Chapter Text
It’s days after he dies and wakes up in a new body that he learns his new name.
There’s no system or other mechanic of any sort to dispense information. It’s not a surprise. He’s read just as many isekai and transmigration works that don’t use them as those that do.
Still, it’s fucking inconvenient.
Things would be so much easier if he knew what world he was in, or what sort of character he’s supposed to be (starting as a young boy, a downtrodden and beaten slave really gives too many options!) or even his name.
Not that his name matters.
The people who own the boy seem happy to call him anything but his name.
The Young Master who likes to torture him the most, who seems to think he owns the boy the most, sits him down with a piece of paper and a brush.
“Write your name,” The Young Master says, and the boy feels, distinctly, like this is some sort of trap. The boy has been in this body for mere days and he already feels as though most interactions with The Young Master are a trap.
Still, there’s no way out of this particular trap. And the boy does not know his own name. And The Young Master is looking at him with sharp eyes full of anticipation and something even worse. And–
He takes up the brush and writes the first thing that comes to mind. If The Young Master wants a name, the boy will give him the one The Young Master seems to favor using most.
The Young Master barks a laugh when he looms over the boy’s shoulder to read.
“‘Little Beast,’” The Young Master reads aloud, and his smile makes something in the boy want to shrink back, but something in this body seems to know better. “You’re finally learning.”
He pats the little beast’s head, mocking, and then gets his hand in his hair and twists, wrenching his neck uncomfortably.
“I suppose even a particularly stupid dog can be taught new tricks.”
The little beast has already learned better than to respond. When The Young Master’s foot drives into his ribs he can’t manage to say anything anyway.
“Xiao Jiu!” A voice hisses through the thin wood of the shed that the little beast has learned is his home. “Xiao Jiu, are you in there!?”
“Shut up!” The boy snaps when whoever is whisper-shouting outside clearly will not stop. “You’re going to get yourself caught, idiot!”
“Ah, it really is you in there,” The boy outside laughs, sounding relieved, and the boy, the little beast, Xiao Jiu apparently, shuffles over on his knees to peer through a crack in the wall at the boy who refuses to shut up.
He looks a little older than Xiao Jiu– not that Xiao Jiu actually knows how old he himself is– probably in his teens, with warm eyes and a kind face that Xiao Jiu is already sure will earn him nothing good in this particular world.
“Who else would it be?” Xiao Jiu snaps.
“You’re right,” The older boy says, somehow sounding indulgent. Ah, the tragic big brother figure! He might not know exactly what genre he’s in, but the trope spans too many of them. This boy is certainly doomed. The thought makes his chest ache horribly for some reason. “This Qi-ge is stupid and just had to be reassured.”
“Yes, well,” Xiao Jiu mumbles, “You’ve been reassured. Now go away. You’re gonna get yourself caught and me a beating.”
“No, I won’t,” Qi-ge says, suddenly stiffening with determination. “I came to rescue you. I got you into this, I’ll get you out.”
Which is quite a statement. What do you mean you got him into this, Qi-ge? What did you do?!
“It’s locked. You can’t,” Xiao Jiu says, instead of wondering. It doesn’t matter why or how he ended up here, it only matters that this is where he is and there’s nothing he can do about it. The Young Master has made sure he knows that already.
“Where’s the key?” Qi-ge asks, like it’ll be that easy.
“The Young Master keeps it,” Xiao Jiu says, shaking his head at his Qi-ge. No amount of determination is going to get a teenage boy through a surprisingly sturdy, locked door. Not without making enough noise to get them both caught in the process.
“I’ll figure something out. I won’t leave you here. I won’t.”
“There’s nothing to figure out,” Xiao Jiu says, shaking his head at Qi-ge’s stubbornness. “I’m hurt anyway. I’d just slow you down.”
Through the hole in the wall, Xiao Jiu watches Qi-ge seem to shrink, shoulders falling and head hanging low.
“I’ll find another way,” Qi-ge says. “I’m going to–”
“Going to what?” Xiao Jiu asks, when Qi-ge cuts off. “Qi-ge, what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to join a sect,” Qi-ge says, pressing closer to the wall, long fingers slipping through the crack in the wall and inviting Xiao Jiu to meet him in the middle, fingertip to fingertip. It is, Xiao Jiu realizes, the first bit of nice physical contact he’s received since landing in this body. “I’m going to become a cultivator and then I’ll come back and rescue you. We’ll be cultivators together, Xiao Jiu, and all of this will feel like a bad dream one day.”
