Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Luo River in winter wore its prettiest mask.

Ice glazed the edges, mist crawled over the surface in soft coils. The air bit with a crisp, merciless chill. Clean, sharp, the kind that scrubbed your lungs raw and reminded you beauty could be deadly if you lingered too long.

Shang Qinghua lingered anyway. 

He crouched low in the reeds, one gloved hand brushing the frost-slick stems aside. A lifetime of slipping past guards, scouts, and the occasional suspicious demon king had made him good at this. Quiet was easy when you’d spent years learning to be the man no one noticed. 

It was ridiculous, of course. Peak Lords had better things to do than lurk by rivers like stalkers waiting for divine revelation. But, today was special. 

January seventh. His protagonist’s birthday.

Shang Qinghua grimaced to himself, the expression hidden behind the edge of his collar. Protagonist. He’d typed that word so many times it had stopped meaning anything—hero, son, disaster, moneymaker. Luo Binghe. His boy, the future calamity of ten thousand words’ worth of blood and tears. And right now, the kid was—what, three seconds old? A baby. A literal baby.

It wouldn’t hurt to check in on him, right? A quick look. A harmless peek. Strictly observational.

He’d just come back from a trade mission along the southern border—three months of smiling at envoys from minor rogue sects, pretending not to notice the knives under the table. Technically, he was supposed to report to Yue Qingyuan first thing this morning, hand over the ledgers, maybe endure a debrief about sect diplomacy. But after three months of keeping one eye open in enemy territory, what was a small detour down the mountain? No one would miss him for an hour. Probably.

He shifted his crouch lower, eyes flicking across the riverbank for movement.

He knew exactly how this scene was supposed to go: the old washer woman would come down to the water, humming, basket on her back. She’d see the bundle, pull it from the current, take him home. A neat, tragic prologue. Classic cultivation drama setup. He’d written it himself years ago, half-asleep and over-caffeinated, never thinking he’d someday be here to watch it happen.

It was fine. He was only here to confirm the quality of his own worldbuilding. No interference, no butterfly effects. 

Right.

“System,” he whispered, because the world was quiet and old habits were loud, “I’m not doing anything. No lightning bolts, please. This is just…quality assurance.”

The reply sounded in his mind in its usual blank tone:

“Which is what I’m doing,” he hissed back, very softly. “Maintaining it. From a distance. With my eyes.”

The System said nothing else, which he decided to interpret as approval. Or at least a lack of immediate smiting. He exhaled through his nose, fog curling in the air before him, and turned his gaze back to the river. 

Something pale drifted by the far bank.

It bumped gently against a root, spun once, and caught. A swaddled curve of cloth, a wooden basin, rocking with the tug of the current. Shang Qinghua felt his pulse trip over itself, a dizzy rush of recognition sweeping through him like he’d glimpsed a celebrity in the wild.

The basin tilted, and for a flicker of a moment he saw the faintest shape of a tiny hand, slick with riverwater, reaching out from the fold of cloth before it slipped back under again.

Downstream, a figure appeared through the mist—a woman with a woven basket strapped to her back, trudging slow and careful down the slope. Her breath plumed white as she walked, head bent under her scarf, feet finding their old, familiar path to the water.

He watched as she reached the bank, set her basket down, and knelt. Her hands, reddened from cold, skimmed the surface as she reached toward that tiny, drifting scrap of fate. The cloth snagged against her fingers; she caught it with surprising steadiness, tugged it free from the roots, and drew it into her arms.

Mist wrapped around her like a veil as she lifted the baby up, cradling him against her chest. The sound reached him even from across the water—a thin, new wail, small but fierce.

Shang Qinghua smiled before he realized he was doing it.

“Hello, protagonist,” he breathed. His chest felt too tight for the cold. “Happy birthday.”

Something rustled in the reeds behind him.

Shang Qinghua froze. The sound came again—a low, wet hrrrgh, followed by the brittle snap of a branch. Not the wind. Not the woman. Very, very slowly, he turned his head.

Between the stems, two eyes gleamed. The reeds bent aside, and something slunk forward: long muzzle, scaled shoulders, a body slick and wrong, moving with the sound of mud being kneaded. Its breath steamed in the cold.

Shang Qinghua’s entire soul contracted to the size of a pea. “System,” he whispered, voice climbing an octave, “what the hell is that?”

There was a pause long enough for the words to sink in.

“Excuse me, what?”

The tone was, unmistakably, passive-aggressive.

“Stop being passive-aggressive with me!” he hissed, “I wrote like six thousand monsters, you can’t expect me to remember all of them!”

The reeds shivered. The creature’s head tilted, throat expanding in a low rumble. A ripple passed through its hide.

“Nice monster,” Shang Qinghua tried weakly. “Good environmental flavor text—AH!”

The Lesser River Devourer lunged.

He scrambled sideways with a noise that was—unfortunately—more squeak than shout, slipping on the frost and half-rolling down the slope. The movement burst from the reeds in an explosion of motion and sound. Across the river, the washer woman jerked upright in alarm. The sudden cry of the baby rose again, sharp and frightened.

“Wait—no, no, no, don’t—!” Shang Qinghua started, but too late.

She set the bundle down on the bank, meaning to free her hands. She turned to look toward the noise, skirts tangling around her legs, and stood too fast.

Her foot slid on the thin glaze of ice. There was a dull, sick crack as the back of her head met the frozen ground.

For a second, everything stopped.

Shang Qinghua stared, breath catching, as blood bloomed through the snow like spilled ink. The woman’s body sagged, half into the river’s edge. The creature had already melted back into the reeds, losing interest. Only the thin wail of the baby cut the silence.

Shang Qinghua’s heart dropped straight through the ice.

He was moving before thought caught up—half-sliding, half-stumbling down the embankment, boots skidding over frozen mud. The reeds clawed at his sleeves as he tore past them, breath coming too fast, too shallow.

The woman’s body was small, crumpled awkwardly against the bank. Her scarf had come loose; strands of gray hair clung wet to her cheek. He knelt hard beside her, the cold biting through his knees, and reached for her shoulder with shaking hands.

“Oh no, no, no—come on, come on—”

He pressed his palm against the back of her head and felt warmth bloom against his skin, wet and slick. Too much. Way too much. Blood smeared his fingers, soaked into his sleeves, spattered across the yellow silk of his robes in quick, blooming stains.

She didn’t stir. Her breath was shallow, fluttering like a candle about to go out.

“System!!” he choked. “System, what do I—what do I do?!”

“Don’t you think I fucking know that?!” He was practically shouting now, voice cracking under the strain. His hands hovered uselessly over the wound, pressing, releasing, pressing again as though sheer panic could stanch the bleeding. “She’s supposed to live! She’s supposed to find the baby and raise him, not—bleed out on my shoes!”

The woman’s head lolled to the side. Her eyes fluttered once, unfocused.

“Oh god,” he whispered. “Oh no, oh no no no—”

He glanced wildly toward the river. The bundle still lay on the snow a few feet away, tiny wails rising and falling like hiccups against the sound of the current.

“System, you can fix this, right?!” His voice broke on the last word. “You—you can rewind or—reset or whatever, right?”

He stared, open-mouthed. “You mean—she’s just—she’s—”

Silence.

He pressed both hands to his face, smearing blood across his cheek. His heart hammered against his ribs, wild and uneven. “Oh no, oh no. What do I do? I can’t—I can’t just leave her—or him—”

The System’s next message was maddeningly calm:

Shang Qinghua let out a strangled sound that might have been laughter if it weren’t so close to hysteria.

“I know that too!!!” He dragged his hands down his face, smearing another line of red across his jaw. “You’re not helping!!”

The baby’s cries rose again, thin and sharp against the winter air. He lurched toward the bundle before he’d even decided to move.

The snow crunched under his palms as he half-crawled, half-stumbled across the narrow stretch of riverbank. The baby’s cries sawed straight through the cold, high and wet and terrified.

“Hey—hey, shh, it’s okay, I’m—uh—someone’s here, okay?” His voice came out strangled and unconvincing as he scooped the baby up, careful and clumsy at once. The tiny body was so light it hardly felt real, just a warm, trembling weight wrapped in soaked fabric. Cold air bit through the damp swaddling, and Shang Qinghua could feel it, the chill sinking straight through to the baby’s skin.

“Oh god,” he muttered, voice cracking, “this was not how it was meant to go.”

He rocked him, instinct taking over where sense had given up. “Shh, I know, it’s cold, it’s cold, I know, we’re—gonna fix that, just—hang on.”

He fumbled with one hand through the inner fold of his robes, pulling out the stack of seals he always carried for fieldwork—tracking, warding, illusion, a single low-grade warming charm meant for camping. He peeled it open with his teeth, muttered the activation, and pressed it gently over the soaked cloth.

Warmth rippled outward, faint but real. The baby hiccupped mid-wail, startled by the shift, then kept crying anyway.

“Yeah, me too,” Shang Qinghua said hoarsely.

The cold air stung his eyes; at least, that was what he told himself. His hands were still red from the woman’s blood, smearing faintly on the edge of the blanket. The sight made his stomach twist.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

He’d killed off characters before, sure. Dozens. Hundreds. A solid portion of his literary career was paved with the bodies—or worse, the personalities—of women who’d smiled once before being sacrificed to the plot. If they weren’t dying tragically to motivate Luo Binghe, they were falling helplessly in love with him to pad out the word count. But not like this. Not out here, not in front of him.

He could already hear the comment section, that eternal graveyard of his dignity: Wow, Airplane, ever heard of developing your female characters? Do you really have to fridge all the women?

And his personal nemesis, Peerless Cucumber, who’d once written a ten-paragraph rant about “lazy misogynistic storytelling” that had ended with “Maybe if the author had ever spoken to a woman for longer than three consecutive seconds, his female characters wouldn’t all die to advance male angst or be part of his stupid harem slog.”

Shang Qinghua dragged a shaky hand down his face. “Yeah, well,” he muttered, “trauma sold, didn’t it? You try paying rent on tender female empowerment arcs in the web-novel market of 2016.”

It had been formula: give them one kind, sweet woman to love the hero, maybe two or three more for variety, then kill one off—or let her linger in the background as part of the ever-expanding harem. Either way, bam—instant character development. It wasn’t good writing, but it was effective, efficient, emotionally manipulative in all the right places. He’d even been proud of it once. Industrial-strength pathos.

But seeing it like this—real snow, real blood, a real person sprawled awkwardly against the ice—it didn’t feel clever. It just felt cruel.

At least this one had been supposed to matter. A small, warm light in Luo Binghe’s grim little childhood, someone who gave him softness before the world started chewing on him. She wasn’t supposed to die right now.

He looked back toward where she lay, the snow around her going dark, and his throat tightened. The baby stirred against him, small fists clenching at his robe, face red and scrunched.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, shifting his grip, trying to keep his voice steady. “We’ll—we’ll fix this. There’s… there’s still options, right? I can—”

He broke off, mind stuttering through the impossible logistics of it.

He could find another family. Some nice, simple couple in the next village—people who didn’t ask questions, who’d raise the kid kindly. That would work. Probably. Though that meant he’d lose all visibility on Luo Binghe’s childhood—no way to track what events still lined up. No way to know if the plot would still hold together.

Or if he’d even survive it.

His arms tightened around the baby before he realized it. The faint heat from the charm was already cooling, and Luo Binghe’s small face pressed against the bloodied silk of his robe.

He took a sharp breath.

“Okay,” he muttered, half to himself, half to the indifferent System humming at the edge of his mind. “Options. Right. I could… I could take him in. Temporarily. Just until I find someone better qualified. I mean, obviously I’m not—parent material—but still. I can’t leave him here. I’d look like a monster.”

He swallowed, glancing up at the pale sky. “System,” he said, quieter now. “If I… theoretically, like—purely hypothetically—took the baby in. Would that… break anything?”

Shang Qinghua blinked. “That’s it?”

The system remained silent. The only sound was Luo Binghe’s soft, hiccuping breaths against his chest and the distant hiss of the river under its frozen skin.

“And the suffering?” Shang Qinghua blurted. “The—look, I wrote a lot of—” he exhaled through his teeth, “—character-building adversity. Is that—do you need that? Because I would like to not do that.”

He stared blankly at the air. “So, nothing else matters.”

He let out a long, shaky breath. “Right. Okay. Sure. No problem. I can work with that. That’s fine.”  He shifted the baby in his arms, looking down at the tiny, squirming face, the damp lashes clinging together. “You hear that? As long as you make it to the sect, everything’s good. Easy quest conditions. No trauma required.”

Luo Binghe made a faint snuffling sound, unimpressed.

Shang Qinghua’s smile collapsed almost instantly. “Oh, gods, what am I saying?” He scrubbed a hand over his face, leaving another smear of drying blood. “I’m not qualified for this! I can barely keep myself alive half the time! You need—uh—you need a responsible, kindhearted woman from a humble background with good soup-making skills, not a chronically overworked peak lord-slash-spy!”

The baby responded by making a small, gurgling noise that sounded alarmingly like agreement.

“Don’t sass me,” Shang Qinghua muttered. “You’re, like, twelve minutes old.”

He exhaled hard, fog curling around his mouth. His brain was moving too fast, spinning through scenarios and probabilities like a broken abacus. He could find someone else, pass the kid off, make it neat. Let fate course-correct. But what if fate didn’t? What if this was the correction? What if the story was already unraveling, thread by thread, because he couldn’t keep his idiot mouth shut and his idiot body still?

He’d written divine tribulations with more mercy than this.

“Okay,” he whispered, more to the universe than the System. “Okay. We’re doing this. We’re—oh, I’m so dead.”

Luo Binghe wriggled against him, a little whimper escaping the blanket. Shang Qinghua’s chest twisted painfully.

“Yeah, I know, you must be so uncomfortable,” he murmured. “We’ll fix that soon. We’ll—uh—figure it out.”

A sound broke through the air then: voices. Not close, but close enough—the rise and fall of shouting somewhere upstream, the crunch of boots on snow. Villagers, probably, coming to the river for morning chores.

Panic flooded his chest all over again.

“Oh no, no, no,” he whispered, clutching the bundle tighter. “I can’t—what am I supposed to say? ‘Hi, local woman died tragically because of my stupid flailing, my bad’? Yeah, that’ll go great.”

The voices drew nearer.

He looked once at the body, once at the child in his arms, and then up at the blank, indifferent sky.

“…Yeah,” he said finally, voice thin and resigned. “Okay. I’ll just—take him. Temporarily. Just until things—uh—stabilize. Plot integrity, right?”

“Exactly,” he said faintly. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

He adjusted his hold. The baby made one last, experimental complaint and then tucked his face into the crook of Shang Qinghua’s collarbone with the absolute, unthinking trust of a creature whose entire world was warmth and heartbeat and the smell of human skin.

“You’re heavier than you look,” he informed the bundle, which was an outrageous lie; he would have said anything just then if it filled the space with words. “And loud. You’re very loud. That’s good. Loud is helpful for survival.”

He glanced once more toward the far bank—the still body, the dark stain spreading through the snow, the slow curl of mist that would hide it soon enough.

“Sorry,” he murmured, not sure to whom. Then he shifted his grip on the baby, stepped back, and flicked his wrist.

A flash of pale light rippled across the air as his sword slipped free of its sheath, metal humming in recognition. It hovered just above the ground, waiting—sleek, sharp, and far too dignified for its master’s current state.

Shang Qinghua looked at it, looked at the baby in his arms, and sighed. “This is such a bad idea.”

Luo Binghe did not disagree.

He stepped onto the blade anyway, balancing awkwardly with both feet and tightening his hold around the tiny bundle. The sword dipped under the added weight, wobbling once before steadying. The sword rose, slow at first, then steadier, lifting them off the frozen ground and into the pale morning air.

---

The wind bit harder the higher they climbed. Shang Qinghua hunched around the bundle, trying to make himself into a windbreak with whatever surface area he could muster. The cold cut at his ears, clawed through the seams of his robes. The baby’s cries dwindled to tired, miserable hiccups against his collarbone—but somewhere over the foothills the hot little cheek pressed to his throat stopped feeling cold and started feeling… warm.

Too warm.

“Oh no,” Shang Qinghua breathed, and the sword surged faster under his feet, responding to the panicked shove of qi. The world blurred into gray and white. He angled straight for Qian Cao Peak, heart pounding, and landed hard enough on the flagstones to rattle his teeth.

The moment his boots hit stone, he was already moving. The baby whimpered weakly against his chest, skin flushed and damp with heat. Shang fumbled the blanket aside just enough to look—Luo Binghe’s little face was blotchy and red, breath hitching unevenly, lashes clumped from half-dried tears. The sight made something in Shang Qinghua’s chest twist painfully tight.

“Too warm, too warm, that’s not good,” he muttered, half to the baby, half to himself. “You’re supposed to be a protagonist, not a baked bun!” He pressed his palm against the child’s back, feeling the fever through the thin layers of cloth, and panic flared hotter.

He didn’t bother sheathing the sword. He ran.

“Mu-shidi!” he yelled as he shouldered through the infirmary doors. “Mu-shidi, you have to help—my son—he’s—”

Four heads snapped toward him at once.

Shang Qinghua skidded to a halt on polished stone, breath sawing in and out, eyes going very, very wide.

Mu Qingfang stood nearest, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hands still damp, that perpetual physician’s calm on his face. Beside him were three less calming sights: Yue Qingyuan poised in strained patience, Shen Qingqiu with his fan half-snapped open like a loaded trap, and Liu Qingge looking like he’d punched a wall on the way in and was considering making it two.

There were marks on them—nothing dramatic, just a ripped hem on Shen Qingqiu’s outer robe, a bloom of dust along the edge of Liu Qingge’s sash, a faint bruise shadowing the edge of a knuckle. Yue Qingyuan’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. The air had that thinned, brittle feeling of an argument interrupted one sentence too soon.

Silence drew tight as thread.

Shang Qinghua became abruptly, horribly aware of several things at once: one, he had crashed into the middle of Peak Lord Drama Hour; two, his robe was still stained with someone else’s blood; and three, he had just shouted my son at the top of his lungs like a man flinging himself off a cliff.

Shen Qingqiu’s eyes narrowed, “Shang Qinghua,” he said, voice cool as river ice. “Did you just say your son?”

Shang Qinghua’s brain, that faithful betrayer, returned only static. In the crook of his arm, Luo Binghe made a small, feverish sound and burrowed closer.

He felt the weight of four Peak Lords pin him to the floor like a butterfly.

“…Yes?” he said weakly.

The silence stretched again, taut and awkward.

