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Shang Jian is not surprised by Mobei-Jun's casual violence with him. He wrote demon culture to be that way, after all, and there’s no reason for his king to treat him kindly or with any kind of decency when he’s nothing more than a lowly servant to the demon, and an untrustworthy one at that.
(If Shang Jian was willing to turn on his own sect—his own species—so quickly, then what reason could Mobei-Jun have to believe that Shang Jian will not also turn on him as soon as a better opportunity presents itself?)
He likes to think Mobei-Jun might pull his blows a little if he ever comes to realize how fragile humans actually are—no reason to unnecessarily damage the spy beyond repair before he’s done with him!—but will you catch Shang Jian informing his king he’s making a rather serious miscalculation with his investment to his face? Absolutely not!
But Shang Jian can only pass off his bruises and sprains, the black eyes and the broken ribs, as running afoul of unruly Bai Zhan disciples or his own clumsiness so many times before someone is going to get suspicious.
He needs to learn to treat his injuries himself so he can avoid having to explain how he got them to the healers on Qian Cao. But honestly, who actually knows first aid besides slapping on a bandage and calling it a day?
Does he treat aching muscles with a soak in the hot spring, or the cold spring? When is it necessary to elevate a wound? Does exercising a busted knee encourage it to heal back stronger, or is he just going to end up fucking it up even worse? How long, exactly, is it normal for his ears to ring after a blow to the head?
How is he supposed to know any of these things?! He can't just Google this shit anymore!
But being from the peak in charge of ordering and distributing the sect's supplies, there is a very simple solution. He simply acquires an extra set of Qian Cao disciple robes and starts sitting in on their lectures.
He never had the slightest inclination toward becoming a doctor back in China. Who needs those kinds of hours! Who could stomach that much work? Not him! He’ll always pick the lazy and undisciplined life (although the desperate scramble and sleepless hours spent churning out 10,000 words a day he chose instead speak to a different reality). He's not super interested in learning medicine now, but you gotta do what you gotta do to keep hiding the fact that you're a scum spy!
Between his An Ding duties, combing through peak lords' offices for whatever information Mobei-Jun is asking after, and now these extra classes, he's run ragged. But he fits right in with that "12 hours into a double shift in the ER" look that most of the Qian Cao disciples have, so no one notices the extra student.
No one, but Mu Fang.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
While it hasn't been publicly announced yet, Mu Fang is the Qian Cao Peak Lord's successor. So he makes a point of getting to know all his shidis.
And this boy who always scurries off as soon as the lecture ends in a flurry of papers is never in the dining hall, has no bed in the dorms, and no shift in the infirmary. Asking around about him only gets Mu Fang blank looks and shrugs. Whoever he is, and whatever color he may wear, he's not a Qian Cao disciple.
When he brings it up with the senior disciple in charge of organizing classes on Qian Cao, he is brushed off with a dismissive, “Just because he didn’t enter the peak in the same group as you doesn’t mean no one knows him, Mu-shidi. Now, I need to finish these lesson plans. Why don’t you ask Shizun?”
But when he tries to bring up his concerns with Yan Zeba, he is brushed off with a tired, “Unfortunately, I’m not personally familiar with all of our disciples, as much as I wish to be. Maybe one of your shixiongs selected him. Ask them. If he’s in your classes, they should know him.”
Although he tries to explain he has already asked, his shizun interrupts in a no-nonsense tone of voice, as if the matter is settled with his next words, “Then why don’t you befriend him, A-Fang?
“The burden of a healer is a heavy one. It’s good—important, even—to take breaks now and then, to step away to rebalance yourself. But it’s all too easy to think everything will fall apart without you if ever you pause.” His shizun smiled ruefully at his desk, crowded with notes on treatment plans and endless correspondence with people requesting his expertise.
“That’s why we all need someone to remind us that our own lives and health are also valuable. If he’s not attending meals, invite him to eat with you.”
He wouldn’t hear another word on the subject until Mu Fang sighed and agreed.
When Mu Fang brings up his frustrations with Wei Jiandan, his friend from Wan Jian Peak (also a front-runner for successor to his peak—their shizuns are not subtle in suggesting their “play dates”), the boy laughs himself hoarse.
“What kind of person would infiltrate Cang Qiong, just to work themselves to death on Qian Cao? No offense to you, but I’d rather get beat black and blue in the training fields than have to cram for exams any day.”
But it isn’t that absurd of an idea! His peak stores many rare and valuable medicines and poisons that even in small quantities could be sold on the black market for enough to keep a poor family fed for a month. Furthermore, the sect’s healers have practically unrestricted access to all sect disciples and even peak lords, and it would be all too easy for a qi imbalance to be subtly induced or an injury to be helped along to something fatal with no one the wiser.
The matter deserves to be taken seriously, and it frustrates Mu Fang greatly that no one else seems to see that.
...but even with his concerns, he can’t make himself believe the tired looking boy absently chewing on the end of his braid while staring down at his notes has actual nefarious intent.
