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Chapter Text

Mu Qingfang stared at the letters in his hands, incredulous. The pressure in his chest ebbed and flowed as he sank into the chair.

"Is everything okay, Shizun? Is Shang Qinghua-shixiong alright?" asked Xie Minhui, the disciple who had handed him the letter. She bowed before him, hands ready to catch him in case he collapsed.

Mu Qingfang covered his face with his hands.

He was going to kill his shixiong.

How could Shang Qinghua be like this? Running around, having children as if he were some wild rabbit, and then bringing them home as if the wife had raised them herself.

"He's… but not for long, if it’s up to me," he murmured, standing abruptly. He noticed Xie Minhui's eyes spark with amusement, though she had the decency to bow silently. "Tell your brother to take care of the disciples. We’re lucky it’s only a few today. I don’t know if I’ll come back today."

And with that, he left.

Heading to An Ding.

It was the most chaotic time of the year for that peak: the annual reports. Disciples rushed back and forth, carrying papers, checking data, relaying information assigned to them by the Lords of the Peaks.

But the atmosphere felt strange. Too quiet. A few disciples moved about, but most stood in place, whispering softly. They greeted him with respect when they saw him, but quickly returned to their murmurs.

The rumor had spread.

Shang Qinghua had a bastard child.

It wasn’t news to the martial brothers of the Lord of An Ding, who had known the truth for some time, though they pretended not to. There was even a plan ready, if necessary, to present Luo Binghe as Shang Qinghua’s son in front of the sect.

Except the bastard child wasn’t Luo Binghe.

And except that Shang Qinghua, whom everyone assumed had been holed up in his office for the past nine days, had returned late the night before, carrying in his arms a child far too thin. A child who, apparently, was his.

The worst part was that Mu Qingfang wanted to believe it was just a rumor.

But the letter in his hand was almost a confession.

"Dear Mu Qingfang, my beloved martial brother, favorite of all, the one to whom I would entrust my life without hesitation if needed in some risky experiment,

I need your help.

I think I made a mistake—" The ink had smudged, but some of the lost characters could still be deciphered.

"No, not think. I made a mistake. Again. But this time I will be condemned.

Come to my leisure house.

Please, he’s a good child—" The smudged stroke cut off the line, dragging the word across the page.

"I want to introduce someone to you. I need your help with this child’s wounds.

Can you come as soon as possible?

I promise to explain personally.

Yours, your idiot shixiong, and hopefully still your favorite."

Mu Qingfang stopped at the steps of the leisure house. He took a deep breath.

And then he knocked on the door.

The wood creaked under the knots of his fingers. The silence that followed seemed endless. Mu Qingfang almost believed there was no one inside, almost.

Then the latch turned.

The door opened just enough to reveal a thin, exhausted face. Unlike Shang Qinghua’s usual appearance, which always seemed tired but never like this. Now, he looked as if he had aged years in just a few days.

His curly hair, once neatly styled with a certain pride and charm thanks to Wei Qingwei’s influence, was disheveled, hastily tied into a messy bun, pierced by two forgotten hairpins.

Deep dark circles dug under his eyes, tinged with a restless red, as if he had cried to his limit. And there was something about his shoulders… a curve, as if he carried not just a child, but the weight of the entire world.

“Shang Qinghua…” Mu Qingfang said, the name escaping more as a sigh than a greeting.

Shang Qinghua tried to smile, but the gesture faltered, fragile, almost trembling.

He pushed the door a little more, revealing the messy room, scrolls scattered across the floor as if a gust of wind had swept through. In the center of the chaos, on an improvised futon covered with a few sheets, lay a child. Lying on his back facing the door, his straight dark hair spread like a stream flowing to the floor. His thin arms were poorly wrapped in crooked bandages, and the white robes, too large for his small frame, made him look even more vulnerable.

Mu Qingfang’s chest tightened.

The anger that had driven him there wavered, dissolving in the face of that sight.

“I was… going to explain better in the letter,” murmured Shang Qinghua, averting his eyes. He seemed nervous, lost. “But I messed it all up, didn’t I? I wrote it several times… I even made a mess of this.”

Mu Qingfang stepped forward, his voice hard despite the knot forming in his throat.

“Shang Qinghua, what have you done?”

Shang Qinghua raised a hand, as if asking for calm, but it trembled. He looked toward the corner of the room, and for a second, Mu Qingfang saw a hint of blue reflected in his brown irises.

Shang Qinghua looked at him again.

“Before you… kill me, just… please, look at him. That’s all. After that, I’ll let you scream at me as much as you want.”

Mu Qingfang glanced at the child, then back to Shang Qinghua.

The anger hadn’t vanished, but it had given way to something worse: worry.

Another child. His mind didn’t like the idea.

“A-Yuan, my… Lord Mu Qingfang is here to see you.”

The child carefully rose from the floor when his name was called, leaning on his unbandaged wrist.

He let out a heavy sigh and returned his gaze to the stranger.

Mu Qingfang felt his whole body collapse inside.

Why… what?

It was like looking into the past. A thin boy, maybe fourteen, stared at him with soft green eyes.

The childlike face, though beautiful and malnourished, had features Mu Qingfang recognized.

This boy was not Shang Qinghua’s child.

He couldn’t be.

He was a copy of Shen Qingqiu.

Silence fell like a blade between them.

Mu Qingfang couldn’t breathe. The world seemed ripped from under his feet.

Shang Qinghua closed the door behind him, as if trying to contain the world outside.

“He…” he began, but his voice failed. He pressed his lips together, eyes watering again, a touch overly theatrical, which made Mu Qingfang look away before pity could rise. “He was alone on the streets. I couldn’t leave him.”

Mu Qingfang remained silent, his gaze fixed now on the boy. The same chin. The same nose. The same critical gaze.

The boy, A-Yuan, blinked slowly, still watching Mu Qingfang with curiosity and caution. His eyes narrowed slightly as he glanced from Shang Qinghua to Mu Qingfang, indiscreetly, as if something in the sight bothered him. He tried to curl up on the futon, but his hands trembled, remaining in his lap.

Mu Qingfang took a deep breath and approached slowly, moving gently, each step measured so as not to scare the boy. He knelt beside him, noticing that Shang Qinghua had followed him and also positioned himself nearby.

"Hi, A-Yuan," he said softly, his voice full of care. "My name is Mu Qingfang. I am the Lord of Qian Cao Peak. I just want to see how you are. Nothing more. Can I touch your wrist to feel your pulse and your qi before examining you properly?"

The boy hesitated, looking for Shang Qinghua, who nodded subtly as he stepped closer.

A-Yuan took a deep breath and tilted his hand slightly, allowing Mu Qingfang to hold it. The touch was light, delicate, as if handling glass.

"Does it hurt here?" asked Mu Qingfang, his voice low and measured.

A-Yuan shook his head, his eyes still fixed on Shang Qinghua. Shang Qinghua tried a gentle smile for the boy, but received a grimace in return.

Mu Qingfang closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and when he opened them, he found Shang Qinghua looking at him, seeking silent understanding.

"I know how it seems, but it is not… not what you are thinking."

"Not what I am thinking?" Mu Qingfang's voice came out hoarse, almost choked by anger and disbelief. He waved his hands, exasperated, his fingers trembling. "I don’t even know what to think anymore. You lie to me, say you will rest during the week, and I find out that not only did you not rest, you didn’t stay at the Sect, you went out… and came back with a child. Another child of yours."

"He is not…"

"No, of course he is not."

Mu Qingfang exhaled sharply, trying to control the whirlwind of emotions. He had had similar arguments with Shang Qinghua before, but none as confusing, none mixing anger, jealousy, and a twinge of fear.

The Lord of An Ding Peak was not Binghe’s father; he knew that and accepted it, though Shang Qinghua’s absolute conviction about every detail of his love life still irritated him. Shang Qinghua knew that Luo Binghe was a copy of his mother, not his father. So who was this boy?

"Ah, I think, no, it must be another damned rumor. But you call me here, show me this," Mu Qingfang pointed to the child, who stared at him with bright eyes and trembling hands, his small body trying to shrink. The boy physically resembled Shen Qingqiu, but that gaze… it was identical to Shang Qinghua’s in that moment. "And you expect me to believe what, exactly?"

The boy blinked, silent, absorbing every word, every tension in the air. He looked down at his own hands, trying to stay discreet, but he could not hide the tremor that ran through his body.

Shang Qinghua approached slowly, placing his hand carefully on the boy’s bandages. The touch was firm and gentle at the same time. The boy watched him, still, eyes alert, breathing restrained.

"I want you to believe that I would tell you everything if I could, but I cannot, shidi. I need you to trust me," Shang Qinghua murmured, his voice calm, almost maternal, yet carrying a quiet determination. He looked at Mu Qingfang, whose expression wavered, caught between anger, disbelief, and a faint compassion. "I just need you to take care of him. The wounds… I am not capable. You know I am not capable."

The silence that followed felt as heavy as tons. Mu Qingfang inhaled deeply, feeling the weight of responsibility settle in his chest while the boy remained still, trusting, or at least trying to trust, the promise he had just heard.

Mu Qingfang gritted his teeth at those words. Every fiber of his being wanted to demand answers, to shout, to tear from Shang Qinghua an explanation and ask exactly why he could not tell him everything.

But looking at the boy, he could not. The medical instinct overpowered the anger.

"For all the gods, Shang Qinghua…" he murmured, keeping his hand lightly on the boy’s wrist. "Where did you find him?"

Shang Qinghua closed his eyes, fingers sinking into his knees, too exhausted for any lies.

"I didn’t find him. He… found me."

Mu Qingfang remained kneeling beside the futon, carefully holding the boy’s fragile wrist. Every heartbeat seemed to pound inside his own chest. A-Yuan’s body was small, thin, fragile.

He glanced briefly at his shixiong, who watched him with a mixture of guilt and exhaustion.

He could not be Shang Qinghua’s child. Not according to the timid explanations he had once given about his past sexual encounters. Unless… thought Mu Qingfang, his breath failing. Unless his mother was… an identical copy of Shen Qingqiu.

The idea hit him like a punch.

What if it were true? A drunken Shang Qinghua, mistaking a woman for Shen Qingqiu and therefore never adding her to his list, believing it was the same person? Absurd. Nonsensical. And yet, his mind was already tracing possibilities, imagining scenarios. If that were the case, Shang Qinghua had a lot to explain.

The knot in his throat tightened, an uncomfortable weight of anger, confusion, and disbelief.

When he finished the examination, Mu Qingfang rose from the floor and turned to Shang Qinghua with a hard, impenetrable expression.

"Now I want explanations. Everything. Every detail. Why he is here, where he came from, and… why you didn’t tell me anything."

Shang Qinghua closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and stood.

"Let’s move to another room, Mu Qingfang. Here… is not appropriate for us to talk properly. He needs to rest."

Before they moved, A-Yuan grabbed Shang Qinghua’s robe, firm, but without saying a word. Shang Qinghua slowly bent down, bringing his face close to the boy and stroking his head gently. He murmured something low, almost inaudible:

"It’s okay, cucumber."

Mu Qingfang frowned, intrigued, not quite sure if he had understood the name the child was called. The boy stayed quiet, leaning against him, and Shang Qinghua kept him close for a moment, eyes closed, breathing deeply.

Mu Qingfang did not take his eyes off Shang Qinghua. Every gesture, every whispered word, every touch on the boy seemed loaded with meaning, and for a moment, he felt his heart race in a way that was not only concern.

"A-Yuan and I are from the same homeland," began Shang Qinghua, his voice low, precise, almost rehearsed.

The child looked at him, attentive, with large, cautious eyes. Mu Qingfang noticed that Shang Qinghua chose each word carefully, as if afraid of breaking something invisible between them.

"He is an orphan. His parents died when he was younger, and he has been living on the streets ever since."

Mu Qingfang swallowed hard, his protective instinct on high alert.

The silence that followed was not uncomfortable; it was heavy, filled with untold stories and old memories.

"And you brought him to the sect?" he asked, his voice firm but not harsh.

Shang Qinghua hesitated, making a grimace.

"I couldn’t leave him there!"

"I didn’t say that," Mu Qingfang began.

"And nobody where he lived cared about him… he and I might be the only ones from my village, Shidi." His voice was low, almost a whisper, laden with nostalgia and sorrow.

Mu Qingfang wanted to ask more, what exactly did it mean that they were the only ones from the village, but Shang Qinghua had never been open about his life before the sect. And the way his eyes shone revealed a deep homesickness.

A-Yuan, who had released Shang Qinghua and straightened his posture, seemed to share the same thought, his expression closed, as if he understood the silent nostalgia between shixiong and shidi.

"But he and Shen Qingqiu…" Mu Qingfang began hesitantly.

"No relation, at least not as father and son. A-Yuan here had a father and a mother. You are a copy of your father, right, Yuan?" Shang Qinghua said, his voice firm but gentle.

The child nodded slowly.

"And dad had no known living relatives, he was the younger brother and died at fifty." His voice came out low, almost weak, eyes still fixed on Shang Qinghua, who nodded subtly.

Mu Qingfang felt a pang of relief. Finally, the child had spoken, signaling trust in that safe space.

"I’m sorry you went through so much, A-Yuan," Mu Qingfang murmured, his voice low, full of care.

The child lifted his eyes.

"Shen Yuan."

Mu Qingfang blinked, surprised.

"What?"

"Shen Yuan, my name… This is Shen Yuan. Nice to meet you, Lord Mu Qingfang." The child made a small, odd bow, almost artificial in its politeness.

