Chapter Text
The mountain air was crisp and biting, thick with the scent of damp earth and pine. Liu Qingge landed soundlessly on a sturdy branch, surveying the forest below. He had been hunting down a dangerous beast that had been creeping closer to human settlements, but something strange caught his eye.
A small figure darted through the undergrowth, his movements surprisingly swift and calculated for someone so young. A boy— no older than ten— was locked in combat with a massive, snarling beast. The creature was a Snowfang Leopard, its white fur streaked with blood, its eyes glowing with the eerie light of a cornered predator.
Liu Qingge narrowed his eyes. A child? What was a boy doing out here, facing something that could tear a grown man apart?
Before he could intervene, the beast lunged, claws outstretched. The boy barely managed to twist away, his tattered clothes ripping as crimson bloomed across his shoulder. He staggered but did not cry out, instead gritting his teeth and gripping the crude, chipped blade in his small hands even tighter.
Foolish. Brave, but foolish.
Liu Qingge was already moving. In the blink of an eye, he shot down from the trees, his blade, Cheng Luan, flashing like silver lightning. One clean strike, and the beast crumpled lifelessly to the ground.
A moment of silence followed. The boy, who had frozen in place, panting, finally turned toward him. His dark eyes, sharp and assessing despite his dirt-smeared face, locked onto Liu Qingge with an intensity that was unsettling.
And then—
“You bastard!” the boy spat, his voice hoarse with exhaustion.
Liu Qingge blinked. That was not the reaction he had expected.
“I almost had it!” the boy continued, stepping forward with a limp. “Who told you to interfere?!”
The absurdity of the situation left Liu Qingge momentarily speechless. The child was covered in blood, standing on unsteady legs, and instead of gratitude, he was angry?
“I saved your life,” Liu Qingge pointed out.
The boy scoffed, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “I didn’t ask you to!”
Liu Qingge studied him more closely now. The child was thin, his frame lean but wiry with muscle— not the softness of a pampered village boy. His clothes were worn, patched in places with rough stitches, and though he was injured, something about his posture, the way he held himself, was…wrong.
Too steady. Too familiar with pain.
This wasn’t an ordinary child.
“You’re hurt,” Liu Qingge said, taking a step forward.
The boy stepped back immediately, eyes narrowing. “It’s nothing.”
It wasn’t nothing. He was bleeding, his shoulder torn open, scratches littering his arms and face. But before Liu Qingge could reach for him, something strange happened.
Right before his eyes, the wounds began closing. The deep gash on the boy’s shoulder knit itself shut with unnatural speed, leaving behind only faint pink lines. The smaller cuts faded as if they had never been there.
Liu Qingge’s grip on his sword tightened. A healing ability that fast…
A half-demon?
But the boy didn’t bear any demonic features most half-demon children have.
No— there are some people gifted with exceptional healing abilities.
The boy must have sensed his realization because his expression changed— his hostility gave way to a flicker of something raw, something frightened.
But in the next breath, it was gone.
“Are you going to kill me now?” the boy asked, lifting his chin defiantly.
Liu Qingge frowned. “…What?”
“Everyone says that I’m a demon spawn.”
“You look human to me.”
“Really?”
“Hn.”
“Liar!”
“…What?”
The boy sneered. “I know what cultivators do to demons.”
Liu Qingge stared at him, perplexed. Then, with a sigh, he sheathed his sword. “Idiot,” he muttered.
The boy scowled. “What did you just—?!”
“Come with me.”
“No way in hell!”
Liu Qingge was done arguing. The child was injured, alone, and for some reason, afraid— yet far too used to taking care of himself. He reached forward and, before the boy could dart away, caught his thin wrist.
The boy struggled instantly, his small frame twisting, his nails digging into Liu Qingge’s forearm like a wild animal.
“Let go of me!”
Liu Qingge ignored him. “There’s an inn in the next town. I’ll take you there to eat and check your wounds properly.”
“I said I’m fine!”
“You’re not,” Liu Qingge said firmly. “And you’re coming with me.”
“I have to go home!”
“No.”
“My mother will be worried!”
“It’s already late. I will send you back afterwards and explain—“
With that, he hoisted the furious, struggling child onto his back and leaped into the trees.
