Chapter Text
The weather turned brutal faster than Shen Qingqiu liked.
Snow lashed at their faces like angry spirits, the wind howling with the voice of every bad decision that had led them here. The rocks beneath their boots were slick with half-frozen slush, and the air burned cold with every breath they took. The dwarves cursed and stumbled along, cloaks pulled tight and heads bowed against the gale.
Shen Qingqiu, for his part, was... mostly annoyed.
Thank the Heavens - and the plant body, honestly - that his body no longer suffered Without-a-Cure. If this had been the old days, he’d be coughing up blood halfway through this climb and half-frozen to death by now. At least now he could just shiver dramatically like a normal person.
And then… the stone giants started their brawl. Colossal figures of earth and rock, swinging at each other like angry mountains with legs. Thunder cracked as stone fists met cliffsides, sending boulders the size of cottages tumbling down in their direction.
Yes, they were nearly crushed at least three times.
Yes, there was screaming and frantic scrambling and dwarves yelling about doom and death.
But Shen Qingqiu... honestly couldn’t bring himself to care.
He dodged with practiced ease, dragging Bilbo out of the way of a falling rock at one point, more on instinct than concern. His mind was already skipping ahead in the narrative.
They couldn’t die here. Not yet. The plot demanded a dragon later.
So he put on his best deeply-concerned-but-mystically-calm expression, muttering about the dangerous storm and the wrath of mountain spirits like any good Immortal Master would, all while making a very conscious decision to ignore the giant stone idiots fighting overhead.
When a boulder nearly took out Kili, Shen Qingqiu did offer a dramatic shout of warning - but only because Thorin had turned to look and Shen had to keep up appearances.
Another step, another slip, another cold gust of wind.
“Well,” he muttered under his breath, dusting snow from his sleeves, “this is just… fantastic.”
Somewhere behind him, Bilbo was still shrieking. Yeah, this wasn’t in the travel brochure. And up ahead, Thorin barked for everyone to move faster, voice half-lost to the storm. Onward, then.
Or... downward.
Because of course, when fate and bad decisions teamed up, the only direction left was down.
The cave they scrambled into for shelter from the storm felt like a blessing at first. Dry, dark, and free from falling boulders. But the second Shen Qingqiu set foot inside, he knew. The air tasted wrong. Too stale, too sour. There was the faint copper bite of old blood somewhere deeper down.
"Ah," he thought grimly. "Perfect. It's a trap ."
Barely a few minutes of rest passed before the floor gave out beneath them. Dwarves shouted, Bilbo yelped, and Shen Qingqiu sighed with all the weariness of a man whose narrative foresight was never wrong.
Down they went.
Straight into Goblin Town.
The place stank of rot and damp stone, of unwashed bodies and spilled guts. Twisted scaffolding ran along the cavern wall. Crudely hammered wooden planks and wobbling rope bridges that looked like they'd collapse under the weight of a single angry thought. The light came from guttering, half-dead torches jammed into cracks in the stone, casting sickly orange shadows on everything.
The goblins themselves were worse. Short, wiry things with sharp teeth and sharper voices, they swarmed like rats. Their skin was blotchy and slick, their armor little more than scrap metal and bones lashed together with old sinew. The air was thick with their chattering, high-pitched screeches and the clang of metal-on-metal as they herded the company deeper into the tunnels.
Singing and grinning.
Shen Qingqiu stood near the back of the group, hands tucked into his sleeves, gaze distant but alert. Honestly… he’d faced worse. Much worse. Well, did he? Did that time with the spider demons count? Anyway, moving on. He cast a sidelong glance at Bilbo, at Kili and Fili, even at Thorin. The dwarves looked tired, cornered, and furious.
"Plot progression it is, then," Shen Qingqiu thought, already weighing how many goblins he’d have to knock unconscious before this scene could move on to the next disaster.
Somewhere far below, he could sense it… something cold… something hungry.
But that… that was Bilbo’s subplot to face.
Ah. Right.
That scene.
That critical, world-changing, plot-armored moment.
The part where Bilbo gets separated, stumbles through the dark, meets Gollum, plays riddles, and walks away with Middle-earth’s most cursed piece of jewelry like he’s picking up a loose coin on the street. It was one of the only things he really remembered.
For a brief second, Shen Qingqiu considered it. The idea of interfering. Of maybe “accidentally” herding Bilbo back toward the group or personally sticking by him like an overprotective martial uncle.