Mu Qingfang, ever the professional, was the first to move. He didn’t comment, didn’t so much as blink at the declaration that had turned the room to stone. Instead, he crossed the distance in two swift strides, sleeves whispering as he reached for the bundle in Shang Qinghua’s arms.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, calm and clipped. The tone of a man who had long ago learned to triage first and satisfy his personal curiosities later. 

“I don’t—he—he’s got a fever, I think,” Shang Qinghua stammered, tightening his grip for one panicked second before remembering that the doctor was, in fact, the doctor. He relinquished the baby awkwardly. “He was fine when I picked him up, and then—well, not fine, he was cold—but he was breathing, and then he just—started getting hotter and—he’s only a couple hours old, I think—”

Mu Qingfang’s brows furrowed minutely as he set the baby down on a low cot and began a quick, practiced inspection—pulse, breath, meridian checks, the faint glow of diagnostic qi at his fingertips.

Everyone else was frozen still. Shang Qinghua’s brain scrambled to fill the echoing silence. 

Okay. Okay, think. He’d already said my son, so that was the story now. His. Sure. That was fine. He could work with that. Couldn’t he?

The mother? Obviously dead—complications during childbirth, clean and classic. No one could question a dead woman. 

Claiming the kid as his may have made things simpler. If he said the baby was just some foundling, the sect would probably insist on sending him down to one of those nameless orphanages in the town at the mountain’s base. Shang Qinghua hadn’t written much about those places, but given everything else he’d built into this world, he could make a very educated guess. Who knew how much misery little Luo Binghe would end up marinating in before he was old enough to crawl, let alone cultivate. 

Even if he admitted that Luo Binghe was an orphan and fought to keep him, the rumors would spiral anyway. Within a week, everyone would be calling the baby his regardless. Better to get ahead of the narrative.

Yes. Calling Binghe his son was clean, respectable, even a little tragic. A perfect story beat. Much better than, say, “I accidentally killed his adoptive mother and derailed the fabric of canon reality.”

Yue Qingyuan finally stepped forward, expression softening from polite disbelief to genuine concern “Shidi,” he said gently, “Welcome back. Are you all right? You’re… covered in blood.”

“What? Oh. Yeah. That’s—childbirth,” Shang Qinghua said too quickly, then realized how harsh it sounded. “I mean—it’s fine! I’m fine! Everyone’s fine!”

Shen Qingqiu made a noise that suggested profound doubt.

Liu Qingge, meanwhile, had gone perfectly still. He was staring—not at Shang Qinghua, but at the baby. Brows furrowed, expression vaguely frustrated.  He looked like someone had presented him with a dangerous creature and no instructions on whether to kill it or feed it.

Mu Qingfang glanced up from where he was checking the baby’s pulse, “Shang-shixiong, are you sure you don’t need me to look you over as well?”

Shang Qinghua blinked. “What? No—why would I—”

Mu Qingfang gave him that measured, clinical look unique to physicians—sympathetic, but utterly unflinching. “Shang-shixiong,” he said evenly, “you’re pale, shaking, covered in blood, and showing several signs of physical strain. I’m aware this may be… a delicate subject, but you appear to have recently given birth.”

There was a sharp crack as Shen Qingqiu’s fan reopened.

“I—excuse me?” Shang Qinghua said carefully, because every rational part of his mind had just gone dark. The rest was standing in the wreckage, frantically flipping switches labeled what, how, and HELLO?? and finding none of them worked.

Yue Qingyuan coughed delicately into his sleeve. “Ah—Shidi, I think what Mu-shidi means is… there’s quite a lot of blood. And you did say the child was born only a few hours ago…”

Liu Qingge’s brow furrowed further, eyes flicking from Shang Qinghua’s crimson-stained robes to the wailing infant and back again. “It’s..commendable,” he said flatly. “I do not know of many men who have gone through childbirth.”

“What—WHAT?!” Shang Qinghua’s voice pitched up several degrees. “No! No, I didn’t—do you think I—?!”

He gestured wildly at himself, which only made the blood smears look worse.

Mu Qingfang raised an eyebrow, the calm of a man who had seen far stranger things. “It is far more common than you think,” he said reasonably. “Cultivation produces many unique outcomes.”

“I’m not a unique outcome!” Shang Qinghua spluttered. “I’m just covered in someone else’s blood!”

That didn’t help.

Shen Qingqiu made a soft, thoughtful noise behind his fan. “Mm. Then where is the other parent, exactly?”

Shang Qinghua froze. “The—uh—the other—?”

Shen Qingqiu’s fan clicked once, impatient. “Yes. The one who, presumably, contributed to the creation of your son.”

Shang’s thoughts lurched into chaos. Okay. Okay, answer the question. You’ve already thought about this—just say she’s dead! But what if they asked for details? How did he meet this non-existent woman? He had to come up with something respectable! A tragic love story? No, too dramatic. A brief affair? Too sleazy. Maybe an arranged—

He stopped mid-panic as a far more pressing realization hit him.

Why—why were they all looking at him like that? Why did they immediately assume he was the one who’d birthed the child? Sure, he’d written his fair share of fertility pills, gender-bending flowers, divine womb artifacts—you couldn’t throw a rock in his world without hitting some kind of mystical reproductive loophole—but that didn’t mean he’d ever used one! 

And was the idea of him with a woman really that implausible? He wasn’t a model, sure, but he’d had—well, offers. Probably. Once. He was sure someone had looked at him fondly in a tea shop at some point.

He made a faint strangled sound and wished, very sincerely, that the ground would swallow him whole. 

“The other parent is… no longer in the picture.” 

Three heads turned toward him with synchronized skepticism.

Liu Qingge’s frown deepened. “He should claim responsibility,” he said stiffly. “Abandoning a child and leaving you to this is dishonorable.”

“There is no he!” Shang Qinghua shouted, voice cracking. “There’s no anyone!”

Shen Qingqiu arched an elegant brow. “No one, then. So this is merely a mysterious virgin birth?”

“Shen-shidi…” Yue Qingyuan winced, long used to having to intervene between Shen Qingqiu and common decency.

Shang Qinghua could feel a vein in his temple starting to throb. “He has a mother!” he sputtered. “She’s just—uh—dead! Gone! It’s complicated!”

Shen Qingqiu’s fan flicked open again, a soft snap punctuating the silence like a slap. “Ah,” he said, voice smooth as lacquer and twice as toxic, “so the mysterious mother has tragically perished. And you have been off peak for the last, what was it, three months? How convenient. One might almost admire your efficiency, Shang-shidi—you’ve managed to create a scandal and a sob story in a single night.”

Shang Qinghua blinked, mouth working soundlessly. “I—what—no—”

Shen Qingqiu tilted his head, all pleasant curiosity and sharpened cruelty. “You always did have unconventional tastes,” he went on, tone mild. “Though one might have expected you to exercise at least a modicum of discretion. We do have the sect’s reputation to consider, after all.”

Oh my god he’s calling me a whore.

Shang Qinghua’s pulse spiked. He’s actually—He’s—Why did he write him like this? Why did he have to make Shen Qingqiu so perfectly, elegantly cruel? He could have made him blunt, or loud, or one of those easily flustered righteous types—but no, he had to make him the kind of man who could eviscerate someone with tone alone.

And the nerve of it! Shang Qinghua had never even joined in when the sect gossiped about Shen Qingqiu’s infamous brothel visits. Not once! He knew better than anyone that Shen Qingqiu didn’t actually do anything there—that the man just went to listen to music, drink overpriced tea, and bask in the illusion of human warmth. He’d written the tragic subtext himself!

And this was the thanks he got? Publicly slut-shamed by his own creation?

He opened his mouth—no idea what was going to come out—when Liu Qingge moved.

“Shen Qingqiu.”

The name was a warning, low and sharp. His hand twitched toward his sword in that instinctive, protective way that suggested he wasn’t even sure who he was protecting, just that someone was being an ass and it needed to stop.

Shen Qingqiu’s smiled. “I’m only pointing out the obvious,” he said, tone all silken reason. “It would be irresponsible of me not to ask where this mysterious child came from. One can hardly raise bastards on sect grounds without an explanation.”

Bastard? Shang Qinghua thought weakly. We’re just throwing that word around then. Fantastic.

Before Liu Qingge could start an actual fight, Mu Qingfang—blessed, level-headed Mu Qingfang—cut through the tension with his usual calm efficiency. “If everyone’s quite done posturing, the patient is stable.” That got everyone’s attention. He didn’t look up as he added, “The fever is breaking. He’ll be all right. I suggest you sit down before you faint, Shang-shixiong.”

“I’m not—” Shang Qinghua began, and then swayed slightly on his feet. “Okay, maybe I will sit down.”

He did, gracelessly, next to the cot, while behind him three of the most powerful men in the sect stared down at him.

Shang Qinghua pressed a hand to his face. Not the kind of buff I need right now, thanks, he thought wearily.

Yue Qingyuan stepped forward then. “Wherever this child came from,” he said, looking between them all, “or whatever his parentage may be, Cang Qiong will support you, Shang-shidi.”

Shang Qinghua blinked up at him, dazed. Yue Qingyuan’s expression was kind—too kind, that gentle, measured sympathy that made Shang Qinghua feel like a kicked puppy instead of a scandal.

“However,” Yue Qingyuan continued, “I do think it would be best if Mu-shidi looked you over. For everyone’s peace of mind.”

Shang Qinghua immediately shook his head, a sharp, panicked little motion that made his hair fall into his face. “No, no, no, really—totally fine! Haven’t, uh, given birth or anything recently, promise!”

Shen Qingqiu’s mouth curved “How reassuring,” he said lightly. “Your composure truly inspires confidence, Shang-shidi.”

Liu Qingge’s glare snapped toward him, “Enough.”

That single word landed like the scrape of steel. Shen Qingqiu’s fan stilled mid-motion. He didn’t look cowed—Shen Qingqiu never looked cowed—but the smirk faded a fraction.

“Oh, spare me the righteous act,” He snapped.“It’s unbecoming to pretend moral outrage when I’m merely asking the obvious. The sect—”

And that was about when Shang Qinghua’s brain simply… checked out.

Their voices blurred into background noise—Shen Qingqiu’s precise, cutting diction and Liu Qingge’s low, furious rumble tangling into one indistinct roar. Shang Qinghua cradled his head in his hands and pressed his palms to his eyes until he saw sparks.  He could feel his pulse in his fingertips, in his throat, everywhere. The room felt too bright, too full. What am I doing? he thought faintly. Oh god, what am I doing?

He’d just lied to his sect leader, gotten slut-shamed by his own fictional creation, and sort of, kind of adopted the literal protagonist of the entire world.

Mu Qingfang’s voice, calm and measured as ever, was the only thing that managed to reach him. “Perhaps it’s best if we move them both to a separate room,” he said, directing it to the others without waiting for permission. “The child needs rest, and so does his father.”

Father. That word landed heavier than anything else had.

Shang Qinghua didn’t argue. He didn’t even squeak. He just nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly.

The sudden quiet seemed to throw everyone off. Liu Qingge’s scowl softened a touch; Yue Qingyuan gave him a small, pitying look; even Shen Qingqiu hesitated, as though he couldn’t quite decide whether he’d won.

Mu Qingfang gestured for a disciple to prepare another cot, efficient as ever. “Come,” he said gently. “You’ve been through quite the ordeal, Shang-shixiong.”

For once, Shang Qinghua didn’t have a quip, or a deflection, or even a muttered complaint about narrative pacing. He just stood when told, let himself be guided toward the quiet side room where the light was dimmer and the air smelled faintly of herbs.

Behind him, the murmurs of the others began to fade—Yue Qingyuan’s calm instructions, Shen Qingqiu’s cool dismissal, Liu Qingge’s low, muttered disapproval.

The door slid shut, and for the first time since this whole disaster began, there was some semblance of quiet. 

---

Mu Qingfang was, mercifully, a man of few words and much competence.

By the time Shang Qinghua had stopped seeing stars, the doctor had already set up a small table by the cot—an assortment of glass jars, porcelain bowls, and a faintly steaming bottle that smelled vaguely of… goat? Cow? Something that definitely did not come from a person.

“This should suffice for the next few weeks,” Mu Qingfang said, tone measured. “It’s a mixture of animal and human milk, fortified with a few spiritual additives. I’ll have the disciples prepare more once the sect’s stores arrive from town.”

Shang Qinghua blinked down at the bottle. “Human milk,” he repeated faintly. “Fortified.” He was too tired to ask with what.

“If he requires more than this before the next shipment,” Mu Qingfang continued, unbothered, “you’ll need to go down the mountain and hire a wet nurse from the town below. I suggest you do so as soon as you can.”

Shang Qinghua made a vague noise of agreement. 

When Mu Qingfang finally left them in the quiet, Shang Qinghua sat slumped beside the cot, elbows on his knees, staring at the bottle as if it held the secrets of the universe. The baby—his son, apparently—slept fitfully beside him, pink and soft and tiny and very real.

His brain, ever helpful, picked that moment to start up again.

Right. Wet nurse. Because of course there wasn’t anyone else on this godforsaken mountain who could handle a baby. Why would there be? Cultivators didn’t have children. Every few decades, sure, someone broke their vows or had a moment of enlightenment and decided to “continue the family line,” but mostly they were too busy meditating, sword-fighting, or chasing glory to concern themselves with something as mundane as raising another human being.

And especially not at An Ding Peak.

He almost snorted at the thought. His disciples could barely keep up with their ledgers, let alone a living, breathing infant. They were already neck-deep in paperwork, running errands for the other peaks, and fixing the consequences of everyone else’s incompetence. It was a miracle any of them remembered to eat.

No wonder no one on An Ding had children—their lives didn’t allow for it. And now here he was. Peak Lord Shang, single-handedly ruining that perfect record. The only baby on the entire peak—and, if he was remembering correctly, the only one in the whole sect.

He stared at the sleeping bundle beside him, the slow rise and fall of a tiny chest under layers of cloth. The thought was almost dizzying. This small, fragile thing didn’t belong in this place. The working conditions were abysmal.

Shang Qinghua let out a long tired sigh. “All right,” he muttered. “Let’s get you home.”

He gathered the baby into his arms with the same nervous care he might use for a priceless and potentially explosive artifact. The little weight pressed against his chest—warm, solid, impossibly alive. For someone who’d spent the morning sprinting through existential crises, that fact alone felt unreal.

By the time he reached An Ding Peak, the sun had dipped behind the ridges, painting the sky in thin, cold streaks of violet. His sword dipped low as he landed outside his leisure house—a generous term for the small, paper-walled rooms cluttered with reports, scrolls, and the faint scent of ink and exhaustion.

It was not, he realized with slow horror, remotely suitable for a baby.

Still, he made for the bed. The blankets were rumpled, a spare robe tossed at the foot. He set the bundle down gently. Luo Binghe blinked awake almost immediately, dark eyes unfocused, a faint crease forming between his brows.

“Right,” Shang Qinghua said under his breath. “You’re awake. Excellent. We can discuss expectations.”

He sat cross-legged beside the child, rubbing the back of his neck. Talking made the air feel less sharp in his lungs, gave his racing thoughts somewhere to go.

“Ground rules,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “One: you will thrive at Cang Qiong. None of that tragic orphan nonsense, understood? You’re going to grow up strong, talented, and unreasonably well-fed.”

The baby gurgled, as if considering this.

“Two,” Shang Qinghua continued solemnly, “you will eat better than the scraps you were subject to—well, in another life. Even if I have to personally bully the kitchen staff.”

A small fist waved in the air. Encouraging.

“And three: suffering is for readers. You,” he pointed, “get small, tasteful obstacles that build character without building trauma.”

He exhaled, sitting back on his heels. “There,” he said. “A perfectly reasonable life plan. Easy. Manageable.”

Then the silence settled in again, and with it, a very different sort of panic.

He didn’t have a cot. Or a cradle. Or even so much as a pillow small enough to prop the baby safely. He glanced at the bed—the same bed he usually collapsed onto after sixteen-hour workdays—and felt his blood run cold.

He’d heard stories. People rolling over in their sleep. Smothering their infants without realizing until it was too late. Ordinary parents, in ordinary worlds. And here he was, Peak Lord Shang, already on track to kill the protagonist of the novel with bad sleeping arrangements.

“Oh no,” he whispered. “Oh, no, no, no.”

The baby yawned, unimpressed.

“Okay,” Shang said quickly, standing up and scanning the room. “It’s fine. We’ll improvise. I’ll make you a—uh—a box. No, a basket! Or a drawer! People use drawers, right? That’s—safe-ish.”

He began gathering stray robes, folding and layering them with a kind of feverish focus until a vaguely nest-shaped contraption sat on the table beside the bed. It looked ridiculous. It also looked, to his exhausted eyes, like salvation.

He lifted the baby again—careful, careful—and placed him in the makeshift nest. The infant stirred once, made a soft, wet noise, and promptly went back to sleep.

Shang Qinghua let out a long, uneven breath.

“See?” he murmured, half to the baby, half to the universe. “Perfectly fine. Completely under control.”

The baby snuffled softly, as if in agreement.

Shang Qinghua sank onto the edge of the bed, the weight of the day catching up all at once. His eyelids felt heavy. His body hummed with exhaustion, muscles trembling in that hollow way that meant he’d long since pushed past his limit. The room was quiet except for the faint crackle of the oil lamp and the soft, steady breaths of the sleeping baby.

For a long moment, Shang Qinghua just sat there, staring at the makeshift nest.

Then he exhaled slowly and muttered, “System. You still there?”

There was the usual faint chime in the back of his mind—too bright, too cheerful for the hour.

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing at his face. “Any chance I can get, like… a status screen? Stats? Something that’ll tell me if I’m killing him?”

“If?” Shang Qinghua repeated, incredulous. “No, no, no, that’s not good enough. What if I want to be warned before he’s in danger? Like—preventative measures? Maybe a little red flag if he’s too warm, too cold, too—baby?”

That made him stop cold.

“…What?” he said blankly.

He stared down at the small bundle breathing softly beside him. “I mean… I guess?” he said weakly. “I can’t exactly throw him out, can I? Now that I’ve claimed him as my son?”

“Oh, come on,” Shang Qinghua groaned. “That wasn’t—”

There was a bright, triumphant ding. Words scrolled across his mind’s eye in shimmering green script far too enthusiastic for the situation:

Shang Qinghua stared at them, feeling his soul leave his body.

“You’re not even pretending to give me a choice,” he whispered.

He made a quiet, broken noise. “I hate you so much.”

Shang dragged a hand down his face, eyes gritty with exhaustion. “Fine,” he muttered. “Accept.”

“Don’t say it like that,” he snapped weakly.