So he’ll do as his Shizun advised. He’ll corner the disciple-who-isn’t, and invite him to lunch.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“This one never caught your name, Shidi.”
Shang Jian jumps a foot in the air, and whips around to see Mu Qingfang (no, he needs to remember it’s only Mu Fang right now) standing behind him.
“Ah, Shixiong!” he smiles nervously. “I...didn’t see you. This one begs pardon, but I’m running late for my duties.”
He gives a quick bobbing bow of his head, pulling his notes tightly to his chest and tries to flee, but Mu Fang drops a hand on his shoulder, anchoring him in place with a smile.
“Oh? I was just reviewing the schedule for the infirmary shift, and I didn’t see you listed, Shidi.”
Shang Jian has to suppress a twitch. ‘You just said you don’t know this one’s name, so how do you know this laozi isn’t on the list, huh? For all you know I’m performing brain surgery this afternoon!’
But instead of voicing that thought aloud, he just says, “Ah, I have other duties waiting, Shixiong. This and that… and various things. Surely you know how it is? There’s no rest for the weary! So if you’ll excuse me.” Ducking down and twisting out from under the hand, he trots away quickly, grimacing when he sees Mu Fang begin to follow with a slight frown on his face and a trailing, “now wait, simply a moment of your time, Shidi.”
Shang Jian charges straight through a group of other Qian Cao disciples—sending them scattering and shouting complaints his way—turns the corner of a building, and as soon as he is sure he is out of sight, breaks into a sprint, narrowing in on a ladder leaning against the wall of the next building down (they’re replacing roof tiles on Qian Cao today—it pays to memorize the An Ding repair schedule!), before scrambling up it like a squirrel and hauling the ladder up after him.
As he’s peering over the lip of the roof, he hears a confused, “Shang-shixiong? What’s–?” but he cuts his martial sibling off with a harsh shush and scrambles back from the edge and out of view of anyone below.
Two An Ding disciples face him with evident confusion on their faces. The one nearest him tries to whisper, “Shixiong, what are you wearing?” but Shang Jian slaps a hand over that one’s mouth and gives him and then the other a glare clearly communicating to shut the hell up.
They wait in tense silence, the only sound the shifting of his shidi’s robes as he fidgets anxiously—the one kneeling just out of reach, or else Shang Jian may have reached out and given him a whack. But then they hear footsteps approaching, and the younger disciple stills on his own. The footsteps stop almost but not completely directly underneath them.
There’s a pause, then a deep sigh of frustration and a quiet grumble, “you can’t hide from this one forever, Shidi,” before came the sound of Mu Fang walking away.
Shang Jian frowns. ‘Hide forever? You make it sound like this one has been dodging you at every opportunity, Mu-shidi! When really, this is the first time.’
It worries him nonetheless. He’s a very forgettable person most of the time. “Out of sight, out of mind” has been the defining characteristic of most of his relationships with just about everyone in both of his lives! But it sounds like Mu Qingfang was actively seeking him out. And he can’t think of a single reason why.
Nevertheless, he should probably skip the next lesson or two. Just long enough for Mu Qingfang to forget about him. They are covering tracheostomy procedures next, but if he is ever in a position to need to perform one on himself, he isn’t confident having attended the lecture will actually make a difference. Shang Jian is a lot of things, and one of them is too chickenshit to stab himself in the throat.
Shang Jian finally drops his hand from his shidi’s mouth—who takes in an overly dramatic gulp of air, as if he hasn’t been breathing perfectly fine through his nose this whole time—and cautiously peers over the edge of the roof, looking both ways to ensure the coast is really clear.
“Shixiong, why are you in Qian Cao pink?” His shidi—not the one still clutching at his heaving chest like a man who narrowly escaped suffocation, causing Shang Jian to want to roll his eyes—asks, picking up a roof tile and fidgeting with it, turning it over and over in his hands. “And…hiding from that Qian Cao disciple?”
Shang Jian scowls, snapping “never you mind!” as he starts carefully lowering the ladder back down. But he sighs when both boys immediately turn meek, dropping their eyes and murmuring apologies as they quietly return to their task.
Giving in (at least outwardly) at the slightest hint of confrontation is something all An Ding disciples eventually learn, being at the bottom of the food chain as they are. But it always smarts more when the person you need to appease is someone else from An Ding.
Some senior disciple acting like they’re better than him, when they’re not—like they don’t have to smile and nod, just the same as him, whenever some obnoxious jackass from a more respected peak gives an order? It never fails to make Shang Jian grit his teeth.
So yeah, he could probably be less of a jerk to his two shidis here out of fellow feeling alone. But more importantly, they will absolutely narc on him later out of petty revenge if he doesn’t do something to turn this around. It’s what he would do.
“Look,” Shang Jian says, pulling out the tie to his braid and starting to roughly comb it free with his fingers. “I don’t need to tell you that An Ding sucks.”
His two shidis are watching him now, the dramatic one looking curious and the fidgety one quite cautiously. He quickly wraps his loose hair back up into his usual bun as he talks.
