Qingqiu knew; it’s why he made the effort to make eye contact when he usually didn’t. And Shen Qingqiu could tell Shang Qinghua was telling the truth, at least about who was at fault. As for it not being a big deal, if Shang Qinghua actually believed that, he was lying to himself. He couldn’t hide the lingering trace of fear in his eyes.

Shen Qingqiu lifted the brush again, holding it up just shy of brushing against the delicate, bruised skin beneath his eye, before lowering his hand. “You really should go see Mu-shidi.”

Shang Qinghua scoffed. “And tell him what, exactly? That I got in an argument over the price of millet? Since that’s what everyone thinks I left to buy, by the way, since you’ve forgotten. And then the fat old merchant with no cultivation punched me so hard he broke my jaw? I’d rather not. My cultivation may not quite be 'real' peak lord quality like the rest of you, but I don’t need everyone thinking it’s that bad.”

Shen Qingqiu scowled right back. “Mu-shidi would not.”

“Doesn’t matter, I’m not going. I’ll just hide in my leisure house until it heals,” Shang Qinghua said, and the worst part was Shen Qingqiu knew he would absolutely do that. “You’ll bring me food so I don’t starve, won’t you shixiong?” he pleaded sweetly.

“I think you forget who serves who in this relationship,” Shen Qingqiu replied coldly.

“Nooo, shixiong, please! Have mercy on this one! Weren’t you just offering to beat up Liu-shidi for me? Surely ferrying a bowl of rice is much easier!”

“But not as pleasurable by half,” Shen Qingqiu retorted lowly. Louder, he said, “you’ll heal faster with an infusion of spiritual energy,” thinking aloud.

Shang Qinghua rolled his eyes. “Bro, I already said I wasn’t- mmph!”

Whatever protest he was going to make was cut off by the mouth covering his, the press of warm, parted lips swallowing his words. Shen Qingqiu would have taken a little amused pleasure in the way the other man’s eyes popped open wide and white in shock if he wasn’t trying to not think too hard about what he was doing.

Unfortunately, Shang Qinghua shoved him away far too quickly, cradling his face in his hands.

“Owww ow ow ow! Shixiong, please! Have mercy, my jaw is broken!”

Shen Qingqiu flushed, whipping out his fan to cover his face as he abruptly stood.

“This shixiong was only offering help, but I see it’s unwanted.”

But before he could make it to the door, Shang Qinghua had lunged up from his seat, grabbing his arm and pulling him back.

“I didn’t say that!” he practically yelled in his haste. “...I didn’t say that, Shen-xiong. Of course your help is always welcome.” He swallowed. “Is always treasured.”

His hand slid down Shen Qingqiu’s arm to his hand, which he clasped in both of his own. “Just, be a little gentle with me today?”

Shen Qingqiu could feel his own pulse beating like a rabbit’s but he lifted his chin, doing his best to keep his expression calm.

“I’m not a brute like the other company you keep. Of course I can.”

This time he made sure to keep his touch feather-light. It was barely a kiss at all. Because it wasn’t. It was just an exchange of spiritual energy, that’s all. Who’d want to kiss Shang Qinghua?

(He ignored the little voice in the back of his mind that he could have initiated the transfer at any other significant chakra point, like the wrist for example. After all, it was simply more efficient to begin the transfer at the point that required the healing, wasn’t it?)

__________

Shen Jiu knew Shang Qinghua was a spy for the demon realm; how could he not be aware of it with those damn reminders of the demon king’s unseen-but-definitely-felt presence everywhere in the leisure house? (He’d found a fucking fur coat lying across the bed once a few months back and he would have set it alight if Shang Qinghua hadn’t hastily shoved it away in a cedar chest upon noticing the direction of his gaze.)

But he wasn’t sure he ever truly knew what that meant until he was finally confronted with it. What it meant that Shang Qinghua not only consorted with demons, but did so… against humanity.

They’d just left a peak lord meeting wherein Yue Qingyuan had soberly revealed the shocking news that Ruoshao Mountain sect had been completely wiped out in a surprise demon attack, all except for the miraculous survival of the personal disciple of the Sect Leader, who’d escaped heavily wounded but alive.

In the aftermath of the events at Bailu Mountain, it was… concerning, to say the least. But the general consensus in the cultivation world was that the attack had been, well, mere bad luck for the unfortunate Ruoshao Mountain sect. The new vacuum of power in the demon realm hierarchy meant that whatever groups of demons the former demon emperor had kept suppressed under his heel were now free to run amuk, and apparently taking full advantage of it.