Mu Qingfang paid no attention to the formality. His mouth went dry, his eyes narrowed, and a shiver ran down his arm as he glanced at Shang Qinghua, every fiber of his body tense, as if more than anger and disbelief wanted to surface.

Shang Qinghua trembled slightly. He noticed Mu Qingfang’s intense gaze.

Every second seemed to stretch the tension.

Ah, Shixiong… you’re so screwed, Mu Qingfang thought, the worry almost aching in his chest. He wanted to protect Shang Qinghua and, at the same time, extract every possible explanation from him. No words seemed enough to relieve the knot of guilt and confusion forming there.

Chapter Text

“You… adopted a child?” asked Yue Qingyuan, his voice carrying an accusation unusual for his serene tone.

It was rare for him to sound that way, but incredulity pushed him beyond his usual control.

His gaze fixed on the figure that looked so much like Shen Qingqiu, sitting awkwardly on the sofa of Shang Qinghua’s country house.

The thin legs were crossed in an odd way, and on his lap rested a thick volume, its brown cover darkened by time. There were no illustrations to distract him, only dense lines of text. It was astonishing that a child of that age could read with such concentration; many orphaned disciples arrived at the sect too late, never having learned their first letters.

Yue Qingyuan, however, had not noticed that at first.

When he arrived and saw the boy outside, standing in the shadow of the porch, he thought he was the victim of a cruel delusion.

The name slipped from his lips before he could contain it: Xiao Jiu. The sound alone was enough to make the child look up, startled, at a peak lord who appeared so suddenly in formal robes, breathing too quickly, staring at him with a mix of sadness and guilt.

The boy’s expression, confused and frightened, was the last thing Yue Qingyuan registered before feeling his chest give out.

Air seemed unable to find space in his lungs.

The child ran toward the house, his heart stumbling, and soon Shang Qinghua and Mu Qingfang appeared at the door, alarmed.

It was sheer luck, true luck, that Mu Qingfang was present. If not for him, Yue Qingyuan might have suffered a qi deviation. His spiritual flow faltered, his breath came short and ragged, and his eyes grew wet without him realizing it. The discreet yet steady touch of Mu Qingfang’s qi, cool as dew at dawn, soothed the imbalance.

Still carrying the teapot he had intended for the child, Mu Qingfang made Yue Qingyuan sit down before any discussion could begin. His trembling hands closed around the hot porcelain, as if that warmth could anchor him.

“Breathe deeply, Shixiong… just breathe,” advised Qingfang, low and patient.

Easier said than done. Obeying was another matter. With every inhalation, the child’s face, that impossible resemblance, returned to his mind, and calm slipped away like a dream scattered by the wind.

The child had been there for days. Yue Qingyuan had taken a long time to make space in his schedule to finally visit, and he had not even sent word beforehand. It was pure luck that Shang Qinghua was available.

Passing through the An Ding Peak office, the ever-watchful disciples informed him that their Peak Lord was working at his country house that week. Busy, they said, with that cautious air.

They said nothing about the child, although the glances exchanged among them were enough for Yue Qingyuan to understand there was more to the story. They did not need to explain. He knew well the protection system of An Ding disciples: loyal, devoted, guarding their lord with almost suffocating fervor.

Even so, Yue Qingyuan felt bitter. He would have appreciated at least a warning about the child’s appearance.

A child.

The rumor had not reached him first through his own head disciple, but through Qi Qingqi, which in itself was already a bad sign. She had appeared in his office with all her arrogance only to “express concern” about the gossip spreading across the peaks. Her crooked smile, however, betrayed her intent: what she wanted was gossip, not dialogue. She had barely sat before spewing venom.

When Luo Binghe had been discovered, Qi Qingqi was the first to demand his immediate expulsion. She claimed they could not allow a bastard to stain the good name of the sect, insinuating that if they tolerated that case, others would feel encouraged to follow the same shameful path. The veiled malice in her tone had left Yue Qingyuan disgusted.

She had shown no shame in voicing her opinion before everyone, even when the other peak lords rejected the idea.

Even Liu Qingge, always inflexible and often inclined to agree with some of Qi Qingqi’s criticisms, had spoken out against that outrageous suggestion. Luo Binghe had entered by his own merit during the selection. He was talented, disciplined, and in the end, a child was still a child.

Qi Qingqi’s malice spilled out with even greater force as she spoke with Yue Qingyuan in his office. She said Shang Qinghua seemed determined to fill Cang Qiong Mountain with bastards, “one on each peak, if they let him,” and that such an insult should not be tolerated.

She called him useless, insinuating that even now, dressing more decently and flaunting a more polished appearance, he was nothing more than someone trying to stand above his martial brothers without ever having the right, since his peak was the most worthless in the sect.

Yue Qingyuan did not let her continue. He cut her words coldly and directly, reminding her of the minimum respect owed to sect brothers regardless of disagreements.

And he added, in an even icier tone, that it was An Ding Peak that managed the funds for all the other peaks; if Shang Qinghua wished to cut off the allocation for Qi Qingqi’s peak, he, as sect leader, would not oppose it.

The silence that followed was heavy. Qi Qingqi’s face closed, her venomous smile evaporated, and she left the hall without a word of farewell. But the poison had already been poured. Curiosity and the seed of discord were planted.

Yue Qingyuan knew Luo Binghe and knew he was not the monster they painted him to be. On the contrary, he was a good boy. Shen Qingqiu, who once barely spoke a word to him, now accepted to receive him at his peak monthly to talk about his training and even to share tea. For Yue Qingyuan, that was already a small victory.

After all, Shen Qingqiu offering a space of intimacy to speak of a disciple was, in itself, a sign of change.

But faced with this new child, with a face that should not exist, all of Yue Qingyuan’s rationality seemed too fragile, like wet paper about to dissolve in his hands.

He needed to see him in person. That was the reason for his visit to An Ding Peak that late afternoon.

A-Yuan. That was what Shang Qinghua had called him.

The boy lifted his eyes for only a brief moment from the pages he was reading, and that glance cut through Yue Qingyuan like a blade.

The almost cruel indifference stamped on the child’s face drowned out all sound, turning the world around him into a distant murmur. Even though Mu Qingfang’s qi had restored some balance, the feeling that he might faint at any moment lingered. Nothing could be more inappropriate: a peak lord, the sect leader himself, losing control in front of a child.

I’m losing my mind, he thought.

Looking at A-Yuan was like tearing open an old wound: the painful memory of the brother he had abandoned, the one he had failed to save, the Xiao Jiu who never stopped haunting him.

The boy resembled too much the young Shen Qingqiu, not the cold, distant man who had returned from the abyss and hated him with all he could muster, but the teenager who once shared laughter and dreams by his side.

A son?

Impossible.

He could not believe his Xiao Jiu had ever had children. But perhaps… a distant relative? Some hidden lineage, given the circumstances? The doubt burned like poison.

“I wouldn’t say I adopted him,” Shang Qinghua replied, with a studied calm that seemed to measure every syllable. Yue Qingyuan remained silent, patient, waiting for him to elaborate.

As he waited, Yue Qingyuan observed Shang Qinghua’s soft face. His hair, loose and slightly curly, without the traditional formal accessory of a peak master, looked freshly combed and dry.

Yue Qingyuan wondered, distracted and curious, whether it had been Mu Qingfang who had arranged it to make him a good martial brother, or perhaps the child himself, or even Shang Qinghua. Every curve of the curls suggested care.

Shang Qinghua wore a simple outfit, with few layers, suitable for work or comfort at home, but not for a formal meeting. Yue Qingyuan breathed a sigh of relief; fortunately, they weren’t at an official gathering. In fact, his presence there was almost a secret.

Since his arrival, Yue Qingyuan had kept a casual eye on the child, always trying to smile, offering silent reassurance so that little A-Yuan wouldn’t worry.

But when A-Yuan lifted his eyes again, Yue Qingyuan felt a chill run through his stomach. The child’s expression carried a disturbing coldness, a sharp silence that pressed harder than any words could.

It was the same shadow he had so often seen on Shen Qingqiu’s face, the same silent intensity that could wound without making a sound. For a moment, Yue Qingyuan felt torn between the urge to protect the child and the awareness that there were limits he himself could not cross.

“I brought him here to be a disciple of An Ding,” Shang Qinghua went on, unshaken. “You know my peak doesn’t need official selection. We always need hands for missions and logistics. But A-Yuan…”

He cast a quick glance at the boy watching him in silence, a fleeting, almost tense look, like someone trying to bargain with a spirit that cannot be tamed. Still, he forced a calm smile, almost reassuring.

“A-Yuan intends to join Qing Jing. He’ll take the selection at the end of the year.”

As he spoke, he busied himself with pouring tea, first for the sect leader, then for himself. Yue Qingyuan said nothing, only observed him, absorbing the weight hidden behind those words.

By protocol, it should have been A-Yuan, as the newest present and future disciple of the sect, who served the tea. But the boy, his wrist wrapped in bandages, made no move to rise. He sat with legs crossed, eyes sunk into the book’s pages, indifferent to the rules that held up that silent hall.

He wants to go to Qing Jing Peak? The question echoed inside Yue Qingyuan, tightening his chest.

His gaze drifted over the child: the straight brown hair tied in a rough bun, held by a simple stick; the pale bandage around his neck, proof of still-healing wounds.

Fate truly dared put him before such a possibility?

The child wanted to go to the very peak where Shen Qingqiu and Luo Binghe resided?

The thought made Yue Qingyuan’s stomach clench.

Was A-Yuan perhaps a distant relative, maybe even Shen Qingqiu’s nephew by blood?

Or could he become an adoptive brother to Luo Binghe, whose presence was already a source of so much tension within the sect?

The possibilities tangled like thorns, and Yue Qingyuan could not push them away.

He let out a low, thoughtful sound before reaching for the teacup. He held it without drinking, the warmth of the porcelain anchoring him to reality. His finger traced the rim slowly, his gaze fixed on the liquid rippling under the lamplight.

“Why Qing Jing?” he asked at last, his voice steady, controlled, even as unease throbbed in his chest. His face remained impassive, the mask of a leader who could not afford to falter.

Shang Qinghua answered without hesitation, though the smile that accompanied his words felt forced, as if trying to soften the weight of the situation.

“A-Yuan wants to be a scholar, to master the five arts. He likes animals, plants too, but what he truly loves is knowledge. He’s a reader of everything,” he said with good humor.

The attempt at lightness came close to irony, and perhaps even Shang Qinghua knew it.

Across from them, the boy made a low sound, a note of dissatisfaction that sliced the air like dissonance. He did not lift his eyes from the book, did not even shake his head. He simply remained there, cross-legged, holding a silence that spoke louder than words.

Yue Qingyuan lifted the cup to his lips, taking a slow sip of tea. The comforting warmth slid down his throat, but it was not enough to untie the knot in his chest.

“Has Shen Qingqiu met him yet?” he asked, unable to stop himself.

"No, not yet. I fear his reaction." Shang Qinghua's reply was firm, but the look that accompanied it was unexpectedly vulnerable, revealing more than words could.

There was something in it that silently said, I am afraid he will be unwell too, just as you almost were. Yue Qingyuan felt a warmth rise in his chest, surprised by the other's concern, almost touched by such quiet attention.

Shang Qinghua shook his head slowly, with weight and reflection.

"They are not father and son, but they could be related on the paternal side," he said, firm but with a nuance of care in his voice. "It would be an absurd coincidence if they were not."

Yue Qingyuan studied every detail of Shang Qinghua's face, every restrained gesture, and felt a mixture of tenderness and surprise.

It was uncommon for Shang Qinghua to show concern for someone else so directly, and Yue Qingyuan realized, suddenly, how deeply it affected him.

The silence that followed was full of meaning. Yue Qingyuan held his gaze, absorbing the strength and vulnerability in Shang Qinghua at the same time, feeling almost touched, not by physical contact, but by the care radiating from him, delicate enough to be impossible to ignore.

“His parents—” Yue Qingyuan began, curiosity slipping out before he could hold it back. But the sudden slam of a book cut him short.

“Dead.”

A-Yuan raised his face for the first time that day. His eyes, wet but tearless, were red with restraint. The word came out rough, almost spat, as if it were poison that needed to be purged.

“My whole family is dead.”

It was the first time Yue Qingyuan heard the boy’s voice, and he wished it had not been at that moment. The sound cut through him like a blade. Part of him feared Shen Yuan might cry then and there, but no tears came, only the dry, harsh anger of someone who had repeated that sentence so many times that crying had become useless.

Yue Qingyuan shuddered, a chill running down his spine. The silence that followed felt more dangerous than any accusation.

“A-Yuan.” Shang Qinghua’s voice was grave, heavy with sorrow, as his eyes, until then fixed irritably on the void at the mention of death, returned to the boy. In them was the same reflected grief, as though the words had struck deep.

Almost all the Peak Lords were orphans. He, Shen Qingqiu, Yue Qingyuan… none spoke of their own origins.

“I’m sorry.” The words slipped from Yue Qingyuan automatically, almost thoughtless. He felt he should rebuke the child for his rudeness in interrupting, but he could not. Not when he knew it was his own pressing that had sparked the outburst.

“It’s been a long time.” A-Yuan murmured after a few seconds that felt far too long. He looked to Shang Qinghua first, inclining in a restrained gesture of respect, and then to Yue Qingyuan. “Forgive me for interrupting.”

Yue Qingyuan cleared his throat, trying to compose himself.