Luo Binghe had never hated someone so quickly in his two lifetimes.
Luo Binghe seethed as he dangled helplessly over Liu Qingge’s shoulder, the wind whipping against his face as they soared through the night sky.
Of all the cultivators who could have interfered— why did it have to be this one?
The man had the same face as Liu Mingyan. His wife. His traitorous, backstabbing wife.
Luo Binghe clenched his fists, his tiny nails biting into his palms. He had been on the verge of victory, the whole world at his feet, and then— those three.
Liu Mingyan. Ning Yingying. Sha Hualing.
His wives, the ones he had loved and protected, had turned on him. Sealed him away like some rabid beast. Left him to rot.
Liu Mingyan had been the strategist, cool and methodical as she wielded the Liu Clan’s might against him. Ning Yingying, once his doting Shijie, had rallied the righteous cultivators, using her innocent face to deceive them all. And Sha Hualing— the snake who once draped herself over his throne— had betrayed him for the sake of power.
He had been furious.
He was furious.
Even now, in this tiny body, even after living another life, the memory still burned.
And now, he was being dragged through the sky by a man who looked just like her.
Luo Binghe kicked his legs wildly. “Put me down, you bastard!”
Liu Qingge didn’t even flinch.
Luo Binghe growled, squirming harder. “I swear if you don’t let me go—”
“You’re going to fall.”
Luo Binghe froze for a beat— just long enough for Liu Qingge to adjust his hold like he was nothing more than an unruly sack of rice.
“You—!!”
Luo Binghe thrashed harder, but the bastard cultivator didn’t react at all. The man was like a mountain— solid, immovable, and completely unbothered.
Luo Binghe’s fury only grew.
“You idiot!” he spat. “You left the beast’s corpse behind! Do you know how much I could’ve sold the pelt for? The fangs? The claws? Do you even think before you act?”
Liu Qingge said nothing.
Luo Binghe glared at the back of the man’s stupid head. “Hey! Are you even listening?”
Still nothing.
Luo Binghe’s eye twitched. His temper flared hotter.
“You damned cultivators— always doing whatever you want! You have no idea how hard people have to struggle just to survive! You think because you have a sword and fancy robes that you can just—”
Liu Qingge sighed.
A long sigh.
Like he was used to this.
Like he was bored.
Luo Binghe nearly lost his mind.
“You little kids all throw tantrums the same way,” Liu Qingge muttered.
Luo Binghe choked on his rage.
Kids?
He was Luo Binghe, the Demon Emperor! He had bathed the world in blood! He had ruled for centuries with absolute power! He had—
Liu Qingge adjusted his grip again, settling him more securely over his shoulder.
Luo Binghe fumed. He hadn’t felt this humiliated in either of his lives.
And the worst part?
The bastard cultivator still wasn’t listening to him.
He grit his teeth, his nails digging deeper into his palm. Fine. Fine. He would play along for now.
But the moment they landed?
Liu Qingge would regret ever picking him up.
Liu Qingge landed lightly in the courtyard of a small roadside inn, barely sparing a glance at the handful of startled travelers milling about. With the same effortless strength he’d used to carry the boy through the sky, he tossed the little menace off his shoulder.
Luo Binghe barely caught himself before hitting the ground. He staggered, his legs wobbling, then whirled around, baring his teeth like a feral dog.
“You—!”
“Shut up.”
Luo Binghe’s jaw dropped.
Liu Qingge ignored him completely and started marching toward the inn, speaking over his shoulder. “Follow me.”
The boy remained rooted in place, quivering with rage.
Liu Qingge sighed. He wasn’t sure why he was bothering with this rude, sharp-tongued brat. He was just some village boy— one with an unreasonably fast healing ability, sure, but Liu Qingge had met stranger things in his life.
And yet.
The way the boy fought— the reckless hunger in his movements, the desperation to land a fatal blow despite his small size—
Liu Qingge had seen that before.
He had seen it in himself.
Not for survival. Not for coins.
But the same raw desperation to be stronger.
The boy wanted strength. Needed it.
Liu Qingge wasn’t the type to involve himself in other people’s business. He didn’t have the patience for lost causes. But this—
…This was different.