But then -
[Ding!]
A familiar, cold line of text flickered across his mind like an unwanted notification: [Protagonist must take his golden finger and find the One Ring! Penalty of minus 1000!]
Shen Qingqiu’s eye twitched.
Golden finger… really? He barely smothered the annoyed exhale building in his throat. Trust the System to reduce something this plot-important to a stupid game mechanic metaphor. So… Bilbo would wander off. Face a creepy skinny swamp cryptid. Win a psychological riddle battle. And walk out wearing literal world doom on a string.
And Shen Qingqiu? His job was… apparently… to stay out of it.
Great.
Absolutely fantastic.
With all the dramatic patience of a teacher letting a student fail their first real-life test for "character growth," Shen Qingqiu tucked his hands deeper into his sleeves and sighed, long and theatrical.
“Fine,” he muttered to himself in Chinese, as goblins dragged them deeper into the tunnels. “Let the protagonist have his ‘golden finger moment’... again.”
After all… it wasn’t like the plot would let Bilbo die now.
Not with a destiny like that waiting for him.
For now… he kept his head low… and waited.
As the goblins shoved and dragged them deeper into the twisting tunnels of Goblin Town, Shen Qingqiu let his mind wander - half a survival tactic, half boredom management.
The air was thick with the smell of damp stone, unwashed bodies, and something metallic - blood or rust, or both. Goblins shrieked and rattled their weapons, gleefully announcing plans to strip them, stab them, or sell them.
But Shen Qingqiu’s thoughts… drifted elsewhere. To the ring. To that stupid little golden circle Bilbo was fated to find.
He almost laughed aloud, startling the nearest goblin who gave him a confused glare before scampering off.
Because really… the irony.
A small, unassuming object. Shiny. Cursed beyond measure. Whispering to its owner. Corrupting their heart. Twisting their thoughts until obsession and madness became indistinguishable from desire.
Shen Qingqiu hummed under his breath, eyes half-lidded.
“Airplane, are you seeing this?” he thought dryly, addressing the long-dead author of his own former nightmare novel. “I´ve called Xin Mo a cheap cultivation trope device. Said it was overdone. And now look.” Somewhere in the dark, he could almost imagine Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky peeking over Tolkien’s shoulder from the afterlife, while Peerless Cucumber was making critical blogger snark notes about “mid-quest artifact corruption arcs” and “overused dark temptation symbolism.”
A cursed blade that spoke with evil whispers…
A cursed ring that spoke with evil whispers…
At the end of the day… protagonist or not… fantasy writers really were just playing remix with the same five plot devices. Shen Qingqiu shook his head with faint amusement.
“Let’s just hope Bilbo has better self-control than Binghe,” he muttered to himself. And with that thought, he settled back into his practiced, lazy immortal expression… waiting for the inevitable chaos.
The goblins shoved them forward with kicks and jeers, dragging the entire company through winding tunnels that reeked of mold, iron, and something distinctly goblin - sweat and old meat. Torchlight flickered wildly, casting jagged shadows along the stone walls as they descended deeper into the mountain’s belly.
Eventually, they were herded into a vast cavern, the air heavy with smoke and the stink of too many bodies crammed into too small a space. Platforms and crooked wooden bridges crisscrossed the open space like a drunk carpenter’s fever dream. Ropes dangled like vines. Cages swung lazily from the ceiling - some rattling with what might still be living prisoners, others… less fortunate.
Above it all, perched like some grotesque parody of royalty, sat the Great Goblin bloated, oily, with folds of skin that wobbled with every laugh. His throne was made of twisted iron and stolen weapons, bones used like decorative tassels. His voice boomed through the cavern, dripping with theatrical cruelty. Huge, grotesque, and with a double chin that could qualify for its own postal address.
He leered at them, yellowed teeth flashing, his voice oily and loud as he let out a booming laugh that rattled the very walls. "Who are these miserable persons?” he cackled, waving a fat, ring-covered hand. "Dwarves! An elf! Or… what’s this little delicacy?" His beady eyes narrowed at Bilbo.
Shen Qingqiu stood at the edge of the group, looking as thoroughly unimpressed as a man could while surrounded by certain death. He eyed the Goblin King’s gaudy jewelry, his stained robes, and the lumpy skin like half-melted wax.
“Truly,” Shen Qingqiu muttered dryly in Chinese, “this is the most unfortunate example of a minor villain boss fight.”