 “It’s all right.”

Shang Qinghua nodded, understanding.

“A long time.” He repeated, with the same cadence as the child, a soft, deep nostalgia woven into each syllable. His eyes gleamed, and for the first time he finally took a sip of tea, releasing a quiet murmur of satisfaction that betrayed contained pleasure. “I hope bringing him here won’t be a problem for the sect, Zhangmen-shixiong. I assure you he’ll behave, whether he stays here or goes to Qing Jing Peak.”

Yue Qingyuan huffed, and Shang Qinghua lifted his brows, surprised by the restrained reaction.

It wasn’t as if Yue Qingyuan would say no, especially in front of A-Yuan.

Even so, a meeting would need to be arranged to discuss the boy’s future and how to deal with the rumors about Shen Qingqiu’s supposed paternity, given the resemblance.

Many would never believe he wasn’t the father, and Qi Qingqi would likely feel justified in her suspicions about other peak lords appearing with bastards. That would surely ignite endless disputes, perhaps ending as it had before…

“And Luo Binghe?” Yue Qingyuan found himself asking about the other child with unruly curls.

A-Yuan seemed to brighten at the mention of Shang Qinghua’s son; his eyes lit up, radiant, and for the first time he showed real excitement as he looked at Shang Qinghua. His whole body seemed to vibrate, as if he wanted to jump up and meet Luo Binghe that very moment.

So he was speaking of his own son, Yue Qingyuan thought, relieved. At least this time, Shang Qinghua was not hiding Binghe’s existence from A-Yuan, something he once kept secret from everyone.

“What about Binghe?” he asked warily. The word slipped before he could stop it, and Shang Qinghua flinched, as if realizing too late how he had spoken. “Disciple Luo Binghe.”

Yue Qingyuan blinked, puzzled. He did not understand why Shang Qinghua had corrected himself when speaking of his own son.

Why avoid calling him simply Binghe?

What difference would it make before him? It was not as if it were a secret.

And, in any case, it was not as if Yue Qingyuan were not trustworthy. He liked to believe he was.

He was the sect leader, after all, responsible for every life under those roofs and in the fields. An Ding Peak could handle the accounts, but it was Qiong Ding Peak that ruled, that held the invisible foundations keeping everything standing, even if with Shang Qinghua’s constant assistance.

Secrets like that, however, gnawed from within, drained one’s mood, corroded authority.

Peak Lords were supposed to be like a big family. Or, at least, that was how Yue Qingyuan wished it could be, someday.

Shang Qinghua, however, was fully aware of what the sect whispered about the child. Even if the intention was to protect Luo Binghe, Yue Qingyuan knew that politically it would be safer to claim him as a legitimate son than to keep a bastard.

The sect would protect an official heir and one of the Peak Lords against external threats, although, of course, that would open another front of internal conflicts.

And even with all possible calculations and planning, Yue Qingyuan knew that many things could still go wrong.

For now, the arrival of that new boy was confusion enough, without the need for an additional chaotic revelation.

Yue Qingyuan sighed, thinking that sooner or later he would have to sit down again with Xiao Jiu to drink tea and discuss the matter, just as they had done when Luo Binghe first appeared. He did not know whether he was happy or terrified about this necessity.

“Won’t you introduce them?” he asked, somewhat confused, noticing that Shang Qinghua avoided the subject.

A-Yuan, curious, was also waiting for an answer, the book in his lap remained closed, and the boy leaned toward the Lord of An Ding as if he wanted to extract a promise from him.

Shang Qinghua, however, only shook his head.

“No, no… it would be strange, wouldn’t it?” he murmured, his eyes carefully analyzing every expression on A-Yuan’s face. “They will end up meeting on their own, if Shen Qingqiu decides to accept him into his peak. That is… if he is capable of being selected.”

“I will!” A-Yuan declared with sudden excitement. He was already on his feet before anyone noticed, brimming with energy; even the bandages on his body seemed to follow the movement, reminding them that this vitality came mixed with recent wounds.

Yue Qingyuan could not contain a slight smile.

Seeing the child so ready, so confident, was a relief, and a quiet satisfaction filled his chest. At least, he thought, there was hope that he would find a place among them.

A-Yuan quickly bent down to recover the book he had dropped, hugging it against his chest with almost excessive care, as if trying to apologize for the mishap, as if fearing the object could also judge him.

When he straightened up, he noticed the eyes fixed on him, and in an instant, a blush rose to his face. He flushed intensely, shrinking into his seat until he almost disappeared. His fingers pressed the cover tightly, turning the book into a shield, a fragile barrier between himself and the world watching him.

Shang Qinghua, on the other hand, did not miss the chance to chuckle softly, muffling the sound in his sleeve.

The laughter was not mocking, but carried a hint of relief, as if that human, trivial gesture from A-Yuan were a breath of normality amidst everything.

He even seemed inclined to make some witty remark, but restrained himself upon noticing the boy’s intense blush.

A-Yuan cast him an almost offended look, his lips curving as if he would protest… but he held back, biting his own tongue. The redness on his face only deepened, and he sank further against the backrest, defeated by his own embarrassment.

Yue Qingyuan observed the scene in silence, once again satisfied. Despite all the turmoil, there was a comforting naturalness there: Shang Qinghua laughing, A-Yuan blushing, and for a brief moment it seemed they were all part of a real family.

It was somewhat enviable.

Shang Qinghua had two children, biological or not, whom he cared for in his own way, even if he did not show it openly.

Both children, Yue believed, would go far in the sect, with or without An Ding’s protection. That encouraged him, even if there was a trace of quiet envy in his chest.

And now even his Xiao Jiu had, in a way, a family member. Things were changing.

And Yue Qingyuan was left alone.

He rose slowly, feeling the weight of the prolonged conversation. Shang Qinghua immediately accompanied him, out of respect.

“Zhangmen-shixiong?” he murmured, and A-Yuan, still seated, bowed in reverence without standing or speaking.

“I think I had better leave,” Yue Qingyuan said, his voice low, heavy with weariness.

He took a few steps toward the door but turned back before leaving.

He did not say anything right away, only kept his gaze fixed on Shang Qinghua.

The Lord of An Ding met his stare without blinking, his expression suddenly worried.

Yue Qingyuan sighed. He felt in his bones the need for rest, but there were still matters he could not postpone.

“Do you intend to send a letter to Shen Qingqiu about the child?” he asked, keeping his tone controlled so as not to alarm A-Yuan, who finally seemed comfortable with his presence.

The silence that followed was almost heavy.

Shang Qinghua averted his eyes, as if calculating every word before letting it escape. At last, he shook his head.

“No. It would be better if we talked about it in person.”

Yue Qingyuan nodded, but did not relax.

He knew Xiao Jiu well, thought he knew, and knew how he would react if he saw the child without prior warning.

Perhaps it would be even worse than his own initial surprise.

Shen Qingqiu no longer had the health he once did, his constitution had grown more fragile in recent years, and Mu Qingfang was not always around to support him, not as coincidentally present as he had been that afternoon for Yue Qingyuan. It was not worth the risk.

“I agree it is not appropriate,” he said quietly, his voice firm despite the fatigue. “But I will prepare Xiao Jiu myself. I will speak to him about the child before the news reaches him through other mouths.”

“There is no need, Zhangmen-shixiong,” Shang Qinghua replied formally, walking with him toward the corridor.

Yue Qingyuan cast him a brief but firm glance, steady and attentive.

"I owe," he said, the certainty in his voice leaving no room for contradiction, both firm and calm at the same time.

A-Yuan waved timidly as Yue Qingyuan bid farewell, and the warmth in the child’s voice surprised even himself.

A blush rose to the child’s cheeks, almost making him hide his face behind the book.

There was something painfully familiar in that simple gesture. It reminded Yue of Xiao Jiu, back when they had still been brothers, yet it was unmistakably different from anything Shen Qingqiu had ever shown him.

With such a simple action, the child seemed genuinely happy to have met him, free from fear, without reserve, and even carrying a hint of excitement. Shen Qingqiu had never offered anything like that, only frustration, anger, and contempt.

Shang Qinghua remained utterly silent, only bowing slightly, eyes lowered in respect. Yue Qingyuan could not decipher the emotions hidden behind that quiet posture, and perhaps it was better not to try.

The silence in the room became almost tangible, heavy with unspoken meaning.

Yue Qingyuan’s gaze lingered on the child, who waved again, shy and hesitant, before returning his attention to Shang Qinghua.

A slow, deliberate sigh escaped Yue Qingyuan, and he moved forward with carefully measured steps, each one deliberate yet gentle.

His hand came to rest lightly on Shang Qinghua’s head, a gesture simple in appearance, yet charged with memories, stories, and unspoken feelings, feelings that Shang Qinghua would never fully comprehend.

The difference in height forced Shang Qinghua to raise his eyes, and they shone with a mix of insecurity and apprehension, as if he feared that Yue Qingyuan might, at any moment, decide to expel him from the sect. For a fleeting instant, Yue Qingyuan simply studied him, as if trying to reconcile the image of the young disciple he had once known with the man who now stood before him.

He had never paid such attention to Shang Qinghua before, nor to any of his other martial brothers. His focus had always been entirely on Shen Qingqiu, absorbed in the details of the master and blind to the small presences around him.

Now, facing that hesitant gaze awakened a complex, confusing stir within him, a mixture of curiosity, guilt, and something he could not name. He did not know what it was, and perhaps he never would.

With almost imperceptible delicacy, Yue Qingyuan’s fingers moved to Shang Qinghua’s cheek.

The caress was brief, yet it carried a weight that seemed to ripple through the air around them, breaking the silence with an intimacy that felt almost forbidden.

Shang Qinghua shivered slightly, a reaction that went unnoticed by no one, his frame tense yet unmoving, caught between surprise and something else he could not yet identify.

Yue Qingyuan’s voice followed, low and contemplative, almost a whisper,

"I will return in a few days. I hope to be welcomed once more."

Shang Qinghua swallowed hard, his throat dry, unable to sustain the intensity of that gaze. A slight nod was all he could offer, his smaller frame made all the more apparent against Yue Qingyuan’s imposing presence.

When Yue Qingyuan finally withdrew his hand, he did so slowly, as if reluctant to release what he had just held. His presence lingered in the room, an echo of warmth, attention, and unspoken emotion.

Shang Qinghua kept his eyes lowered, carrying quietly within himself the whirlwind that Yue Qingyuan, without meaning to, had stirred.

Chapter Text

Wei Qingwei watched Shang Qinghua, deeply flushed, staggering toward the door of his own leisure house. He had brought him there by sword, since his shidi was in no condition to fly on his own.

They had drunk a few cups of wine from the special cellar because Shang Qinghua needed it. He was, proudly, the father of not one but two children, though he denied that either of them were his.

Shang Qinghua was a peculiar kind of person, torn between contradictions that no one seemed able to fully decipher.

At times he spoke with a sparkle in his eyes about how happy he was to see his son well cared for at Qing Jing Peak, about how Shen Qingqiu acted so differently than expected with the boy in his peak. At other times he vehemently denied any kinship with Luo Binghe, insisting he knew nothing beyond the boy’s name.

But he knew.

Wei Qingwei had heard, more than once over the years, Shang Qinghua casually mention details that only a father could remember. He spoke of the approaching birthday, of the harsh winter when Luo Binghe was born, of the luck that the child had not succumbed to what he called hypothermia, and of how fortune had followed him since birth even if he did not notice. Every word made clear that the knowledge came from an intimate place, not from spying.

Wei Qingwei also knew that Shang Qinghua did not rely only on distance.

He kept spies scattered throughout Qing Jing Peak, discreet, invisible, yet always alert.

With Shen Qingqiu’s silent support, who had been informed about these spies from the beginning to avoid future repercussions, those hidden eyes followed Luo Binghe’s every step, ensuring he was safe, fed, and happy.

Some disciples even left small gifts along the boy’s path, wrapped sweets, delicate brushes, hair ornaments, always anonymously, as if they were mere coincidences.

But Wei Qingwei knew that nothing on Cang Qiong Mountain was coincidence when it came to Shang Qinghua.

It was the kind of discreet gesture that revealed an invisible web of protection, an affection that Shang Qinghua did not dare claim aloud but that spread through other people’s hands, carefully orchestrated.

Everything Shang Qinghua did was dangerously orchestrated.

Luo Binghe grew up unaware of how deeply he was loved by the one who insisted on remaining in the shadows.

And Wei Qingwei was certain that Shang Qinghua had an explanation, a greater reason, for stifling what his heart screamed in silence. Still, the doubt lingered. Perhaps the secret was not only about the child but about Shang Qinghua himself.

Perhaps hiding the bond was the only way to protect him from a worse fate.

After all, no one could predict how the other sects would react upon learning that a Peak Lord had a child. And worse, what demons would do with such precious information.

In the end, it was a logical calculation.

A Peak Lord with descendants was more than a personal matter; it was a political weakness. It would raise suspicion, open breaches, destabilize fragile alliances, and above all, become an irresistible weapon for blackmail.

On Cang Qiong Mountain, every disciple carried a target from the moment they were accepted. If kinship came to light, it would not only be a risk; it would be a sentence.

Wei Qingwei knew this.

Even though the Peak Lords had strategies to keep the child safe, even if it was not necessary.

But Shang Qinghua stood outside those strategies.

He did not participate in the meetings held over the past four years about him and Luo Binghe.