It had made sense for the former generation to step down earlier than initially planned after Bailu Mountain. The sudden upheaval in the cultivation world, the dawn of a new era—didn’t it call for a new generation of fresh, young peak lords to watch over it? (Shen Qingqiu had felt the first inklings of apprehension over his friend’s role then, but Shang Qinghua had merely shrugged. “Tianlang-Jun was always more of a Southern king,” he’d explained without feeling the need to expand on that.)

Shen Qingqiu felt a little vindictive pleasure (letting it swamp the small, secret concern he still, after all these years, couldn’t manage to suppress for the once brother-of-his-heart) at the crisis Yue Qingyuan had almost immediately inherited, left to still clean up his predecessor’s messes after the man had cleared out for an eternal vacation. But it was hard to feel anything but dismay and frustration when this mess was also his problem too, as the peak lord of Qing Jing and now chief strategist of the sect.

Numerous sects had sent out hunting parties to kill off the stragglers after the attack on Ruoshao Mountain, so Cang Qiong would be sending theirs as well. Plans were made, assignments dealt out, and the peak lords parted, most still ruminating on the news, alternately worried or fuming.

All but Shang Qinghua, who, while initially expressing a passable imitation of the others’ shock and dismay, had too rapidly dropped it in favor of his usual expression at meetings, one which Shen Qingqiu had come to recognize as boredom and frustration that he was being kept here when he had more important and pressing things to be doing (an expression that usually preceded a quiet grumble in his home dialect, which he still refused to translate, “This could have been an email!”), as if the near complete destruction of a sect was neither important nor pressing.

Which meant… things Shen Qingqiu carefully didn’t want to think about.

When the others were dismissed, Shang Qinghua and Shen Qingqiu were held back by a quiet command from the Sect Leader. “While it is still most likely that the destruction of Ruoshao Mountain sect was a coincidence, they had made a rather large, and discreet, purchase of talismans from our sect,” he explained once they were alone.

It wasn’t unusual for small sects to purchase cultivation supplies from larger sects that were better equipped to produce them. But it would have had to have been discreet, because Ruoshao Mountain sect had close ties with Huan Hua Palace, sharing bordering territories. It would be embarrassing if it got out they went to a rival sect, and could hurt Huan Hua Palace’s pride. No one wanted bad blood between two of the four great sects at what was supposed to be the start of a peaceful new era.

“I don’t know what they intended to use them for, but its possible the two are related. Xiao–, Shen-shidi,” he corrected himself. “I was hoping you could dig into it. Shang-shidi, is there any way this purchase could have been discovered at some point during fulfillment of the delivery?”

Shen Qingqiu just nodded his acceptance to his assignment, while Shang Qinghua looked shocked. “No! No, I’m sure of it.” At Yue Qingyuan’s firm look, he eventually hesitantly acquiesced. “Well, I can personally interview all the disciples involved. Discreetly, of course.”

Yue Qingyuan smiled. “Thank you, shidis.”

“Is that all?” Shen Qingqiu asked, and at Yue Qingyuan’s nod, Shang Qinghua was already turning to leave at his usual quick scurry, making haste back to An Ding.

But Shen Qingqiu wasn’t letting him get away that easy. He stormed out after the An Ding peak lord, ignoring the forlorn look Yue Qingyuan always sent his way when he left. His longer legs ate up the distance between them in a few strides, and he reached out, grabbing the other man’s arm and yanking him to a halt, hissing, “You have some explaining to do.”

Shang Qinghua gave him an exasperated look. “Bro, really, you couldn’t have waited?”

For the benefit of anyone still in earshot, his shoulders slumped and he began to whine pathetically. “Shen-shixiong, this news is going to put so much on my plate, I need to get started on it immediately! I’ll get your supplies, I promise, but there are other things that take priority!”

Shen Qingqiu’s brow twitched. Shang-shidi always had to make him look like the villain. But it was hard not to look like a bully when his shidi refused to stop being so pitiful in public. But fine, it wasn’t anything new. No one on the peaks really understood their relationship anyway (apparently the rumors among the disciples were that Shang Qinghua was a masochist and used an oblivious Shen Qingqiu to gratify his need for humiliation. Where were these kids learning these terms? He didn’t even want to know what their martial siblings thought. And it flummoxed him that anyone could so accurately see through his shidi’s harmless mask to the manipulative creature that lay within, and still be so completely wrong about it!).

“No, I want to discuss them now,” he snapped. “Follow me,” he ordered in a tone that promised there could be no dissent.

Managing to somehow look even smaller and downtrodden than before, like a man being led to his own execution, Shang Qinghua followed him back to Qing Jing peak.

The moment the door to the bamboo house closed behind them, he whirled on Shang Qinghua.

“Well?