Beside him, Thorin bristled with restrained fury. Fili and Kili kept glancing toward their weapons - just out of reach. Bilbo looked like he very much wanted to disappear into the stone floor.
The Goblin King gave a disgusting chuckle and gestured to his minions. "Search ‘em! Strip ‘em! Let’s see what treasures they’ve brought to my halls!"
As the goblins surged toward them, Shen Qingqiu only sighed, lifting his eyes toward the cavern ceiling like a man praying for patience. He could control Xiu Ya with hand seals, so that intimidation tactic was futile.
"Let’s get this part over with," he thought, "before the next plot checkpoint rolls in."
As the Goblin King droned on - blustering about kings and bloodlines and things Shen Qingqiu honestly couldn’t care less about - Shen Qingqiu’s mind drifted to more… scholarly matters.
His gaze swept lazily over the nearest goblins, head tilting ever so slightly in thought.
Anatomy first.
Thin limbs, knobby joints, disproportionately large heads compared to their bodies. Musculature underdeveloped in the shoulders and arms but surprisingly strong around the legs - likely adapted for climbing and sudden bursts of speed in these vertical, unstable environments. Their skin varied from sickly green to grayish-brown, with a texture that looked halfway between leather and old tree bark. Likely resistant to cold and minor injuries but vulnerable to blunt trauma.
Their teeth… well. Functionally carnivorous. Incisors and canines prominent. Possible scavenger habits given the smell clinging to their breath. "Terrible dental care," Shen Qingqiu thought with academic detachment. “You should see a dentist”, he said to a goblin in Chinese.
Next, his eyes rose to the architecture.
Rope bridges, uneven platforms, hastily lashed beams. Clearly built with whatever materials they scavenged or stole. Structurally unsound by any mortal engineering standard, but strangely effective for creatures with low regard for gravity, safety, or personal space. The entire cavern seemed like it would collapse with one well-placed earthquake (or a particularly aggressive sneeze).
The social structure was just as chaotic.
Hierarchy by brute force and loudest voice, as far as he could tell. The Goblin King ruled through sheer size, volume, and probably public executions. Below him, mid-ranking goblins barked orders, herding the rest like half-feral dogs. No formal discipline, no real chain of command. Just a screaming, biting, scrambling mess of opportunistic violence.
"Herd behavior with loose alpha-submission dynamics," Shen Qingqiu mused internally, as a goblin tripped over its own feet trying to get closer to Bilbo. "Almost insect-like in group panic. But nowhere near as coordinated."
He folded his sleeves neatly and leaned a bit to the side to avoid a particularly bad-smelling goblin that got too close.
Somewhere at the edge of the platform, Thorin was starting to shout something akin like they were simply traveling to visit extended family - nephews, nieces, cousins, and other distant relatives - living on the east side of the mountains, trying to paint their journey as a harmless family reunion.
And Shen Qingqiu, standing there like the world’s most overdressed anthropologist, just continued his silent, unimpressed goblin census. "Truly -" he sighed inwardly, "- how far I’ve fallen. From Peak Lord to unwilling field researcher in subterranean pest behavior."
“Murderers and elf-friends!” the Great Goblin shouted. “Slash them! Beat them! Bite them! Gnash them! Take them away to dark holes full of snakes, and never let them see the light again!”
Yep, thought Shen Qingqiu dryly, this is the part where we run.
He didn’t flinch at the shouting or the sudden chaos that erupted. The goblins surged forward with clubs and crude blades, the dwarves were already shouting and scrambling to defend themselves, and somewhere in the mix, Bilbo yelped in terror.
Shen Qingqiu stayed exactly long enough to calculate the nearest exit path, check that Bilbo wasn’t about to get trampled, and then moved - graceful, fast, and with the resigned air of a man far too used to sudden dungeon brawls.
“Really…” he muttered under his breath as he dodged a swinging club, “does every underground kingdom have to come with this level of hospitality?”
Shen Qingqiu exhaled slowly through his nose, settling into the familiar, almost meditative stillness that preceded combat.
The goblins surged toward him; wild, fast, clumsy things with too many limbs and too little discipline. To them, he was just another soft-bodied target in silks. Fools. With a flick of his wrist, his folding fan snapped open with a sharp metallic crack. Not paper, but reinforced steel, its ribs gleaming with barely concealed blade edges.