And now, ironically, fate had placed another child in his arms, Shen Yuan, A-Yuan, the so-called “Cucumber” whom he had sworn to himself he would never meet in that world, but who, against all logic, seemed happy to have found him. He thought it a divine gift to ease his loneliness or a punishment for sins from a previous life.

Shang Qinghua himself felt confused at the thought of taking in a child, practically an adolescent, who already seemed to know everything and was more than ready to complain about it all

He called himself Fùqīn Airplane because, he said, Shen Yuan had provocatively called him that in the first few days, laughing at his horrified expression, and the pronunciation still sent shivers down his spine. He was dissatisfied with how rude and ill-suited it sounded given their relationship, which according to him was more like distant cousins or martial uncle and nephew.

The name sounded ridiculous in his mouth, absurd, and he was not ready to be called that by an irritable teenager, probably, Wei Qingwei supposed, because his own biological son was barely twelve and had never called him papa, and even less was Shang Qinghua ready to shoulder the responsibility he carried.

To anyone who would listen, he repeated that the child did not like him, that he was dissatisfied with the whole story, that there was no affection involved.

He constantly added, almost as justification, that if Shen Yuan had not been from the same village where he was born, the boy would not have understood the dialect he spoke when he was in the small village where he found him and would not have approached him in the same dialect, surprised and almost moved to meet someone who understood him.

Shang Qinghua had also been moved, he admitted to Wei Qingwei, after all, he had never heard anyone else speak that dialect again and thought himself the only one in the world who knew it.

Wei Qingwei found it an exaggeration but said nothing.

After all, his shidi seemed too sad when making that remark, almost wounded by the possibility of being the last living person from wherever he was born, and Wei Qingwei was glad there was someone his shidi could identify with, even if it was a child.

Saying that Shen Yuan did not like him was a kind of defense, a way to believe that no child would ever like him as a fatherly or familial figure, a way to maintain emotional distance, to protect himself from vulnerability, and probably to blame himself less for having abandoned Luo Binghe.

But it was a lie.

A lie so clear that, in rare moments of honesty with himself, Shang Qinghua could not deny it: there was a bond there, strong and silent, even if he was not yet ready to admit it and even if he and the boy had just met.

Wei Qingwei had had the pleasure of seeing Shen Yuan twice since he arrived at the sect at the beginning of that month, and in both cases, although he sometimes cast hateful looks at Shang Qinghua, he always appeared more than happy in his presence.

The two of them talked eagerly, seemed to get along well despite the striking difference in age between them.

Shang Qinghua was the parental type, no matter how unaware he was of his own actions, teaching A-Yuan at every moment and laughing at his complaints.

Shen Yuan seemed lost, like a child truly from the streets, but he adapted quickly.

He was quiet, attentive, a true Shen, if the name was correct. He did not seem like a Shang, not like Luo Binghe, who had inherited his father’s features even if the so-called father refused to see any resemblance. But his tastes and the way he spoke of things were completely Shang Qinghua’s.

The same stammer when realizing he had said too much, the same distant gaze fixed on nothing as if something were watching him or speaking to him.

“Shang Qinghua, careful,” murmured Wei Qingwei, holding him firmly by the waist when he nearly toppled to the side because his knee gave out. Shang Qinghua turned instinctively in his arms, his hands pressed against Wei Qingwei’s chest, a gesture that, though common, carried a subtle intimacy.

He spread his hand to balance himself, and Wei Qingwei could not help but notice the heat radiating from him, the faint scent of wine mixed with Shang Qinghua’s natural aroma, intoxicating in an almost cruel way.

“I’m drunk, Shixiong,” Shang Qinghua remarked, with a half-smile, half-intoxicated, deliberately ignoring that Wei Qingwei already knew.

Every word, every gesture, seemed calculated to produce that effect: close enough to feel, yet distant enough to provoke interest.

That was the Shang Qinghua effect.

Wei Qingwei suppressed a laugh.

Wei Qingwei knew he could purify the alcohol with a breath of qi and restore clarity to his shidi’s body, but he did not, after all, what would be the fun of drinking only to be completely sober two seconds later?

Shang Qinghua could have sobered up if he wanted to, but he did not. He preferred to enjoy the moment of intoxication.

Part of him wanted to watch Shang Qinghua in this vulnerable state, teetering at his own limits, breathing unevenly, muscles tense beneath the layer of self-defense.

It was almost seductive to see him like that: human, confused, stripped of the practical and insecure mask he wore before the entire sect.

“I know, Shidi, that’s why I brought you home,” Wei Qingwei said, placing his hand on the door.

“And you didn’t let me sleep at your house this time?” Shang Qinghua pouted like a child, almost comically, his eyes sparkling with a mix of petulance and challenge.

Wei Qingwei let out a low, restrained laugh, full of amusement.

He would not comment on Shang Qinghua’s transparent anguish at the idea of spending another night away from his own peak.

Nor on the almost desperate haste with which he had tried to mount his sword to fly away as soon as he noticed the Moon already high in the sky, even before leaving the living room.

It was the first time he had left A-Yuan alone since the boy’s arrival, and Shang Qinghua appeared more worried than he wanted to admit.

Shang Qinghua did not fear that the child would set the house on fire, but that, without company, he would feel lost. According to him, his young “cucumber” was so small that his mentality could only match his age, therefore, he was nothing more than a child.

To Wei Qingwei, that logic bordered on the absurd; of course a child would have the mentality of a child.

But Shang Qinghua seemed genuinely impressed by the obvious, as if the mere realization that Shen Yuan behaved like a child was overwhelming for him.

His anxiety increased when Wei Qingwei remarked, almost in passing, that many children spent days alone while their parents worked, and that a few hours without supervision would not be a problem.

Shang Qinghua’s expression then darkened even more. He could only think whether the disciples had truly delivered the promised meal, whether they had kept the boy company, whether A-Yuan had noticed and suffered from his absence.

It was hard to believe the boy had not felt the delay. Hard to imagine he had not been upset.

Parental instinct. That was how Wei Qingwei defined it.

Even in the face of all of Shang Qinghua’s denials, there was no ignoring the evident truth.

“You don’t like sleeping in my guest room,” Wei Qingwei said to steer the conversation.

Shang Qinghua snorted.

“We could sleep together, your bed is huge, like you,” he said confusedly, seeming to miss the double meaning in his sentence.

Wei Qingwei found himself smiling.

“Teasing… have you forgotten that you dismissed me once, shidi?” he calmly reminded him.

Referencing the episode when Shang Qinghua had complained about never being desired, and Wei Qingwei, lightly, had offered himself as company for more than one lonely night, only to be laughed at and dismissed as an absurd joke.

Shang Qinghua had a unique talent for failing to realize that, even with exchanged kisses and clear signs of affection from Wei Qingwei or other Peak Lords, people were truly interested in him.

Shang Qinghua snorted, blushing to the tips of his ears, eyes half-closed as if hiding behind his own indignation.

“Don’t be malicious. I was just talking about sleeping.”

“Hm.” Wei Qingwei raised an eyebrow, his gaze ambiguous, playful and perceptive at the same time.

Before he could turn the doorknob, the door suddenly opened. On the threshold, Shen Yuan was watching them.

His eyes, too big for his age, were attentive and silent, filled with a mix of fear, curiosity, and disapproval.

His straight hair was loose and fell down his back, and the simple inner robes suggested he was probably ready for bed, but could not sleep.

His expression revealed that he had been awake, waiting for Shang Qinghua to come home.

Perhaps he could not sleep alone at home, and maybe Shang Qinghua’s concern was justified.

The impact of his presence was immediate. Wei Qingwei straightened instinctively, realizing that Shen Yuan was observing every gesture, every exchanged expression between the two.

The air in the room seemed more restrained, but not heavy, only filled with silent and curious anticipation.

The boy first looked at Shang Qinghua, evaluating him as if seeking answers, and then at Wei Qingwei.

At that moment, Wei Qingwei’s heart quickened, not because of the boy, but because of the awareness of the proximity to his shidi.

The warmth of Shang Qinghua’s body against his, the fragile balance sustained without words, conveyed something no dialogue could express, a silent request for support that Wei Qingwei immediately felt.

Shen Yuan, with his childish seriousness, reminded him of a small replica of Shen Qingqiu. But there was something more: the intact candor, the innocence that softened any hardness.

“A-Yuan, how are you tonight?” Wei Qingwei asked, trying to sound casual. But the boy’s gaze, intense and almost accusatory, reminded him that nothing escaped the notice of an attentive child.

“Tonight was quiet, Shifu, and very long… I thought you were going to have tea,” he replied calmly, his voice carrying a subtle tone of reproach, almost accusatory, as if judging the adults for their lack of care.

Wei Qingwei wanted to laugh but restrained himself. Any exaggerated gesture would be immediately noticed by the boy, who seemed to assume a role as protector of Shang Qinghua.

There was something in Shen Yuan that reminded him of Shen Qingqiu in his most direct and incisive form: the ability to criticize without beating around the bush, even at such a young age.

Shang Qinghua, on the other hand, could not contain himself: an involuntary smile escaped his lips, distracted, as he watched Shen Yuan’s reaction.

Wei Qingwei held his shidi by the waist, feeling every tense muscle beneath the clothes, the warmth spreading slowly, the uneven breathing that betrayed vulnerability.

Every gesture, the hand resting lightly on his chest, the subtle lean of the body, the brief moment of weakness lasting seconds, provoked an almost physical response in Wei Qingwei, a silent and urgent magnetism.

Shen Yuan remained in the doorway, attentive to every detail: the way Wei Qingwei kept Shang Qinghua close, the slight imbalance of his shidi from the alcohol, the way each action seemed laden with meaning, meanings the boy tried to understand but also to disrupt. A disapproving murmur escaped his throat, curious and silent.

“Ah, Cucumber, a good cup of tea always becomes a fine wine with such good company as Wei-shixiong,” Shang Qinghua said, trying to break the tension. He winked at Wei Qingwei, who smiled, pretending not to notice the subtle twitch of Shen Yuan’s eyelid.

The boy stood still, eyes fixed and wary. Every lean of Shang Qinghua toward Wei Qingwei seemed to provoke a silent readiness in Shen Yuan, as if he were about to pull his father from the other’s arms.

It was a kind of jealousy, but also care, an almost tangible vigilance that made Shang Qinghua marvel.

With a light, almost theatrical gesture, Shang Qinghua freed himself from Wei Qingwei’s arms, leaving trails of warmth and the familiar scent of wine mixed with his subtle perfume.

Wei Qingwei felt his heart quicken for a moment, understanding the silent dance between his shidi and the small observer, each assuming their role in that game of attention.

Fearing that Shang Qinghua might stagger again, Wei Qingwei stayed firm and took a step forward, but Shang Qinghua rested his hand on his arm, balanced and preventing him from moving further.

It was as if his qi had burned off the alcohol as soon as he saw his adopted son.

“Don’t look at me like that, A-Yuan. Sometimes you call me by nickname too,” Shang Qinghua murmured to the boy, his low voice warm, almost a whisper that Wei Qingwei felt vibrate in his chest.

“Always alone, Shang Qinghua,” the boy replied, firm and direct, without formalities or titles.

Just direct, honest.

Wei Qingwei followed every tilt of Shang Qinghua’s body, the subtle way he approached Shen Yuan as they exchanged nearly inaudible whispers.

The boy uncrossed his arms and stepped forward, supporting Shang Qinghua who leaned slightly toward him. Wei Qingwei finally stepped back, yielding space, allowing Shen Yuan to take an active role in the care.

Every sigh from A-Yuan drew soft giggles from Shang Qinghua, sounds that echoed through the entrance and unexpectedly tightened Wei Qingwei’s chest.

“Wei-shixiong, thank you for the company and for helping me get home,” Shang Qinghua said, beside Shen Yuan, his arm resting on the boy’s shoulders.

“Thank you for bringing him, Shifu,” the boy replied, firm, without bowing, with a hint of displeasure that did not hide his sincerity.

“You’re welcome,” Wei Qingwei said, almost unnecessarily.

Shang Qinghua smiled at him.

“My kid was worried about me, wasn’t he? Next time, we’ll let him know we’ll be late, right, Wei-shixiong? I don’t want him thinking too much.” Shang Qinghua spoke with a touch of humor, as if trying to disguise his own intoxication with grace.

Wei Qingwei smiled; it seemed his shidi had not completely burned off the alcohol yet, but he was already assuming responsibilities that would not belong to him under other circumstances.

My kid, Wei Qingwei’s mind said, amused.

And yet, there, in front of the child who huffed and poked his ribs mischievously but never let go, it seemed natural. The child did not hide the satisfaction of having him back.

They disappeared into the room as soon as the door closed, leaving behind only the muffled trail of childish voices and soft laughter.

Wei Qingwei stood still, eyes fixed on the wooden door, as if he could still see through it. The warmth of Shang Qinghua’s body lingered in his memory, imprinted on his arms like a mark. His scent insisted on sticking in his mind, intimate and persistent.

A low laugh escaped his lips, carrying a strange mix of tenderness and surprise. Seeing that shidi he had always admired, now so close, not just alone, but as a father, father and son side by side, against all expectations.

And yet, it was impossible not to feel that this, in some silent and secret way, was exactly how it should be.

Chapter Text

Liu Qingge blinked, watching the boy asleep, leaning against Shang Qinghua’s arm.

He had spent the last month on a hunt for a beast in a village further south, not a request from the sect, just a coincidence of timing and proximity. He had decided to help the villagers, who on their own couldn’t handle such a simple creature.

Disappointing, Liu Qingge thought, but not everyone was immortal; not everyone understood the need to train in order to defend their lands.