Xiao Jiu, who has read enough tragic novels and watched enough sad dramas with his mother while sick and dying in his past life, knows better than to believe him.
Something terrible will happen to Qi-ge. It always does in stories like this.
(Still, there is a part of him that hopes.)
He learns, over time.
He learns the names of those around him, and of himself. He learns what is expected of him, and how to behave. Learns how to grit his teeth and to not cry out when Qiu Jianluo beats him, because screaming and begging only encourages the young master to hurt him more.
He learns not to cry during Qiu Jianluo’s… other lessons, for the same reasons.
Qiu Jianluo likes it when Shen Jiu hurts. Likes when he’s afraid. Likes him begging and pleading and trying to crawl away so that he can remind Shen Jiu of just how impossible that is.
His cruelty is much more straightforward if he’s merely frustrated because Shen Jiu won’t give him whatever reactions he’s looking for.
It’s so much worse when he finds Shen Jiu interesting.
Shen Jiu spent most of his first life ill and afraid of dying.
In his second life, he learns that there are things that are so much worse.
Qiu Haitang is annoying.
She is the sort of vapid, spoiled young miss that is held on such a pedestal and sheltered so well from the outside world that she will inspect a bruise on Shen Jiu’s body or catch sight of him limping and scold him for not being careful with his health instead of putting two and two together to equal four.
She is, in a word or two, completely oblivious to how the men in her family, and especially her precious elder brother, like to treat the Qiu’s favorite little punching bag.
She is completely oblivious to how the world works.
She is also, strangely, despite all of that, the only shelter Shen Jiu can possibly find in the storm that is Qiu Jianluo.
“You have such a pretty face, Xiao Jiu,” Qiu Haitang says once, when Shen Jiu is taking refuge in her room, gentle fingertips applying ointment to the bruise that has been made of the left side of Shen Jiu’s face. “It’s such a shame that you’re so clumsy and make it so ugly so often.”
From others, the words might sound harsh. From Qiu Haitang they’re a symbol of just how much of what is going on around her that she misses.
“This Xiao Jiu apologizes. I’ll be more careful from now on,” He says, and does not flinch when her fingertips skate over a cut that lances through his eyebrow, the ointment stinging when it makes contact with the broken skin.
He’s gotten very good at not flinching.
“Ah, it’s okay. Xiao Jiu would not be Xiao Jiu if he wasn’t a little clumsy,” Qiu Haitang says, light and easy. Shen Jiu isn’t particularly clumsy, but it’s a rather convenient excuse. “When we have children, let’s hope they inherit their grace from me though, hm?”
Because that’s a thing now, apparently. Shen Jiu will one day marry Qiu Haitang. He’s not sure how he feels about it. Mostly, he just tries not to think about it. It’s not like he has much of a choice either way.
Qiu Jianluo wants to keep them both, and he's found a way to do that.
“Mmh,” He agrees, vaguely. That always seems enough for Qiu Haitang, who is the sort of person who will read whatever she pleases into Shen Jiu’s vague answers. “Let’s hope.”
He spends the night in Qiu Haitang’s room. Qiu Jianluo will be worse, after, but for the night he’s safe. So long as he’s with Qiu Haitang, so long as he lets her curl around him in her bed and play with his hair and squeeze him like he’s her favorite toy.
A beloved toy, at least, is better than the alternative.
The last night of Shen Jiu’s life in the Qiu manor is all at once vividly clear and a shaky blur of memories.
He does not remember, with any sort of precise detail, what exactly Qiu Jianluo said that set him off.
(“You are no more than a dog, little beast. Less than a dog even. So do not aspire to be anything else, Xiao Jiu.” with a fist in Shen Jiu’s hair and “You exist by my grace alone.” with a kick to his ribs and “You die if I say, and you live if I say.” with his hands around his throat and “If I wanted to, I could throw you in an alley and let the whole city have their way with you, Xiao Jiu. Let their dogs have you after.” with his body thrown into the solid wood desk and “Do you understand me, little beast?”)
He does remember (vividly and in a way that makes him want to throw up later,) the way it had made him feel– horror, nausea, hopeless helpless scared hopelesshelplessscaredscaredscared– and the feel of the letter opener puncturing Qiu Jianluo’s windpipe and then the squelch of it when he could not stop, when Qiu Jianluo looked less like a man and more like something found on the side of the road in Shen Jiu’s old world.