The first goblin lunged. Shen Qingqiu sidestepped like water flowing around stone, letting the creature’s momentum carry it past. With a single twist of his fan, he sliced clean across the goblin’s throat. Precise, almost elegant, as if sketching a careless line through the air.
Another two came at once, flanking him from both sides. Shen Qingqiu’s spiritual energy stirred, a thin shimmer of green light gathering like mist at his feet. With a light tap of his sole against the stone, he vanished from where he stood - reappearing behind them in a blink, robes barely disturbed.
A burst of fan strikes followed - one, two, three - each movement cutting, disabling, or sending a goblin sprawling. He didn’t waste effort on killing blows unless necessary. Quick strikes to nerves and joints, making limbs useless, letting gravity and panic do the rest.
At one point, a group tried to mob him from above - climbing along the wooden scaffolds and rope bridges. Shen Qingqiu simply raised two fingers, gathering a tight pulse of spiritual energy at his palm.
A sharp, slicing arc of compressed air blasted upward, cutting through the supports like a sword through wet paper. The goblins above shrieked as the bridge collapsed under them, sending bodies and splinters raining down.
Somewhere to the side, he heard Thorin shouting commands, Dwalin roaring, Kili letting out excited battle cries like a child playing war, and Bilbo - well - Bilbo was still alive, at least.
By now, Shen Qingqiu was moving through the chaos like a ghost, every step measured, every breath controlled. He didn’t fight like the dwarves with their brute strength or like an elven swordsman with dramatic flourishes.
He fought like a cultivator.
Precise. Efficient. Unbothered.
Xiu Ya’s glow cut through the gloom like a pale moon suspended in dark, churning waters. Amid the chaotic echoes of screaming goblins and the thunder of dwarven steel against bone, Shen Qingqiu stood calm at the center of it all - his sleeves billowing like drifting clouds, his expression cold as mountain stone.
He controlled the sword with delicate, near-effortless movements - two fingers extended, manipulating Xiu Ya through the air as though conducting some grim orchestra. The blade danced with frightening precision. One moment, it intercepted a goblin’s crude cleaver mid-swing, saving Oin from a likely split skull. The next, it sliced clean through the ropes of a collapsing platform, allowing Balin just enough space to scramble back from the edge before disappearing into the abyss.
A fresh wave of goblins surged toward him, shrieking and snapping, their teeth yellowed and their clawed hands greedy for flesh. Shen Qingqiu’s gaze darkened, and with practiced ease, he pulled a fire talisman from inside his robes.
The paper ignited the instant it met spiritual energy - blazing gold and crimson in the dark like a falling star. With a flick of his wrist, the burning charm shot toward the advancing goblins. Flames erupted. Violent and hungry. The air filled with the stench of burning hair and scorched leather. Goblin screams, high, guttural, almost animal-like, rose in a horrible chorus.
Shen Qingqiu didn’t flinch. He stood his ground, eyes hard, watching the fire consume what it must.
Protect your allies.
Cut down your enemies.
Stay alive.
The same rules as always.
Somewhere behind him, he could still hear the dwarves fighting. Thorin’s war cries. Fili and Kili’s chaotic, brotherly shouts. But Shen Qingqiu stayed where he was, anchored like a lone tree in the middle of a storm, guiding Xiu Ya through the air with steady, lethal grace.
Suddenly, a sword flashed-blinding, silver, cutting through the shadows with its own inner light. Bilbo, still panting and wide-eyed, saw it pierce clean through the Great Goblin mid-rage, silencing him instantly. The monstrous king crumpled with a wet, heavy thud, and chaos broke like a dam. Goblin soldiers shrieked and scattered like startled rats, fleeing into the tunnels, scrambling over one another in pure terror.
And then - of course - it was.
A bright flare at the far side of the cavern.
Gandalf, standing like some storybook savior, staff glowing at the tip like a second sun. Shen Qingqiu, chest heaving from his own exhausting half of the battle, barely even spared him a glance. He wiped a streak of goblin blood from his jaw with the back of his sleeve, expression flat, unimpressed, and entirely done with this scene.
“This right here,” he muttered low under his breath, voice dripping with exhausted sarcasm, “is such bullshit.” A talisman still burned faintly between his fingers, the last of its spiritual energy fading as he let it drop to the floor. “The wizard shows up at the end. Saves the day with one dramatic spell and a light show.” Another wave of goblins tripped over each other trying to escape, some still smoldering from the earlier fire. “I nearly died punching my way through half this horde -” he muttered, mostly to himself, though Fili, limping past with a bleeding arm, let out a dry, breathless laugh.