The voice faded, leaving him alone again in the dim light.

Shang slumped sideways onto the bed, too tired to undress, too tired to think. Somewhere in the blur between waking and sleep, his brain supplied one last thought:

Maybe if he did a good enough job—if Luo Binghe grew up happy, well-fed, and only mildly traumatized—then when the kid inevitably came back to destroy the sect, he’d be spared.

Or better yet, maybe he could head it off entirely. Keep Binghe away from Shen Qingqiu, away from destiny, away from everything that would turn him into the monster he’d written.

Easy, he thought dizzily. Just rewrite fate. Again.

His eyes slid shut.

---

Shang Qinghua did not sleep.

For a while he tried. He lay on his side, one arm crooked toward the drawer-nest on the table, counting the baby’s breaths. Every fifth or sixth exhale hitched into a squeak, and each squeak punched straight through whatever flimsy doze he’d managed. After twenty minutes of this he gave up, sat cross-legged on the bed, and stared at the oil lamp.

Luo Binghe’s first howl came somewhere near the end of the first hour—thin, outraged, very alive. Shang Qinghua fumbled the bottle Mu Qingfang had left, thumbed a warming seal to bring it just warm-not-hot, and fed him with both hands. The tiny jaw worked. The tiny fist latched around the edge of Shang Qinghua’s sleeve. A mortal, ridiculous relief shivered through him.

Between feedings, he set a time talisman: a cheap little “three-watch chime” seal he’d used on stakeouts, tuned to ping every three hours. He pressed it above the bedframe and told himself he’d close his eyes until it tapped.

It tapped at the third hour. Luo Binghe had already started wailing at the second.

By the second feeding, Shang Qinghua gave up the pretense of sleep entirely and slid into meditation instead—shallow breaths, a sift of qi, the familiar dull ache of exhaustion settling into a manageable hum. He fed the baby, burped the baby, changed the baby with grim efficiency, then returned to the bed to sit very still and try not to think about destiny.

Dawn leaked pale through the paper screens. At some point the lamp guttered low. Shang Qinghua’s eyes felt grainy, his head thick. The drawer-nest creaked as Luo Binghe stirred, made a soft questioning sound, and—miracle of miracles—drifted back to sleep.

Someone knocked. 

Shang Qinghua  flinched so hard the bedframe rattled. An Ding disciples rarely came to his leisure house uninvited; they knew better than to interrupt their peak lord’s… paperwork, espionage, and occasional existential collapse. Another knock sounded, polite and tentative.

He considered pretending he wasn’t home. If he stayed perfectly still, maybe they’d think he was out cultivating in a misty ravine somewhere.

“Shizun?” came a careful voice from the other side of the door.

Luo Binghe made a small inquisitive noise, then, as if remembering the majesty of his lungs, wound up into a full-throated cry. Shang Qinghua hissed, then scooped him up, and began the now-familiar bounce-pat-bounce that passed for a lullaby.

“Coming,” he croaked, and slid the door open.

Four An Ding disciples stood lined up neatly on the steps, their heads bent together in urgent whispering. The murmurs died the instant the door slid open.

They froze.

Shang Qinghua, hair mussed, eyes shadowed, and an unmistakably living infant tucked against his chest, froze right back. For a long, bewildered heartbeat, they all just stared at each other. It dawned on him then that he was holding a baby. In public. At dawn.

The frontmost—Yan Wen, his head disciple, tidy and unflappable even at dawn—composed herself first. Her gaze flicked from the baby to his face and back.

“So it’s true,” she said, voice low with wonder more than judgment. “Shizun has a baby.”

Shang Qinghua blinked at her, brain lagging half a second behind. “How—how do you already know that?” he demanded. “It’s barely dawn! Who told you? Do you people have a night shift for gossip now?”

The disciples exchanged uneasy glances. Yan Wen, ever the diplomat, said cautiously, “Word travels quickly on An Ding, Shizun.”

Before Shang Qinghua could answer, a younger outer disciple—round-cheeked, still growing into his robes—blurted, “But Shizun didn’t even look pregnant! And you were only gone a couple of months—ow!”

Yan Wen’s knuckles had found the back of his head with deadly accuracy. “Guo Zhao,” she murmured through a smile that did not reach her eyes, “do not ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”

“Right. Sorry. Congratulations, Shizun,” Guo Zhao amended, rubbing his scalp and going pink to the ears.

The fourth disciple, Li Suyin—gentle, sharp-eyed, leaned forward despite herself. “He’s… very cute,” she whispered.

Shang Qinghua blinked at them, feeling the first stirrings of an oncoming headache. Not only had the rumor spread across An Ding Peak before sunrise, but apparently, collective consensus held that he had personally birthed the child.

How. Just—how? He wanted to lie down and cry into a pillow until the next solar cycle.

“I did not look pregnant,” he said, perhaps louder than intended, “because I was not pregnant, Guo Zhao.”

The boy jumped.

Shang Qinghua adjusted the squirming bundle in his arms and soldiered on, voice climbing an octave with every word. “The baby had a mother. A woman. A female woman. A human one. We were—uh—very much in love. For years. Engaged, even. She—” he inhaled through his teeth, grasping for dignity, “—died during childbirth.”

Silence fell.

Yan Wen’s brows knit, her voice dropping to a murmur. “We’re very sorry for your loss, Shizun.”

Shang Qinghua gave a weak nod, resisting the urge to look at the floor.

From the back of the group, the quietest of the four—Yi Chen, tall, calm, perpetually unreadable—finally spoke. His tone was respectful and utterly professional. “Do you need anything prepared, Shizun?”

“Prepared?” Shang Qinghua repeated blankly.

“For the child,” Yi Chen said, inclining his head. “A crib, perhaps?”

“Oh,” Shang Qingha said. “Right. Yes. A crib would—yes, that would be good.”

He paused, mind going perfectly blank except for the soft, rhythmic breathing of the baby in his arms. What else did babies require? Food, milk, sure. He had a bottle. But after that? He’d written ten thousand words on demonic cultivation theory and couldn’t summon a single line about infant care.

“And, uh…” he added feebly, “other… baby… things.”

Yi Chen’s expression didn’t so much as twitch. Yan Wen, mercifully, stepped in before the silence could congeal. “We’ll see to it immediately. The workshops can turn out a cradle by midday if we hurry. The rest—blankets, linens, whatever’s needed—will be delivered before nightfall.”

Li Suyin nodded earnestly. “You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

Shang Qinghua looked at their bright, determined faces and felt a complex, overwhelming rush of gratitude and despair. His disciples could organize the sect’s finances, repair ancient artifacts, rebuild half a mountain, and apparently now furnish a nursery before breakfast.

A faint pang threaded through the exhaustion—guilt, maybe, or something close. He’d kept them all at arm’s length for years, convincing himself it was safer that way. Easier to manage a peak full of overworked bureaucrats when you didn’t risk caring about any of them. And besides, who had the time to build fond attachments when half your job description was espionage and the other half was surviving the consequences of it?

He wanted to cry.

“Good work,” he managed instead, voice cracking around the edges. “Thank you.”

Guo Zhao straightened, eager again. “That’s what An Ding Peak is for, Shizun!”

There was a ripple of agreement, bright and well-meaning. Shang Qinghua managed something like a smile—tight, weary.

Then Li Suyin tilted her head. “What’s his name, Shizun?”

Shang Qinghua didn’t even think—his mouth moved on reflex. “Luo Binghe.”

Four pairs of eyes blinked at him.

“...Not,” Yan Wen said carefully, “Shang Binghe?”

The silence that followed was awkward at best. Shang Qinghua winced as if the sound alone had punched him in the gut. Shang Binghe. Oh, that was awful. It sounded wrong, like a cheap knockoff. He could no more imagine calling the child that than he could rename the moon. Luo Binghe was Luo Binghe.

But he couldn’t exactly say that.

“No,” he said quickly, clutching the baby a little tighter. “No, it was—ah—his mother’s dying wish.”

The disciples traded glances, the kind that carried entire silent conversations.

Yan Wen was the first to recover, schooling her expression into polite serenity. “Of course, Shizun,” she said gently. “A beautiful name.”

“Yeah,” Shang Qinghua said faintly. “It is.”

“Then we’ll leave you to rest,” Yi Chen said after a moment, his bow immaculate. “You’ve had… quite a night.”

Li Suyin offered him a soft smile. “We’ll bring the crib later today. Please, get some sleep, Shizun.”

They all bowed again, in perfect synchrony, then retreated down the steps in a flurry of whispering robes and whispered speculation.

The door slid shut. Silence pooled in their wake.

Shang Qinghua stood there for a long moment, swaying slightly, staring at the space they’d vacated. Then he looked down at the baby in his arms.

“Well,” he said hoarsely. “Congratulations, Binghe. It’s been one day and you already have your first sect-wide conspiracy theory.”

The baby yawned, unimpressed.

Shang Qinghua sighed, long and quiet, and pressed a hand to his face. “Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s what I thought.”

He turned back toward the table, where the drawer-nest waited, and tried not to think about how quickly everything was spinning out of his control.

Chapter Text

The crib arrived before noon, lacquer still a little tacky, the wood smelling of clean shavings and tea oil. Someone had carved little clouds along the rails; someone else had snuck in a tiny rabbit on the back post. 

Shang Qinghua ran a hand over the smooth bar and thought, faintly hysterical: furniture. For a person who is smaller than my forearm.

By dusk, he had discovered the crib’s primary use was for looking at, because Luo Binghe would tolerate it only long enough to issue one test cry, decide no, and then howl until he was returned to the familiar, lopsided landscape of Shang Qinghua’s chest. So he wore the child like a talisman. An increasingly heavy, increasingly warm talisman with very definite opinions about proximity.

Skin-to-skin, Mu Qingfang had said calmly, as though the phrase did not contain the world’s most mortifying implication. Helps regulate temperature. 

And it did; it also regulated Shang Qinghua’s dignity into the negative. 

He learned to knot his robe low and keep the baby tucked under it, a little sun radiating heat and damp milk-breath against his sternum. He discovered he could write ledgers with a sleeping infant strapped to him if he braced his wrist just so and breathed through the ache in his shoulders. He also discovered you could, in fact, burp a baby while approving a procurement order for eight hundred feet of spiritual copper wire. The technique was inelegant; the results, reliable.

The house changed around them. Swords went high, hooks went higher, corners sprouted soft bumpers made from folded sashes and spare padding. He shifted the brazier behind a screen, moved the lamp far far from the crib, covered his inkstone with a bowl after an incident in which a very small fist had introduced itself to very permanent black.

He wrote a new ward himself at three in the morning, one that chimed when the tiny chest in the crib rose and fell too fast or too slow. The first iteration chimed constantly, which was not helpful; the second chimed only when Shang Qinghua’s own heartbeat spiked, which was actively cruel; the third worked just enough to let him unclench his jaw between feedings. 

He named it—because of course he named it—the An Ding Peak Prototype Infant Vital-Sign Stabilization and Parental Heart-Attack Prevention Talisman, Version Three (or, as he muttered after the tenth adjustment, the Please-Stop-Screaming Charm).

The feedings defined the week. Every two hours at first, then (unreliably, treacherously) every three. Warm the mixed milk, test a drop on his wrist, ignore the fact that his wrist had become a tasting board, feed, burp, change, stare at the wall, repeat. The Please-Stop-Screaming charm ticked out a new rhythm to his life—no dawn and dusk, only ping, bottle, ping, lullaby hum. He stopped sleeping in discrete units and started napping in uneven stitches: six breaths, twelve, sometimes an entire minute if the universe was feeling generous. His bones began to hum with a dull, constant ache. He discovered aching could be a place you lived.

On day three, he took the baby to the library because the library had answers and also chairs. He slid into a low table with Luo Binghe secured in a sling, instructed the system to please not start any sidequests, and began assembling a fortress of knowledge.

Yan Wen found him hours later, surrounded by open scrolls and three empty ink pots.

“Shizun,” she whispered, creeping through the stacks, “do you require assistance finding… topics?”

“Topics,” Shang Qinghua murmured, rocking subtly, eyes tracking text and baby with split attention. “Speak. When do they. How much sleep is normal. Why is he so loud if his lungs are the size of walnuts. Can they choke on air. Is hiccuping fatal. What temperature counts as ‘he’s  going to blow up’ versus ‘no, that’s just a baby.’ Tummy time—what is it and why does the phrase fill me with dread. Also—”

He paused as Luo Binghe sneezed, a microscopic explosion against his chest.  Yan Wen’s expression melted into alarm. “Also,” Shang Qinghua continued, “Milk-sickness. How can you be sick of the only thing you can ingest? Which demon invented it and where do I kill them.”

He learned: babies did not speak for a long time, which was either a mercy or a cruelty depending on the hour. They would make little vowel sounds later; later than later, consonants; later than that by a mocking eon, words. 

He learned that a newborn’s vision was soft at the edges, that voices anchored them, that swaddling could work like a spell if you did it tight enough. He learned to swaddle. Poorly. Then adequately. Then, on day five, beautifully, and took petty, exhausted pride in the neatness of a triangle.

He discovered the startle reflex the hard way—waking to find the baby flinging both arms wide in his sleep as if plummeting from a cliff—and screamed loud enough to startle them both. He also discovered that he could laugh and cry inside the same breath and that it was unlike any sound he’d made before.

Peak lord tasks threaded through the montage like a second, less vocal infant. 

Reports arrived; he signed them. A caravan stalled at the pass; he sent a team with his best flyers and extra rope. The northern workshop wanted to reorder steel at a discount for reasons both creative and criminal; he wrote them a letter so technically polite it should have counted as a blade. 

His disciples orbited like industrious moons. They brought blankets—soft ones, dozens, as if they’d decided to bury his mistakes in cotton. Someone left a bundle of tiny socks on the step without a note; someone else left a jar of salve meant to soothe irritated skin. No one ever lingered to be thanked. An Ding Peak didn’t ask questions. They simply saw a problem and solved it.

By the end of day six, the house smelled faintly of warm milk and ink and clean wood. By the end of the week, it smelled faintly of those things plus disaster. Nothing so humbles a peak lord as the first set of swaddling cloths-slash-diapers you lose a duel to. He contained it with an array of nine folded rags and prayer. He changed his robe. He changed the tablecloth. He briefly considered changing careers.

“System,” he croaked at dawn, rocking on his heels in a slow rhythm that had become instinct, “log this as my tribulation.”

“Have you met him?” Shang Qinghua hissed, looking down at the furious tomato of his son. “He is very heavenly.”

On day eight, he realized the washerwoman in his novel had gone to the river, scrubbed laundry, haggled at market, raised a baby alone—in poverty, and still had time to hum. He stared into the middle distance for a long time and then, with grim purpose, took out a brush to rewrite his understanding of labor. The next note he penned into the margins of some scroll read: find the local midwives; raise their wages. Another read: apologize to all women ever (draft opening statement?)

He sat for a long while, brush idle in his hand, ink drying in the well. The house was quiet except for the low crackle of the brazier and the soft, uneven breaths from the crib. Guilt, like everything else these days, had become a physical weight—a small, persistent thing pressed to his chest, demanding to be fed.

Eventually, practicality won. It always did. There were still reports to check, wards to recalibrate, sect meetings to attend, and a courtyard full of disciples who would start making up conspiracy theories if their Peak Lord didn’t appear by noon.

So he gathered the baby—blanket, sling,—and stepped outside. The air hit him cool and clean, a mercy after the heavy warmth of the house. Below, An Ding Peak stretched out in its usual, bustling order:  couriers crossing paths with record keepers, ledgers spread like battle maps, the soft clatter of abacuses rising over the rustle of paper talismans. 

Shang Qinghua adjusted the sling and descended the steps. By the time he crossed into the main courtyard, half a dozen heads had already turned.

“Shizun!” Yan Wen straightened from a table of ledger scrolls, bowing neatly before her eyes caught on the bundle beneath his robes. “Oh—he came with you.”

“He’s asleep,” Shang Qinghua said, a warning and a prayer in equal parts. “Let’s try to keep it that way.”

That lasted precisely seven seconds.

Li Suyin, who was supposed to be recalibrating the measuring scales, leaned forward despite herself. “He’s so small.”

“He’s eight days old.”

Guo Zhao abandoned his broom mid-sweep to whisper, “Shizun, is it true babies can’t regulate their spiritual energy yet? What if he—uh—accidentally forms a qi deviation?”

Shang Qinghua blinked at him. The baby didn’t even have qi yet. He barely had neck control. You needed open meridians for deviation. Not that Shang Qinghua had ever devoted much narrative attention to the meridian development of infants—there had been wars to plot, harems to mismanage, and deadlines to meet—but he was fairly certain babies weren’t out here suffering spontaneous nascent-soul implosions.

“Then we’ll both die instantly.” Shang Qinghua said, a little too brightly. He reconsidered for a heartbeat. “Focus on your work.”

Yi Chen appeared from the other side of the courtyard, unbothered as ever. “The southern array’s relay stone fractured overnight,” he reported, holding up a neat shard of translucent quartz. “We’ve contained the interference, but it will need replacing.”

Right—the relay stones. The little network that let An Ding talk to itself without having to sprint up and down the peak every time someone misplaced a requisition form. They bounced messages between workshops and storage halls, passing along task updates, inventory counts, and the occasional passive-aggressive reminder about deadlines. Without them, half the peak’s work would stall—and the other half would end up, somehow, on his desk.

“Oh, good,” Shang Qinghua said. “A problem I can fix that doesn’t involve any fluids.”

He crouched to inspect the damage, Luo Binghe shifted with a faint protesting noise. The motion drew a collective breath from every disciple within earshot.

“Everyone relax,” Shang Qinghua sighed. “He’s fine. I’m fine! The rock is not fine, but that’s manageable.”

He pressed a fingertip to the relay’s engraved center, channeled a trickle of qi, and felt the residual pulse—thin, splintered, repairable. “Li Suyin, fetch a replacement core from storage. Yan Wen, the silver-wire kit. Guo Zhao, if you’re going to hover, make yourself useful and hold the schematic open.”

They scattered, efficient again once given orders, though Guo Zhao kept sneaking glances at the bundle against his shizun’s chest as if expecting it to perform a miracle. The baby did not perform miracles. He sighed, and resumed sleeping.

Shang Qinghua reassembled the relay with one hand bracing the crystal and the other maintaining the gentle sway that kept Luo Binghe from waking. It was a ridiculous balancing act, but somehow it worked.

When the array stabilized and the morning tasks were complete, he finally straightened, rolling his shoulders to ease the ache. The sling had warmed through with the baby’s heat; faint breath brushed against his collarbone.

