Chapter Text
It wasn't until that night that the weight of his actions fell upon Luo Binghe with the crushing force of a heavenly tribulation.
At last, he had seen Shizun once more, after years of surviving with his memory torturing his scarce dreams. Years of enduring merciless winds, hellish deserts, having to regrow more limbs than he could count, huddling against fresh corpses to feel a little warmth in his bones. All so he could escape and return to the man who abandoned him, demanding answers.
There were few things Luo Binghe wanted more than to look into his eyes again. If the price was losing himself in the fondness turned poisonous bitterness at the symbol on his forehead and the blood running through his veins, so be it.
Except, it wasn't poison that returned his gaze. Even under the moonless night, his Shizun's eyes shone with the pearly glow of fear, seeping through the fragments of his impassive jade mask.
It had all happened so fast.
Luo Binghe recalled his nerves before knocking on the door. At last, the two of them would be alone, after so long. Would Shizun be impressed by his resourcefulness? Would he see the potential beyond his wicked blood? Would he remember the praise of a bright future that rang in his ears every time he tasted his food and wielded his sword with precision?
Luo Binghe felt the weight of years of pain and longing pressing down on his tongue, so much to say, so much to ask... only for his speech to shatter upon hearing the soft intonation of that name.
His nerves drowned under a wave of cold anger. His questions and longings, consumed by the bitterness of vinegar. He slammed the bolt shut, not caring that the darkness of his fingers left an oozing mark against the fine wood.
Had Shizun and his shishu grown so close in the time he was away, to the point that Shizun was waiting for him in his chambers by candlelight?
His imagination, fueled by dark whispers, began to paint vivid scenarios. His claws made the doorframe crackle.
Liu Qingge entering the bamboo hut under the cover of night, running his fingers through his Shizun's silky hair. His hands sliding down his arms, pulling away layers of clothing until he could kiss his neck. Hands that did not ooze evil and madness, caressing the bare jade skin until it turned red. Caresses vaguely illuminated by a sliver of moonlight, chest to chest, the rhythm of their hearts beating in their embrace…
The sheer weight of the longing took his breath away. He deserved that too.
With vinegar corroding his veins, Luo Binghe flung open the door. “Good afternoon, Shizun .”
___________
His shizun had run away. Or he had tried to.
Luo Binghe dragged him by a sleeve, cornering him against the wall of a shadowy alley.
Even with his hair messed up from the breeze, his Shizun looked as ethereal as he remembered. He was thinner, and his eyes wore faded dark circles (was Liu-shishu so incompetent as to neglect him like this?), but his hair was still lustrous, an ebony waterfall melting into the night.
All Luo Binghe wanted was to touch him. Longed to do so. To cling to him until the warmth of his touch soothed the icy loneliness in his bones. To hug his thighs and beg him to take him back as a disciple. To make him swallow his blood so that escape was never an option again. He wanted to brush those porcelain lips, erase Liu Qingge's name from them. To, maybe, put his own in there.
Tasting the vinegar in his mouth, Luo Binghe smiled. "Separated for many years, but we barely meet again under the golden evening wind and amidst the pure morning dew... Shizun only utters other people's names. This disciple feels a little sad."
His Shizun's gaze was indecipherable. Luo Binghe raised his hand, unable to look away from the deep jade of his Shizun's eyes. He could almost feel the creamy softness under his palm, the fine cheek hair brushing against his fingers....
Oh.
Oh no.
How could he be so reckless?
Luo Binghe jerked his hand away as if it burned. The cursed miasma hissed in protest, stirring beneath his skin at having been deprived of such a tasty meal.
Panic rose in his throat, the bitterness of bile drowning out the voice of the cursed sword for a few moments. The weight of his looming mistake threatened to crush his lungs. No matter how much he desired it, no matter how much every inch of his skin ached with yearning for the touch of those delicate hands, how could he have let himself be blinded by greed, knowing the heavy price?
Luo Binghe had seen firsthand the effects of the madness his hands condemned. It had taken him almost a week to heal all the wounds that a mere low-level demon had caused him as a result of a simple brush.
Xin Mo's curse devoured every last shred of sanity in the victim's mind, fragmenting it irrevocably until they were transformed into bloodthirsty beasts (especially of heavenly demons); the last thought haunting their minds was a cacophony of all the souls the cursed sword had devoured, fighting to control the body and destroy its bearer, even beyond physical death.