Upon his return, he was met with an overwhelming wave of excitement: disciples running, gesturing, shouting that Shang Qinghua had taken in a son.

Liu Qingge snorted, feeling a mix of disdain and fatigue rise. It was no surprise; he already knew the boy, having encountered him in Qing Jing several times, even taking on the responsibility of teaching him.

A promising young man, certainly capable of going far, if Shen Qingqiu devoted more effort to his education and discipline.

As he listened to the endless chatter, his sense of frustration grew.

The disciples should have been training, refining their skills, not wasting time on gossip and speculation as if they were spoiled young masters instead of warriors. The noise around him weighed on his ears, as if draining his energy, diverting attention from what truly mattered: cultivation, effort, constant practice.

Then, a simple phrase cut through the chaos:

“A-Yuan is very handsome, shizun.”

Mei Lihua’s tiny voice sounded small and innocent, yet for a moment, Liu Qingge felt the world go silent.

“Who?” he asked, frowning, confused.

The disciple blinked, blushing slightly, and smiled shyly, trying to organize her words.

Mei Lihua was small, delicate, with black hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders and large, curious eyes that seemed to constantly scan the environment for something new.

Her upright posture, despite her shyness, showed discipline and attention, while her interlaced fingers revealed a hint of nervousness. She was young, one of the last to arrive in previous years, yet she already proved herself a formidable fighter, able to take down any of her peers her age, though she was also easy to knock down.

“A-Yuan shidi, son of Shang Qinghua shishu,” she began to explain, even though the sentence didn’t make much sense.

Liu Qingge raised an eyebrow, almost certain that Shang Qinghua’s son was named Luo Binghe, not A-Yuan.

The strange name, spoken with such conviction, made his thoughts spin in circles.

As the other disciples continued to chatter or whisper, distracted from training, he sighed silently, feeling a pang of frustration.

Yet even so, little Mei Lihua, with her naive sincerity, managed, without realizing it, to draw an attention from him that he didn’t know if he wanted to grant.

“Who is that?” he asked, frowning.

"Shang Shishu brought the boy at the beginning of the month. No one knows exactly from where. But Mu Qingfang visits him frequently now, almost every day… and even Yue Qingyuan has been there. We haven’t heard any decent news, Shizun."

The speaker was a disciple a few years older than Mei Lihua. He kept his arms crossed and his expression slightly stern, as if expecting an immediate reaction from Liu Qingge.

Liu Qingge, however, just stared at him in silence.

Deep down, he was already certain: that boy would become his future head disciple if he continued to show such composure and organization.

Still, his thoughts did not settle on the young boy.

They inevitably drifted to Shang Qinghua.

Mu Qingfang frequenting An Ding was not exactly news. For some reason incomprehensible to the other Peak Lords, the two had cultivated a strange routine of tea and snacks.

It was said that Mu Qingfang treated it almost as a personal mission: to pull Shang Qinghua away from his desk and force him to take breaks in her affectionate and slightly too paternal company, under the innocent pretense of sharing a cup.

But almost every day? Where did they find the time?

And now… this detail.

Shang Shishu brought the boy…

Liu Qingge’s mind spun around the words again.

So it wasn’t the boy from Qing Jing.

Luo Binghe had already been part of the sect for some time.

Another boy. Another secret.

Shang Qinghua… and a new child?

What, in heaven’s name, was happening in An Ding?

Liu Qingge let out a sigh, dismissing the disciples, and threw his sword to the ground, heading toward An Ding.

Shang Qinghua’s office was easier to access than his shixiong’s leisure house, so he went there, which would lead him to a scene that would haunt him for several days.

Upon reaching the entrance, his heart beat faster than he would have liked to admit. Shang Qinghua was seated at the table, slightly leaning to the left, his long hair tied up, to Liu Qingge’s complete dismay, who could only lament. He was writing with a beautiful brush, a gift from Liu Qingge himself, gliding the soft tip over the scroll with absolute focus.

It was not an uncommon sight: Shang Qinghua was a workaholic and rarely took a break, not even for training, as he so desperately needed. But there was something in this scene that stood out.

Focused on his writing, meticulous and absorbed in the scroll before him, each brushstroke seemed to carry the weight of everything he was.

Yet, something did not fit.

A young child, with a pale, delicate, handsome face and long brown hair, sat in the chair beside him, curled up in a small space and leaning on Shang Qinghua’s shoulder, resting unabashedly on the An Ding Peak Lord’s arm, which he didn’t seem to mind.

The child was unknown.

And yet, Liu Qingge recognized familiar features. That child was not Shang Qinghua’s.

The boy beside him was at once strange and familiar. The handsome face, the delicate paleness, the long brown hair, the curled posture leaning on Shang Qinghua’s arm…

Liu Qingge felt a silent shock run through his chest.

It wasn’t Luo Binghe. Then who was he? How had that boy entered Shang Qinghua’s life?

Another son?

Shang Qinghua didn’t even seem interested in women, yet it shouldn’t be difficult for him to get involved with someone given his own attractive appearance.

But to be careless enough to start having children around?

That wasn’t his style.

His mind spun in circles. Shang Qinghua brought another child and kept him so close?

Without warning, without explanation?

The child seemed at ease, as if he belonged in that space given his comfort, and Shang Qinghua, calm and serene, showed no concern, no discipline, no tension, nothing to justify the silent alarm Liu Qingge felt.

He wanted to step forward, ask, demand answers, but something held him back.

It was Shang Qinghua’s absolute calm, the almost casual gesture of resting a hand on the boy’s arm, the quiet patience that radiated from him.

Liu Qingge knew this was not an ordinary scene, and it irritated, fascinated, and frightened him all at once.

It was all too paternal for his taste.

Liu Qingge’s heart beat faster when Shang Qinghua, noticing his presence, lifted his bright eyes and called softly:

“Shidi.”

The gesture of bringing a hand to his lips, asking for silence, seemed simple, yet carried a warning: this was no time for haste, nor for judgment.

The child stirred but remained asleep. Liu Qingge swallowed hard. Curiosity and tension mixed with irritation and concern. Something was changing in An Ding, and he still didn’t know exactly what.

But one thing was certain: that small, delicate, unexpected presence would change much of what he thought he knew about Shang Qinghua and about the Peak itself.

Liu Qingge turned and left without a second thought. He didn’t want to get involved any further.

But… he paused at the door. Something made him look back.

On the other side of the room, Shang Qinghua was moving away from the child naturally.

Perhaps that really was A-Yuan?

Liu Qingge narrowed his eyes, watching the boy being settled against the arm of the chair, letting out a small complaint, distracted.

He didn’t notice the absence of the man, who was already circling the table with surprising agility.

Shang Qinghua wore a light yellow robe, elegant without exaggeration.

The color highlighted his bright eyes and fuller body, a visible result of the past few years. He had gained a few pounds, not from negligence, but from health.

Liu Qingge remembered that Mu Qingfang had implemented a new dietary plan throughout the sect, paying special attention to An Ding and Bai Zhan Peaks, where physical labor and intense training left disciples too exhausted to maintain a proper diet.

Even he, Liu Qingge, had received a list of recommendations on what to eat and avoid.

He never followed it to the letter, preferring the ready rations he used on long journeys. But he couldn’t deny that many had improved since then, Shang Qinghua included.

The man stopped in front of him, in the doorway.

He looked at him calmly, without hurry, and made a simple gesture, pointing outside the office.

Liu Qingge hesitated… but obeyed.

He didn’t know why he was following the order to remain silent, nor why he went along almost voluntaril.

He only knew his body reacted automatically, and it would feel wrong to break that moment.

They walked in silence to the end of the corridor. Only then, outside the office and already distant from the child, Shang Qinghua stopped in front of a wall decorated with a strange painting, red flowers painted irregularly.

It looked more like the work of a child’s hand than a piece of art, though Liu Qingge didn’t dare comment.

“Who is the boy?” Liu Qingge asked almost automatically, frowning.

Shang Qinghua turned slowly, sighing as if carrying a weight he had no strength to put down.

“It’s complicated.”

“Is he Shen Qingqiu’s?” the conclusion came quickly, sharply, almost like an accusation.

Shang Qinghua blinked, the gesture dry and somewhat awkward, reminiscent of the white owls that lived further north.

For a moment, the Lord of An Ding seemed at a loss for words. He just shook his head.

“No. He isn’t.”

“Nonsense.” Liu Qingge crossed his arms, disbelief written across his face.

The child, A-Yuan. The same eye shape, the same curve of the mouth. The resemblance to Shen Qingqiu was striking. If Liu Qingge leaned just a little closer, he would be certain.

“It’s the truth, Shidi. They are not father and son,” Shang Qinghua’s voice came low, patient, but firm.

“Don’t cover for someone else’s bastard, Shang Qinghua. You’re better than that. Better than that… immoral one.”

Shang Qinghua’s expression shifted. For an instant, a flash of guilt crossed his face before giving way to frustration and offense. He shook his head, almost pleading.

“Shidi! You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I don’t need to know.” Liu Qingge retorted sharply. “Shen Qingqiu has a bastard which is his copy. Of course he’s despicable.”

But his firmness crumbled the instant he saw Shang Qinghua lower his face, devastated, as if the words had struck deeper than intended.

Regret came immediately, though lodged in his throat.

Luo Binghe.

Shang Qinghua’s son.

The memory hit him like a blade. If that boy in Qing Jing was Shang Qinghua’s son, then…

Shang Qinghua was hiding a bastard too?

And Shen Qingqiu, perhaps, was covering for his own?

The pieces began to fall into increasingly twisted assumptions.

Liu Qingge felt the impulse to apologize, but Shang Qinghua spoke first, his voice heavy with exhaustion.

“I… have already let this go too far.” It was almost a confession to himself.

Shang Qinghua lifted his eyes, meeting the Shidi’s gaze.

“Liu Qingge, stop speaking about Shen Qingqiu like that. He is your superior in the order of Peaks. And don’t make that face, as if he doesn’t deserve your respect. You know nothing about him. You don’t know the life he’s had, nor how much he fought to get here. Everything you think is nothing but assumptions, malicious rumors you never bothered to verify.”

Shang Qinghua’s voice hardened, as if each word were a defense not only of Shen Qingqiu, but of himself.

“For someone who cares so much about morality, you should learn to seek the truth before accusing others of immorality or of having bastard children. Shen Qingqiu is not like that. He would never have a child and hide it. He is better than most of us. Even better than me. Better than you.”

Liu Qingge closed his mouth, as if the words had dried on his tongue. He rarely backed down before anyone, but the seriousness in Shang Qinghua forced him to step back, not physically, but silently, a retreat that felt unfamiliar.

Shang Qinghua always spoke a lot. Talkative by nature, full of justifications, nervous laughter, and detours.

But not like this. Not so firm, not so serious.

Not with that hidden pain in his tone, as if he carried alone the guilt that did not belong to him. As if he were the defendant on trial, not a mere observer.

This fissure confused Liu Qingge.

Shang Qinghua’s words reverberated within him, forcing him to look inward.

In recent years, how many times had he accepted rumors as truths?

Shen Qingqiu, the cold Shixiong, sharp-eyed and with a killer instinct.

Yes, Liu Qingge knew this side, but how many of the harshest accusations had he actually witnessed?

How many were just whispers repeated until they became certainties?

Words often amplified by his own martial brothers who invented their own truths and created multiple perceptions about everything?

Liu Qingge remembered the past, disciples whispering about Shang Qinghua: lazy, idle, cowardly. He himself had used many of them.

He himself had spread them to his disciples, until he began to know his martial brother better and saw that he simply had his own ways and habits.

And yet, there he was, the same man, staying up nights to keep reports in order, going without food for weeks while practicing inedia, managing the sect’s logistics with a precision no one else dared assume, not even Zhangmen-shixiong.

For the first time in a long while, Liu Qingge felt the weight of his own negligence.

Shang Qinghua’s words echoed like a reprimand, not only against him, but against the very way he had been choosing to see people. And for some reason, that cut deeper than he wanted to admit.

The silence between them stretched, heavy, until Shang Qinghua let out a sigh and brought a hand to the nape of his neck, as if trying to undo the knot he had just created. The stiffness in his voice dissolved, and he spoke more quietly:

“Sorry, Shidi. I shouldn’t have spoken like that.” Shang Qinghua forced a tired smile, but the light didn’t reach his eyes. “The past few weeks have been… complicated. I’ve been tired, that’s all. I got carried away.”

He took a deep breath, trying to align his thoughts.

“I don’t think I was wrong in what I said, but maybe the way…” He shook his head, resigned. “It’s just… Shen Qingqiu is a good person. Much better than people make him out to be. He deserves a chance, you understand? A chance to be seen for who he really is.”

Shang Qinghua looked away, as if sustaining the intensity of what he was saying was difficult. Then he softened his tone even more.

“And the child… A-Yuan.” The name came carefully, almost tenderly. “He’s a wonderful boy. He doesn’t deserve to be dragged into rumors that have nothing to do with him. He’s adjusting to the sect, making an effort. All he needs now is peace and quiet.”

There was a brief pause, and Shang Qinghua pressed his lips together before adding quietly:

“He deserves to grow up free from this kind of shadow.”

Liu Qingge remained silent for a few moments, digesting everything. Shang Qinghua’s unexpected firmness, the defense of Shen Qingqiu, the care for the child. It was as if each word had chipped away at the wall of certainties he had built around himself over the years.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was lower than usual, almost timid for the God of War of Bai Zhan:

“So… you intend to adopt him as a disciple? Since he isn’t your son…”

Shang Qinghua sighed, his shoulders dropping in a gesture of exhaustion. He looked around the room for a few seconds, uneasy.