“Ruoshao Mountain’s last remaining disciple didn’t ‘miraculously’ survive. He was carefully picked, and bro, it took a lot of coordination to get him out while still making it believable to him that he did it all on his own. Directing lower-level demons can be like herding cats sometimes!”

Shang Qinghua certainly did not look guilty or apprehensive. His countenance was serious, but the way he spoke about the attack reminded Shen Qingqiu of how he talked when discussing some new trade deal he’d negotiated: it was important, and something he was even a little proud of, but overall not something they needed to spend a lot of time on before moving onto the next item on the agenda.

“He’s the perfect survivor, really. A favorite of the sect leader, so on paper he’s the natural choice to carry on the legacy. But he's also young. He was a personal disciple, but not the head disciple. In practical terms, he doesn’t have any clue how to run a sect, never got the chance to learn any of that. But they won’t question he made it out when more experienced cultivators didn’t, because he was a real natural talent, you know? The sect leader had been bragging him up a lot.”

Shen Qingqiu had an opinion or two about natural talents, yes.

“And the best part is, his younger brother was engaged to an inner disciple at Yuquan Temple sect! The brother wasn’t a cultivator of course, but he was tragically there at Ruoshao Mountain that night visiting.” Shang Qinghua didn’t sound like he thought it was tragic.

“Our survivor will take on his little brother’s obligation and marry her in his place, fulfilling the promise to join their families made when they were children. Yuquan Temple will see the opportunity presented, elevate her, and there you go! The heir of one sect is now married to another, so why not just join Ruoshao Mountain and Yuquan Temple sects? As a new bigger and better Yuquan Temple sect, of course.”

Shen Qingqiu stood there silently, absorbing this information. He didn’t know how to react.

Finally, he just asked, “...Why?”

Shang Qinghua gave him an incredulous look. “Because Huan Hua Palace was going to subjugate Ruoshan Mountain and take their territory for themselves, obviously. They’d call it something nicer, like, ‘taking them into their protection’ or something like that, but that’s what it’d be. They can’t now. It would be a bad look, making a grab for that territory, what with the happy romantic ending to this tragedy Yuquan Temple will be announcing soon. And I don’t want Huan Hua Palace having more control over the area surrounding Bailu forest than they already do. There are things in there I’ll need eventually, and it’ll be a lot easier if Huan Hua Palace isn’t in the way. Yuquan Temple is much less of a problem.”

Shen Qingqiu felt the anger that always seemed to be inside him bubbling over. “So it wasn’t even something you were ordered to do? You just did it for personal gain? This was a favor from your demon to you?”

Shang Qinghua looked shocked at the outburst, concerned for the first time in the conversation.

“I…” He didn’t have a defense.

Shen Qingqiu didn’t care about humanity much on a personal level. It’s not like people had ever given him much reason to. He always knew he was scum, but didn’t even he have lines he wouldn’t cross? Wasn’t the one thing that made him redeemable, was that he was a human, who fought for humans against the demons? Hadn’t he made a righteous vow to kill one of the demon kings, one he’d never forgotten and still fully intended to fulfill?

“Aren’t you at all concerned this 'leak' will be traced back to you?! What has all of this been for if you’re just going to reveal yourself in the most idiotic way?!” he exploded.

Shang Qinghua was more important than that.

The stupid, thoughtless, irresponsible, imbicilic An Ding peak lord blinked, then smiled. “Bro, even if they realize it was northern demons and not some random southern raiders, there’s been bad blood between the Northern Desert and Huan Hua for literal generations. I don’t think anyone is going to find it strange that they found out and did something if it looked like one of the sects friendly to Huan Hua was up to something fishy, or even if they did it just to spite Huan Hua for no reason! Demon-cultivator relations are just super petty like that.

"My king would still have cultivator spies in his own palace if I hadn’t given him some tricks for sniffing them out, so it'd be surprising if there wasn't always a spy or two washing dishes for the sect, or living in the surrounding villages, selling gossip for coin. Root out one, and there's another already there to take their place. It's basically anticipated losses," he reassured. "They're not going to do more than a cursory look, maybe whip some peasants as scapegoat, or execute one to set an example, I promise."

He looked up at Shen Qingqiu, then away, clearing his throat. “And I’d like to think ‘all of this’ isn’t the only reason you hang around me.”

Shen Qingqiu could feel himself going red, and tried to disguise it as anger, giving his fellow peak lord a series of sharp raps on the head and shoulders with his fan.

“How and with who this venerable one chooses to spend his time is his own damn business, Qinghua!”

He didn’t mean to be so familiar with his language, so he wasn’t surprised to see that despite the protective arms belatedly lifted over his head, Shang Qinghua was grinning wide in pleasure.

“Of course,” he crowed happily. “I’d never presume to question your intent,” as if the cheeky bastard hadn’t been doing exactly that.