“All right, little calamity,” he mumbled. “Sect meeting time.”

Yi Chen blinked. “You’re… bringing him?”

“Yes,” Shang Qinghua said simply. “He screams if I put him down, and the sect meeting screams if I don’t show up. We’re compromising.”

He glanced around the courtyard—reports stacked, disciples mid-task, the faint hum of repaired arrays steady again. “Keep things standing while I’m gone,” he said. “Preferably all the same things that were standing when I left.”

A respectful murmur of “Yes, Shizun” followed him down the steps.

---

It was, as it turned out, a terrible compromise.

Luo Binghe had chosen the precise moment Shang Qinghua reached the Qiong Ding stairs to make a face like a storm cloud and begin emitting sounds that promised social ruin if ignored. Which meant running back, rocking, walking in circles until the tiny tyrant surrendered to sleep again. Which meant a change of robe, because milk had happened. Which meant he was now sprinting down the path to the meeting hall, hair coming loose and dignity hanging by a thread.

By the time he reached the steps of the main hall, the doors were already closed. Voices drifted through the lacquered panels—steady, formal, the cadence of people who had started without him. He took one deep breath, adjusted the sling to hide the damp spot on his sleeve, and slid the door open.

“Sorry—sorry I’m here! There was a situation!” he blurted, too loud, the words tumbling over each other on a single desperate breath. 

Eleven heads turned.

The collective weight of the sect’s most powerful cultivators hit him like a pressure wave. Shen Qingqiu’s fan snapped open with the crispness of judgment itself; Yue Qingyuan’s expression hovered between diplomacy and mild alarm; Liu Qingge looked up just long enough to scowl on instinct; Mu Qingfang blinked once, as though recalibrating some internal assessment. 

Shang Qinghua offered a deep bow that was only slightly crooked from the baby-shaped weight against his chest. “I apologize for the delay,” he said. “Parental duties. You know how it is.”

Shen Qingqiu scoffed. “I can’t say that I do. Some of us have the decency not to bring our domestic arrangements to official meetings.”

Liu Qingge’s glare cut across the room like drawn steel. 

Yue Qingyuan cleared his throat with gentle finality. “No harm done, Shang-shidi. There isn’t much on today’s agenda.” His tone was kind, the sort of kindness that made Shang Qinghua feel both grateful and vaguely pathetic.

“Indeed,” Mu Qingfang said mildly, adjusting a stack of documents. “I was more concerned about your health, Shang-shixiong. You look—” he hesitated, searching for a polite word and failing— “tired.”

“I’m great,” Shang Qinghua said, smiling a brittle smile. “Thriving, even. Never better.”

That was a lie so so thin it hardly held its own shape .Shadows bruised the skin beneath his eyes; his expression had the distant shine of someone surviving on sheer will and lukewarm tea. Yue Qingyuan, kind soul that he was, only nodded gravely. 

Qi Qingqi arched a perfectly manicured brow from across the table. “So the rumors were true, then?” she said, voice sharp. “Our Shang Qinghua has become a father. Congratulations, I suppose.”

“Thank you,” he said tightly.

“I must admit,” she continued, “I didn’t take you for the domestic type.”

Shang Qinghua’s mouth twitched. “Trust me, neither did I,” he said.

From across the table came a deliberate hum. 

“Perhaps,” Shen Qingqiu drawled, “this could serve as a reminder to exercise some measure of foresight in the future. A cultivator should know how to restrain his impulses.”

Liu Qingge’s head turned. “Restraint,” he said flatly. “You have no authority on the subject.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop a degree. Shen Qingqiu’s fan stilled mid-motion.

“I have no idea what you mean, shidi,” he said, tone mild, eyes gleaming like a blade catching light. “Do speak plainly if you intend to throw accusations around, you should be capable of that much at least.”

Liu Qingge’s jaw flexed. “Keep your advice on impulses to yourself.”

Before the air could curdle any further, Yue Qingyuan intervened smoothly. “Let’s move on,” he said, with the air of someone long accustomed to mopping up after both of them. “There’s still the matter of the western patrols.”

Shen Qingqiu’s fan snapped shut; Liu Qingge subsided with a glare that promised the conversation was not over. Shang Qinghua, caught between them, stared fixedly at the grain of the table and thought, not for the first time, that he’d rather face a demonic siege than another Peak Lord meeting.

The meeting limped on after that, a weary shuffle through border updates and supply inventories. Shang Qinghua nodded at the right intervals, pretended to take notes, and tried not to think about how his son had begun to snuffle softly against his chest like a ticking time bomb. By the time Yue Qingyuan finally declared adjournment, Shang Qinghua’s shoulders ached from holding still so long.

He had just started to pack up his things when Qi Qingqi’s voice, smooth as silk, drifted after him.

“Oh, Shang Qinghua,” she said lightly, “I don’t believe I ever heard—where is the child’s other father?”

The words landed like a pebble in still water. Ripples of interest spread instantly around the room. Several heads turned.

Shang Qinghua froze. “I beg your pardon?”

“His father,” Qi Qingqi said, with the gentle malice of someone who knew exactly what she was doing. “Surely someone must share the honor of parenthood? I only ask because, well—rumor has been enthusiastic.”

A muscle in his temple began to twitch. Oh, come on, Qi Qingqi—pick a lane. Either you’ve “never heard” of my supposed scandal, or you’re swimming laps in the rumor mill; you can’t be both. Buzz! Wrong! Inconsistent! Make up your mind. He did not have the stamina for this level of semantic warfare.

“There is,” he said, very carefully, “no other father.”

“Ah.” Her tone was all sympathy. “So you’ve been abandoned?”

He nearly choked. “No! His mother—his mother—died in childbirth.”

A hum went around the table, full of solemn nods and unspoken disbelief. Shen Qingqiu made a small noise that might have been a scoff; Mu Qingfang politely cleared his throat, the physician’s equivalent of throwing a blanket over a fire.

“How tragic,” Qi Qingqi murmured, eyes bright. “And so very recent, too. You must have been close.”

“Close to what? Losing my mind? Yes,” Shang Qinghua snapped, then caught himself and forced a smile that felt like it might crack his face. “She was—uh—a fine woman. Very maternal. Gone too soon. We’re all grieving. Thank you for your concern.”

The silence that followed was thick with disbelief and the faintest shimmer of amusement. Someone coughed. Someone else murmured, “How mysterious.”

Yue Qingyuan, bless him, stepped in. “All right,” he said gently, “I think that’s quite enough. Let’s give Shang-shidi some space to rest. It’s been a long week.”

That, mercifully, ended it. Chairs scraped. Conversation shifted. But as the Peak Lords filed out, the whispers rose again—soft, speculative, insatiable.

Shang Qinghua watched their backs retreat. His smile didn’t move, but the muscle under his eye twitched again.

Why, he thought darkly, had he made this sect full of rumor-hungry peacocks?

He could have written serene scholars. Stoic heroes. People with hobbies other than dissecting one another’s personal lives. But no—he’d populated the Cang Qiong Mountains with beautiful, petty creatures who would rather die than leave a mystery unchewed.

If he’d said Luo Binghe was a foundling, they’d have nodded sagely and decided it was clearly his secret love child. Now that he’d said the boy was his son, the next logical leap was that he’d somehow given birth himself.

There was no winning! Not in a world where logic took second place to narrative flair.

Yue Qingyuan offered him a final, weary smile before slipping through the doors. Mu Qingfang followed, pausing only to murmur that he’d send restorative tea. Even Qi Qingqi left with a satisfied flick of her sleeve, the scent of her perfume lingering in the air.

That should have been the end of it. But Shen Qingqiu remained.

He passed by slowly, each step neat and precise, fan half-open in the picture of composure. For a moment, it seemed he would go without comment. Then, just as he drew level, he looked Shang Qinghua up and down—the wrinkled robe, the shadows under his eyes, the small shape tucked close to his chest—and his mouth curved.

A perfect, quiet sneer.

Shang Qinghua felt the look more than saw it; that faint, elegant disdain, the kind reserved for something unpleasant stuck to one’s shoe. Shen Qingqiu didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. 

The doors closed behind him with a soft click.

For a long moment, Shang Qinghua stood very still. His reflection shivered faintly in the polished floorboards—pale, tired, ridiculous. The weight against his chest shifted; Luo Binghe made a soft, drowsy sound, thumb pressed to his own cheek.

Yeah, Shang Qinghua thought bitterly. He knew exactly what that look had meant.

He’d written Shen Qingqiu’s history himself, though it had never made it to the final draft. The boy sold and bartered by those meant to protect him, the youth dragged through the mud of other people’s appetites, the proud cultivator who had clawed his way out of it all and built his refinement into armor. 

Shen Qingqiu loathed weakness because he saw too much of his own past in it. To him, Shang Qinghua wasn’t just pathetic—he was offensive. The kind of man who would, in Shen Qingqiu’s mind, let himself be used by someone stronger. The kind who’d let shame sit on his shoulders and call it penance.

Shang Qinghua exhaled slowly through his nose. The sound came out shaky. “Yeah, well,” he muttered under his breath, “some of us don’t get to curate our trauma into aesthetic discipline.”

He tightened his arms around Luo Binghe, the gesture protective and oddly steadying. The baby slept on, warm and oblivious, small fist curled against the fabric of his robe.

“Don’t worry, kid,” he said. “Shen Qingqiu can go project on someone else. He’s not going to touch you.”

Outside, the wind moved through the trees, scattering faint echoes of laughter and gossip down the mountain path. Shang Qinghua didn’t listen. He only stood there a moment longer, the weight of the world balanced against the weight of the child in his arms, and decided that—for once—he wasn’t going to care what anyone thought.

---

Two weeks later, the world had shrunk again—to the desk, the quiet, the rhythm of brush against paper and breath against skin.

The shutters were drawn tight against the autumn chill; lamplight pooled across the cluttered desk, warm and low. Luo Binghe, tucked against his chest in a sling, made a soft sigh that stirred the fabric of Shang Qinghua’s robe and fluttered the edge of the parchment.

“Good timing, baby,” Shang Qinghua murmured, dipping his brush again. “Your father’s working on a thrilling document about supply chains. Truly the height of cultivation drama.”

The baby’s only response was a snuffle and a small, damp hand patting weakly at his robe.

Shang Qinghua smiled despite himself. The silence stretched, comfortable—until the temperature in the room dropped several degrees.

The brush slipped. Ink bled a sharp line across the paper.

He didn’t need to look up to know what that meant. He did anyway.

Mobei-jun stood framed in the doorway, tall and terrifying in blue robes sheened with frost. The light caught in his hair; his expression, as ever, could have been carved from ice.

“...My king,” Shang Qinghua said weakly, already halfway out of his chair in something like a bow. “What a—pleasant surprise! You’re—early!”

Mobei-jun’s gaze flicked once around the room—lingering on the scattered scrolls, the cluttered desk, the faint smell of milk—and finally landed on the small shape pressed to Shang Qinghua’s chest. His expression didn’t change, but the air seemed to crackle faintly.

“What,” he said, “is that.”

Shang Qinghua followed his gaze, looked down at the bundle, and laughed a touch too loudly. “Oh—this? This is—uh—my son!”

The silence was immediate and absolute.

Shang Qinghua blinked. What.

Mobei-jun’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “Your son,” he repeated, voice quiet enough to qualify as a threat.

“Yes,” Shang Qinghua said, forcing a smile that felt like it might snap in half. “Only a few weeks old, actually! Very recent development! You know how fate is—unpredictable—”

What do you mean plus three hundred?! Shang Qinghua thought, panic rising. Why is he mad? Does he think I’m—what, neglecting my duties? I can still serve! I’m very diligent! I can multitask!

Mobei-jun took a step forward. Shang Qinghua instinctively leaned back, clutching the baby closer.

The movement did not go unnoticed.

“So,” Mobei-jun said, each word precise as a blade, “this is what you were doing during those months you claimed to be ‘on assignment.’ When I could not reach you.”

“No, no, my king!” Shang Qinghua blurted, hands lifting automatically in defense though one still half-shielded the baby. “You have the wrong impression—I really was on a mission! Vital work!”

Mobei-jun’s expression did not change, but the temperature in the room dipped again, a faint crust of frost beginning to creep along the lip of the inkstone.

“Truly,” Shang Qinghua went on, words tripping over themselves in their rush to escape, “spies were intercepted, reports were written, daring things were done! It was all very impressive!”

Mobei-jun’s gaze flicked briefly to the crib in the corner, then back to Shang Qinghua. “You expect me to believe,” he said at last, voice low, “that this”—his eyes dropped to the sleeping bundle—“was part of your… mission.”

“Not part of, exactly,” Shang Qinghua said, trying for a laugh that died somewhere in his throat. “More of a—a side effect! Collateral compassion! Here, here, let me just—”

He turned, every movement careful, deliberate, easing the baby out of the sling. Luo Binghe stirred faintly, emitting one small protest before resettling as Shang Qinghua laid him into the crib. “Shh, it’s all right, little calamity,” he murmured, fingers brushing the downy hair at his temple. “Dad’s just negotiating with his terrifying employer. Go back to sleep.”

The absurd tenderness of the gesture only made the silence that followed worse.

Mobei-jun’s hands flexed once at his sides, the faintest crackle of frost whispering along his knuckles. His eyes followed the motion of Shang Qinghua’s hand lingering in the crib a moment too long.

When he finally spoke again, it was quieter—and infinitely more dangerous.

“Who.”

Shang Qinghua blinked. “Who… what?”

Mobei-jun’s gaze lifted, sharp and cutting. “The other parent.”

Ah. Right. That.

Before he could think better of it, Shang Qinghua stumbled backward a step, palms raised. “My king, please—no! It’s not like that!”

Mobei-jun moved. His hand closed around Shang Qinghua’s collar, dragging him close enough that he could feel the chill radiating from the demon’s skin.

“Do not lie to me.”

Shang Qinghua’s mind whirred at suicidal speed. “I’m not lying! I found him!” he blurted “There was—an incident—his mother, she—she died, kind of because of me, so I thought, well, someone has to take responsibility, and I—did!”

A still silence followed his confession. 

Well, technically, Shang Qinghua thought, that was true—for the adoptive mother. As for the real one—the whole “child of two bloodlines, born of a human woman and a demon lord’s legacy” situation—that was a conversation for a very distant future. Preferably one where Mobei-jun didn’t look like he was considering turning him into an ice sculpture mid-sentence.

Maybe after a few years. Or decades. Or never.

Never sounded good.

Mobei-jun’s grip loosened fractionally. His eyes flicked again toward the crib. The anger in them had not cooled, but there was something else now too. Confusion, maybe. Calculation.

“You… took him in.”

“Yes,” Shang Qinghua said quickly, desperate to fill the space before it could freeze over again. “Adopted! Raised! Humanitarian effort! I’m just trying to help him my king.”

I’ll take it, Shang Qinghua thought weakly.

Mobei-jun was silent for a long moment. Too long. Shang Qinghua could almost see the thoughts moving behind his eyes—the cool, deliberate cataloguing of a situation that did not fit anywhere in his neat, ruthless worldview. 

Did he have to look that good while plotting? The whole tall, glacial, contemplating-murder aesthetic was deeply unfair. Shang Qinghua could feel the edges of his terror curl into something far less appropriate—because apparently his survival instincts had a death wish. The man brooded like an art installation, and Shang Qinghua’s lizard brain was applauding. 

Mobei-jun’s eyes flicked up, and whatever conclusion he reached hardened the air between them. His hands tightened around the front of Shang Qinghua’s robes. In the next instant, the world tilted violently. 

The impact knocked the breath out of Shang Qinghua, the wall shuddering at his back with a low, hollow thud. He slid half a handspan down before catching himself, gasping, one palm pressed flat against the lacquered wood. 

Oh, that’s definitely going to bruise, he thought dimly, the edges of the world still ringing. His breath came back in a shallow wheeze. 

Inevitably, a thin wail split the air.

Luo Binghe, startled by the noise and movement, had begun to cry—small, furious, indignant noises that pierced straight through the cold. 

Shang Qinghua’s pulse leapt. Mobei-jun’s hand flexed once more at his side, the movement so restrained it made the air feel suffocating. He took a quick step forward toward Shang Qinghua.

“Please!” Shang Qinghua blurted, hands up, back still pressed to the wall. “Please don’t hit me in front of the baby, my king!”

The words tumbled out before he could stop them—and immediately sounded awful. Gods, listen to himself. He felt like one of those wives in a badly written drama who insisted, he only hit me once, officer! The kind who said, he’s really very gentle when he’s not trying to kill me.

He grimaced.

Binghe deserved better than this. Than him, probably.

But this was different—had to be. This was demons and cultivators and a man who considered casual violence a valid conversational tone. 

Mobei-jun stopped in front of him, looking down from a height that made Shang Qinghua feel incredibly small. The silence stretched—long enough for his pulse to count every regret he’d ever had.

“Ahaha,” Shang Qinghua began, a laugh breaking out of him like a nervous tic. “Not that I wouldn’t deserve it, my king, if you were planning to hit me again. Totally fair. I’m just saying it’s a little distressing, you know?  For the baby.”

The demon did not respond. His eyes, dark and steady, held Shang Qinghua pinned harder than the wall did.

Shang Qinghua swallowed, the sound small in the cold air. “Also,” he said, words speeding up in sheer self-preservation, “it might be better if he doesn’t—uh—know about you? Just for now! Sure, sure, he’s a baby, no object permanence, barely remembers his own fingers—but later on, when he’s, you know, sentient, it could get confusing! For him. For everyone, really. I think keeping you hidden is best.”

Mobei-jun didn’t answer right away. He only looked at him. Steady, unreadable, the kind of look that made time stretch and blood forget which way it was supposed to flow. Shang Qinghua’s pulse thudded in his throat, every instinct screaming to run while another, much stupider one whispered, closer. Gods, what was wrong with him.

When Mobei-jun finally spoke, his voice was flat, ironed clean of anything human. “Fine.”

Shang Qinghua barely managed a nod, too aware of the weight of that gaze still pinning him in place.

Luo Binghe, undeterred by the majesty of demonic royalty, was still crying—small, hiccuping sobs that knotted themselves around Shang Qinghua’s nerves. The noise scraped through the quiet until even Mobei-jun’s composure seemed to strain. His hand twitched at his side.

“Make it stop,” he said.

“Of course, my king!” Shang Qinghua said instantly, scrambling upright. “Right away!”

He darted to the crib and scooped the baby up with practiced hands, murmuring nonsense and swaying gently until the cries softened to hiccups. Within moments, the tiny body was curling against him again, warm and heavy in the crook of his arm.