“But nothing will ever get done around here if we’re not doing it, so we can’t afford to get distracted or slack off.”
The dramatic one nods. “Wise words, Shixiong,” he says with a small smile, one that is ready to become friendly once it has permission.
“And we can’t get anything done if people are constantly badgering us with stupid shit because we’re from An Ding,” Shang Jian continues. “So, whenever possible, I’m not from An Ding.”
His shidis’ gaze drops to his robes then back up to his face. The dramatic one’s eyes go wide and he lets out a soft, “Oooooooooh,” in realization.
Fidgety scoots a little closer. “But you were hiding? From that other disciple who actually is from Qian Cao.”
Shang Jian does roll his eyes this time. “Because obviously it only works if no one is paying that close attention. So if someone looks like they’re starting to get suspicious, just make yourself scarce for a little while, and they’ll give up when they can’t find you. And they won’t find you, because they’ll be looking on the wrong peak.”
He begins to rapidly untie his belt and shrug out of his outer robes, ignoring the way Dramatic squeaks and throws his hands over his eyes. Cramming the pink robes into his qiankun pouch, Shang Jian pulls out the familiar yellow ones that match to the other two disciples’, and just as rapidly pulls them on, smoothing them out where they are rumpled and swatting away Fidgety’s hand when he tried to help fix the collar.
“And this will only continue to work,” he adds, jabbing a finger at the both of them in emphasis, “if no one is going around loudly wondering why an An Ding disciple was wearing Qian Cao robes in front of a certain someone who is already suspicious.”
They at least have the grace to look embarrassed.
“Hey, hey, Shang-shixiong,” Dramatic whispers, crawling forward and leaning over the edge of the roof as Shang Jian starts to climb down the ladder, now fully changed. “Where did you get them? The other set of robes, I mean?”
“If you can’t figure that out for yourself, that’s not my problem, Shidi. And stop leaning over so far, you’re going to fall off the edge and crack your head open like an egg.”
“At least I’m already on Qian Cao!” he laughs in reply, before pulling back out of sight. Shang Jian can hear the two whispering excitedly to each other. Wonderful.
It’s not that he doesn’t want other An Ding disciples to benefit from his life hack, it’s just—okay, it’s exactly that. These idiots are going to ruin this good thing he has going because he doubts they can act for shit.
If he doesn’t manage to get caught by Mu Qingfang of all people first.
~~~~~~~~~~
The mystery disciple had clearly gotten spooked by being confronted—if Mu Fang needs any further proof that he is not a Qian Cao disciple, this is it. But no one is interested in proof, apparently.
Isn’t every doctor in ways a detective? Should not the most valuable trait for a budding healer—more so than a steady hand, or a soothing demeanor—be an inquisitive mind, someone who knows how to ask the right questions? And not only that, but when no solution thus known fits, seeks new answers rather than just selecting whichever comes closest?
Mu Fang heartily disapproves of the lecturers’ notions that everything there is worth knowing is already known, even if they rebuke him for being disrespectful of his elders for thinking he “could possibly know better” than the greats who came before.
Mu Fang respects his shizun with his whole heart, but he will respectfully run things very differently when he is in charge. Qian Cao won’t just be a catalog of knowledge of masters long dead. It will be a hub of research and new discoveries!
But if he tries to bring up the matter of the mystery disciple with his shizun again, he knows he’ll only be met with, “I’m disappointed in you, A-Fang,” for “bullying” the boy he’s been tasked with befriending. And he simply refuses to disappoint Shizun.
So if he’s going to get to the bottom of this, it has to be Shizun’s way. But it’s a little hard to interrogate Mystery Disciple over lunch when he can only be reliably found at class, and now hasn’t shown in three days. Mu Fang had thought he’d seen him jumbled in with the crowd entering the lecture hall this morning, but he must have been mistaken, because by the time everyone was settled at their desks, the other disciple was nowhere to be seen.
It’s while Mu Fang is mulling over the problem—temporarily put on hold as he makes a visit to Qing Jing to deliver the qi calming pills prescribed to Shen Jiu, another of the unofficially-official successors (the peak lords want to wait to announce them until they can do so all at once, but a few of his martial aunts and uncles are in no apparent hurry to select an heir)—that something, or rather someone in his peripheral vision hooks his attention and drags his gaze after them.
He pauses, confused about what it was about this person that distracted him. It’s just another Qing Jing disciple—not one he recognizes, but he’s rarely here outside of this particular errand, so that isn’t surprising. Nothing really stands out about them in any noticeable way.
Shaking off the strange moment—maybe it had just been the way the sun glinted off the little gold flower charm dangling from his hairstick—Mu Fang continues up the path before coming to an abrupt halt.
He had only glimpsed their face as they passed, he heading up the path and the disciple heading down, but it had been in the way the boy carried his books close against his chest. That wasn’t unusual. Plenty of people carry books that way. But that was it. It had niggled something in his mind. And suddenly he realizes, that was him.
That was Mystery Disciple.
Mu Fang immediately turns around and hurries back the way he came, uncaring if he looks a little silly, like he’d forgotten something behind.