He does not remember, exactly, setting the fire that burned down the entire Qiu household and took out every male family member. Nor can he fully recall just how he’d gotten Qiu Haitang to safety, or why he even did so.
(She’d shown him kindness. She had been selfish and vapid and vain and completely oblivious to who exactly her beloved brother was, to a fucking fault, but she had been kind to Shen Jiu.)
He does remember, in excruciating detail, the pain: in his hands where the letter opener had done its own share of damage to him when he’d gripped it too tightly, in his back from Qiu Jianluo’s whip, in his ribs from Qiu Jianluo’s boot, between his legs from Qiu Jianluo’s–
“Huh. Did you do all this?” A man is suddenly beside him. A cultivator– Wu Yanzi, dressed in dark robes, who looks at the fire and then at Shen Jiu like they’re both fascinating.
Shen Jiu doesn’t answer him, just stares at his own hands and the blood that now covers them. The blood that feels like it covers every inch of him, now. It’s normal, in certain genres, to kill someone, isn’t it? This should be fine. It’s just the story. In some stories it’s as easy as breathing, to kill. It’s just a story. All of this, it’s just a story. None of this is real. Shen Jiu is not real. He’s just a character. It’s just a story. It’s just– It’s–
(It does not feel like it’s all just a story sometimes, is the thing.)
Wu Yanzi is not much different than the Qius when it comes down to it.
Qiu Haitang had seen Shen Jiu as a doll to take care of, to dress in pretty things and to make do as she pleased.
Qiu Jianluo had also seen Shen Jiu as a doll, but one to break into pieces so that he could put it back together all wrong.
Wu Yanzi seems to see Shen Jiu as a puzzle box. A curious little riddle to solve.
Or maybe Wu Yanzi sees a puppet, something to bend how he wants it.
All the same, he’s still a toy.
Wu Yanzi teaches him how to maim, how to kill, and how to rob someone blind without them ever noticing how it happened in the first place. He teaches him how to nurture his meridians and to encourage that spark he’d barely noticed inside himself into flowing through them. He teaches him the meaning of pain like Qiu Jianluo could only hope to even imagine inflicting when Shen Jiu fails him. He teaches him that he is infinitely disposable if he is not useful to Wu Yanzi in any number of ways. He teaches him demonic cultivation and about different beasts that can be lured to attack someone else and the sword and where to aim to cause the most damage. He tells him “Don’t let anyone talk to you about honor in a fight. The most important part of a fight is to live, Xiao Jiu.”
He teaches Shen Jiu yet another lesson when he hands Shen Jiu a few coins and tells him to enjoy his night before disappearing into a brothel.
Shen Jiu stares at the town around him, glances back to the brothel, and then back towards the street where a large scowling man wheels a stall– probably heading back home for the night.
Probably harmless.
Shen Jiu turns and hurries into the brothel.
“I don’t want to– Um,” He tells the jiejie, sitting awkwardly on the edge of the bed, his hands folded in his lap.
“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” She says, so very gently, and something squeezes tight in Shen Jiu’s chest. It’s a ridiculous feeling to have over such a statement, but not a single soul has seemed to care whether Shen Jiu wanted to do something or not since he landed in this body three years ago.
“I just want to sleep,” Shen Jiu admits. It’s been so so long since he got a proper night’s sleep. And then, quieter, like he's admitting to something shameful, “And read. I want to fall asleep with a terrible book.”
It’d been one of his favorite ways to fall asleep before, reading word after word with his eyes peeled open as much as possible until the words started to blur and he started to drift and then finally, he would pass out.
The girl smiles, a slow little thing. “Didi can read?”
“Of course I can read,” Shen Jiu snaps without thinking about it, and then feels guilty. Jiejie doesn’t deserve his ire. “I’m not a baby.”
Jiejie doesn’t seem phased by Shen Jiu’s attitude. “Didi is a baby, though. Didi is so terribly young, is he not?”
“I’m fifteen.” Or at least he thinks he’s fifteen. The lack of any character stats really make these things hard to know! Fifteen feels about right however.
“Exactly. Didi is still a child,” She says, and it sounds insistent somehow, like she’s trying to convince Shen Jiu of such a fact. Shen Jiu doesn’t know why. He hasn’t been a child since he woke up in this world. He was barely even still a child when he’d died in his original world.
“How old is jiejie then?” Shen Jiu asks, scooching back into the bed, pulling his legs up to tuck close to his chest.