“You’re still bleeding,” Liu Qingge said flatly, nodding toward the boy’s tattered sleeve.
Is he blind? Luo Binghe scowled, his small fingers twitching at his side. His wounds were already closing, but the blood remained, crusted over his skin and soaking his ragged clothes.
It was a bit of an eyesore.
“You’re coming with me,” Liu Qingge decided.
“The hell I am,” Luo Binghe snapped.
Liu Qingge turned fully to face him.
They locked eyes.
Luo Binghe glared up at him with all the fury and defiance of a storm trapped in a teacup.
Liu Qingge did not move.
Luo Binghe’s nostrils flared. “I don’t need your help, you clueless, arrogant—”
Without a word, Liu Qingge reached out, grabbed the boy by the back of his collar, and strode into the inn.
Luo Binghe’s screech echoed through the hall.
“You put me down right now, you bastard—”
The door to the room slammed shut.
Liu Qingge dropped the boy unceremoniously onto the wooden floor.
Luo Binghe scrambled up, his face red with fury. “You—”
“Sit.”
“I—”
Liu Qingge’s sharp gaze flicked to him.
Luo Binghe froze.
The pressure in the room shifted.
It was not bloodlust. It was not even anger.
It was authority.
The kind that didn’t ask.
The kind that commanded.
Luo Binghe’s whole body itched in irritation, but his limbs betrayed him. He slowly, slowly sank down onto the stool by the low table.
Liu Qingge nodded, satisfied.
He turned and moved to the washbasin in the corner of the room, dipping a cloth into the water. Then, without preamble, he knelt before the boy and grabbed his wrist.
Luo Binghe yanked back instantly.
Liu Qingge’s grip tightened.
Luo Binghe stilled.
For all his complaints, he felt the difference in their strength. He might be a child now, but he had his memories— he knew what true power was, and this man before him had it.
Liu Qingge’s calloused hands worked quickly, roughly scrubbing away the dried blood.
The innkeeper had brought clean clothes, but Luo Binghe was eyeing them with deep suspicion.
“You’re a cultivator,” he gritted out.
Liu Qingge hummed absently.
“Why do you care?”
Liu Qingge barely spared him a glance.
“I don’t.”
Luo Binghe’s irritation spiked.
“Then why—”
“I don’t understand hunger,” Liu Qingge cut in, still focused on wiping down the boy’s injuries. “Or struggling to survive.”
Luo Binghe stiffened.
Liu Qingge’s fingers stilled.
“But I understand wanting.” He looked up, finally meeting the boy’s eyes. “I understand desperation.”
Luo Binghe swallowed hard.
“Your mother needs you, doesn’t she?”
The breath hitched in Luo Binghe’s throat.
Liu Qingge reached for the bandages.
“Then sit still,” he said simply, “and let me help.”
Luo Binghe sat stiffly on the wooden stool, his small hands clenched into the fresh blue fabric of his borrowed robe. His wariness hadn’t waned, but he had stopped fighting. It wasn’t as though he had a choice—the Bai Zhan cultivator had forced him to sit still, forced him to let his wounds be dressed, and now he was forcing him to eat.
The plate before him was too lavish. The rice was fragrant, the meat braised to perfection, and the vegetables lightly stir-fried in oil. It was the kind of food he would have killed for in his first life as a hungry orphan. Even now, after two lifetimes, his fingers twitched with the ingrained instinct to hoard, to save for later, because later always meant hunger.
The man in white—Bai Zhan Peak Lord, Luo Binghe was certain now—hadn’t touched any food. He sat across from him, silent, arms loosely crossed over his broad chest, watching him with unreadable dark eyes.
Cultivators.
Luo Binghe knew their ways. He had once been one. Those from high-ranking sects often practiced inedia, sustaining themselves through their qi alone. Food was a thing of indulgence for them, unnecessary and even seen as unclean by some orthodox lunatics.