The mystery disciple looked different in green, with his hair—colored black instead of its usual reddish-brown—up in an elegant knot secured with a gold hairstick, and tiny jade studs in his ears. Mu Fang could have sworn his eyes were a different color as well, more hazel than amber, but maybe it's simply the color he used to line them making them seem that way. And it’s not like Mu Fang had been paying close attention at the time. He hadn’t realized there was anything to pay attention to.
But it’s too late. Mystery Disciple obviously recognized Mu Fang much swifter than he had him, because no matter how far back down the path he goes, he doesn’t catch up with him.
Mystery Disciple probably took off into the bamboo, and Mu Fang at least has enough dignity not to go traipsing through there looking for him shouting, “Come out, Shidi!” (since he still doesn’t know his name.)
Sighing, Mu Fang has no choice but to give up and turn back around. He is by now running late for when he knows Shen Jiu will be expecting him, and the Qing Jing disciple has, in Mu Fang’s medical opinion, a bit of a stick up his ass.
Mu Fang has no doubt already earned himself a scathing lecture on punctuality, for all that Shen Jiu usually prefers to adopt the charade that Mu Fang “merely happened to be passing by” rather than openly acknowledge his cultivation is in a poor enough state to require regular treatment from Qian Cao’s head disciple.
Still, he cheers himself with the realization that if Mystery Disciple is actually of Qing Jing Peak, Shen Jiu will surely be able to provide some insight into what the other is up to.
But when Mu Fang does not politely excuse himself after his cursory checkup pretending to be a social visit as typical, but instead, to Shen Jiu’s steaming annoyance, accepts the offer of tea he was not meant to and settles in, turning the conversation to the mystery disciple, he is first met only with the same blank stare he received from his fellow disciples on Qian Cao.
Eventually, as he begins describing the other boy’s appearance and mannerisms in as much detail as he can remember from as little as he knows—adding in with only the slightest bit of frustration, “he was heading away from the direction of your cottage, Shen-shixiong. Was he not meeting with you?”—something like recognition passes across Shen Jiu’s eyes. The other boy takes a long sip of tea—stalling, Mu Fang can tell, just to annoy him in turn.
“Oh, him,” he eventually says. “No, he wasn’t here to see me. He was probably coming from further up the path. He must have been leaving Shizun’s office.” Then he takes another sip of tea, closing his eyes to savor it, the bastard.
“I honestly don’t know his name,” Shen Jiu finally admits without a hint of shame. “He’s a teaching assistant of some sort, I believe. Emphasis on ‘assistant.’ Collecting lesson plans from the lecturers to put together purchase orders for books and instruments to submit to An Ding and so on. He may also collate lesson materials on their behalf as well, I see him rifling through the library often enough.
“I have never personally spoken to him. He seems to avoid me whenever possible,” Shen Jiu sneers, tone bemused but face betraying his offense at the fear he generates in his peers, apparently few so openly as this one.
Shen Jiu pours himself some more tea then, pointedly ignoring Mu Fang’s cup, and stirs in a small spoonful of honey before giving a surprisingly inelegant shrug. “I assume at some point I will need to get more involved with the actual running of the peak and he will be forced to stop fleeing like a startled rabbit at the sight of me whenever we bump into each other in Shizun’s office, but for now, as I said, we have not been formally introduced.”
“Where would I be able to find him?” Mu Fang asks, still absorbing this new information.
Shen Jiu raises one beautifully shaped eyebrow. “The opposite direction of wherever he last saw me, presumably.”
Shen Jiu sets down his cup and steeples his fingers, staring at Mu Fang over them. “Shidi, may I ask why this line of questioning?”
Mu Fang pauses before replying, wondering if he should answer honestly. Maybe his mystery disciple is just an assistant on Qing Jing who is unhappy on his peak and in his position, but hesitant to ask for an official transfer. Having been accepted as a disciple on the most prestigious peak bar Qiong Ding, and then rebuffing that honor to go learn on the eighth peak instead (doctoring is a respectable life path, but hardly an enviable one) would certainly raise some eyebrows. It might even embarrass Peak Lord Wen, and Mu Fang certainly wouldn’t want to be in that disciple’s position then.
But it doesn’t answer all of Mu Fang’s questions neatly. And if he has concerns about the hypothetical damage an infiltrator could do on Qian Cao, they’re only doubled when thinking about what a spy could do on Qing Jing. While the outside world calls it “the scholarly peak” and thinks only of intellectuals lounging under blossoming plum trees and debating the merits of this or that school of poetry all day, they are in reality the sect’s peak devoted to strategy.
While Cang Qiong is not actively at war with the demon world or another sect right now, that isn’t likely to remain true forever.
Shen Jiu is a frustrating person to deal with, but Mu Fang does not doubt the other disciple’s devotion to their sect. If the mystery disciple is actually someone who doesn’t belong here, Shen Jiu will want to know, and as the future Qing Jing Peak Lord, he deserves to know there’s a cuckoo in the nest.