“These are not things I decide alone, Shidi,” he said, staring into the void for a moment. “But Yue Qingyuan has already allowed A-Yuan to be here. And that… that is what really matters.”

He ran a hand over his eyes, as if brushing away fatigue, and met Liu Qingge’s gaze again.

“The rest, we’ll see with time.”

Liu Qingge nodded, without argument. The answer wasn’t exactly what he wanted to hear, but there was a firmness there that made him accept it. For the first time in a long time, he felt less inclined to contest and more willing to observe.

Chapter Text

Shen Qingqiu regretted entering Shang Qinghua’s leisure house the moment he crossed the door, with Luo Binghe nearly stumbling behind him.

The bitter remark burning at the tip of his tongue dissolved when he realized Shang Qinghua was not there, and the door he had pushed slammed against the wall with a muffled thud. His eyes quickly fixed on a frightened boy, sitting high on the kitchen counter, motionless and tense.

He was a thin boy, wearing a simple yellow robe typical of An Ding disciples, which accentuated the delicate structure of his tall, slender body.

The boy’s green eyes gleamed, wide with astonishment, and Shen Qingqiu felt an almost physical jolt, as if he were looking into a mirror and seeing a younger version of himself, a version he would rather forget forever.

The sensation rooted him in place, a subtle tightening in his chest, nearly suffocating.

“Who are you?” Shen Qingqiu’s voice came out louder and sharper than he intended.

Luo Binghe, at his side, halted abruptly, nearly losing his balance, and his eyes gleamed strangely toward the stranger, reflecting an interest Shen Qingqiu could not immediately decipher.

As Shen Qingqiu struggled to keep focus, the boy leapt from the counter where he never should have climbed in the first place, moving with the lightness of someone always ready to react to sudden movements.

Upon landing, he bent slightly in a quick, nervous but controlled gesture, as if the very air carried tension.

The boy’s eyes traced the scene in sequence: first pausing on Shen Qingqiu, then on Luo Binghe, with unmistakable surprise, and finally returning to Shen Qingqiu.

This time, his gaze fixed on him with an almost cruel intensity, heavy with curiosity and distrust.

A few weeks earlier, Yue Qingyuan, the sect leader, had appeared at his house to speak of A-Yuan, the orphan child Shang Qinghua had brought to the mountain.

There were malicious rumors that he was another one of Shang Qinghua’s children, but Yue Qingyuan had assured him he was not.

Shen Qingqiu, however, would not be convinced merely by Yue Qingyuan’s word.

Not after everything. He would only believe it if he saw with his own eyes.

After receiving the news, Shen Qingqiu had planned to go to An Ding Peak as soon as possible, taking Luo Binghe with him.

After all, if Luo Binghe’s own father was adopting another boy, would it not be natural for him to know and meet the new child before everyone else?

To hear directly from Shang Qinghua what was happening, instead of relying on the petty speculations that spread among the others?

With another child in the household, biological or not, one would expect Shang Qinghua to take the chance to also acknowledge Luo Binghe, lifting him from the humiliating position of an unwanted child, a cruel label many would be eager to pin on him if the truth came to light.

Shen Qingqiu would have gone in the first days, but was interrupted by the unexpected visit of Yue Qingyuan, accompanied by Mu Qingfang, whose presence seemed reluctant, though marked by genuine concern.

They appeared unannounced for tea and stayed despite Shen Qingqiu’s veiled reproach, for he considered it discourteous to ignore the proper formalities.

At the time, Yue Qingyuan mentioned he had met A-Yuan and warned that, when Shen Qingqiu saw him, he could easily misinterpret the situation.

Was Shen Qingqiu ready to retort, convinced that Qi Qingqi had been right?

That bitter, hypocritical woman would never miss the chance to throw it in their faces. If they agreed with her now, it would never end: it would only feed her obsession with believing she was never wrong in her twisted, prejudiced ways.

It was then that Yue Qingyuan denied it.

She was, in truth, the one most at fault in that whole story, even without being directly involved. But that was not the point.

The point that unsettled him was the child.

The child did not resemble Shang Qinghua. He resembled him. As if he were his own bastard. That thought alone threw his mind into disarray.

His warm pulse was suddenly restrained by Mu Qingfang’s firm hand, offering silent support and explaining his presence there. Shen Qingqiu felt the confusion grow.

None of it made sense.

Shang Qinghua, who had left the sect without anyone’s knowledge, was now returning with a bastard?

No. He had no bastard.

Never had.

And if by some unfortunate chance he had, he would have acknowledged it. He had no relatives either who might explain such a resemblance.

It could only be a delusion born of Yue Qingyuan’s aging mind. Longing mixed with age brought such illusions.

Yet Mu Qingfang also seemed to notice the resemblance and, unlike Yue Qingyuan, his concern was no mere whim.

Shen Qingqiu could not handle the weight of that silent agreement.

Together they decided it would be better to wait. Not to rush.

Shen Qingqiu was medicated, given teas and recommendations as if he were on the verge of madness. Perhaps he was. But not because of the existence of a child he had never seen. What consumed him was his inability to understand the situation, the bitter taste of uncertainty corroding him from within.

Yue Qingyuan treated him as though he were fragile, as if he would crumble at the first sight of the boy. As if he might drop dead.

At most, Shen Qingqiu knew he would be incredulous.

And indeed, he was incredulous when he finally saw A-Yuan sitting on the counter.

The sensation was like dying in that instant. If not for the revitalizing teas he had been drinking in recent weeks, he might have collapsed entirely.

The boy looked like his copy.

Shen Qingqiu could only hope the child would be less scarred by trauma than he had been.

A-Yuan looked older than Shen Qingqiu himself had been when he arrived at the sect, and healthier than Shen Qingqiu had ever appeared, even after becoming a peak lord.

His eyes were curious, yet there was an innocence in them that surprised him, as if he still believed in hope, as if the future was not only a heavy shadow.

He probably still had that future.

Shen Qingqiu opened his mouth, his voice hesitant.

“A-Yuan, what—”

The silence was cut off by another voice echoing through the corridor. Shang Qinghua appeared at the corner.

His eyes wide, his cheeks pale, his damp curls fell down his back to his waist, far longer than Shen Qingqiu remembered.

He wore two layers of robes, clearly donned in a hurry, given the way the belt at his waist was poorly tied.

It was a pretty shade of light blue, a specific tone uncommon in the region, and Shen Qingqiu would store that thought for later.

The high collar of Shang Qinghua’s robe was left unbuttoned, revealing the handsome skin of his neck he always insisted on hiding.

Shen Qingqiu had never quite understood why Shang Qinghua preferred high collars, but he was not in a position to question it, given the other’s tendency to wear loose, flowing sleeves that gave him agility and concealed many things.

Shang Qinghua carried many secrets, and took care that not all of them were ever uncovered.

Noticing Shen Qingqiu’s presence, Shang Qinghua furrowed his brows slightly, his body tense, almost as if preparing for a silent clash.

“Shixiong!” Shang Qinghua squeaked, his voice heavy with an urgency that bordered on animal.

He stepped further into the room, immediately positioning himself between the child and the visitors, as if he were a living shield.

The gesture was instinctive, protective, and it pained Shen Qingqiu to realize that his shidi seemed to consider, even for an instant, that he could be a threat to a child. That idea stung him in an uncomfortable way, like a thorn lodged somewhere he would rather not examine.

A-Yuan, still half-hidden behind Shang Qinghua’s silhouette, did not look away. He observed Luo Binghe with fierce, calculating attention, as if trying to decipher hidden intentions. From time to time, his gaze flicked from Shang Qinghua to Luo Binghe, silently measuring, comparing their features, perhaps noticing the evident resemblance between father and son.

Luo Binghe, in turn, was not indifferent. He looked at the boy with veiled curiosity, casting discreet glances that nonetheless did not escape Shang Qinghua.

The latter frowned slightly, a muscle tightening in discomfort. Shen Qingqiu felt a hot, unwelcome pang in his chest as he watched, as though the air in the room had grown too heavy.

“What are you doing here, shixiong? I didn’t receive any letter of notice,” Shang Qinghua continued, trying to maintain control of the situation, though his posture betrayed him. Tense shoulders, rigid spine, every muscle stretched taut like a cord about to snap.

Shen Qingqiu had sent no letter. Not this time. Because the one who had needed weeks of preparation to stand here was not Shang Qinghua. It was him.

“Explain yourself.” Shen Qingqiu demanded, his voice firm, steeped in authority. Not a trace of weakness slipped into his tone, even though inside he felt he could falter at any moment.

“Shixiong…” Shang Qinghua murmured, his voice low, almost pleading, laced with nuances only Shen Qingqiu could recognize: a mixture of guilt, repressed affection, and a sudden need for approval.

Shen Qingqiu’s heart tightened, an involuntary urge to reach out, to come closer and strike Shang Qinghua lightly with his fan, but he restrained himself, mindful of the boys’ presence.

Shang Qinghua was irritating that way. Too shy to say what was on his mind, too much of a coward to be honest about what he wanted or felt, so being evasive even about the things he did was just like him.

“Don’t come with this ‘shixiong,’ explain the new boy,” Shen Qingqiu said. After all, being called that way at that moment was a low blow.

Shang Qinghua swallowed hard and dropped his gaze, noticing Luo Binghe there for the first time. His brown irises widened, and he bit his lip in a way that was irritatingly attractive, almost trembling under the weight of Shen Qingqiu’s sharp gaze. A shiver ran down his spine, though he masked it with a deep breath.

“Why— why is Luo Binghe here?” he asked quietly, glancing toward the black-haired child who looked up at hearing his name, practically bouncing with expectation.

“Shouldn’t he be? You have a new child to care for, and he wasn’t even informed of it. None of us were, were we?” Shen Qingqiu’s voice was cold, though his eyes betrayed something else, a restrained warmth, a tension Shang Qinghua caught immediately.

He noticed every movement of his shixiong, every slight inclination of his body, and the blood rushed to his cheeks without warning. Shang Qinghua sighed again.

“We should talk first, shixiong, alone,” he said softly, glancing at Luo Binghe. He smiled at the boy. “Good to see you, even in this situation. Binghe, you look healthier than before.”

Luo Binghe bowed.

“Thank you, shishu.”

“Are you eating well?”

Luo Binghe blushed.

“Yes, shishu, Qing Jing is good for me,” he said, apparently nervous.

Shen Qingqiu shook his head, incredulous. Even now, Shang Qinghua did not admit he missed seeing his own son and preferred to treat him as a disciple. Still, there was sweetness and concern in his tone, almost a hidden affection that his shixiong perceived clearly.

Shen Qingqiu had to suppress the impulse to step forward and place a hand on Shang Qinghua’s shoulder, restraining himself from showing the effect that such a simple touch could have on both of them.

“Come,” Shang Qinghua requested, and Shen Qingqiu silently agreed, allowing him to guide him through the house to his own room. Every step they shared carried unspoken tension, every breath drawn in proximity reminded them of the complex bond that tied them together.

In other circumstances, Shen Qingqiu would never set foot in the bedroom of one of his martial brothers, but he understood this was the most secluded and muffled room in the house, as well as the safest for a private conversation.

Besides, Shang Qinghua was no threat, and it was not the first time he found himself there.

“Shang Qinghua,” Shen Qingqiu began, watching as he turned toward the bed and sat down, leaving space beside him for Shen Qingqiu to take.

Shang Qinghua shifted slightly, and his hand brushed, unintentionally, against Shen Qingqiu’s arm as he passed, a brief contact that sent waves of heat between them.

Shen Qingqiu looked at him with a hint of distaste.

“Why would I sit there?” he asked, stepping closer.

“I don’t want us to have this conversation standing,” Shang Qinghua replied, and that confirmed the suspicions forming in Shen Qingqiu’s mind.

He obeyed, albeit reluctantly. Their knees did not touch, but the nearness of Shang Qinghua’s leg created an invisible pull, a tension almost electric, felt without the need for direct contact.

“Why don’t we go to your office?” Shen Qingqiu asked, vaguely recalling that, in the leisure house of every peak lord, there was one, including his own. He watched Shang Qinghua’s hand shift slightly over his lap, short nails picking at the fabric of his robe, a small gesture heavy with nerves.

“My office is… temporarily closed, some merchants…” Shang Qinghua’s voice faltered for an instant and, as if he found it amusing, he covered his mouth with his hand. His face was slightly red. “Well, they thought it interesting to gift me with flowers from the demon realm. The room is still being cleared of pollen.”

“And you always accept flowers from merchants?” Shen Qingqiu asked, before he could stop himself.

Shang Qinghua blinked, visibly embarrassed.

“Not always. I don’t like flowers, and it would be troublesome if they brought them every time.” He scratched the back of his neck, a gesture that only emphasized his shyness.

Shen Qingqiu wanted to ask more, even knowing that was not the reason he was there. Knowing that Shang Qinghua, a peak lord, received “gifts” from merchants seemed absurd. Gifts should be wealth, rare plants, endangered beasts. Not random flowers, heavy with pollen.

Pollen…

“What kind of pollen did that plant release, shidi?” Shen Qingqiu asked sweetly, and noticed Shang Qinghua flinch, his face almost turning purple from embarrassment.