__________

The years seemed to pass so quickly, and it was somehow once again time to choose new disciples.

Shen Qingqiu had been planning to skip this year. Shang Qinghua had been growing unreasonably anxious recently, he’d begun talking in his sleep (still that dialect Shen Qingqiu couldn’t decipher), and Shen Qingqiu suspected it had something to do with that demon of his. He planned to put an end to whatever it was before it had a chance to begin. With his plans so long in fruition nearly complete, he didn’t have time for a new student.

But Ning YingYing had been desperately begging for a new adorable little martial sibling she could take under her wing (she’d never had real siblings growing up, and she had such a nurturing nature). Shen Qingqiu had never denied her anything before, and it would be suspicious to start now. He couldn’t afford any added scrutiny on him until it was done.

So he agreed, after making her promise to handle the new disciple’s schooling herself, feeling like he was giving her a goldfish rather than a real human child.

Right away she fixated on a boy with chubby cheeks, bright eyes, and fluffy black hair. A look of determination sat on his face, tongue sticking out slightly in concentration as he dug in the dirt, his calloused hands giving him no trouble while other children whimpered over cracked and bleeding nail beds.

He could see why she liked him. This child already had that air about him that drew people in. He was charming. Gifted with sweet features that would grow handsome. Clearly strong-willed, and strong in body as well. Blessed.

Shen Qingqiu hated him.

But he could tell that Liu Qingge was interested, and if it meant giving Ning YingYing something she wanted and taking away something that Bai Zhan brute wanted at the same time, the answer was obvious.

But before he could approach, Shang Qinghua frantically appeared on the scene, grabbing his arm and clinging like a limpet. “Shen-xiong! Didn’t you say you weren’t taking new disciples this year?”

They were in public and full view of everyone, peak lords and applicants alike, so Shen Qingqiu shook him off. Or at least tried to. Shang Qinghua was sticky when he wanted to be.

“It’s no concern of yours,” he haughtily replied.

Shang Qinghua darted a look at the black haired boy, then back. “He’s not right for you! Let him go to Bai Zhan. That’s a fighter if I ever saw one,” he argued, nearly stumbling over his words with how quickly they tripped out of his mouth.

Shen Qingqiu frowned. Was there some reason why Shang Qinghua didn’t want him to… ?

“Are you implying I couldn’t make a fighter into a scholar if I chose to?” he snapped instead, unable to back down and lose face in front of so many.

Shang Qinghua wilted. “No… of course you could,” he agreed complacently, before rallying.

“But why should you have to? A-Ying, you want a friend, right?” He turned to the girl, who grinned back at her shishu excitedly. “Yes!” she agreed.

Shang Qinghua straightened, resolute. “Then maybe I can just take him myself, and you can visit him on An Ding,” he started to say, before suddenly stumbling, hand pressed to his forehead as if in pain.

He dropped, and his knees would have hit the hard ground had Shen Qingqiu not caught him at the last moment, alarm erupting on his face.

“Shang-shidi? Shang–, Qinghua! Qinghua, answer me!”

Mu Qingfang suddenly appeared at his side, drawn by the commotion. “What happened?” he demanded, crouching down beside them.

Shen Qingqiu bite back the accusation that “shouldn’t Mu-shidi be answering that?” because of course he couldn’t know, he hadn’t seen him drop, had only just arrived.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “He just collapsed clutching his head.”

Shang Qinghua squinted an eye open, panting. “I’m fine,” he hissed through gritted teeth, clearly still in pain.

Mu Qingfang frowned. “Shang-shixiong, you are clearly not. I’d like to examine you back at Qian Cao.”

“And I’d like to stay here,” Shang Qinghua bit out. “Until the selection is over.”

“There will be other selections, shixiong,” Mu Qingfang scolded. “Your health is more important.”

When Shang Qinghua tried to protest, Shen Qingqiu instead helped as Mu Qingfang beckoned over one of his older and stronger disciples to load him onto the man’s back, piggy-back style, to carry him to the medicine peak.

With his back to their audience and further hidden from view by Mu Qingfang’s body, Shen Qingqiu grasped Shang Qinghua’s hand tightly and squeezed it reassuringly, wanting to ease away the desperation he saw on that face.

“Whatever’s wrong, we’ll fix it,” he whispered determinedly. He’d fix it.

He may be scum, but what made him redeemable, was he was going to save Shang Qinghua. From Mobei-Jun, from Shang Qinghua's countless bad decisions, from qi deviation if necessary. Shen Qingqiu was prepared to stand between him and all of it.

But they’d discuss it tonight.

Now, he had to play the part of a peak lord, comfort his distressed disciple, and welcome a new one.