But if it all turns out to be nothing, and it very well may be…well, Mu Fang would feel awful for setting Shen Jiu loose on his mystery disciple, then. Shen Jiu isn’t the type to let things go or change his mind about a person, even if evidence eventually proves Mystery Disciple innocent, and a peak lord is a bad enemy to have.
Plus, there’s Shen Jiu himself to consider. His fellow sect heir’s health is genuinely fragile with his cultivation base still so unstable. All the stress and excitement won’t be healthy for him.
Mu Fang can wait to do a little more information gathering first. He settles for giving a wan smile. “I’ll let you know as soon as I discover that for myself, Shixiong.”
Shen Jiu gives him a long stare then. “See that you do,” he says.
“And Shidi,” he adds, as Mu Fang gets up to leave. “...Thank you. You mentioned last month you had adjusted the… recipe.” Shen Jiu doesn’t make eye contact now, hiding behind his fan. “I’ve noticed improvement.”
“Oh,” Mu Fang commented, surprised and pleased. “I’m glad to hear it.”
~~~~~~~~~~
Mu Fang leaves satisfied with his plan to return the following day to speak with the instructors on Qing Jing, maybe get them to call Mystery Disciple over while Mu Fang waits. Unfortunately, this plan is derailed when, as he makes his way from Qian Cao to Qing Jing to do exactly that, he spots Mystery Disciple himself. On An Ding. In yellow.
He's hiding an exhausted yawn behind a clipboard while an older disciple apparently gives him some commands. As soon as that disciple walks away, Mystery Disciple snags a passing younger disciple by the back of the collar and delegates the orders he himself had just received.
The younger disciple sags, but Mystery Disciple just tousles his hair, and walks toward the Rainbow Bridge, still yawning.
Mu Fang follows discretely. It seems obvious in hindsight that if Mystery Disciple had infiltrated two peaks, he had done so with more than two.
It does surprise him that Mystery Disciple heads to Qian Cao, with a brief pit stop ducking into an empty patient room to change his robes and redo his hair in the simple braid Mu Fang had originally known him by. He’s back to classes, but apparently he’s decided to ditch the upper level class Mu Fang attends and instead sit in on a lower level class.
It can’t be a coincidence that Mystery Disciple is apparently going out of his way to avoid two head disciples.
Mu Fang takes the opportunity to rush to his own little office in the medical hall to complete what work he can and delegate the rest before the class ends. He needs the rest of his day clear for this. Thankfully, Mu Fang makes it back just in time to follow as Mystery Disciple packs up his notes and heads back to the Rainbow Bridge.
This time he goes to Zui Xian.
Mu Fang tails Mystery Disciple somewhat irregularly the next few days, establishing a record of his various guises.
When wearing Qiong Ding’s silver robes (and how alarming that was to discover), he keeps his hair mostly long and loose—half up and half down with a simple hair crown securing the top knot. It’s longer than usual and a uniform curtain of shining black—a wig, most likely (the same he must wear on Qing Jing). Pince-nez are perched on his nose and a signet ring too large for his hand cut with the peak’s symbol is hung on a chain around his neck. He mostly seems to be involved with ferrying mail—hence the ring, Mu Fang supposes. For sealing the envelopes.
In An Ding yellow, his appearance isn’t nearly as polished. His natural hair is held up in a messy bun tied with a long trailing ribbon and little flyaways sticking out everywhere. It isn’t entirely clear what he’s doing on this peak, but it seems to involve a lot of arguing.
In Zui Xian’s brown robes on the brewing peak, his hair is down—another wig, a darker brown and curly—tied away from his face with a kerchief. It looks like he just comes here to tally the number of casks being produced for both sale and internal use by the sect.
In conversation with one of the gardeners on An Jing, he’s dressed in the tan robes of the peak with his bangs in his eyes and the rest of his hair bundled under a bun cover. There, he also wears a facemask over his mouth and nose (which goes unremarked upon, for some of the pollens released by the plants there can be quite dangerous to breathe in).
As yet, Mu Fang hasn’t spotted him on the remaining peaks, but that doesn’t mean he’s not making trips there as well (veils are a new and growing trend on Xian Shu and Mu Fang wonders…)
Mu Fang could lose entire nights of sleep trying to come up with ways any of this could be used to hurt the sect individually, but none of it seems to make sense taken together. And it's still only wild guesses in the dark.
No one really seems to know him. When he questions the members of each peak he’s seen Mystery Disciple actually speaking with, he hears, “Oh, he’s one of my shixiongs/shidis. Ah, I’m afraid I can’t recall his name, as I don’t know him that well...” while for others he gets mostly a sort of, “Yeah, I’ve seen him around,” if they recognize his description at all.
On An Ding, he is matter-of-factly informed, "there's lots of brown-eyed, brown-haired people on An Ding, and we have the most disciples of any peak, except sometimes Bai Zhan. I’m afraid I really can’t help you unless you can get a lot more specific,” which, fair enough.