“Welcome to the party,” Fili wheezed.
Shen Qingqiu gave a tired snort, flicked blood off Xiu Ya with one sharp movement, and sheathed the sword with a snap. “Bullshit,” he repeated under his breath, shaking his head. “Such bullshit.’
Gandalf’s voice rang out, far too cheerful for someone who’d just arrived after all the hard work was done. “Are we all here?” said he, handing his sword back to Thorin with a bow. Shen Qingqiu, still dusting bits of ash and goblin grime from his sleeve, watched with narrowed eyes. “Let me see: one-that’s Thorin; two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven; where are Fili and Kili? Here they are! twelve, thirteen-and here’s Mr. Baggins: fourteen! Master Qingqiu! Then that makes fifteen. Well, well! it might be worse, and then again it might be a good deal better. No ponies, and no food, and no knowing quite where we are, and hordes of angry goblins just behind! On we go!”
“Why, O why did I ever leave my hobbit-hole!” Bilbo groaned, dragging his feet over the rocks, voice full of dramatic misery. “Why, O why did I ever leave my hobbit-hole!”
Shen Qingqiu, walking just ahead with an expression that could only be described as long-suffering immortal patience, didn’t even turn around. “For the fun,” he deadpanned, voice as dry as desert wind.
Bilbo spluttered. “Fun?! This - this is fun to you?”
Shen Qingqiu lifted a single elegant hand and gestured vaguely at the chaos they’d just escaped, the dark tunnels, and the general state of everyone’s hair and sanity. “Are you not having fun, Mr. Baggins?”
The hobbit opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Somewhere up ahead, Kili let out a bark of laughter.
Fili snorted. “He’s got you there, Bilbo.”
Even Thorin, grim and silent as ever, seemed to suppress a faint, amused exhale.
Bilbo huffed and stomped after them, muttering something about “lunatics, the whole lot of them.”
And all the while… Keeping one eye on Bilbo’s direction. Because if he remembered the plot correctly… The halfling was about to get lost. He tilted his head lazily toward Thorin and the others, already half-planning how to protect the group from goblins while pretending not to notice one (1) missing hobbit.
Ah. There he went. Down he goes.
Bilbo, in all his hobbit-sized misfortune, slipped at the worst possible moment (because of Nori) and vanished into the dark hole like a stone dropped into a well.
Shen Qingqiu froze mid-step, staring at the empty space where the hobbit had been just a heartbeat ago. A long, slow sigh escaped him - exasperation, resignation, and the barest thread of fondness all tangled together.
Of course. Of course the plot would take him now.
Shen Qingqiu closed his eyes for a brief moment, tilted his head toward the damp ceiling of the cavern, and offered a small, silent prayer to whatever merciful literary heavens might be listening. ‘Don’t be too harsh with him, Author Tolkien Xiong. He’s only trying his best.’ Then, slipping his hands back into his sleeves like the picture of weary acceptance, he kept walking after the others.
Why did protagonists always have to fall to rise?
Shen Qingqiu wondered this bitterly as he carefully picked his way across the rocks, giving the pit Bilbo had just vanished into a wide berth.
Luo Binghe… well, Binghe had been pushed. Quite literally. Bilbo, at least, had fallen on his own two clumsy feet. That was… a relief, in a strange, guilty way.
Shen Qingqiu didn’t know what he would’ve done if fate (or worse, the System) had tried to force him into pushing another innocent protagonist into a hole just so they could stumble across some malicious artifact that would forever alter their destiny.
Once in a lifetime was more than enough for that particular trauma. Bah! Trauma ? Whose trauma? Who is traumatized? Not him, certainly!
So, he let out another breath, half frustration, half resignation, and muttered under his breath: “Go get your golden finger, Mr. Baggins. I’ll be here… trying not to have another breakdown.” And with that, he pulled his sleeves tighter and followed the others.
The system didn’t ding, didn’t pop up, didn’t say a word. Which only meant one thing: Plot was doing what plot does.
The tunnels shook with the sounds of pursuit; shrieks, metal scraping against stone, the unmistakable stampede of dozens, maybe hundreds of goblins scrambling through every crack and corridor. The Company ran, boots and hurried breaths echoing against the damp cavern walls. Shen Qingqiu stayed near the rear, his spiritual energy buzzing just beneath the skin, ready to intercept any goblin fast - or stupid - enough to get too close.