“Twenty three,” Jiejie says, “Though you’re not supposed to ask a woman her age, didi.”
Twenty three. Older than Shen Jiu, even if Shen Jiu counts his previous life. Thank god she’s not his age now, doing this.
“Shen Jiu,” He says. “You should call me Shen Jiu.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Jiu’er,” She says. “You may call this one Yi-jiejie if you’d like.”
“It’s nice to meet you too, Yi-jiejie,” Shen Jiu says, digging up manners from somewhere deep inside him and bowing just as much as he can manage while still curled into himself.
“Jiu’er said he wanted to sleep?” Yi-jiejie asks, coming closer, finally leaving her spot standing just inside the door, as though she’d been keeping her distance until now. Shen Jiu had not realized he had wanted her to. Had not realized he had stopped wanting her to.
Being able to read people must be an important part of her profession, Shen Jiu suddenly realizes.
“Yes,” Shen Jiu says, squeezing his knees to his chest even tighter. “I know it’s not what people usually pay for from you, but–”
“People pay for all manner of things from me,” Yi-jie says, waving her hand dismissively. “This Yi-jie does not think she has any books in this room that are appropriate for Jiu’er, but perhaps she can tell Jiu’er a story?”
“Yes,” Shen Jiu says with a quick nod. “I’d like that.”
“Can this Yi-jie join Jiu-er on the bed?” She asks, and Shen Jiu nods again, watching Yi-jie carefully as she gathers a few things and then climbs into the bed beside him. “Can I take your hair down, Jiu’er? It will be more comfortable to sleep that way.”
Qiu Haitang had liked Shen Jiu’s hair. She had liked to play with it, to style it, to put fancy little bits and baubles into it that she’d have to remove before he left her room and her brother saw.
Even farther back, his meimei had liked it too. He'd kept it on the longer side, because she had liked to sit for ages, combing and braiding it and chattering about school and whatever she’d read last and what her san-ge might do when he was better and could go a further distance than from his bed to the couch and back again–
Qiu Jianluo had liked his hair too– had liked to pull it, to use it as a lead, to wrap it around Shen Jiu’s own throat and pull it tight until Shen Jiu got so dizzy he thought he might finally finally die, to–
Shen Jiu nods, one more time, and Yi-jie shifts about on the bed until she’s behind him.
At the first touch, Shen Jiu flinches despite himself. Yi-jie’s hand stills.
“It’s fine,” Shen Jiu says, “Keep going.”
“What sort of life Jiu’er must have lived,” Yi-jie murmurs, so quietly that Shen Jiu cannot be sure he’s heard her right.
With a gentle tug, she pulls out the hair stick keeping Shen Jiu’s knot of hair in place, letting it fall in an inky black sheet around his shoulders and down his back.
“Does Jiu’er prefer tales of daring adventure, or ones about doomed romance?”
“Are those my only two options?” Shen Jiu asks, tilting his head back, just a bit, when Yi-jie’s fingers comb through his hair and then scritch at his scalp.
Yi-jie laughs, like a bell. “No, but they do seem to be the most popular types. Which sort of story does Jiu’er want then?”
“Something with a happy ending,” Shen Jiu decides. He hadn't lived long enough to reach the end of the last novel he’d been reading before, but he doubted it was going to end happily. One man, surrounded by hundreds of wives and with all the power and wealth anyone could even dream of at his fingertips, and he still hadn’t been happy. Shen Jiu can hardly think of what might have changed that, if he’d managed to stick around long enough to see the end.
“Jiu’er is a romantic,” Yi-jie says, taking up the comb to wrangle Shen Jiu’s hair into something approaching orderly.
“There’s enough misery in the world,” Shen Jiu says, “I hardly want it in my fiction.”
“A story with a happy ending,” Yi-jie says, thoughtfully, uncapping a small bottle and then running a sweet smelling oil through Shen Jiu’s hair. “Once upon a time, there was a girl. Zhu Yingtai was the ninth child and only daughter of a wealthy family, and had everything a girl could ever ask for. But little Yingtai had more interest in scholarly pursuits.”
“Everyone knows the Butterfly Lovers,” Shen Jiu gripes, “And it’s not exactly a happy ending, Jiejie.”
“Isn’t it?” Yi-jie asks, “They’re free, in the end, aren’t they? Isn’t that all that those like us can dream of, Jiu’er?”
He sleeps more soundly than he has in years.