~~~~~~~~~~
It is while Mu Fang is working late, trying to catch up on all the paperwork that had been piling up while he’s been tracking Mystery Disciple around the peaks (today had been fruitless, he hadn’t caught sight of the other all day) that he hears the quiet creaking of footsteps in the medicine hall outside his office.
Equal parts annoyed and cautious, he peers around the door to see a silhouette he’s been learning to recognize standing by a table with a mortar and pestle, fumbling with an armful of small glass jars he’d taken from the medicine stores.
“Aw crap, was it one or two parts blue ginger root?” The figure murmurs, before lifting one jar up to the faint light coming in from the window with a slightly trembling hand, and squinting.
“...is this even blue? Or a very dark red? It’s too fucking dark in here, I can’t tell.”
“That’s blue mandragora root,” Mu Fang says, stepping out into the open.
“Fuck!” Mystery Disciple startles and drops the jar, which hits the floor with a shockingly loud crash in the otherwise quiet hall. Mystery Disciple’s shoulders shoot up to his ears, and although Mu Fang cringes, the glass thankfully does not shatter. Instead, the jar merely rolls across the floor until it clinks against his foot.
“So,” Mu Fang says placidly. “It’s about time we finally talk, don’t you agree, Shidi?”
But then the moon comes out from behind a cloud, and Mu Fang sees what the other’s sleeves would have otherwise hidden if they hadn’t been tied up above the elbow: a reddish-black bruise-like rash, centered around four parallel gashes torn into the other’s forearm (as if he’d raised his arm up to protect his face from a swipe of vicious claws), and spreading out in fat, painful-looking lines that almost seemed to glow or pulse in their intensity, following the path of arteries up the arm as if eager to spread their malignant influence further.
Mu Fang gasps.
“Ahaha,” Mystery Disciple laughs nervously. “Shixiong! You’re working late tonight, I see. Ah, d-don’t mind me. I was just mixing some medicine.”
“...that looks like blood poisoning, shidi,” Mu Fang says quietly, perturbed despite himself.
“Ah? Well, maybe two parts ginger after all, then, just to be safe,” Mystery Disciple replies casually, that cautious, polite smile never leaving his lips.
“Why did you not come to Shizun to get it treated?” Mu Fang questions sharply, stressing the word “shizun,” knowing full well his shizun is not this man’s.
“Ah, ha, well, I didn’t think I’d need to bother anyone over this! I rinsed the wound with clean water and slathered it with honey as soon as I could. I sat in the same lectures as you, Shixiong. I know how to treat it. Or, at least I thought I did.”
“How did this even happen? You’re a cultivator!” Mu Fang can’t help but exclaim as he strides forward, grabbing for the other’s arm and turning it to inspect the wound himself more closely. ‘Unless even that’s a lie,’ he thinks, worried at the implications.
“Your cultivation shouldn’t even allow you to get sick,” is what he says aloud with a stern frown.
Mystery Disciple just shrugs, as much as he can with one arm captured (although Mu Fang thinks he detects a faint tug, as if the other is testing whether he would easily let go).
“My cultivation has never been the strongest. And on Qian Cao, we know better than most there’s all sorts of things in this stupid, ill-conceived world that can tamper with cultivation.” His nose crinkles as he mutters under his breath, “Who even knows what was under his claws.”
“Claws?” Mu Fang looks up sharply, eyes narrowing. “Whose?”
“Ah, the demon,” the disciple replies, wincing. There’s strain in his voice, and he’s tugging at his arm a little harder this time. Mu Fang realizes he was holding a bit tighter than necessary and sheepishly loosens his grip, but does not release it entirely.
He is forced to tighten his grip again almost immediately to support the other in staying on his feet when he sways a little, and Mu Fang finally notices the way the Mystery Disciple is leaning heavily against the table, face slightly flushed and damp with fever.
“Ah, but I guess whatever gore was already under my—well, whatever was under the demon’s claws probably…under my skin, it—it was probably…inevitable, but I tried to clean it,” he pants, other hand now going to grip the edge of the table, having difficulty keeping himself upright and focusing on the conversation at the same time.
It would be so easy to strike this man down now, in his moment of weakness and when he didn’t expect it. It’s a strange thought to be having in this moment. Mu Fang is a healer, but he is also a cultivator. “First, do no harm” isn’t a strict rule for him. Sometimes a cultivator has reason to draw a sword. He has no idea what this man has been doing in his sect. What he was doing that involved getting close enough to a demon to receive that wound, when they’d been generally keeping to their own realm these days, when he had no reason to leave the safe boundaries of the sect at all.
But for now, he sees no reason he can’t treat this shidi first before determining if he needs the blade (he has difficulty calling anything that helps someone a waste of resources). And no one said he couldn’t interrogate him at the same time.
“Shidi, why don’t you sit down?” he says, leading him over to one of the patient beds. “Let me mix up a cure for you, I wouldn’t want you to mistake the ingredients again in the dark.”
And if he slips his shidi something to make him more talkative, well…Mu Fang turns away, stepping back to the mortar and pestle on the table the other disciple had prepared, and examining the bottles he'd selected to see if any were of use.