What Shen Qingqiu wanted most was to know whether his shidi was being assaulted with flowers carrying sexual pollen out there. If the answer was yes, the sect would have to take measures.

Even if Shen Qingqiu had to personally accompany Shang Qinghua on his missions.

“Let’s… let’s talk about the child, shixiong?” Shang Qinghua tried to change the subject, and a red flag lit up in Shen Qingqiu’s mind, though the diversion was cleverly done.

The image of the unfamiliar child and Luo Binghe alone in the living room of the house surfaced in his thoughts, every detail sharp.

“The boy is not your son.” Shen Qingqiu said, with a touch of irony and disbelief.

“No, he isn’t.” Shang Qinghua agreed with a light nod.

“He is not mine either.” Shen Qingqiu affirmed. Shang Qinghua raised an eyebrow, but did not comment, only nodded again this time. “I also have no relatives.”

“That you know of.”

“The child looks just like me,” Shen Qingqiu said, unhappy with the observation, ignoring Shang Qinghua’s stifled snort.

Shen Qingqiu sighed, and for a moment allowed his gaze to linger on a curled strand of Shang Qinghua’s hair, falling close to his cheek, almost brushing his skin. Slowly, he raised his hand and held it, feeling the warmth of the hair slide between his fingers, while his eyes remained locked on Shang Qinghua’s, reflecting the turmoil stirring inside him.

Shang Qinghua did not blink, did not breathe audibly, only stayed there, quiet, almost motionless, as if every fiber of his body were aware of Shen Qingqiu’s touch.

“Shixiong, he is not yours,” Shang Qinghua assured, his voice low, almost a whisper, but firm, and the sound seemed to reverberate between them.

A silent relief wrapped around Shen Qingqiu, who, without realizing it, felt the tension pulse in his body in an unexpected way. He knew that fact. The child was not his. But he needed that confirmation.

Shen Qingqiu’s fingers still tangled with the lock of hair, warmth rising up his arm, a restless reminder of their physical closeness.

Shang Qinghua, for his part, remained still, conscious of Shen Qingqiu’s hand on him, feeling the shiver that coursed down his spine, contained but undeniable.

Shen Qingqiu was not shaken like this by the idea of having a son. He did not care about that. It was not fear of fatherhood. No. He did not care about that. He would never be like Shang Qinghua; if he had a child, he would acknowledge it without hesitation.

The problem was something else: there could not exist a child without his consent, and now he was certain of it.

“A-Yuan… he had parents. Good parents… who died,” Shang Qinghua said carefully. “His father did not speak much, but Shen Yuan believes he was a slave who escaped and built a family. He lived a long life until illness took him, his wife, and the older children. Like A-Yuan, his father had been the youngest of the family, sold into slavery.”

Shen Qingqiu blinked, absorbing the information, difficult to take in. Instinctively, he tugged lightly at the lock of hair falling over Shang Qinghua’s face; his martial brother tilted his head toward him, eyes flickering, soft.

“Shen Yuan?” Shen Qingqiu asked, attentive to Shang Qinghua’s expressions.

“It’s a coincidence that he also belongs to the Shen family, though his name is written with different characters from yours.”

“Coincidence?” Shen Qingqiu repeated, frowning slightly.

Shang Qinghua nodded, almost thoughtful.

“But kinship is possible, shixiong. He looks just like you, you could very well be uncle and nephew.”

“I have no brother, I never did.”

“Are you sure of that?” Shang Qinghua asked, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

Shen Qingqiu blinked, and the first image that surfaced in his mind was himself with Yue Qingyuan, involuntarily recalling the brother he had lost. That Yue Qingyuan was dead, gone. The idea of having another brother now seemed absurd, nearly insane.

From his biological family, Shen Qingqiu knew nothing, and wanted even less.

“It doesn’t matter,” he decided at last.

After all, even if he had another blood brother, he was already dead. There was no point in suffering over a memory he would never have.

But Shang Qinghua did not accept that answer.

Shang Qinghua’s hand moved forward without hesitation, closing over Shen Qingqiu’s, which until then had been toying with a rebellious strand of hair.

Shen Qingqiu was not a man of touches. Physical contact usually stirred discomfort or fury in him; his martial brothers had long since learned to keep their distance, not to cross that invisible boundary guarding his skin. Only Mu Qingfang dared, and even then, with warning.

But Shang Qinghua’s touch… was different.

Warm. Urgent. And, disconcertingly, unexpectedly welcome.

When Shen Qingqiu’s fingers slipped free of the strand he had been clinging to, they intertwined almost by reflex with Shang Qinghua’s. He frowned, surprised by the gesture, but his eyes betrayed him: there was no refusal, no resistance. There was acceptance.

Shang Qinghua seemed to understand. He guided their joined hands downward, resting them on his own thigh, steady and close, as if offering an anchor amid the confusion.

“He is your nephew, Shen Qingqiu,” he murmured, with serene, almost dangerous conviction.

The words rang so persuasive that, for an instant, Shen Qingqiu wanted to believe. Not only in the claim, but in the heat seeping through his skin, in the presence of someone to whom, perhaps, he might allow himself to yield.

“No one will believe we aren’t father and son.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Shang Qinghua replied, his voice low, almost a whisper against the silence. “We will know the truth.”

Shen Qingqiu wanted to retort, but the pressure of the warm hand distracted him, displacing his arguments before they even reached his lips.

Deep down, he knew that only two or three of his martial brothers would believe him. He could count them on one hand.

The rest would always be ready to doubt, to speculate.

If Shang Qinghua adopted Shen Yuan, perhaps everything would be simpler… too simple.

Qi Qingqi would then have an argument in her favor. But Shen Qingqiu would never accept that she was right. Not under any circumstances.

Still, the idea throbbed, an irritation that sparked the beginnings of a headache, and it was fortunate he had spent weeks under care; otherwise, he would have already collapsed.

“He wants to go to Qing Jing… to become a scholar like you,” Shang Qinghua said, voice thoughtful, his gaze drifting toward the door as if seeking refuge in the wood. “Perhaps it’s in his blood. He didn’t know you were relatives. He didn’t even know the name of the lord of Qing Jing Peak.”

“And another coincidence brought him here,” Shen Qingqiu concluded, the words sounding like a verdict, loaded with suspicion and a thread of bitterness he could not contain.

Shang Qinghua laughed, and the bed shifted under them, but neither of them cared.

“No, shixiong, I brought him. I liked the boy. He reminds me of myself at his age.”

And Luo Binghe, then? Shen Qingqiu thought, but he did not comment.

No matter how much they shared features, Luo Binghe was a motivated and strong disciple, qualities Shang Qinghua had never needed to cultivate at that age.

Shen Qingqiu observed him, evaluating every gesture, every smile.

“He must be terrible to deal with, then,” he remarked, his voice strangely stripped of its usual venom.

Shang Qinghua blinked.

“Shixiong!” he exclaimed, but without complaint; there was only lightness, almost a silent invitation.

He rose, and their intertwined hands pulled Shen Qingqiu up as well. The movement was elegant, intimate, charged with a contact that spoke louder than words could.

“Shall we see the children? I hope they’re well.”

“Luo Binghe is a good boy,” Shen Qingqiu felt compelled to say, and Shang Qinghua regarded him, as if proud of his upbringing.

“He is, isn’t he?” he said, stepping toward the door.

Shen Qingqiu remembered to release his hands before leaving, only as a precaution, but the warmth of the touch still pulsed in both their memories.

Chapter Text

Luo Binghe watched the boy rumored to be his brother.

No. That boy was not.

He couldn’t be.

A-Yuan, as he had heard his shishu call him before leaving with his shizun for the room, was standing near the kitchen counter, still watching him closely. His light green eyes sparkled, reflecting the light as his gaze traveled down Luo Binghe. His hair, a delicate shade of almost-light brown, fell to the height of his lean chest.

He didn’t seem much older than Luo Binghe, maybe fourteen, two years older than him.

They couldn’t be brothers.

Not because A-Yuan didn’t remember Shang Qinghua, as Luo Binghe had imagined he might, but because Luo Binghe refused to accept that someone so beautiful could be his blood brother.

No. His luck simply wouldn’t be like that.

In fact, it would be exactly like that.

Taking a deep breath, Luo Binghe stepped closer, extending his hand, still a little shy.

“Hey, this is Luo Binghe, I’m your bro—”

“You’re not!” A-Yuan corrected sharply, in a startled shout.

Luo Binghe’s mouth went dry; the boy’s voice was beautiful, even slightly angry. He looked at him as if Luo Binghe had personally insulted his entire family and maybe he had.

It was clear: A-Yuan didn’t want Luo Binghe to be part of his life.

Was Shang Qinghua really Binghe’s father?

The rumors had circulated ever since Luo Binghe arrived at the sect. His fellow martial brothers mocked him, speculating that he was an orphan, then a bastard, someone unwanted who shouldn’t belong to the sect.

To them, Luo Binghe’s presence tarnished the immortal image of the peak lords, like a bad seed capable of contaminating the entire crop, or in this case, all the other disciples.

Shang Qinghua. That was the name of his supposed father. And indeed, others’ mouths associated him with Shang Qinghua because of their similar appearance.

Shang Qinghua was the lord of An Ding Peak, responsible for logistics, a position that inspired respect but also suspicion among the other peaks.

At first, Luo Binghe didn’t really know who Shang Qinghua was; even his shizun sometimes looked at him strangely, which only fueled Luo Binghe’s doubts about the truth of the rumors.

He had had an elderly adoptive mother, who had never hidden that he was not her biological son, after all, alone and single, she couldn’t have had him as her own. Still, she had loved him as if he were. She never treated him badly, spoiling him as much as her poor circumstances allowed.

Luo Binghe had always tried to deserve that affection and was rewarded with a happy childhood, which, unfortunately, ended when she fell ill and passed away.

Determined, he set out alone for Cang Qiong Mountain Sect, determined to become a warrior and, perhaps one day, an immortal. It had been his mother’s last wish: that he wouldn’t be alone and would receive a proper education.

She had found the baby in the Luo River, and from there came his surname. But over time, Luo Binghe began to question the story.

A baby floating in a basket on the river during the harsh winter, wrapped only in a dirty, torn cloak? Did he survive?

How had she managed to grab him from the turbulent waters of that treacherous river at her age? The facts seemed far too strange, and he was no longer sure if he could blindly trust the memories his adoptive mother had told him.

Perhaps his mother knew who his real parents were and had sent him to that sect to find them.

Perhaps his biological father had entrusted him to that lady, but… why leave him in poverty, without help, without warmth, without anything?

Why not at least ensure he had the basics, instead of making him and his mother endure months of extreme deprivation?

Luo Binghe’s mind spun in circles, suffocating, as he recalled every unanswered doubt reinforced by the martial brothers whenever they could. They called him a bastard, reminding him that his father didn’t want him, never visited, and never sent gifts.

At first, he had felt strange and resentful when small presents arrived: sweets, brushes, pretty objects sent by An Ding’s disciples under the excuse of “not wanting them anymore.”

It seemed like an empty, artificial gesture. But over time, he learned to accept it, knowing, though never admitting to himself, that those disciples would do nothing without Shang Qinghua’s consent.

If Shang Qinghua truly was his father, why had he never done anything?

Why had he never acknowledged him?

Why had he chosen A-Yuan, a complete stranger, and brought him home, while Luo Binghe remained alone, ignored, waiting?

Why did Ming Fan, his own martial brother, have to throw in his face that he wasn’t even good enough to be a bastard, since his “daddy” preferred another boy?

The anger grew, mixed with confusion and a cold resentment.

It was unfair, absurd.

Luo Binghe assessed A-Yuan from head to toe, comparing them. Shen Yuan was perhaps slimmer. Luo Binghe was stronger, firmer, less pale, more resilient.

And yet, Shang Qinghua ignored him. Shen Yuan might be older, perhaps smarter, but the logic of a father leaving Luo Binghe aside made no sense.

Luo Binghe’s chest tightened, anger and pain mingling with the sense of rejection: the father he never asked for, who should have protected him, had chosen another. And he, left alone.

Why didn’t Shang Qinghua want him? Why didn’t he acknowledge him? Why A-Yuan, and not him?

The most anyone had ever mentioned about Luo Binghe were the dormitories at Qing Jing Peak, whether he was comfortable in Shen Qingqiu’s house, and whether he was being well fed.

At the time, he had felt relieved, even happy, thinking that somehow, his father cared. But now, that feeling seemed like a distant, almost cruel memory. Happiness had dissolved into doubts and resentments he didn’t even know how to name.

Before he could get completely lost in his thoughts, Shen Yuan approached silently, without Luo Binghe noticing at first.

With a shy gesture, he nodded and held Luo Binghe’s hand firmly. The touch, small and hesitant, ran through Luo Binghe like an unexpected shiver, stirring a mixture of comfort and unease.

“I… I mean, we’re not brothers. I’m not your parents’ child, your father’s…” Shen Yuan blushed, looking away toward where Shang Qinghua and Shen Qingqiu had gone, a shadow of concern crossing his face. “I’m sorry for yelling.”

Luo Binghe took a deep breath, relief mingling with the pain of the reality he had tried so hard to ignore. His chest seemed to lose some of the pressure he had carried for years, but a trace of hurt still lingered. He realized, with painful clarity:

A-Yuan was not his brother.

The thought brought a strange mix of freedom and loneliness. He wasn’t a legitimate son, there were no official ties, and perhaps there would never be explanations. But, for now, feeling Shen Yuan’s small hand gripping his, a hint of solace pierced the bitter reality.