“... Binghe?” Shen Qingqiu called him, the concern breaking his train of thought. His beautiful eyes reflected a spark of gentle concern amid the fear. His hand was halfway out, as if he were unsure about reaching out to him.
Luo Binghe pulled his arm away. He had rushed too quickly. He was still not worthy of his Shizun. What good were titles and conquests if he would condemn him to an existence worse than death with just a touch?
Xin Mo protested, but Luo Binghe ignored it. He slowly backed away, engraving his Shizun's fearful face in his mind once more. Sheltered by the darkness, he fled without looking back.
___________
Luo Binghe remembered perfectly the moment when he pulled Xin Mo out from under the rock where it was stuck. He had been crossing the desolate wasteland for days, crisscrossed by greasy rivers that drained energy as soon as they touched it.
There was no life to be found in the vicinity. What little had not been consumed long ago had mutated and fled, taking the rot with them.
Luo Binghe had listened to all the rumors, read all the murals, and followed the trail of demonic energy to where it swirled most densely. That was his best, and maybe only, ticket out.
So, with his mind clouded by starvation and excitement, Luo Binghe grabbed the hilt and freed the cursed sword from the skeletal fingers of its former owner. The coating was smooth to the touch, worn by time. For a moment, it felt like the grip of an old friend's hand.
A blink later, the dark miasma had bathed his mind in the darkness of ink and nighttime whispers, madness and rage seething in his ear like the chant of water after days of thirst.
But like the sweetness of a golden nectar viper, eventually the honey will give way to venomous fangs.
Xin Mo was hungry, and the slaughter only went so far. Its cravings yearned for more and more of the pleasures of the flesh, to tear out vitality amid midnight whispers and warm embraces. The heat of fresh blood simply did not calm it enough.
And with each refusal by Luo Binghe to touch anyone other than his Shizun, resentment began to fester. How dare that half-demon use his power and not give him what he deserved?
The emotions of demons burned with an intensity that eclipsed that of humans. Everything good and bad received was returned amplified a hundredfold. And for a sword that had been feeding on malice for millennia, the task was not particularly challenging.
There is nothing worse than a cornered animal that will give everything to survive... Except one with a broken mind, whose instincts have been fragmented and whose sole objective is now to destroy everything in its path. Xin Mo made any form of combat other than with his blade counterproductive, and made sure he could find solace in nothing and no one but the weight of his edge and his thirst.
Until he came along.
One of his many martial uncles with nothing much to speak of. A snake in sheep's clothing. Elusive. Squeaky. Cowardly like the smallest of field mice.
Someone who, somehow, had managed to outwit the sect for years, clinging to Mobei-jun's side as if his life depended on it. Someone who seemed to know more than he should, defeating enemies with discreet whispers and pearly drops in banquet toasts. Someone who hid sharp eyes behind whimpers and muscles beneath loose clothing and a soft body.
That body lay unconscious in his arms. Luo Binghe squeezed his shishu's hand a little tighter, still clasped between his own.
It was not an unusual hand. Somewhat small, slightly tanned, with black ink stains under the bitten nails. It lacked Shizun's immortal softness and elegance, or even the magnetic sensuality of the succubi that swarmed the Abyss. Even so, even in the cold of the night, that simple touch sent shivers down Luo Binghe’s spine.
How long had it been since he had touched someone like that? The memory of Shizun's gentle touch on his hair had long since faded.
But, maybe, he could feel it again. And the key was his shishu. There was a reason he was immune to a curse that consumed demons and cultivators alike, no matter how pure or powerful their cultivation was. And he was going to find out why .
Luo Binghe knew he had to act fast. He could feel the pulse against his hand quicken slightly; his shishu was going to wake up soon. If the talisman from earlier and Mobei-jun's miraculous reports were any indication, Shang Qinghua had many tricks up his sleeves whenever he got cornered.
Better safe than sorry. Luo Binghe drew his blackened thumb to his mouth, biting until the taste of iron drowned his tongue. In one swift motion, he parted Shang Qinghua's cracked lips until several drops fell inside, staining them crimson red. Now his only hope could not escape his sight.
With a quick slash in the night and Shang Qinghua slung over his shoulder, Luo Binghe disappeared back to his palace. He had a cure to find, no matter the cost. And he knew the perfect place to start looking: the intriguing (and conveniently asleep) mind of his shishu.