The next morning, Yi-jie unbraids his hair from the loose plait she’d put it into before he’d fallen asleep and fixes it back up into a knot atop his head. She weaves little braids on the side and back, leading up into the bun, and by the time she’s done, Shen Jiu feels boneless and ready to slip back into sleep.
“Ah, what a pretty face Didi has.” Yi-jie says when she turns Shen Jiu around to admire his hairstyle. Shen Jiu scowls fiercely at her at that. “Well, not so much when you do that with it. Remember that face, Jiu’er. Do it more. It could be useful.”
“The madame offered to buy you off of me,” Wu Yanzi says when Shen Jiu finds him out front of the brothel, and cold dread creeps down Shen Jiu’s spine.
He doesn’t want to– Please don’t make him– Not more than he already– He doesn’t–
“I’m to stay here, then?” Shen Jiu asks, glancing back towards the brothel. The girls inside might treat him well, at least, even if the men who buy him won’t.
“Of course not,” Wu Yanzi says, shoving Shen Jiu forward in the direction of the road leading out of town. “I haven’t grown bored of my only disciple enough yet that I’d sell you for a few measly pieces of silver.”
Every bit of Shen Jiu relaxes at that, and he scowls fiercely at Wu Yanzi, the way Yi-jie had said. “Don’t talk about selling me then.”
“Why?” Wu Yanzi asks, sounding so very amused by Shen Jiu. Amused is good. Wu Yanzi does not take Shen Jiu’s words as a slight enough to punish him for if he finds them amusing. Sometimes, Shen Jiu is certain that the only reason he's still alive is that Wu Yanzi finds him interesting. “Will you do to me what you did to the Qius if I do?”
“Worse,” Shen Jiu says and starts off down the road.
Wu Yanzi laughs and follows.
The Immortal Alliance Conference rings a bell of familiarity in Shen Jiu’s mind. It is a quiet and distant bell, obfuscated by the task laid out in front of him, but, still, there is something familiar here.
He thinks that if he could take a moment and focus, he might have an answer to the question that’s plagued him– Which work of fiction, exactly, and which character, exactly, was he dropped into when he died?
“Don’t be a bleeding heart,” Wu Yanzi warns him, shoving at the small of Shen Jiu’s back with familiar, proprietary hands, at his shoulders, adjusting his posture almost absently until Shen Jiu stands tall and straight backed and ready. “Remember what we’re here for.”
Kill or be killed. That’s what they’re there for.
Wu Yanzi has come up with what the madman seems to think is a brilliant idea. Sneak into the Immortal Alliance Conference, murder young cultivators, and then rob their bodies for all their worth. It’s not much different than what they’ve been doing for the last almost year or so– killing, robbing, decieving, taking advantage of chaos for Wu Yanzi’s benefit.
“I’m not a bleeding heart,” Shen Jiu says, sharp and snappish. “When has this disciple ever been a bleeding heart?”
“Then prove it,” Wu Yanzi says, waving him away.
Shen Jiu is covered in blood again.
Why must there be so much blood in this god forsaken shitshow of a fucking story? And why must so much of it always always always be on Shen Jiu’s person?! He’d like to go awhile without feeling like he needs to scrub himself raw to get rid of the blood staining his skin.
(He would like to go awhile without feeling like he would need to scrub down to the very marrow in his bones to get rid of it completely.)
“Don’t even think about it,” Shen Jiu snaps, sword coming down across the young cultivator’s wrist when he reaches for his rescue flare.
The boy wails, curling around where his hand was, begging with snot and tears and blood on his face.
Whatever punishment Wu Yanzi has in mind for Shen Jiu if he fails him on this is scarier than the sound of a privileged boy from a wealthy sect’s hysterical pleading.
There’s a noise– a branch breaking beneath someone’s feet, and a small, sharp inhale of breath– that has Shen Jiu whirling around to glare at whoever’s intruded, sword held aloft and ready. He’ll kill him too if he has to. He has to.
A boy– a young man, really– stands, a mere few feet from the sharp end of Shen Jiu’s sword. He’s a couple years older than Shen Jiu, maybe, dressed in the fine robes of a prominent sect, with a determined set to his jaw and kind, familiar, eyes.
“Xiao Jiu,” The young man says, face ashen. Familiar familiar familiar.
It’d only been the once that they’d met, for this version of Shen Jiu, but the original had clearly known him far too well. Shen Jiu has always felt that in his bones.