“It’s okay,” Luo Binghe murmured, relieved. His chest seemed to release some of the weight it had carried before.

A-Yuan was not his brother.
Shang Qinghua had not chosen his brother because A-Yuan was not his brother!

But the relief soon gave way to curiosity.

“Then why are you with shishu? Is he going to adopt you?” Luo Binghe asked, trying to hide the sadness the idea stirred within him.

Why would Shang Qinghua adopt a child if he already had a son he didn’t acknowledge?
And… could adoptive siblings get involved?

A-Yuan made a grimace.

“No, no, gross. No!” Shen Yuan exclaimed, blushing again when he realized he was still holding Binghe’s hand.

He let go, but involuntarily, their fingers brushed for a few more seconds before fully separating.

Luo Binghe felt a slight warmth rise through his chest, his cheeks burning, almost convinced that A-Yuan had really read his thoughts, though he knew that was impossible.

Shen Yuan stepped back but kept his curious, intense, almost questioning gaze fixed on him.

“Shang Qinghua will take me in until I enter Qing Jing,” he explained, and Luo Binghe felt a brief relief. The idea of adoption, however, seemed to offend A-Yuan. “And if I don’t get in, I’ll stay here in An Ding.”

The “with him” didn’t need to be said. Luo Binghe clearly heard what was implied, and the effect on him was immediate: his heart raced, the air felt heavier, and something subtle, a mix of surprise and tension, wound itself between them.

Neither said a word, but the silent energy hanging in the room spoke louder than any words could.

Still, A-Yuan’s eyes shone, and a timid smile appeared, breaking some of the tension and revealing a genuine curiosity that seemed to touch Luo Binghe unexpectedly.

“You want to go to Qing Jing? I’m there,” Luo Binghe said, trying to start a conversation.

“I know, Binghe,” A-Yuan replied sweetly, tilting his head slightly. The way he pronounced Luo Binghe’s name sent a shiver down his spine, as if each syllable had its own awareness, awakening something unexpected within him.

Luo Binghe felt his entire body react, his skin sensitive to the simple sound of his own name coming from that boy who, apparently, was not his brother, but knew him.

Had Shang Qinghua told him anything about him? If so, what had he said?

He looked away for a moment, his breathing slightly uneven, before summoning the courage to meet A-Yuan’s eyes again.

“We could… be dorm mates, if you want,” Luo Binghe suggested, trying to sound calm and natural, even though his heart insisted on racing.

A-Yuan blinked slowly, furrowing his brows slightly, curious.

“You don’t have dorm mates currently?”

The silence that followed was loaded with meaning; no gesture needed exaggeration, every small look or movement seemed to convey more than words ever could.

“No, I’ve been sleeping in Shizun’s guest room,” Luo Binghe began, and A-Yuan’s eyes sparkled again as if he wanted to ask why, but didn’t. Every gesture of the boy was curious and slightly teasing, as if measuring Luo Binghe’s reaction.

Polite, he thought with satisfaction.

Luo Binghe wasn’t sure he wanted to explain to A-Yuan that his martial brothers despised and often punished him. That Shen Qingqiu had intervened directly, disturbed by what happened at his peak without his consent, and had removed him from the dorms after long hours of conversation with the sect leader.

Shen Qingqiu was kind to Luo Binghe, even if he pretended not to be. And he cared about him.

That story wasn’t suitable for a first meeting.

“But if you’re there, I can convince him to let us share a dorm. It would be nice to have… a companion,” Luo Binghe said again, trying to convince A-Yuan, and himself, that it was a good idea.

“That’s not your brother,” Shen Yuan reiterated, almost to remind him of that important fact in case Luo Binghe was still seeking a fraternal bond.

“Not my brother,” Luo Binghe repeated, smiling, feeling his heart race. He was starting to see the situation differently.

He still watched A-Yuan, curious about that boy full of energy and confidence for his age.

An impulse rose, and he decided to start a conversation, trying to ease the tension.

“So… do you like studying?” Luo Binghe asked, his voice a little shy but sincere.

“Depends…” Shen Yuan frowned, making an adorable grimace. “Some studies are interesting… others… not so much.”

Shen Yuan suddenly smiled, his green eyes shining, casting a curious look at Luo Binghe as if measuring his reaction.

“I like learning too,” Luo Binghe replied hesitantly, feeling his heart beat faster. “Maybe… we could study together someday?”

A-Yuan’s eyes lit up, and a genuine smile appeared on his face.

“Study together? Hm… depends on what you want to learn!” he said, his voice full of excitement, every youthful gesture overflowing with energy. “I love everything about plants, animals, and cultivation! Like… did you know some flowers from the demon realm only bloom at night? And if they don’t get moonlight… well, they don’t grow properly!”

Shen Yuan blushed immediately upon realizing he was speaking so loudly and quickly, looking away and nervously holding his own wrist.

“S-Sorry… I… I shouldn’t…” he murmured hesitantly, as if afraid Luo Binghe would judge him.

“No, it’s okay!” Luo Binghe said quickly, smiling warmly.

His heart raced in a strange way; secretly, he liked hearing Shen Yuan speak, the passionate way he described every detail.

The topic, the demon realm, was something normally not discussed freely within the sect, and it seemed fascinating to Luo Binghe. He couldn’t help the small shiver of admiration as he imagined Shang Qinghua telling these stories to Shen Yuan before bed, stories about demons, dangers, and mysterious plants, full of details that made the world feel more alive and enchanting.

Shang Qinghua wouldn’t hand him a forbidden book on demonic flora, so it was likely that he was explaining these things himself.

A knot of sadness tightened in Luo Binghe’s chest. In theory, Shang Qinghua should have been the one to tell him these stories, to pass on that secret knowledge, but he never had.

He had never heard anything about the demon realm outside of malicious comments about demons and their decadent culture, never had that moment of wonder that seemed so natural between the father and Shen Yuan.

The feeling was bittersweet: fascination mixed with a twinge of abandonment. Luo Binghe smiled, trying to hide the melancholy that arose at the thought he could have heard those stories from his own father, yet at the same time, he felt hypnotized by the way Shen Yuan spoke, so curious and alive.

Shen Yuan noticed a slight touch of melancholy on Luo Binghe’s expression and, with a nervous laugh, tried to lighten the mood.

“So… you promise you won’t cheat on lessons with me?” he said, winking.

Luo Binghe swallowed hard, smiling shyly at the big, hopeful green eyes, feeling warmth rise to his face.

“No! I promise! I want to learn with you,” he said, unaware that his heart was beating faster with every word the boy spoke, completely captivated by the way he talked.

Shen Yuan laughed lightly, still blushing, feeling more confident with Luo Binghe’s positive reaction, letting his own shyness slowly dissolve. The energy of the conversation lingered between them, youthful, intense, and subtly intimate.

“Well… then it’s settled,” A-Yuan said, crossing his arms but keeping his eyes fixed on Luo Binghe, full of enthusiasm. “But only if you promise to listen carefully! No dozing off or interrupting me.”

“I promise,” Luo Binghe replied, shy but firm. The feeling of wanting to hear every word that boy spoke… was unexpected, pleasant, and something he didn’t want to end anytime soon.

They were about to continue when the corridor door opened, bringing back familiar voices. Shen Qingqiu led the way, colder than usual, while Shang Qinghua kept a discreet smile, watching the two with quiet curiosity.

“A-Yuan, come here,” Shang Qinghua called as soon as he reached the door.

Shen Yuan sighed and went over to Shang Qinghua, stopping beside him. He bowed a little stiffly, almost artificially, as if unsure how to behave.

Shang Qinghua smiled, holding the boy’s shoulder and looking at the two from Qing Jing with a satisfied expression.

“Having fun, kids?” he asked quietly, his voice carrying subtle anxiety.

Shen Yuan remained silent, motionless, as if calculating every move, while Luo Binghe offered a tentative smile and bowed slightly in respect, eyes fixed on the boy.

For a moment, frustration burned in Luo Binghe’s chest; he didn’t like Shen Yuan being there, occupying that space beside Shang Qinghua. And yet, there was something about the boy that drew him unexpectedly, something in the firm, curious gaze that made Luo Binghe’s own heart race, dampening any urge for anger.

“He’s interesting, shishu,” he commented, still feeling odd using that title for his potential father. Despite the discomfort, Shang Qinghua seemed satisfied with the response.

“Well, Luo Binghe, I’m not sure if A-Yuan introduced himself properly to you. Did he, Binghe?” Shang Qinghua asked calmly, as if nothing could shake the scene.

Luo Binghe shook his head, first affirming, then denying. A-Yuan hadn’t introduced himself, and Luo Binghe got distracted by the warm touch of his hand, which sent another shiver through him, forgetting that the boy had only just apologized for his earlier rudeness.

"Luo Binghe," Shen Qingqiu’s firm voice resonated, extending his hand and pointing toward the child beside Shang Qinghua, his gaze grave and calculating.

There was a contained tension in every gesture, as if he were assessing not only the boy but also himself in the situation.

He seemed uncomfortable with the child’s presence there, almost unsure how to act or what to say, yet he maintained a flawless posture.

Luo Binghe immediately recognized that tension: he was far too accustomed to his shizun’s rigid and meticulous behavior not to notice every nuance.

Shang Qinghua, standing beside Shen Qingqiu, seemed to perceive the discomfort. Discreetly, he brought his hand close to Shen Qingqiu’s shoulder without touching him, as if to offer silent support.

If Shen Qingqiu noticed, he gave nothing away beyond a slight sigh of relief, a small relaxation in his shoulders indicating that the gesture had been understood.

"That is Shen Yuan, apparently my blood nephew and future junior disciple," Shen Qingqiu said, looking attentively at Shang Qinghua as he pronounced the last phrase. There was a satisfied glint in his eyes as he noticed the reaction of the Lord of An Ding, who finally allowed his fingers to rest lightly on Shen Qingqiu’s shoulder, a subtle gesture indicating acceptance. "He is older than you, but he will be your shidi by order of entry into the sect… if he is capable."

Every word carried weight, not merely a formality of sect hierarchy, but also a silent message about expectations, capability, and the complex web of relationships that bound them together.

Luo Binghe watched everything with a tight chest, feeling a mixture of curiosity, fascination, and a twinge of jealousy arise, even as he barely understood the depth of what he had just witnessed.

“He will be,” said Shang Qinghua, with serene and proud confidence that seemed to fill the room.

Luo Binghe felt his chest tighten, a mix of jealousy, curiosity, and fascination, and couldn’t utter a word. Every detail of the boy in front of him held his attention: the attentive eyes, the slight furrow of his brows, the way he balanced shyness with determination.

Shen Yuan.

Luo Binghe didn’t notice any direct resemblance to his shizun; Shen Yuan was younger, slim, and beautiful, with soft features and a pure aura that made it hard to look away. When their eyes met, for a moment that seemed to last longer than it should, Luo Binghe’s tongue dried, and his heart raced.

“If we’re settled, let’s go,” Shen Qingqiu said, heading toward the exit naturally.

Luo Binghe followed, feeling a twinge of disappointment. It was his first time in Shang Qinghua’s house, and he had lost the chance to explore the space, to observe every detail, every corner, not knowing when he’d have another opportunity.

“Luo Binghe can’t stay, shixiong?” Shang Qinghua’s voice carried across the room, hitting him directly.

Luo Binghe lifted his eyes and found Shen Qingqiu, and in that moment he felt small, like an abandoned puppy. His heart raced, his cheeks flushed, and he quickly looked away, only to cast another curious, shy glance at his shishu.

Beside him, Shen Yuan gave a timid smile, silently encouraging Luo Binghe. But he couldn’t focus fully on the boy; all his senses were fixed on his shishu.

“For what, Shang Qinghua?” Shen Qingqiu asked firmly, without losing control of the situation. To anyone else, it might have sounded like arrogance, but to Luo Binghe, every word carried a hidden concern that made him shiver.

“We could have tea. The children could get to know each other; it would be good for them to make friends,” Shang Qinghua said, trying to sound natural, but his insecurity betrayed every syllable.

Luo Binghe blushed further, his chest tight, eyes darting from Shen Qingqiu to Shang Qinghua and back again, as if silently seeking approval. He wanted to stay, wanted his shishu to say yes, and for a moment, everything else disappeared, leaving only that firm, piercing gaze that seemed to read every thought.

Shen Qingqiu just watched, calculating, but not coldly; there was a silent attention, a recognition of what Luo Binghe felt.

And that, even without words, made the boy’s heart race even more, making him feel small and, at the same time, strangely safe.

“All right. He stays, but I expect a good tea, shidi,” he said.

Shang Qinghua snorted, surprised, not expecting Shen Qingqiu to agree so easily, but a silent satisfaction spread through his chest as he noticed the firm, direct way the lord of Qing Jing Peak watched him, attentive eyes, unwavering posture. Every detail of that gaze seemed to assess and, at the same time, accept.

Shen Qingqiu raised an eyebrow, amused, and turned to leave. Shang Qinghua felt a shiver, a mix of relief and tension, run down his spine.

“Go heat some water, A-Yuan,” Shang Qinghua requested, pointing to the boy, who headed toward the kitchen. “And you can grab that tea from the middle cabinet.”

Shen Yuan then turned to Luo Binghe before leaving.

“Want to help me?” he asked quietly. Luo Binghe admired him again, smiling broadly.

“Yes, A-Yuan,” he said, following him cheerfully, feeling his heart race with every step, as if being drawn closer to something he didn’t yet understand but that was already stirring something deep within him.