When he dared glance up, Mobei-jun was still watching him. Intently.

The stare was sharp enough to make him flinch. 

What? Shang Qinghua thought frantically. Does my king not like children? Did I write that in somewhere? I don’t remember giving him any baby-related trauma—unless I did and forgot—oh gods, did I accidentally—

Mobei-jun cleared his throat. The sound sliced cleanly through his panic. “I need to track down the Black Sun Mirror.”

Shang Qinghua blinked, rocking the baby automatically. “Ah,” he said faintly. “Yes. Of course, my king. I’ll just—put him down first, just give me a second if that’s alright.”

Mobei-jun didn’t answer. His gaze had already turned away, as though the sight of Shang Qinghua holding a child was something he hadn’t planned to see.

The lamp guttered once in the draft before settling again, its glow catching on the frost creeping along the edge of the floorboards. Shang Qinghua watched the frost creep another inch and thought, not for the first time, that his life would be a lot simpler if his king were slightly less beautiful and slightly more predictable.

---

A week later, Shang Qinghua had stopped counting the hours between feedings and started measuring time in ounces of milk.

The stock Mu Qingfang had quietly arranged was nearly gone—half of it spilled, the other half consumed by a creature with an appetite far larger than its size. Replacement supplies were supposedly on the way from Qian Cao Peak, but “on the way” did not help a hungry baby now.

Which was why Shang Qinghua found himself trudging down the path toward the mountain base, cloak drawn tight against the wind, a sling under one arm and an armful of increasingly vocal infant against his chest.

He’d meant to leave earlier. Truly. But An Ding Peak did not believe in letting its Peak Lord complete a single errand uninterrupted.

“Shizun! The new transport arrays are misaligned!”

“Shizun! The copper inventories don’t match the ledgers!”

“Shizun, the western storeroom door has—uh—exploded.”

Every interruption pushed him further behind schedule. By the time he finally made it halfway down the mountain path, the wind had turned colder, his sleeves were sticky, and Luo Binghe had worked himself into a slow, furious wail that reverberated against his ribs.

“Shh, shh, I know,” Shang Qinghua muttered, bouncing him gently. “Your father is a failure. We’re addressing it.”

He didn’t notice the small group of disciples waiting at the bend in the trail until they stepped into view.

“Shizun,” Yan Wen said, bowing with a worried look, “you’re leaving the peak? Do you need someone to accompany you?”

Shang Qinghua blinked at her through exhaustion. “Ah, no, just a quick trip down to the town.”

Guo Zhao frowned. “Shizun, you look like you haven’t slept in weeks.”

“That’s because I haven’t,” Shang Qinghua said pleasantly. “But thank you for noticing.”

There was a pause. Luo Binghe let out another thin, outraged cry that had several disciples visibly flinch.

Yan Wen hesitated, then said carefully, “Shizun… you know, we could take care of him. While you go. I’m sure no one would mind watching him for a while.”

Shang Qinghua froze. “What?”

Guo Zhao nodded earnestly. “We’ve already offered to help, remember? We could take turns. Feed him if he wakes. You could rest.”

Their faces were all so sincere it almost hurt.

Shang Qinghua managed a strained laugh. “Ah, that’s—very thoughtful! So kind of you! I’ll absolutely take you up on that. Later. Very soon. But right now,” he adjusted the sling, tucking the baby closer, “I’ll be taking him with me.”

He waved a hand vaguely toward the path. “It’s just a quick trip to find a wet nurse in town.”

Internally, though, panic was clawing its way up his throat. Leave the baby? Absolutely not.

If he went alone, what would people think—a man wandering around the market asking about milk? He could practically hear the whispers already. No, thank you. He’d rather die of embarrassment later than live through that misunderstanding now.

“Really,” he said brightly, “you’ve all been wonderful. But Binghe gets fussy if I’m out of sight. Sensitive soul, this one. Takes after his father.”

That earned him a few indulgent smiles and a few worried ones.

Yan Wen opened her mouth to protest, but Shang Qinghua was already moving, bowing quickly before they could argue. “Don’t wait up for me! I’ll be back before sundown!”

He adjusted the sling, murmured a soft “shh” against the baby’s crown, and started down the slope again.

The path to the base of the mountain wound through the pines in long, aching switchbacks, the stone still slick from last night’s mist. Shang Qinghua took it slowly—not out of caution, but because every few steps, Luo Binghe gave a small, warning noise that promised escalation if his rhythm faltered.

By the time the roofs of the market town came into view—tiles damp, smoke curling from hearths—his back ached and his legs felt like hollow bamboo. The noise hit first: the hum of barter, the clatter of hooves and wheels, vendors calling over one another in practiced chaos.

He tightened his grip on the sling. “All right, Binghe,” he murmured. “We’re entering civilization. Try not to ruin my reputation any further.”

No reply, of course—just a small, rhythmic snuffle against his chest. That was good. Sleeping was good. Sleeping meant not screaming.

He slipped through the edge of the market, earning a few curious looks—men didn’t often carry infants in town, and certainly not in fancy sect robes. Shang Qinghua bowed his head, moving quickly past a pair of gossiping aunties who were absolutely going to talk about him later.

He made his first stop at an herb stall.

“Excuse me,” he said, lowering his voice. “Would you happen to know where I might find—ah—someone who provides milk?”

The stall keeper blinked. “A cow farmer?”

“No,” Shang Qinghua said quickly. “Human. Milk.”

A pause. Then the woman’s expression shifted from confusion to mild scandal. “Oh.”

“Not for me!” he hissed, clutching the sling tighter. “For him!”

That earned him a long, skeptical once-over and a slow nod that said she didn’t quite believe him but didn’t want to get involved. “Try the apothecary,” she said at last. “Old Madam Feng sometimes knows people.”

“Thank you,” Shang Qinghua said with all the dignity he could muster.

It took three more wrong turns and a conversation with a fishmonger who assumed he was asking about an entirely different kind of service before he finally found the apothecary—a small shop pressed between two teahouses, the smell of ginseng spilling out into the street.

The old woman behind the counter took one look at the bundle on his chest and softened.

“You’re looking for a wet nurse, then?”

Shang Qinghua nearly sagged with relief. “Yes,” he said fervently. “Please.”

She gave him directions to a small courtyard near the east gate, where a widow with a nursing child of her own took in occasional infants for feeding. “Kind woman,” the apothecary said, weighing out dried lotus root. “Her milk’s strong. She won’t cheat you.”

By the time Shang Qinghua found the house—a modest courtyard tucked behind a persimmon tree—the baby was starting to fuss again, and his nerves were stretched thin.

When the door opened, the woman on the other side blinked at the sight of him—a man in travel-worn sect robes, hair half-loose, an infant tucked awkwardly against his chest. Surprise flickered across her face, quickly replaced by concern.

“Goodness,” she said, stepping aside at once. “Come in, you’ll catch a cold out there.”

“Much appreciated,” Shang Qinghua said, bowing slightly as he entered. “Apologies for the intrusion—I heard you might be able to help. With babies. The nursing kind.”

Her eyebrows lifted a fraction, but she nodded and led him inside. The air was warm—thick with the scent of rice broth and the sweetness of milk. A low fire crackled in the stove, its glow gilding the simple room.

“I’m Wen Mei,” she said, gesturing for him to sit. “Please, put him down if your arms are tired.”

“This one is Shang Qinghua,” Shang Qinghua said quickly, rocking the bundle instinctively. “And—no, no, it’s fine He’s… touch-sensitive. Likes to be attached at all times. Like a leech. Or a curse.”

Wen Mei laughed, a soft, sympathetic sound. “First one?”

“Unfortunately,” Shang Qinghua said, and then, realizing how that sounded, added, “I mean fortunately! Deeply blessed. So blessed.”

She smiled, amusement clear in her eyes. “He’s lovely,” she said, leaning forward to get a better look at Luo Binghe. “Look at those lashes. You’ll never say no to him.”

Shang Qinghua sighed, resigned. “Already can’t.”

From the adjoining room came a whimper, then a small wail—Wen Mei’s own child, judging by the rhythm of it. She excused herself briefly, returning a moment later with a plump baby girl balanced on one arm, her hair sticking up in tufts.

“This one’s greedy,” Wen Mei said fondly. “But she’s generous with the rest. We’ve been helping another family up the road for months now.”

“Ah,” Shang Qinghua said, impressed despite himself. “A practical heart and a clever hand—no wonder business finds you

She laughed again. “More like someone who hates waste. I keep extra bottles on hand, cooled and sealed. They keep two, sometimes three days. Would that be suitable?”

“That would be perfect,” Shang Qinghua said, relief flooding his voice. “You have no idea how perfect.”

Shang Qinghua nearly wept on the spot. Not from sentiment—pure project management relief. A man could live on the knowledge that tomorrow’s bottle already existed.

“I have some ready now,” Wen Mei said, crossing to a cabinet by the stove. She drew out several small, stoppered bottles nestled in a shallow basket and wrapped them neatly in soft cloth. “You’ll need to keep them shaded and cool on your way back. I can prepare a fresh batch every few days. You can come collect them at your convenience.”

Shang Qinghua exhaled. “Ah, that would be ideal. Though—” he rubbed the back of his neck, awkwardly— “it’s likely one of my disciples will come in my stead. I can’t always leave the peak unattended.”

“Your disciples?” Wen Mei repeated, blinking. Her eyes flicked over him properly for the first time—the quality of the fabric, the faint embroidery on his robes, the sword at his hip, now more ornament than weapon. Recognition dawned, and her expression shifted sharply.

“Oh—oh heavens above,” she breathed, setting the basket down so fast one bottle nearly tipped. “You’re a Peak Lord! Forgive me, I should have—please—”

Before she could bow, Shang Qinghua reached out in a mild panic, waving both hands. “No, no, absolutely not! Don’t—please don’t bow! I’m the one asking you for help!” He laughed weakly, ducking his head. “If anyone’s indebted here, it’s me.”

Wen Mei froze mid-motion, torn between propriety and confusion, and then—perhaps deciding he meant it—straightened again, still a little flustered. Her cheeks had gone pink in the firelight.

“Peak Lord Shang, you’re far too polite,” she said, trying for composure. “It’s only milk, truly. I’m glad to be of use.”

“Only milk?” Shang Qinghua repeated, clutching the basket like it was made of gold. “Madam Wen, this is salvation in liquid form. You’ve rescued me from certain doom.”

That earned him another small laugh. “You sect folk speak so grandly.”

“You’ve no idea,” he said fervently, already fishing out a pouch from his sleeve. The soft clink of silver followed, then the heavier weight of a small ingot. He pressed it into her hand before she could protest. “For the bottles, and for your trouble.”

Her eyes widened. “Peak Lord Shang—this is far too much! I can’t—”

“Please,” Shang Qinghua interrupted, folding her fingers gently over the money before she could hand it back. “Consider it advance payment. Or hazard pay. Or… just the gratitude of a very desperate man.”

Wen Mei stared at the silver, then back at him, her mouth half-open in protest. The little girl in her arms gurgled, blissfully unaware, and reached out to grab a lock of her mother’s hair.

Finally, Wen Mei sighed. “If I don’t take it, you’ll only find some other way to overpay me, won’t you?”

Shang Qinghua smiled, tired and a little sheepish. “You’re a wise woman, Madam Wen.”

She shook her head, tucking the silver away with reluctant care. “And you’re a strange Peak Lord.”

“I have been told,” he said lightly, though his eyes were soft as he looked down at Luo Binghe, now snuffling in his sling. “Thank you again. Truly.”

“Come back in two days,” she said, her tone turning brisk to hide her fluster. “There’ll be more by then. Tell your disciples to knock loudly—I don’t always hear over the little ones.”

He bowed low this time, proper and sincere. “I will. May your household stay warm and well-fed, Madam Wen.”

As he stepped back into the cool air, the scent of milk and woodsmoke followed him—a small, human comfort he hadn’t realized he’d missed. Luo Binghe sighed against his chest, the faintest puff of warmth through the cloth.

Shang Qinghua smiled. “Yes, yes,” he murmured, adjusting the sling. “We live another day, baby emperor. Let’s not ruin it before we get home.”

The climb back up the mountain was faster this time—mostly because Shang Qinghua abandoned walking altogether.

With a flick of his wrist, his sword rose from its sheath, humming faintly in the cold air. He stepped onto the blade with weary hesitancy, basket of bottles in hand. The instant they lifted from the ground, Luo Binghe made his opinion known. He did not approve of the change in altitude; the first gust of wind sent him from mildly fussy to full-bodied outrage.

“I know, I know, Binghe,” Shang Qinghua said over the wind, voice frayed. “Flying is horrifying. We hate it. But if I have to climb all those stairs, we’ll both ascend in spirit instead.”

The baby did not care. His cries carried over the treetops, sharp and indignant, echoing off the cliffs as if the mountains themselves were judging Shang Qinghua’s life choices. By the time he touched down on the familiar stone of An Ding Peak, his ears were ringing.

He landed hard in the courtyard, boots skidding slightly. Luo Binghe did not agree with being back on solid ground either, it seemed. His wails redoubled 

“Alright, alright,” Shang Qinghua said hoarsely. “I get it. The world’s a cruel place.”

He looked up, bleary-eyed, and spotted a figure crossing the courtyard with a ledger tucked under one arm.

“Li Suyin!” he called, with all the fervor of a drowning man spotting a raft.

His disciple startled, then hurried over. “Shizun—what—are you all right?”

Shang Qinghua was already unfastening the sling, moving with grim efficiency “Here. Take him.” He thrust the bundled infant carefully into her arms before she could protest. “He’s fed, he’s loud, and he thinks I’m the villain in his personal tragedy. You’ll manage fine.”

Li Suyin blinked, frozen in place, the baby immediately wriggling and squirming against her chest. “Shizun, I—”

“Two hours,” Shang Qinghua said, pointing at the basket of precious bottles he had briefly set on the floor. “And these—very important—go in the storeroom with the insulation wards. Label them ‘Milk of Mercy.’”

“Milk of—Shizun, what—”

“Two hours,” Shang Qinghua repeated, voice raw but pleading. “Please.”

Before she could ask anything else, he was gone—half-stumbling, half-floating through the courtyard toward his leisure house. The door slid shut behind him with a soft click. For the first time in days, no one called his name, no baby screamed, no one asked about reports, copper, or milk. Just the quiet hum of the wards and the faint scent of ink and woodsmoke.

He meant to make it to his bed. He made it as far as the kitchen chair.

Chapter Text

The ambush began, as these things often did, with politeness.

“Shizun,” Yan Wen said, appearing in the doorway of his office with her hands folded too neatly to be innocent. “Do you know what tomorrow is?”

Shang Qinghua didn’t even look up from the ledger he was balancing one-handed while the other kept Luo Binghe from rolling off his lap. 

“Tuesday,” he said flatly. “Why?”

Guo Zhao’s head appeared over Yan Wen’s shoulder, smiling brightly. “It’s not just Tuesday, Shizun. It’s the hundredth day since Young Master Luo’s birth!”

That made him glance up. “Ah,” he said slowly. “That.”

Li Suyin followed them in, carrying a suspicious bundle of red silk. “It’s an auspicious day,” she offered. “We thought perhaps a celebration would be fitting.”

Shang Qinghua blinked at the offending fabric, mind already calculating escape routes. “Celebration,” he repeated. “Is that really necessary?”

Yan Wen’s brows knit. “It’s tradition, Shizun. A hundred days marks good fortune—health, longevity—”

“Yes, yes, all very fortunate,” Shang Qinghua said quickly. He pressed his thumb into the corner of the ledger, willing the conversation to move on. “But surely we don’t need to make a whole event of it. The boy doesn’t even know what day it is.”

Outwardly, he was calm, reasonable. Inwardly, full alarm bells.

A celebration. A hundred-day banquet. Exactly the kind of event where, in the trenches of Proud Immortal Demon Way, someone ended up poisoned, kidnapped, or dramatically unmasked. The heavens loved a gathering—wine cups, silk banners, and an audience for whatever tragedy decided to play out. And this particular baby? This baby was the protagonist. The walking, drooling embodiment of narrative magnetism. The less attention he drew, the safer everyone would be.

But he couldn’t exactly tell his disciples that their Peak Lord was avoiding a curse laid by his own bad writing.

Li Suyin, oblivious to his internal catastrophe, set the bundle on the table. “It wouldn’t have to be large,” she said gently. “Tea, a few cakes, a red thread for luck.”

Guo Zhao nodded earnestly. “It’d mean a lot to everyone, Shizun. We all want to wish him well.”

And there it was—that sincerity that made it impossible to refuse them. They’d all helped in one way or another these past months: babysitting, fetching bottles, crafting little charms that hung uselessly from the crib. It was ridiculous how fond they were of the child. Ridiculous how fond he was.

Luo Binghe, as if sensing the conversation was about him, made a pleased little noise against his chest. A gurgling coo that somehow managed to sound smug. He’d started doing that recently, experimenting with sounds as if each new vowel were a minor victory. His hair had darkened, his eyes focused longer now when someone spoke; he could almost grasp things on purpose instead of by accident. In short, he was thriving—rosy, alert, insufferably cute.

Which only made Shang Qinghua more nervous.

“Truly, Shizun,” Yan Wen said, smiling. “You wouldn’t even have to prepare anything. We’ll handle it.”

He tried, valiantly, one last time. “Tea spills. Candles tip. Luck runs out. You’re all very fond of his continuous existence, yes?”

Three patient faces looked back at him.

He sighed. “Fine. But small. Quiet. No invitations beyond An Ding Peak, and if I see so much as one musician, I will replace the entire courtyard with a filing room.”

A chorus of cheerful agreement followed. “Of course, Shizun!”

They left in a flurry of good intentions, red silk glinting in the afternoon light as they went. The door slid shut, and the silence that followed was brief but merciful.

Shang Qinghua slumped back in his chair and looked down at the warm, drooling weight in his arms. Luo Binghe had decided this was an excellent moment to gnaw on his own fist. His small brow was furrowed in fierce concentration.

“You have no idea what trouble you cause,” Shang Qinghua murmured under his breath. “A single banquet, and the plot starts sharpening knives.”

The baby squealed in delight, apparently pleased by the attention.

Shang Qinghua brushed a thumb gently across Luo Binghe’s cheek, watching the tiny mouth form nonsense sounds, and felt something ache low in his chest—a blend of affection and dread that had become second nature.

“Fine,” he said softly. “We’ll have your little party. But if anything goes wrong I am locking you away until you are old enough to cultivate. Rapunzel style.”

Luo Binghe responded with another gurgle, bright and unapologetic.