(Sometimes, when he sleeps, he dreams of being a sharp tongued little nightmare of a street rat, and Qi-ge is there. He does not know if his mind is making these things up, or if these memories are imprinted in the very body his soul had been forcibly shoved into. It doesn’t matter, really, in the end, which is true.)
“Qi-ge,” Shen Jiu says, and drops his sword to stab the cultivator at his feet through the heart when he starts whimpering again, blubbering for his “Qingyuan-shixiong” to save him.
“Xiao Jiu,” Qi-ge says, scolding this time.
“You never came back,” Shen Jiu shoots back, like that means Qi-ge isn’t allowed to scold him for murder. It does. He’s not. Shen Jiu had assumed Qi-ge had died. He’d thought he was dead. He hadn’t ever thought that Qi-ge might have just abandoned him. That he might have decided Shen Jiu simply wasn’t worth it.
He should have realized. Qiu Jianluo had been right the whole time. No one was ever going to want to rescue Shen Jiu.
“A cultivator from Cang Qiong Mountain Sect?” Wu Yanzi’s voice is suddenly beside him, and Shen Jiu whirls around to look at his teacher. “Xiao Jiu has found us a prize.”
“If he’s from a major sect we should leave quickly, before his martial siblings come to find him.” Shen Jiu shouldn’t protect Qi-ge. He shouldn’t. Qi-ge left. Shen Jiu has spent years enduring while Qi-ge lived a nice life with nice robes and a nice full belly on a nice fucking mountain.
“We have plenty of time,” Wu Yanzi says, eyeing Shen Jiu suspiciously. “You’ll have killed him before anyone thinks to come looking.”
“We should tread carefully. It could be–”
Thwack.
Shen Jiu’s whole body turns with the force of Wu Yanzi’s slap, only to go completely still at the feel of cold steel against his neck.
“Do not argue with me, Xiao Jiu,” Wu Yanzi says, as cold as the blade he wields against Shen Jiu, digging it in until it hurtshurtshurts and blood wells up around the metal. “I don’t know why a Qiong Ding disciple has caught your interest but you will do as I say, or I’ll kill you both. Do not think that–”
Wu Yanzi chokes, blood spilling down his chin and from his chest, and when Shen Jiu blinks, his eyes focusing finally, there is the end of a blade protruding from his master’s chest.
Qi-ge is holding the handle, and the disciple who Shen Jiu had killed is missing their sword.
“Why wouldn’t you–” Shen Jiu’s eyes narrow on the sword at Qi-ge’s waist, untouched even though it would have certainly been easier to use.
“We have to go,” Qi-ge says, taking Shen Jiu’s hand in his own.
“I– We should–” His eyes fall on the body of Wu Yanzi, his master dead on the ground as simply as that. He thinks some of his blood might have spattered on Shen Jiu’s face. He thinks he can taste it.
“Xiao Jiu, please,” Qi-ge says, tugging at him, pulling at him until Shen Jiu’s legs get the memo, even if his brain doesn’t, and they run.
Shen Jiu is taken back to Cang Qiong Mountain Sect.
At sixteen, he’s older than most cultivators are when they start, and he already has a damaged foundation from learning under Wu Yanzi. Demonic cultivation, it turns out, is not particularly helpful to early core formation.
“You’re not completely unsalvageable though,” The Peak Lord of Qing Jing tells him, smiling like Shen Jiu is something she finds amusing.
Shen Jiu is so very exhausted by people acting like he’s something funny.
“You’ll have to work hard,” She tells him. “There will be no small amount of suffering that you’ll have to endure to catch up with your peers.”
Shen Jiu gives her a flat look.
“Somehow, I don’t think you’ll have a problem with that though,” She says, warm and easy, like she’s not casually referencing the pain and suffering that has led Shen Jiu to this point exactly. “Now, pour your new Shizun some tea. It’s tradition.”
He thinks he can be excused for how long it takes him to connect the dots.
All the clues have been there for years, but it’s not until he’s being guaned and given his courtesy name, his Shizun picking him as her successor to inherit her position when she and the rest of the An generation steps down, that he catches on.
Yue Qingyuan. Cang Qiong Mountain Sect. Qing Jing Peak. Shen Qingqiu.
Shit fuck motherfucking damn, you have got to be fucking shitting him.
He’s in Proud Immortal fucking Demon Way! He’s Shen fucking Qingqiu! The scum villain who’s bound to die horrifically, and deservedly, by the protagonist’s overpowered hands!
Shen Qingqiu qi deviates for the first (but certainly not the last) time right then and there.