But more than that, everything about this man screamed power, prestige, and rank. Luo Binghe’s eyes flickered to the spirit sword resting beside the man’s chair—elegant but deadly, its blade humming faintly with restrained energy. A high-quality weapon, leagues beyond the cheap swords most disciples wielded. The hilt was adorned in dark metal with subtle engravings, not flashy but undoubtedly expensive. Even a former Qing Jing disciple like him knew that Bai Zhan Peak cultivators only carried swords of this caliber after reaching a certain level of mastery.
And then there was the man himself.
Luo Binghe had seen Bai Zhan uniforms before. The cut was always practical, free of the elaborate embroidery the other peak lords favored, yet undeniably superior in fabric and construction. And this man’s robes, pristine white with muted silver accents, were a step above the standard disciple’s garb. The way the fabric folded, the way it moved with him—it was quality meant for someone of status.
The final detail that sealed Luo Binghe’s conclusion was the man’s hair crown. It wasn’t ostentatious like some high-born cultivators preferred, but it was fine craftsmanship, securing thick, dark hair that fell in a long, neat tail down his back. Not something a mere disciple would wear.
A Peak Lord. Bai Zhan Peak Lord. The thought settled uneasily in his gut.
But worse than the realization of this man’s identity was the fact that he was disgustingly beautiful. Not in a delicate, fragile way, but strikingly so—sharp features, coldly refined, with a warrior’s physique that even the loose folds of his robes couldn’t fully disguise. Luo Binghe had seen countless cultivators in his past life, some renowned for their otherworldly grace, but this man was different. He had the kind of beauty that didn’t need embellishment, the kind that made others instinctively step aside in deference or fear.
It made Luo Binghe’s stomach twist with resentment. He knew this type—the righteous cultivator, noble-born and privileged, powerful without ever knowing true hunger. But as much as he wanted to hate him, he couldn’t deny the simple truth: this man had saved him. And now, he was feeding him.
Luo Binghe scowled, shoving a bite of rice into his mouth if only to avoid thinking about it.
Liu Qingge wasn’t even looking at the food. He simply sat there with his arms crossed, watching like some kind of stern mountain guardian ensuring that his wayward little charge didn’t escape.
Luo Binghe scowled. He picked up his chopsticks and deliberately took a bite, if only to prove that he didn’t need to be watched like some helpless whelp.
The food was good.
Annoyingly good.
He chewed slowly, savoring it despite himself. Then, subtly, carefully, he reached for one of the white steamed buns and slid it to the edge of his plate. A moment later, he did the same with a small portion of the braised meat.
He would wrap them up later. His mother needed food more than he did.
Liu Qingge’s brow twitched.
Luo Binghe pretended not to notice.
“Eat all of it,” Liu Qingge said flatly.
Luo Binghe’s chopsticks hesitated.
He looked up, eyes flashing. “I am eating.”
“All of it.”
The Bai Zhan peak lord’s voice was even, but it had the unyielding weight of a command.
Luo Binghe clenched his teeth.
“This is mine,” he shot back, gesturing vaguely at the plate. “Why do you care what I do with it?”
Liu Qingge’s gaze flickered to the neatly set-aside portions of food. His arms were still crossed, his posture unmoving, but there was something distinctly calculating in the way he observed.
Luo Binghe’s heart pounded.
Had he given himself away?
Liu Qingge sighed.
“Eat,” he repeated, “because I will go downstairs and ask the kitchen to pack some food for later. If you need to bring something home, we’ll do it properly.”
Luo Binghe stilled.
That was… an option?
His fingers twitched. His ears burned.
He hated how easily this man saw through him.
Luo Binghe gritted his teeth and finally, grudgingly, pulled the bun back toward him. He still wanted to save some, but his mother would scold him if he didn’t eat enough himself.
Liu Qingge watched him chew in silence.
The new clothes fit well. The dark blue fabric was plain but clean, and it made him look like a proper disciple rather than a ragged mountain child. His expression, however, was as bitter as if he were chewing rocks.
Liu Qingge exhaled.
He didn’t understand why he was doing this.
He had no patience for brats. He had less patience for people who talked too much, let alone children with foul mouths who threw tantrums over being rescued.
And yet—
There was something about this boy.
Something in the way he fought.
Something in the way he endured.
Liu Qingge had seen it before.
And perhaps that was why he had decided—
He wouldn’t let this one be crushed.