With Thorin at the front and Orcrist gleaming like a lighthouse cutting through fog, the group moved like a well oiled machine. The blade seemed almost alive, a cold silver arc flashing with every swing as he hacked through whatever blocked their way. The glow it cast on the stone walls made their shadows dance wildly - half fleeing ghosts. The dwarves surged forward behind him, fear and grit mingling in every step, trusting their king to carve them a path to safety.
With the new enchantment, Fili and Kili moved like wolves, flanking their uncle on either side. They fought with frantic, youthful energy, blades flashing, protecting each other’s blind spots without needing words. Dwalin roared as he charged through, using brute force to clear a passage, while Balin kept the others from scattering, shouting quick commands with surprising clarity for someone gasping for breath.
Shen Qingqiu loosed another talisman behind them, sending a small wall of flame rolling across the nearest intersection just as a cluster of goblins rounded the corner. Again, their screams echoed horribly, but the cultivator didn’t pause. This was survival now. No time for guilt. No time for hesitation. He focused on keeping pace, keeping them covered, and keeping them all alive… Well, minus one missing hobbit.
They ran. And ran. And kept running like madmen chased by hungry ghosts.
Shen Qingqiu could feel the strain starting to coil tight in his limbs, the ache creeping into his core. Even his spiritual sea rippled unevenly now, a sign that he was burning through Qi faster than he liked. But still - he pushed.
The dwarves were already gasping, some stumbling as they ran, boots scraping against stone, and more than one weapon was slipping from sweat-slick hands. Kili’s braid (yes, that warrior’s braid) was coming loose at the ends from all the jolting and fighting. Bilbo... Well, Bilbo was missing, but there was no time to panic over that now.
“Enough,” Shen Qingqiu muttered under his breath, planting his feet.
In one fluid motion, he stepped onto Xiu Ya’s blade, the sword rising under him like a cold silver wing. He surged up - straight toward the cavern ceiling - dodging jagged stone and swinging low-hanging stalactites like they were mere branches on a windy day.
High above the goblin horde, he gathered the last clean thread of spiritual energy he could afford and let it burst out in a controlled wave. A silver crescent of sword qi screamed through the air, bright enough to illuminate the walls like a sudden dawn.
The goblins below never stood a chance. The nearest wave of them was sliced clean through; halved, scattered, tossed like dry leaves in a violent wind. The air filled with the metallic tang of blood and the choking, earthy stench of goblin corpses.
And for the first time in what felt like hours, the dwarves gained ground. They surged forward with new desperation, taking the gap Shen Qingqiu had carved open for them.
The cultivator landed back on solid stone, knees bending under the impact, sleeves billowing dramatically even though he could barely keep his breathing level. If he was getting tired… well… looking at the dwarves-faces red, lungs heaving, legs trembling - they were one collective step away from collapsing entirely.
Shen Qingqiu flicked a drop of blood from his sleeve with practiced indifference, gave a long-suffering sigh, and muttered low enough that only the closest few heard: “…Next time, someone else can be the heavenly savior.”
They escaped.
How? Plot reasons. Gandalf-dios-ex-machina reasons.
Where? No idea. Some nameless, miserable rocky ledge halfway down the Misty Mountains, surrounded by fog, cold air, and the lingering stink of goblins.
Shen Qingqiu stood there, robes torn at the edges, spiritual energy still prickling under his skin like static, and took a long, deliberate breath. He turned, half from habit and half from sheer stubborn responsibility, and began counting.
"One... Thorin." Bruised, bloodied, and glaring at the horizon like it personally offended him. "Two... Dwalin." Still gripping his axes like he might need to start a new fight just to vent the leftover rage. "Three… Balin." Leaning on his staff, breath uneven but alive. "Four… Bifur. Five… Bofur. Six… Bombur." Bombur was flat on the ground, making pitiful wheezing noises, but Shen Qingqiu could still sense his pulse strong and steady. "Seven… Oin. Eight… Gloin." Both dwarves were checking each other for injuries like fussy old nannies. "Nine… Dori. Ten… Nori. Eleven… Ori." Ori had lost his hat somewhere along the way and now sat hugging his knees, wide-eyed but intact. "Twelve… Fili. Thirteen… Kili." The brothers sat shoulder to shoulder, dirt-streaked, grinning like idiots who thought near-death was just part of the fun.