“Shidi, how did this happen?” he asks as he steps back to the shelf to pull down a few more bottles, sniffing one as he uncorks it. With effort, he manages to keep his tone laced with nothing more than professional concern.
His Mystery Disciple shrugs. “Well, when cultivators and demons meet…isn’t this sort of thing what normally happens?” He trails off and turns his head away as a grimace crosses his face.
“Hmm. And where did you encounter this demon? Not close to the sect, I hope!”
His Mystery Disciple let out a short laugh. “No, no,” he says. The fever must be fogging his judgement, because then he speaks again, quietly and to himself, seemingly failing to realize Mu Fang can still hear him when not directly addressed. “No, that would be too easy.” Mu Fang doesn’t turn, continuing to prepare the tincture.
“No, there’s a small village outside the forest that borders the northwestern side of the demon realm," Mystery Disciple continues. "I found him there.”
Mu Fang makes a small sound of acknowledgement of the answer, then turns to approach him where he sits on the bed. “Here, drink this,” Mu Fang says, bending down and offering Mystery Disciple a small cup.
He obediently drinks it down, then frowns in confusion when he belatedly notices the syringe in Mu Fang’s other hand.
“What–?”
“That was just to numb the pain, Shidi,” Mu Fang explains calmly, not letting his face betray him. “This,” he lifts the syringe, gripping the other’s wrist firmly with his remaining hand to hold his arm still, “is the treatment.” That part, at least, was true.
The other man looks confused, but not suspicious, and doesn’t try to pull free, so Mu Fang feels his own racing heart start to calm a little.
He’d start with something simple.
“Shidi, I would feel more comfortable if I could call you by name,” he says as he depresses the syringe into a bulging red vein, and watches the antibiotics move into the bloodstream.
“Sure…” Mystery Disciple murmurs in reply, cradling his arm in his lap. He's staring down at it, and absently wipes away the bead of blood that wells up when Mu Fang removes the needle, pressing his thumb into the spot.
Mu Fang waits, then tries again. “What’s your name?”
“Oh. Shang Jian,” he says, a little sheepishly, a little cautiously.
“Shang-shidi, then. Shang-shidi, who are you really?”
Mystery Disciple opens his mouth, lips starting to shape around a sound, before they close again. He blinks in confusion, then gulps several times in rapid succession, his eyes squeezing shut as if in pain. “Shang Jian,” he finally bites out, repeating himself with effort, but now with hints of fear making themselves known in his voice.
“Okay. Shang Jian, I know you’re not really a Qian Cao disciple.”
When Shang Jian’s eyes widen, Mu Fang gives a short smile in return. “You’re normally very meticulous about your appearance, but you didn’t braid up your hair before changing into your Qian Cao robes tonight. You were feverish,” he adds consolingly. “It’s understandable.”
One hand shoots up to the back of his head, aborting the gesture halfway and returning to holding his infected arm.
“My hair?” he asks shakily. “What does that have to do with anything?”
Mu Fang reaches up and gently pulls off the wig, one he hasn’t seen before tonight—black again, he thinks, but nowhere near as lovely and glossy as his Qing Jing guise. The look of a more common man.
“Who sent you?” he asks quietly.
Shang Jian winces like it had been a shout, and bites his lip so hard it begins to bleed, a ribbon of blood running down his chin.
“Who do you work for?” Mu Fang demands sharply, looming closer in his need for answers.
“An Ding!” practically bursts from Shang Jian's mouth. “I’m an An Ding disciple,” he repeats himself hurriedly, almost frantically, before biting his tongue.
Mu Fang is surprised. “An Ding? Truly?”
“Yes!” Shang Jian looks as though he’s about to start crying. “Ask my Shizun, he hand-selected me himself!”
“Would you also claim you’re a Qian Cao disciple? Or a Qing Jing disciple?” Mu Fang asks skeptically with censure in his voice. Shang Jian shouldn’t be able to lie, considering what Mu Fang gave him, but… “I’ve seen you,” he presses harshly. “Don’t twist your words to suit your purposes.”
Shang Jian barks out a slightly hysterical laugh. “Are you nuts? Or do you think I’m nuts? Qian Cao is the only other peak I actually attend classes for, and I hardly consider myself a doctor. The rest I just borrow their uniforms, so I don’t get waylaid or pushed around whenever I’m just trying to do my work!”
That…doesn’t seem so unbelievable. Absolutely bizarre, but…conceivable. “What work?” he presses again.
“What work? What work?" Shang Jian scoffs incredulously, half getting up from his seat before lurching back down when Mu Fang steps closer, although it doesn't intimidate him enough to hold back his words this time. "Literally what work don’t I do? An Ding disciples work on all the peaks, we do everything. Do any of you even realize how much of the running of this sect falls into our hands, how much–, how easy it would, it would be so incredibly easy to bring it all crashing–,” he takes a deep breath, pressing his thumb into his arm again, hard.
“What were you doing when you encountered the demon?” Mu Fang asks quietly.
Shang Jian takes a deep breath in and lets it out in a shuddering exhale. “I was there to meet him.”