Shang Qinghua sighed. “Exactly.”

---

When Shang Qinghua opened his door the next morning, the mountain was already glowing.

Red banners fluttered between the pines. Tables—tables, plural—had materialized along the courtyard path, each one dressed in embroidered cloth, steaming with enough food to feed a battalion. Someone had decided on flower arrangements. Someone else had brought musicians. There were musicians.

He stared at the scene for a full five seconds, brain refusing to process what his eyes insisted was true.

“System,” he said slowly. “What is happening?”

Shang Qinghua inhaled through his nose, counted to three, and smiled a brittle smile.

“System,” he said again, very politely, “Why?”

“Relax,” he repeated faintly. “Wonderful advice. I’ll do that then.”

He stepped out into the courtyard, where his disciples were already darting about. Yan Wen was supervising the hanging of lanterns shaped like lotuses. Guo Zhao was arguing with the kitchen staff about platter placement. Li Suyin was, horrifyingly, instructing two outer disciples on how to scatter flower petals.

Yi Chen, at least, looked appropriately miserable. He stood off to the side near one of the tables, arms crossed, expression carved from stone.

Shang Qinghua strode over, Luo Binghe tucked against his chest and already blinking wide-eyed at the color and noise. “Yan Wen,” he said through his teeth, “would you like to explain why my small, quiet tea has turned into a diplomatic summit?”

Yi Chen winced. “I did try to stop them, Shizun.”

Yan Wen straightened so fast her sleeves snapped. “Shizun, please don’t be angry,” she said, voice all anxious brightness. “It’s just—Luo Binghe only turns a hundred days once! It would have been heartless not to mark it properly.”

Guo Zhao, holding a platter of dumplings, nodded with tragic sincerity. “It’s true, Shizun. We haven’t had a baby celebration in years! Not since—well, not since anyone can remember. The kitchens were thrilled. The whole peak pitched in!”

Li Suyin stepped forward, expression calm but pleading. “And An Ding has been working so hard lately,” she added gently. “Morale was low. A little joy harms no one. Don’t you think it will be…fun?”

“Fun,” Shang Qinghua repeated, and for a brief moment his mind conjured the chapter headings of half a dozen old arcs: The Poisoned Feast. The Festival Massacre. The Demon’s Gift. Fun indeed.

Yan Wen tried to smile him into compliance. “The lanterns were left over from the last festival. It would be wasteful not to use them.”

He looked from one beaming face to another, then down at the baby squirming in his arms. Luo Binghe’s eyes were huge, reflecting a dozen shades of red silk; he gave a delighted kick, a gurgling laugh bubbling up from his chest. 

Shang Qinghua exhaled slowly and rubbed at his temple. “How many,” he said.

Guo Zhao blinked. “How many what, Shizun?”

“How many people did you invite,” Shang Qinghua clarified. “And when—” he lifted his head, tone turning thin, “—are they arriving?”

A heavy, collective silence descended. Yan Wen’s gaze darted to Li Suyin. Li Suyin stared fixedly at the lotus lanterns. Guo Zhao began to rearrange the dumplings.

Yi Chen let out a tired sigh. “I told you this was a bad idea,” he muttered, glaring at the lanterns. “No one listens.”

Yan Wen winced. “It was supposed to be small!” she protested. “Just the peak! But then the kitchen staff heard us discussing the menu, and you know how they gossip. And then—well—some disciples from Qian Cao and Qing Ding happened to overhear while they were collecting supplies—”

Guo Zhao nodded vigorously. “—and they said it sounded exciting, and that it would be rude not to tell their shizuns—”

“—and once the word ‘celebration’ gets out,” Li Suyin finished, “you can’t very well leave the other peak lords uninvited. It would look…political.”

Shang Qinghua closed his eyes. Political. Perfect. Exactly what he had wanted to avoid: the eyes of every narrative-relevant person within a hundred miles fixed on his tiny, plot-magnetic baby.

He could already feel it—the invisible pull of story structure gathering like static around the courtyard. Too many witnesses. Too many named characters. A recipe for disaster.

“Congratulations, Shidi.”

Aaaand right on cue. The voice was warm, cultured, and devastatingly punctual.

Shang Qinghua turned, shoulders stiff. Yue Qingyuan stood framed in the gate, sunlight striking gold off the threads of his robe. His smile was the kind that could calm storms—or, in this case, herald one.

“In honor of the child,” Yue Qingyuan continued, stepping forward “A gift, from Qiong Ding.”

He held out a lacquered box wrapped in crimson silk. Within, Shang Qinghua glimpsed a glint of jade—a pendant shaped like a cloud, delicate and far too valuable for something meant to hang above a crib.

“Ah,” Shang Qinghua said faintly. “You really shouldn’t have.”

Nonsense, of course; Yue Qingyuan always should have. That was his whole personality.

Luo Binghe, oblivious to the rising panic in his father’s chest, cooed happily and reached a tiny hand toward the Sect Leader’s sleeve. Yue Qingyuan’s expression softened immediately. “He’s grown so much already,” he said. “Healthy and strong. You’re doing well, Shidi.”

Shang Qinghua summoned a laugh that sounded like it had been dropped and dented. “Haha—thank you, Zhangmen-shixiong. Very…generous.” He gestured vaguely toward the tables. “Please, make yourself comfortable. Yi Chen, would you—?”

Yi Chen, already halfway to bowing, inclined his head. “Of course, Shizun.”

He led Yue Qingyuan toward the head of the courtyard with stiff grace. As he passed Yan Wen, Li Suyin, and Guo Zhao, his eyes cut sideways, sharp as thrown blades. All three pretended to be absorbed in adjusting decorations.

Shang Qinghua smoothed a hand over Luo Binghe’s hair and kept smiling until Yue Qingyuan was out of earshot. He tilted his head slightly murmuring low enough for only his disciples to hear, “We are going to have words after this. Long, terrifying words. About priorities. And mutiny.”

Yan Wen swallowed hard; Guo Zhao attempted a bow and nearly dropped a platter; Li Suyin pretended to have gone momentarily deaf.

“Good,” Shang Qinghua said under his breath. “I’m glad we understand one another.”

He turned back to the courtyard, smile reaffixed like armor. Inside, it was cracking.  The insolence. The disobedience. The treachery. He had clearly been far too lenient. His disciples were supposed to be competent logisticians, not full-time event planners. A little too much free time, that was the problem. He would fix it. Later. Preferably after surviving whatever narrative disaster this was turning into.

The music swelled; chatter thickened. The celebration had achieved full swing. Steam drifted from the tables in lazy curls, sweet and spiced. Lantern light danced across the tables. gold and red and entirely too cheerful. The occasional burst of laughter overwhelming the sound of music. 

And then more power signatures swept in through the gate.

“Peak Lord Liu!” a disciple announced, voice trembling slightly.

Liu Qingge strode in like a battle standard, his hair tied back, a narrow-lidded chest under one arm. Without preamble, he set it down at Shang Qinghua’s feet with a solid thunk. The unmistakable metallic clink of blades coliding against one another followed.

“For the baby,” Liu Qingge said curtly.

Shang Qinghua glanced at the chest, at the faint gleam of weapon oil seeping through the wood grain, and then at the baby drooling on his shoulder. “…Right. Thank you, Shidi. How thoughtful.”

Liu Qingge nodded once, satisfied, and stalked off toward the refreshment table.

Fantastic, Shang Qinghua thought, watching him go. My infant son now owns a sword set.

The next arrival was mercifully less alarming. Mu Qingfang entered with his usual calm air. He presented a polished case of vials and a folded prescription.

“Herbal tonics,” he explained. “Rich but mild—good for development. And you should bring him in for a proper examination soon, Shang-shixiong. Early assessments are vital.”

“Of course,” Shang Qinghua said quickly. “Very soon. Just as soon as things settle haha...”

Mu Qingfang gave him a knowing look and moved on to where the rest of the peak lords had gathered.

More guests streamed through—Peak Lords, masters, even a handful of senior disciples drawn by rumor. Shang Qinghua smiled until his jaw ached, bowed until his knees protested, and clutched Luo Binghe like an amulet against misfortune. The baby, traitorously delighted, accepted every compliment with royal composure, cooing and grabbing at sleeves as though blessing his subjects.

And then, inevitably, the temperature in the courtyard dropped a few degrees.

“Shang-shidi.”

Shen Qingqiu stood at the threshold, fan half-open, expression composed into the particular shade of politeness that meant he’d already found five things to criticize. His robe was immaculate, his tone measured. “I must admit,” he said, eyes flicking from the banners to the baby, “I did not expect you to be capable of keeping a child alive this long.”

Shang Qinghua’s smile froze. “Ah—well, I surprise myself daily, Shixiong.”

Shen Qingqiu tilted his head, the edge of his fan tapping lightly against his chin. “Mm. Perhaps there’s hope for An Ding Peak after all.”

He extended a small parcel wrapped in pristine silk. Shang Qinghua accepted it warily. Inside, when he dared peek, was a tiny embroidered bib—white silk, trimmed in silver thread so delicate it would stain at the first hint of use.

“For presentation,” Shen Qingqiu said. “Not practicality. I assume that distinction is clear to you.”

“Crystal,” Shang Qinghua said sweetly.

“Excellent.” Shen Qingqiu’s fan snapped shut with satisfaction. “I’ll have some tea.”

As he swept away, Shang Qinghua looked down at the bib in his hands and muttered under his breath, “Straight to the ‘gifts that were never meant for a real baby’ collection.”

Luo Binghe gurgled in apparent agreement, reaching toward the silver embroidery.

He huffed a laugh despite himself. “You think it’s shiny, huh? Just wait until you see what the sect leader got you.”

“Ah, I was wondering when I’d find you.”

Wei Qingwei strolled into view, robes slightly askew, eyes bright with the mild glaze of good liquor. Judging by the direction he’d come from, he’d clearly been keeping the Zui Xian Peak Lord excellent company

“I see Liu-shidi’s beaten me to the sword-giving,” he said with a crooked grin. “A shame. I had something much better in mind anyway.”

He produced a small bundle from his sleeve and held it out. Shang Qinghua blinked, accepted it, and peeled back the wrapping to reveal a silver rattle shaped like a lotus bell, delicate and engraved with stars. The craftsmanship was exquisite—clearly custom and clearly expensive. It chimed softly when Shang Qinghua turned it in his hand.

“For luck,” Wei Qingwei said, tone suddenly sincere. “And because all great heroes start by making a little noise.”

Shang Qinghua smiled, touched despite himself. “That’s…. actually very sweet of you, Shixiong.”

“Of course,” Wei Qingwei said immediately, brightening. “You’re doing something good here, Shang-shidi. Something real. A child, a future—”

He suddenly gripped Shang Qinghua’s shoulders, eyes going very solemn, the wine-haze sharpening into intense sincerity. “And just so you know,” he said gravely, “I’ve never cared for what they say about you.”

Shang Qinghua froze. “…What they say about me?”

“Who cares if people call you loose—”

“Wait, who’s calling me loose?”

“—or say you’ve brought shame on the sect for having a bastard child—”

“What?! Who’s saying this?!”

Wei Qingwei only patted his shoulder, utterly earnest. “Let them talk. You’ve done something brave. Beautiful, even. You defied expectation, tradition, anatomy—”

“Anatomy?!”

“—you’re an inspiration,” Wei Qingwei finished, releasing him with a firm nod, as though he’d delivered a blessing. “Truly.”

“I…” Shang Qinghua started, then sighed, long and heartfelt, shoulders slumping under the weight of the conversation. “Thanks. I guess.”

“Of course. Congratulations again,” Wei Qingwei said pleasantly, already turning to go. “May the little one grow up loud enough to drown them all out.”

And with that, he strolled off toward the refreshments, humming under his breath and leaving Shang Qinghua standing there with a silver rattle, a drooling infant, and several new insecurities.

He stared after him, dumbfounded. 

Loose? Loose???? He’d never even been kissed in this life! In the last one, his romantic résumé had peaked at one disastrous college fling and a parasocial crush on a forum mod. Between running An Ding’s logistics, spying for Mobei-jun, and trying to keep his allegedly “illegitimate” baby from blowing up, when exactly could he find the time?

Of all the possible accusations—cowardice, incompetence, tax evasion—why that one? The irony was offensive on a cosmic level. He was, if anything, the most aggressively celibate man on the mountain

Luo Binghe gurgled and shook the rattle experimentally, the soft chime ringing out like laughter.

“Yeah,” Shang Qinghua sighed, rubbing his temple. “You said it, kid.”

From the far end of the courtyard, Yue Qingyuan’s gentle voice rose above the crowd: “Shidi, come join us! The musicians are starting another piece!”

Shang Qinghua pasted his public smile back on and adjusted the baby in his arms. He drew in a a tired breath. 

“All right,” he whispered to Luo Binghe, stepping forward into the noise. “Let’s survive our first festival, hm?”

---

In the end, the hundred-day celebration went—by the merciful standards of fate—remarkably well.

No poisonings, no assassinations, no dramatic reveals, and only two brief moments where Shang Qinghua thought he saw an inescapable plot device coming. The musicians stayed upright, the lanterns didn’t catch fire, and Luo Binghe managed not to spit up on anyone ranking higher than a head disciple. By all measurable accounts, it was a success. 

Perhaps even fate, in its infinite narrative cruelty, understood the importance of pacing. Great calamities required buildup; no tragedy worth its salt would waste itself on a child too young to remember it.

Of course, “success” was relative. He still had to survive hours of gossip, five unsolicited parenting lectures, and exactly two oblique comments about how little Binghe must take after “the other parent”. Shang Qinghua counted it as a personal triumph that no one had called him a whore to his face.

The disciples, naturally, had not escaped unscathed. The following week on An Ding Peak was a study in penance. Paperwork bloomed. Inventory counts tripled. Guo Zhao was assigned to auditing supply ledgers. Yan Wen was banished to Bai Zhan Peak to assist with “infrastructure repairs”—which in practice meant getting yelled at by Bai Zhan disciples and occasionally used as a live target dummy. Li Suyin spent her days cataloging damaged talismans —a fate so dull even she looked faintly haunted by the end of it. And Yi Chen, received a long lecture about communicating potential disasters to his Shizun before they became actual disasters.

Mobei-jun had appeared once in the days that followed. Shang Qinghua, unfortunately, had been halfway through changing after a particularly catastrophic feeding incident, shirt discarded, baby wailing, and an impressive amount of milk on both of them. The encounter lasted all of three seconds: one assessing glance from the doorway, one frozen stare of mutual disbelief, and then a swirl of departing frost.

It was, Shang Qinghua decided, the most considerate thing Mobei-jun had ever done for him. Distance, at least, was a mercy. The same couldn’t be said for the rest of the sect; Cang Qiong, as he had learned, did not recognize the concept of paternity leave.

Still, the mountain was peaceful again. The banners came down. The drums were packed away. Luo Binghe slept through the night more often than not, occasionally cooing himself awake. Things, against all odds, settled.

It was almost enough for Shang Qinghua to forget that Mu Qingfang had told him—politely, firmly—that he should bring the baby in for a check-up soon.

“Soon,” it turned out, meant a month later.

Which was how Shang Qinghua now found himself trudging along the winding path toward Qian Cao Peak, cloak pulled tight against the morning wind, Luo Binghe tucked warm against his chest and humming to himself. The forest mist was just beginning to lift, trailing silver ribbons through the pines.

Shang Qinghua adjusted his grip on the sling and sighed. It would have been faster—so much faster—to take the sword and fly, but Luo Binghe had made his feelings about that particular mode of travel abundantly clear. The last attempt had ended with both of them covered in tears. The child had some lungs on him.

So: no flying. Not today. Not until his son’s tolerance for altitude improved.

By the time the pale roofs of Qian Cao Peak came into view, the hem of his robe was damp with dew. The air here smelled of herbs and boiled roots, sharp and clean.

A pair of Qian Cao disciples looked up from where they were tending to trays of seedlings, eyes brightening the instant they recognized him—and more importantly, the bundle at his chest.

“Peak Lord Shang!” one of them gasped, already grinning. “Oh—look at him! He’s gotten so big!”

The other clasped her hands together. “He’s adorable! Look at those eyes—he looks so clever already!”

Shang Qinghua summoned his most diplomatic smile “Yes, well. Thank you!”

The disciples leaned in for another delighted look, and he angled the sling protectively

“We’re here for a check-up,” Shang Qinghua said lightly. “Routine. Nothing serious.”

At least, he hoped.

Because while the Qian Cao disciples were harmless, their Peak Lord was anything but. Mu Qingfang could diagnose a fever from fifty paces, and Shang Qinghua had spent the better part of the night convincing himself that of course the man wouldn’t somehow notice a faint trace of demonic energy sealed deep inside a baby’s meridians. Right?

Just to be sure, he’d run every test he knew: talismans, wards, spiritual resonance detectors, even an old demonic detection compass he’d once written about in some forgotten chapter. The seal had held through them all. Still, Shang Qinghua wasn’t entirely convinced that fate wasn’t sharpening its knives again.

He shifted his weight, adjusting the sling and the baby’s blanket. “All right, Binghe,” he murmured under his breath. “We’re going to be very charming, very healthy, and then we’re going home immediately. No dramatics.”

The baby responded with a soft coo.

He climbed the last few steps to the main infirmary. The door loomed ahead, carved wood polished to a dull shine, faint lines of talismanic script glowing softly along the frame. Shang Qinghua raised a hand to knock—and froze.

Voices. Low, precise, and very familiar.

“…no measurable improvement,” Mu Qingfang was saying, his tone careful.  “The meridians remain blocked. His pulse is weak, but steady. The stasis array still holds, but Shixiong… you’ve kept this going far longer than—”

“No.” Shen Qingqiu’s voice cut through the calm. “You’ll keep him alive. That’s all I require.”

There was a heavy pause. The faint clink of glass, the whisper of cloth.

Mu Qingfang sighed. “At some point, you have to consider—”

“I have considered,” Shen Qingqiu snapped, brittle control cracking just enough to reveal something raw beneath. “And I said no. He’s still in there. I’ll find a way.”

For a moment, the room beyond was silent. Shang Qinghua stood very still, breath caught somewhere behind his teeth.

He knew that tone. Knew it too well. He’d written that kind of desperation once—a man who would rather fight the heavens than admit loss. 

Shen Qingqiu’s brother.

In Proud Immortal Demon Way, he had existed only in the earliest drafts: a quiet, brilliant boy brought low by a cultivation accident, a cautionary tragedy meant to sharpen the edges of Shen Qingqiu’s perfection.The boy had suffered a qi deviation at thirteen and lingered half-alive for years, dying only months before Luo Binghe ever arrived at the sect. Another layer to explain why the future Peak Lord was so cold, so untouchable, so determined to control every variable in his life.