"And… Fourteen… Gandalf."
The wizard stood there with that infuriatingly calm expression, as if appearing out of nowhere, obliterating goblins, and guiding everyone to safety was just another mild inconvenience in his day.
Shen Qingqiu let his hand drop to his side, but he didn’t miss the single, glaring gap in the count. “…Minus Bilbo,” he muttered to himself.
The dwarves started realizing it too, voices rising in tired confusion, looking around with growing unease. Shen Qingqiu simply closed his eyes and sighed through his nose like a man too old for this. For a few long seconds, no one said anything.
Then Kili, still wheezing, blinked up at him and asked with far too much cheer for the situation: “Is this the part where you do the ‘magical tracking spell’ thing or…?”
Shen Qingqiu closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed like a man who had seen far, far too much protagonist-related nonsense in his lifetime. “…No,” he said, turning away. “This is the part… where we wait for the plot to return him to us.”
With nothing better to do - no Bilbo to retrieve, no goblins immediately chasing, and no clear path forward - Shen Qingqiu settled onto the cold rock with the elegance of long practice.
His robes flared neatly around him as he crossed his legs, spine straight, hands folding in a familiar seal at his lap. His breathing slowed, deepened, and the faintest shimmer of spiritual energy began to coil like mist around his form.
He focused inward, pulling threads of Qi from the air, gathering and circulating it through his meridians. The pain in his shoulders dulled. The drain on his reserves lightened. Slowly, the shaking exhaustion in his limbs eased away.
Clear the mind. Empty the heart. Forget the cold, the dirt, the missing hobbit, the goblins, the angry dwarven king…
…
Well, forget most of that.
Of course, because fate had a personal vendetta against his peace, curious eyes were already turning toward him.
Oin - the dwarven healer - was the first to approach. The older dwarf peered at Shen Qingqiu with a look halfway between medical concern and nosy fascination.
"What’s he doin’, then?" Oin muttered to Gloin, squinting, but too intrigued to keep his distance.
Gandalf, standing with his staff planted at his side, watched as well. His sharp, knowing gaze was more difficult to ignore. Shen Qingqiu kept his expression composed, letting the swirl of Qi remain gentle and visible enough for dramatic effect. After all… a little show never hurt his image as the mysterious immortal master.
Still, when Oin stepped a little closer, Shen Qingqiu cracked one eye open and murmured in the most unimpressed tone he could manage: “…I am cultivating.”
“Cultivating what? Turnips ?” Oin snorted. “Is that… like breathing exercises?”
“A bit more dangerous than that,” Shen Qingqiu said airily, shutting his eyes again.
Gandalf let out a soft, amused hum, stroking his beard with a thoughtful air as he watched the delicate flow of spiritual energy spiral around Shen Qingqiu like pale threads of morning mist.
"A strange river of song flows through you, Master Qingqiu," the wizard finally said, his tone mild but laced with that distinct wizardly weight… the kind that turned casual words into riddles people pondered for weeks.
The dwarves blinked. Some exchanged confused glances.
Shen Qingqiu cracked one eye open again, leveling Gandalf with a dry stare. "If you’re trying to be poetic, you’re succeeding. If you’re trying to be clear… less so."
Gandalf chuckled low in his throat, tapping the tip of his staff against the stone with a soft, echoing click. His gaze lingered on the ribbons of Qi still drifting lazily around Shen Qingqiu’s frame.
"No… not poetry this time," Gandalf said, tone dipping almost philosophical. "Just… curious. You draw power as if from the air itself… like water from an unseen wellspring. Yet it moves with the discipline of long study. Controlled. Balanced. Not like the raw magic I know, nor the Song that drifts through Arda." He tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly in keen observation. "And the land listens to you, in its own small way. Even here… even in these broken stone halls." There was a pause. Gandalf gave a small, knowing smile. "An art older than I expected… and stranger than most I’ve seen."
Shen Qingqiu smiled lazily in return, tucking his hands back into his sleeves like none of it mattered at all. "It’s just breathing, Master Grey," he said with exaggerated modesty, like a man who hadn’t just been quietly warping natural energy to patch his own wounds. Gandalf let out another low chuckle and wandered off without pressing further. But Shen Qingqiu could still feel that gaze on him… thoughtful and lingering… even after the wizard turned his back.