Mu Fang felt something inside himself go cold and still—the confession was what he had been trying to draw out, but dreading to hear actually fall from the other's lips. “Why?” he asks, a small part of him thinking he should be embarrassed to sound so hurt and shaken, but the larger part only focused on extracting more answers.
“Because I had to!”
“Why!” Mu Fang wants to slam his hands down but there's nowhere to put them. He wants to shake the other disciple, but he doesn't want to touch him.
“Because I don’t want to die!” Shang Jian shouts, panting in the echoing quiet that follows. “Is that so hard to believe?” He sounds just as rattled as Mu Fang in that moment.
“This,” Mu Fang, quick as a viper, reaches out and yanks Shang Jian's arm out of his own grasp and shakes it. “This could kill you. This may have killed you. That demon did this to you, so why were you willingly meeting with it? What were you doing with it?!”
“There’s so much you don’t know, Mu Qingfang,” Shang Jian says, voice devoid of anything now but a sort of weary resignation. That gives him pause. Most of the core disciples on Qian Cao know Mu Fang is the candidate for successor. Shang Jian had been hanging around the peak enough to likely know that as well, even if he really belongs to An Ding. But no one knows the next generation’s ascension names yet. No one is supposed to know. Mu Fang himself hadn’t known, but what else could that name be?
“There’s so much that you were never meant to know,” Shang Jian continues. “...Things have already been set in motion. But I don’t want to die, Qingfang. So I’m going to find a way out of it.”
“What do you mean?” Mu Fang whispers.
“It’s my mission, given to me alone,” Shang Jian has a bitter smile on his face now, something slightly unhinged about it as his eyes fix somewhere to the left of Mu Fang's shoulder. “The only mission that matters. It’s what I was brought here to do. To...fix. But I have to follow the script, I can’t act out of character—I need to play the part of the scum traitor or he’ll get suspicious and kill me before it’s time.”
“Who will?” That cold he felt inside him before begins to spread, sharpening until all the hairs on his arms are standing on end as he starts to put all the things said and unsaid together.
“Who else?” Shang Jian murmurs, gesturing with the savaged arm. "It wouldn't take much."
“Fix," Mu Fang repeats now, jumping desperately to find any part of this conversation that might offer some solid ground, something to build off of. "What did you mean by that?”
“The end of the world,” Shang Jian states matter-of-factly. He laughs again, and Mu Fang starts to worry. Shang Jian is starting to act like patients who know they won't have to deal with consequences for what they say or do, because they won't live long enough to have to. “A very unsatisfying ending. So that’s why I need to know what’s coming, and how soon. Maybe I am a traitor, but Shidi, information flows both ways.”
Mu Fang sits down heavily beside Shang Jian on the bed, sending the still weak and feverish man tilting into his shoulder. Mu Fang shudders at the touch, but doesn't push him away.
“Who else knows?” he whispers into his hands.
“I couldn’t be a spy if everyone knew about it, Shidi," Shang Jian replies, a little amused now. "Among the demons, a few of my king's other servants know he has a human cultivator. There's the...authority that assigned me this role and this mission. And now, you. And that’s already too many,” he concludes easily—ominously.
Someone in the sect had ordered Shang Jian to act as a spy for the demons, while secretly spying for the sect in turn. From the sounds of it, who had potentially brought him into the sect and trained him solely for that purpose. Someone high up enough to be privy to not only who would be chosen for the next generation of peak lords, but the names those new peak lords would be given. Someone who would not protect Shang Jian if the “truth” came out or any fingers were pointed his way—why else was Shang Jian treating his own injuries alone in secret at night?—but who was also willing to turn a blind eye while Shang Jian masqueraded as members of other peaks, including Qiong Ding.
(Someone who might still be willing to write-off a promising young doctor who learned too much before he had a chance to do any talking, if the alternative meant endangering their only source of information of a coming demon threat against the entire human realm.)
“Okay,” Mu Fang breathes. He turns his head to Shang Jian, who appears too tired, too defeated, too resigned to whatever Mu Fang decides to do next to fight back, or even conjure up his momentarily fearless cheer once again.
“Okay, Shang-shidi.” He pauses, then corrects himself. “Shang-shixiong.
“Next time you’re injured, come to me. Day or night. For anything, large or small. I don't doubt you can set your own broken bones, but infections like this can be serious. We can’t let you risk yourself like that again. And Shizun has been asking me to befriend you anyway. Or at least, the disciple he thinks you are when you wear our robes.”
Shang Jian pushes himself back off of Mu Fang's shoulder and gapes at him in reply. It gives Mu Fang a small—very small—bit of satisfaction to manage to shock Shang Jian even a fraction as badly as this conversation has done to him.
Mu Fang takes a moment to steel himself before he speaks again, to prepare himself for getting through the next few minutes, for the coming days and weeks...and years. To mourn the version of him of yesterday that doesn't know what he knows now, that doesn't carry the burden he carries now. To understand what his life will be now, starting from this moment.
“What’s one more secret, between family?”