Shang Qinghua had cut it from PIDW himself—not because he’d stopped caring, but because no one else did. It was too grim, too slow, too distracting from the protagonist’s ascent.

Who wanted their villains to be well-rounded, anyway? People preferred their monsters untroubled by tragedy—clean, efficient, and satisfyingly easy to hate. So the brother had been erased, as had the rest of Shen Qingqiu’s backstory, before it could reach the public eye. 

He hadn’t realized Shen Qingqiu still visited him.

Shang Qinghua shifted his weight, meaning to retreat quietly before anyone noticed—but the door slid open with a sharp snap.

Shen Qingqiu stood there, robes immaculate. His expression was pure venom, the mask of composure so tight it could shatter.

“Have you been eavesdropping, you rat?” he hissed.

Shang Qinghua let out an undignified squeak. “No! No, no, just—check-up! Baby check-up! Mu-shidi said soon, and it’s… soon!” He gestured helplessly toward the sling. “See? Infant! Definitely not prying!”

Shen Qingqiu’s gaze flicked downward. For a breath, his eyes lingered on the small bundle pressed against Shang Qinghua’s chest—the steady rise and fall, the faint, contented sound of a child too young to understand tension. Something sharp crossed his expression—gone before it could settle. Then the sneer returned. 

“Of course,” he said. “I should’ve known you’d hide behind a child. You’ve always been good at finding shields for your weakness.”

Shang Qinghua’s mouth opened, but no sound emerged—just a small, mortified wheeze.

“Ah,” Shen Qingqiu said, as if that confirmed his point. “Try not to drip desperation all over the floor, Shang-shidi,” he added, eyes like frost. “Mu-shidi keeps this place clean.”

Then he turned on his heel and strode past, the air shifting cold in his wake.

Shang Qinghua stood frozen, pulse pounding in his ears, as the front door eased shut behind the retreating sweep of green silk. Luo Binghe made a small, curious noise, oblivious to the verbal carnage just delivered.

When he finally dared a glance toward the open door of the infirmary, Mu Qingfang was standing just inside, arms crossed, his expression an exhausted blend of apology and reprimand.

“Apologies, Shixiong,” he said dryly. “He’s been under strain.”

“I noticed,” Shang Qinghua muttered.

Mu Qingfang’s gaze softened a fraction as it shifted to the baby. “Come in,” he said, stepping aside. “Let’s have a look at the child.”

Shang Qinghua stepped inside. The familiar, clean scent of herbs was even stronger here—medicinal roots simmering quietly in a cauldron, dried flowers hanging from the rafters, rows of jade vials gleaming in lamplight.

“Set him down here,” Mu Qingfang said, clearing a space on the low examination table.

Shang Qinghua hesitated before loosening the sling, extracting a warm and faintly wriggling Luo Binghe from his chest. The baby blinked up at the unfamiliar light, made a small sound of disapproval, then promptly latched onto one of Shang Qinghua’s fingers.

“Mm,” Mu Qingfang murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Healthy grip.”

He worked with quiet, practiced efficiency.. A pulse check. A soft press of spiritual energy through the child’s meridians. A flick of his sleeve as he drew a thin ribbon of pale light across the baby’s brow, reading the glow as one might read a scroll.

After a few moments, he straightened. “Everything looks well. Heart energy strong, qi flow even. No imbalances that concern me.”

Shang Qinghua’s shoulders sagged in relief, his whole body exhaling with him. “Oh, good. Very good. Great even.”

He busied himself with retying the sling, but his thoughts kept snagging on the earlier overheard conversation—on Shen Qingqiu’s voice cracking like a fissure under its own restraint. The guilt itched.

He cleared his throat. “And, uh… your other patient?”

Mu Qingfang’s hands paused over a tray of instruments. He didn’t look up. “No change.”

“I see,” Shang Qinghua said quietly. “I’m… sorry.”

There wasn’t much else to say. The silence that followed was almost kind in its weight; Mu Qingfang didn’t press, and Shang Qinghua didn’t pretend to know the right words. Mu Qingfang lingered a moment longer by the table, fingertips resting lightly on the smooth wood as he studied Shang Qinghua.

“And you, Shixiong?” he asked at last. “When was your last proper examination?”

Shang Qinghua blinked. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” Mu Qingfang said evenly. “You look tired, better than before, but still tired.”

“Tired?” Shang Qinghua gave a strained laugh, straightening as if posture could make up for the dark circles under his eyes. “No, no, perfectly fine! Just… normal An Ding matters. Paperwork. Sleep’s for people without supply chains to run.”

Mu Qingfang raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “Sleep is for people who want to keep themselves from qi deviation.”

“I’m keeping it up!” Shang Qinghua insisted, possibly lying. “I mean, I’m fine, really. Just—hah—going on a mission in a few days, so maybe a bit of that revitalizing tea you make? The one that tastes like wet grass but stops me from keeling over?”

A soft sigh escaped Mu Qingfang, half resignation, half amusement. “Of course. I’ll have some prepared before you leave.”

“Perfect,” Shang Qinghua said brightly,

Mu Qingfang glanced down at the baby nestled against him. “And Luo Binghe?”

“Oh, he’s coming with me,” Shang Qinghua said immediately.

That earned him a very deliberate pause. “With you.”

“Mm-hm.”

“You intend,” Mu Qingfang said slowly, “to take an infant on a field mission?”

“Well, when you put it like that, it sounds bad,” Shang Qinghua said, grimacing. “But it’s nothing dangerous! Just a supply audit in the outer provinces, a few merchant inspections, the usual. I’ll be back before anyone notices I’m gone.”

Mu Qingfang’s frown deepened, but his voice stayed mild. “And if something unexpected happens?”

“Unexpected things happen here, too,” Shang Qinghua countered. “At least I’ll be there to keep an eye on him.”

“Or,” Mu Qingfang said, his patience visibly fraying, “you could leave him in capable hands for a few days.”

Shang Qinghua made a face. “I’d rather not risk it. You know how these things go—the moment a child’s left behind, something burns down, or a mysterious illness sweeps through the nursery, or a—” He caught himself. “—or, well, best not to tempt fate.”

Mu Qingfang regarded him for a long moment, the silence between them weighted with the quiet sound of simmering decoctions. Then he said, carefully,  “Shixiong… forgive me for saying so, but are you perhaps being a tad overprotective?”

Shang Qinghua blinked. “Over—what? No! I’m just—responsible!”

“It’s normal,” Mu Qingfang continued, unruffled. “For new parents to feel reluctant to separate, especially after a difficult start. I understand not wanting to be apart from him. But you could always delegate. Have someone else take the mission. You’re a young parent still; it’s reasonable to step back for a while.”

Shang Qinghua grimaced, a sound dangerously close to a laugh catching in his throat.

Oh, absolutely not. He could already see it—whispers curling like smoke through the sect before he even got down the mountain. An Ding’s Peak Lord is losing his touch. Fatherhoods rendered him incapable. Can’t even leave his baby behind without falling apart.

And Shen Qingqiu—oh, Shen Qingqiu—wouldn’t that be a treat for him? A single missed assignment and the man would look at him with that perfect, surgical pity that said, Ah, how predictable. Weak men will always prove themselves so.

He forced a smile. “That’s very kind, Mu-shidi, really, but I’m fine. The mission’s simple, and I’ll feel better keeping Binghe close. You know how I am—can’t sit still, can’t stop worrying.”

“Yes,” Mu Qingfang said dryly. “I know.”

“I promise, it’ll be fine,” Shang Qinghua said quickly, waving a hand as if to banish further objection. “I’ve handled worse.”

 “Perhaps,” Mu Qingfang said. “But at least take someone with you. A disciple, perhaps. It isn’t wise to travel alone with a child.”

Shang Qinghua winced. “Ahaha, no, no—really, that’s not necessary! Everyone’s busy, and I wouldn’t want to trouble anyone with… baby noises, and diapers, and all that.” He gestured vaguely toward the sling, where Luo Binghe had just decided to chew contemplatively on the edge of his blanket. “See? He’s quiet. Perfect travel companion.”

Mu Qingfang looked unconvinced, which was his default expression around Shang Qinghua anyway. “You’ll do as you please,” he said finally, sighing. “But take extra talismans. And if you run into trouble—”

“I’ll run away from trouble,” Shang Qinghua said cheerfully, already backing toward the door. “Running is an An Ding specialty. Don’t worry, Shidi—I’ve survived this long on paranoia alone!”

“That,” Mu Qingfang said under his breath, “is what worries me.”

Shang Qinghua chose not to hear that part.

---

Mu Qingfang was a traitor.

A well-meaning, soft-spoken, tea-brewing traitor.

Shang Qinghua scowled down at the paper in his hands as if sheer force of will might change the past forty-eight hours. It did not. The ink stayed obstinately the same, mocking him with its neat columns and polite bureaucratic efficiency.

He could practically hear Mu Qingfang’s measured, reasonable voice echoing in his head: “It would be safer if you weren’t alone, Shixiong.” Which had apparently translated, in practice, to telling Yue Qingyuan, who had then apparently decided that what An Ding Peak truly needed on a supply audit—one that involved counting barrels and inspecting ledgers—was the Sect’s resident human battering ram.

Shang Qinghua didn’t know what was worse: that Yue Qingyuan had thought this was a good idea, or that Liu Qingge had agreed.

Well. “Agreed” might be generous. It was probably penance for whatever bloody misadventure he’d recently caused on Bai Zhan.

Shang Qinghua pressed two fingers to his temple. “This is fine,” he muttered under his breath. “Totally fine, isn’t that right Binghe? Just a short trip. What could go wrong?”

Liu Qingge stopped abruptly ahead of him, glancing back. “Did you say something?”

“No!” Shang Qinghua said, far too quickly. “Just, enjoying the scenery.”

Liu Qingge gave him a look that suggested he had never once in his life “enjoyed scenery,” then resumed walking.

Shang Qinghua sighed and trailed after him, adjusting the sling to keep the baby snug. The path wound gently downward, the morning light filtering through the trees in shifting bands of gold. It was, by all accounts, a lovely day.

They’d been walking for less than an hour before the inevitable happened.

Luo Binghe, who had thus far been a model of infant serenity—sleeping, sighing, and occasionally making small gurgles—decided, quite suddenly, that serenity was overrated.

It began with a squirm. Then another. Then, as if some invisible switch had been flipped, a full-bodied wail ripped through the morning air.

Shang Qinghua winced. 

He rocked the sling, bounced on his heels, whispered every soothing noise he could think of—none of it worked. The baby’s cries rose to new heights of righteous fury, echoing off the cliffs.

Liu Qingge stopped walking, turning slowly. “Is he injured?”

“No, no, he’s fine,” Shang Qinghua said quickly, jostling the sling with increasing desperation. “He just—sometimes he gets—uh—existentially upset about things?”

The Bai Zhan Peak Lord stared at him. “What.”

“Hungry! I meant hungry!” Shang Qinghua said. “Or sleepy. Or both. Or—listen, I’m still learning the dialect.”

Luo Binghe’s tiny fist thudded against his chest in protest. Shang Qinghua fumbled one-handed through his travel pack, muttering under his breath as the wailing continued its relentless assault on his sanity. “All right, all right, I know this one, hold on—ah, here we go.”

He triumphantly produced a small feeding bottle from somewhere in the depths of a Qiankun bag, uncapped it, and offered it with solemn hope.

“Okay, Binghe, look—dinner! Well, breakfast. Second breakfast. Whatever, it’s milk, your favorite thing in the universe.”

Luo Binghe took one suspicious glance at the bottle, then arched his back and let out a howl that could have startled birds off the next mountain over.

“Hey—no, come on, this usually works!” Shang Qinghua pleaded, trying to coax the bottle closer. The baby twisted his head away with surprising force, little face scrunched in pure betrayal. The crying redoubled.

Liu Qingge sighed through his nose, long and controlled, as though preparing to face a particularly persistent enemy. 

“Give him here.”

Shang Qinghua blinked. “What?”

“I said, give him to me,” Liu Qingge repeated, holding out his hands.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Shang Qinghua said nervously. “He’s, um, a little delicate—”

“Shang-shixiong.”

Liu Qingge’s tone left no room for argument. It wasn’t loud, but it had the same effect as being stared down by an avalanche.

Shang Qinghua hesitated for a long moment, then sighed and carefully transferred the baby into Liu Qingge’s waiting arms.

It should have been a disaster. Liu Qingge, all rigid lines and iron discipline, holding something as soft and unpredictable as a child—it should’ve looked absurd. But the moment the baby settled against him, something shifted.

Liu Qingge adjusted his grip, one broad hand steadying the infant’s back, the other supporting his head. Without a word, he began to move. Not awkwardly, as Shang Qinghua half-expected, but with a slow, rhythmic motion that looked almost instinctive. The faint rise and fall of his arms, the steady rock of his shoulders.

Luo Binghe hiccuped once, blinked up at the unfamiliar face, and—miraculously—stopped crying.

Within moments, the furious squalls had dwindled to little sighs, and then to nothing at all. The infant gazed up at Liu Qingge with wide, dark eyes, a tiny hand fisting in the man’s sleeve.

Shang Qinghua gawked. “How—how did you—what?!”

Liu Qingge looked down at the baby, utterly unbothered. “He’s not difficult,” he said simply.

“That’s not—most people don’t just turn off crying like a switch!” Shang Qinghua sputtered.

“I have a younger sister,” Liu Qingge said, as if that explained everything. His voice was still even, but there was a faint softness threaded through it now, “She’s only a little older than him. I help out sometimes. When I visit home after a hunt.”

Oh, Shang Qinghua thought faintly, as the pieces clicked together. Liu Mingyan.

Of course. Two years older than Binghe, serene and soft-spoken, the kind of beauty that quieted a room just by existing in it. In Proud Immortal Demon Way, she’d worn a veil not out of vanity, but mercy. A detail he’d once congratulated himself on for its poetic restraint. A tranquil girl, written to be calm where her brother was unyielding.

And in the end, she’d become one of Luo Binghe’s wives.

He swallowed. The thought lodged like a splinter in his throat.

Because Liu Qingge had died, cut down by a twist of narrative necessity. The tragic death of the righteous war god, leaving behind a sister to be consoled, to find comfort in the arms of the protagonist. It had made sense at the time—dramatic, bittersweet, perfect for pacing. Not to mention fuel for the hatred of Shen Qingqiu, who had been blamed for his death.

But standing here now, watching Liu Qingge cradle a fussing child with hands too careful for someone who’d spent his life breaking mountains—it didn’t feel perfect at all.

Shang Qinghua’s chest tightened with something uneasy, almost shameful.You didn’t even want to kill him, he thought. He wasn’t meant to be real. You just—had to. For the story. For Binghe.

Shang Qinghua cleared his throat. “That’s very kind of you, Shidi.”

Liu Qingge looked up, frowning faintly. “It’s not kindness,” he said. “It’s my duty.”

Shang Qinghua nearly groaned aloud. Please just take the compliment, you brick wall, he thought helplessly, exasperation and guilt warring in his chest.

“Right,” Shang Qinghua said. “Your… filial duty.”

“Yes.”

“Of course.”

They stood there in silence for a beat, the sound of the forest filling the space between them.

 “Well, Shidi. I think he’s calm now, though, so you can—” He made a vague gesture toward the sling strapped across his chest. “—hand him back?”

Liu Qingge didn’t move. He looked down at the baby, whose fist was still curled stubbornly around the fabric of his sleeve. “It’s fine,” he said. “I can carry him.”

Shang Qinghua blinked. “You… can?”

A short nod. “He’s settled.”

Which, objectively, was true. Luo Binghe seemed perfectly content, making the occasional soft, sleepy noise as if lulled by the rhythm of the man’s gait as they began to walk.

They continued in silence for a while,  the steady crunch of boots on gravel blending with the quiet rustle of leaves. For once, there was no awkwardness in it. Liu Qingge’s pace slowed just enough to be manageable, the swing of his stride uncharacteristically careful. Shang Qinghua found himself matching it without thinking, hands clasped behind his back as he let the quiet of the forest seep in.

It wasn’t pleasant, exactly, but it was… calm. A strange little pocket of stillness carved out between one worry and the next.

Eventually, Shang Qinghua stopped near a flat stretch of rock by the path. “Let’s take a break,” he said, already half crouching to dig through his pack.

Liu Qingge paused mid-step, glanced at the incline ahead, then back at Shang Qinghua. It was clear that, left to his own devices, the Bai Zhan Peak Lord would have kept walking until nightfall—or until the mountain itself got out of his way. But after a brief, almost imperceptible sigh, he inclined his head.

“For the child,” he said.

“Of course,” Shang Qinghua agreed quickly, pretending not to hear the unspoken and because you clearly can’t keep up, Shixiong.

They settled on the rock—well, Shang Qinghua settled; Liu Qingge merely stood, posture perfect even in stillness. He handed Luo Binghe carefully back to Shang Qinghua.

For a while, the clearing was quiet. Just the whisper of leaves, the sigh of wind through the pines, the faint, even breaths of a sleeping infant. Shang Qinghua chewed on a strip of dried fruit and tried to pretend he wasn’t enjoying the peace. It was rare, these moments where nothing demanded his attention. No disciples, no sect paperwork, no System whispering milestones in his ear. Just sunlight and silence and the occasional soft gurgle against his chest.

It lasted seven minutes.

The forest shifted. A subtle wrongness. The sound seemed to drain from the air. The birds stilled. Even the wind stopped threading through the branches. A low vibration crawled through the ground, like something very large rolling over in its sleep.

Shang Qinghua froze. “No,” he whispered under his breath. “No, no, no. We’re not doing this.”

The vibration deepened into a rumble. Pebbles danced at the edge of the trail. Liu Qingge’s head snapped up, his posture sharpening in an instant. “Something’s coming,” he said.

Shang Qinghua blinked, looked down at the baby strapped to his chest, and felt his stomach drop. He’d made this same trip dozens of times—quiet, predictable, aggressively boring—and nothing larger than an offended squirrel had ever so much as looked at him twice. He squinted accusingly at the tiny, peacefully drooling face. Protagonist—are you attracting bullshit already?

The trees at the edge of the clearing bowed outward with a sound like splitting bark. From the shadowed undergrowth, something heaved itself into the light.

It looked, at first, like an enormous toad carved from stone. Then it moved, and the illusion shattered. Its skin was translucent, pulsing faintly with inner light. Veins of greenish luminescence crawling beneath the surface. Six limbs, too many joints, and a flattened head crowned with slick, backward-hooking spines. When it exhaled, the air filled with the sweet, suffocating smell of rot and crushed lotus.

Shang Qinghua went white. His mind stuttered between this can’t be happening and of course this is happening.

Beside him, Liu Qingge’s expression sharpened. “Stay here,” he said, already stepping forward. “I’ll handle it.”

Handle it, Shang Qinghua thought weakly, staring at the monster as it uncoiled its full height. The Glass-Lotus Mire Toad loomed over the clearing, six stories of translucent muscle and light. 

Liu Qingge drew his sword. The air shivered. Steel sang—a clean, low note that set the hair on Shang Qinghua’s arms on end—and then he was gone, a blur of motion.

The creature’s tongue lashed out. An arc of viscous green fluid came out. It struck a nearby tree and dissolved half its trunk in seconds. Liu Qingge moved before the splinters hit the ground, blade flashing in an impossible arc. The impact rang like thunder, slicing clean through one of the creature’s forelimbs. The severed limb collapsed in a heap of steaming jelly—and then reformed, knitting together with a wet, sucking sound. 

The Glass-Lotus Mire Toad shrieked, a high, glassy wail that rattled the teeth in Shang Qinghua’s skull. Liu Qingge only frowned, adjusting his stance, and moved again. The sword swept upward in a spiral of white qi, the ground fracturing under his feet. For a moment, the toad’s luminous hide split open, light spilling from the wound.

It wasn’t enough.

The creature reared back, maw gaping, and before Liu Qingge could clear his footing it struck—a rope of translucent slime that hit Liu Qingge squarely in the chest. He tore at it with both hands, but the substance hardened instantly, pinning him against a slab of rock. The more he struggled, the thicker it grew, creeping over his limbs until only his face remained visible.

“Liu-shidi!” Shang Qinghua’s voice cracked. He stumbled back, nearly tripping over his own robes, every nerve screaming at him to do something.

But what, exactly? He wasn’t a fighter; he barely qualified as competent prey.  His hands shook as he clutched Luo Binghe closer, the baby squirming and beginning to wail—small fists beating against his chest, as if the child, too, could sense the tension thickening in the air.

“System,” he hissed. “System, what do I do?”

Shang Qinghua stared at the glowing text hovering before his eyes. “What the hell? These are my only options?!”

He could feel his pulse thudding in his throat, the air thick with the creature’s rot-sweet stench. Liu Qingge was still pinned against the rock, the slime creeping higher, his jaw clenched tight. And the baby on Shang Qinghua’s chest—small, furious, terrified—wailed against him like his heartbeat had moved outside his body.

Leave them? Leave either of them? He couldn’t. He’d written this man’s death once, and the thought of watching him die again made something in him twist hard and cold. And Binghe—no. No universe existed where he’d let his son die because he chose to run.

His hands moved before his head caught up. He fumbled the sling open, palms slick, and hauled Luo Binghe partway out, instincts shouting the most sensible option first: put him down, get him somewhere safe, come back. For a breath he pictured a hollow between two stones, a narrow crevice under a leaning log—anything the creature’s bulk might not reach. He imagined the baby tucked there, muffled, warm. It should have been easy.

But the image came apart as fast as he’d made it. The toad’s shadow already pooled half the clearing. If he set the child down now, a stray whip of slime or a loose shudder of its movement could wash the place with acid. Or worse: something smaller, quicker, attracted by the noise, could find the infant alone. He thought of Liu Qingge pinned to the rock, of the way the slime had worked like living glass, and his jaw clenched.

No. Not a chance.

He swung the sling back, breath hitching as the baby protested—tiny fists scrabbling at his collar, a high, indignant keening that cut through the dull thunder of the toad’s breathing. Shang Qinghua tightened the wraps with hands that shook. Strap, knot, tuck; the little head tucked between his shoulder blades, warm and furious against his spine. 

That done, he paused only long enough to taste the metallic tang of fear on his tongue. His fingers went to his belt, closing around the hilt of his sword. With a sharp tug, he drew the blade free. The sound of it leaving the scabbard was clean and thin, too small for what he was about to do.

Shang Qinghua exhaled once. His legs felt hollow, his hands slick. Still, he shifted his weight forward and planted one foot on the blade

A bright line of text chopped through his focus as the System reacted.

Shang Qinghua nearly choked. “What?! How is that fair? You can’t just take points off—I never even had the OOC function to begin with!”

“I’m a multifaceted human being!” he hissed.

“Unbelievable,” Shang snapped, tightening his grip on the sling. “Fine. You can have your points.”

The sword lurched to life beneath him, light roaring along its edge, and then the world dropped away in a rush of wind and noise. The baby shrieked behind his shoulder, the sound cutting through the chaos. Shang Qinghua winced. Sorry, Binghe! I know you hate flying—A-Die’s working on it!

The air ripped at his sleeves as he shot forward, the wind flattening his breath into his throat. The Glass-Lotus Mire Toad turned toward him with ponderous, gelatinous grace, its mouth yawning wide enough to swallow a wagon.

He banked sharply, the blade responding to every twitch of his qi. Slime hissed past him in wet arcs, searing holes into the ground where it landed. He darted through the barrage, movements erratic and narrow. For all his lack of talent with the sword, he had hours—years—of practice with flight paths, evasions, desperate courier work through cursed terrain. An Ding Peak’s Peak Lord did not fight, but he ran.

He was fast. Terrifyingly, suicidally fast.

Below, Liu Qingge was shouting something, his voice carrying over the chaos—raw and furious. “What the hell are you doing?! Get out of here!”

Shang Qinghua didn’t even glance down. “Working on it!” he yelled back, though what he was working on, exactly, was anyone’s guess.

The toad bellowed, one massive forelimb crashing down, and Shang Qinghua twisted low, riding the gust of impact. He skimmed the slick underside of the creature’s body and then angled up, feet barely holding on as he carved along its side. His heart slammed in his ribs. The baby wailed. He didn’t dare look back.

Just a little higher.

He remembered vaguely the chapter this monster had appeared in. He’d written it half out of boredom, half because he’d needed to fill word count. Glass-Lotus Mire Toad, weak point located at the fold behind the auditory node, where the membranes are thinnest.

He’d invented the detail because it had sounded cool. Now he prayed it was real.

“Shang Qinghua!”

The shout cut through the roar of the wind. Liu Qingge’s voice.

Shang Qinghua didn’t dare look down. He could feel the glare, the you absolute idiot of it vibrating through the air. Well, it was far too late now.

He kicked off the sword. The motion sent him spinning upward in an arc of white light. For an instant he was above it—the clearing spread beneath him, the monster rearing, Liu Qingge half-encased in shimmering glass, the sunlight fracturing through the creature’s skin into a thousand reflections.

Then gravity caught him.

He flipped midair, both hands tight on the hilt, and drove the blade down. The strike hit just behind the toad’s ear ridge, right where the translucent skin thinned to an iridescent seam. The resistance gave way, like cutting through jelly.

The sword carved a line down its neck, a long, jagged wound spilling phosphorescent fluid. The stench hit him an instant later. Thick, sweet, and fetid enough to burn his throat. Shang Qinghua clung to the hilt as he slid down its massive flank, half-blind in a rain of glowing muck. It splattered his robes, his hair, his face—hot, viscous, and uncomfortably alive.

By the time he hit the ground with a jarring thud, he was drenched head to toe in bioluminescent gore. The sword slipped from his grasp and landed beside him with a wet clack. He stumbled, caught himself, gasping. Behind him, the monster reeled, its screech turning to a fractured gurgle as light spilled from the gash.

Shang Qinghua blinked through the haze, chest heaving. His ears rang, his arms shook, and Luo Binghe was still wailing against his back—but alive. Alive.

As the Glass-Lotus Mire Toad collapsed in on itself, the slime binding Liu Qingge shimmered—and dissolved, vanishing in a hiss of steam. The Peak Lord stumbled free, blade still in hand, looking for a moment genuinely unsure if he was awake.

Shang Qinghua, unfortunately, was very awake. His heart was hammering so hard it felt like it might split his ribs.

What the fuck. What the actual fuck did I just do.

He looked down at his hands. They were still shaking. That actually worked.

The afterimage of the fall, of the blade biting through translucent flesh, flashed behind his eyes. His stomach lurched. The adrenaline started to ebb, leaving him hollow, trembling, and abruptly very aware of how warm and wet everything felt.

“Oh no,” he whispered, voice breaking. He raised a hand to his face. It came away slick, glowing faintly green. “Oh, that’s—oh, that’s everywhere. That’s inside my sleeve.” He made a sound halfway between a groan and a whimper. “Eugh—no no no—why is it sticky?”

His breathing quickened, shallow and uneven. The smell was cloying, sweet like spoiled fruit. It coated his tongue, clung to his hair. “Oh, that’s so gross, I definitely have some in my mouth.” he muttered, dizzy with the effort of not retching. “So, so gross. I can’t believe I just—ugh.”

He forced in another breath, chest tight, and pressed a trembling hand to his sternum as though to keep himself anchored. Slowly—painfully slowly—the edges of the world stopped swimming.

When he finally looked up, Liu Qingge was staring at him, eyes wide, sword still in hand. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. Nothing came out. 

Shang Qinghua blinked at him through a dripping fringe of hair, phosphorescent slime running down his chin in lazy rivulets.

Then, belatedly, the System chimed.

Shang Qinghua let out a single, incredulous laugh that came out more like a wheeze. “Now you say that,” he muttered. “Where was this energy five minutes ago?”

He bent, retrieved his sword, and swiped at his sleeve. It only smeared the muck further. Luo Binghe squirmed against his back, the cries tapering into curious coos. The baby reached a hand out toward a dangling strand of greenish goo, eyes wide with fascination.

“Oh no you don’t,” Shang Qinghua said, voice still hoarse. He turned the sling carefully until Luo Binghe faced him again, grimacing at the sticky sound it made against his robes. The child’s expression was radiant delight—tiny fingers reaching for his father’s slime-slick hair.

Shang Qinghua sighed, long and defeated. “We are absolutely finding a bath,” he told him.

Liu Qingge was still staring. Shang Qinghua pretended not to notice, sheathing his sword with a wet snick. 

“Right,” he said briskly, even as his knees wobbled. “That’s enough near-death experiences for one supply run. Let’s find a lake. Or a pond. I’ll settle for a puddle. Anything with water.”

He turned to go, only realizing after a few steps that Liu Qingge hadn’t moved. The man was watching him—brows drawn, mouth slightly parted—as though the world had tilted sideways and no one had warned him. For once, it wasn’t Liu Qingge charging ahead without deliberation.

Shang Qinghua cleared his throat. “Shidi? Are you coming?”

Liu Qingge blinked, once. Then he picked up his sword and followed without a word.

Somehow, the rest of the mission went off without a hitch.

Chapter Text

The art of tea, Shen Qingqiu often said, was the art of discernment.

Across the low lacquered table, he moved with the serene precision of a man who had never once spilled a drink in his life. A slender wrist, a tilt of the porcelain pot, the faint curl of steam lifting between them. Two cups sat before Shang Qinghua, nearly identical except that one seemed marginally paler in hue.

“Now,” Shen Qingqiu said, folding his fan closed and setting it beside the tray, “taste this one again.”

Shang Qinghua obediently reached for the left cup, cradling it between his palms. The scent was delicate, floral, and—unfortunately—exactly the same as the last four cups. He took a sip. It tasted like hot leaf water. Expensive, self-important leaf water, perhaps, but still.

He made a thoughtful noise. “Ah. Yes. Quite... complex.”

Shen Qingqiu arched a perfect brow. “Complex,” he repeated.

“Mm,” Shang Qinghua said brightly, desperate. “You can really taste the... the nuance.”

“The nuance.”

“That... um. Lingering mouthfeel of—” His mind scrambled frantically through half-remembered words from trashy cooking shows. “—depth?”

Shen Qingqiu stared at him over the rim of his own cup, expression unreadable in the way that suggested it was, in fact, very readable and none of it good.

“This,” he said finally, setting his cup down with soft finality, “is inferior stock.”

“Ahaha—well, that would explain why it, uh, lingers so much.”

“It lingers,” Shen Qingqiu said coolly, “because it was over-roasted and stored poorly. The leaves have lost their brightness.” He picked up the second cup, tilting it slightly toward the light filtering through the open office window. “You see the color? Flat. Lifeless. No clarity at all.”

Shang Qinghua squinted. The liquid looked… like tea. Brownish. Wet. “Of course,” he said smoothly. 

“I can only assume,” Shen Qingqiu continued, each word cutting, “that the An Ding procurement team has been cutting corners.”

A bead of sweat slipped down Shang Qinghua’s temple. “Of course not, Shixiong! Never! We’d sooner—uh—burn down our own warehouses! Which we definitely haven’t. Recently.” He gave a too-bright laugh. “I’ll have a new batch sent up immediately! Only the best leaves for Qing Jing Peak, you have my word.”

Shen Qingqiu regarded him for a long, frost-edged moment. “See that you do.”

“Yes, absolutely, no question, it’s practically already en route—”

A crash split the quiet of the office.

Shang Qinghua flinched so hard his knee hit the table. The cups rattled. Both men froze.  Shen Qingqiu’s expression flicked from irritation to offense. 

“Shang Qinghua!”

The voice boomed up from the lower courtyard, unmistakable in its authority and complete lack of manners.

“What,” Shen Qingqiu said, in a tone that could peel bark from trees, “is he doing on my peak.”

“Oh no,” Shang Qinghua whispered, the color draining from his face. “No, no, no, not here—Shixiong, you have to hide me.”

“Hide you?” Shen Qingqiu asked “From Liu Qingge?”

“Yes! He’s—he’s deranged! He’s obsessed! It’s not safe!”

Another crash, closer this time. The distinct sound of someone vaulting the decorative railing instead of using the stairs.

Shen Qingqiu’s knuckles went white around his fan. “He dares to trample Qing Jing’s architecture—”

But Shang Qinghua wasn’t listening. He was already darting frantic glances around the office: behind the screen? Too obvious. Under the table? Too small. Inside the decorative cabinet full of scrolls? Possibly, if he breathed very shallowly.

“Shang-shidi,” Shen Qingqiu said, voice thin with disbelief, “what are you doing.”

“Strategic relocation.” Shang Qinghua wheezed, attempting to wedge himself behind an ornamental screen. His robes caught on the lacquered edge. “He can’t fight what he can’t find—”

“Shang Qinghua!” Liu Qingge’s voice cut through the air again, closer now, commanding and irritated in equal measure. “Come out. I know you’re in there.”

Shen Qingqiu made a sound low in his throat—something between a growl and a sigh. “Does Bai Zhan train its disciples in the art of barbarity, or does it come naturally?”

Shang Qinghua froze mid-crouch. “He’s getting closer. Shixiong, please, I can’t do this again. Just tell him I’ve—ascended. Died. Transferred to Hua Hua palace or something.”

Shen Qingqiu stared at him as though weighing which was more offensive: Liu Qingge’s trespass, or the sight of his fellow peak lord attempting to camouflage himself behind a paper screen. “You are the most cowardly man I have ever met.”

Shang Qinghua shot back without shame, “And yet I’m alive!”

He pressed himself flatter against the wall, heart hammering. His mind raced, unhelpfully replaying the last eight months of horror.

Liu Qingge had been relentless.

Ever since that miserable day in the forest—the Glass-Lotus Mire Toad, the flying, the slime, the screaming—Liu Qingge had apparently decided that Shang Qinghua was hiding some secret reservoir of skill. Because obviously, no one merely accidentally slew a giant monster while carrying a baby. No, in Bai Zhan logic, that made you a latent martial prodigy.

It had been endless since then. Random ambushes on the walkways. Unannounced “spar invitations” that sounded suspiciously like death threats. Disciples bearing polite notes in Liu Qingge’s impeccable handwriting that read, simply, Fight me.

Shang Qinghua had dodged all of them. He’d invented paperwork. He’d faked illness. He’d once thrown himself into a supply cellar and stayed there for two hours until the coast was clear. But Liu Qingge never forgot a challenge.

And now he’d brought it here. A shadow fell across the doorway.

Liu Qingge stepped in without ceremony, sunlight glinting on the edge of his sword. His expression was perfectly calm, which somehow made it worse.

“Shen Qingqiu,” he said, curt nod, zero warmth. “Apologies for the intrusion.”

“You will be,” Shen Qingqiu replied smoothly, “if your boots so much as touch my flooring.”

Liu Qingge ignored that entirely. His gaze swept the office once, sharp and certain, and landed squarely on the trembling corner of fabric barely visible behind the screen.

“Shang Qinghua.”

“Ha! No one here by that name!” Shang Qinghua squeaked from behind it. “Maybe you’ve got the wrong peak!”

Liu Qingge frowned, unimpressed. “You’re hiding behind the screen.”

Shang Qinghua edged sideways. “You can’t prove that.”

“Come out.”

“No.”

“Now.”

“No!”

A pause. The air went taut.

Shen Qingqiu scoffed. “If you intend to turn my office into a dueling ground, I will strike you both down where you stand.”

“I just need one moment,” Liu Qingge said simply, stepping forward.

He reached the screen in two strides. Shang Qinghua’s head popped up behind it, eyes wide, hair slightly askew. “Waitwaitwait! We can talk about this like—like civilized people! You don’t want to fight me! I’ve got nothing!”

“Draw your sword,” Liu Qingge said, unbothered.

“I don’t want to!”

“That wasn’t a request.”

“This is what I get for saving us??”  Shang Qinghua yelped, scrambling sideways as the screen tilted dangerously. “Why can’t you just send a thank-you card like a normal person?!”

The screen crashed over with a snap of wood.

Silence fell, thick and mortified, broken only by the faint clatter of bamboo slats settling on the floor.

Shen Qingqiu stood very slowly. He looked from the wreckage to Shang Qinghua, who was half-buried in it, to Liu Qingge, who had the nerve to still be holding his sword unsheathed in his office.

His voice, when it came, was low and lethal. “Have your minds rotted?”

Neither man answered.

Shen Qingqiu’s fan opened with a soft click. “This,” he said, gesturing delicately to the mess—the shattered screen, the tea spattered on the table, the mortal embarrassment—“is Qing Jing Peak, not a livestock pen. Yet here you are. Making noises. Breaking furniture. Bleeding stupidity into the air.”

Liu Qingge’s jaw tightened.  “I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?” Shen Qingqiu cut him off smoothly. “Didn’t restrain yourself from dragging your knuckles across my flooring? Bai Zhan Peak’s sense of decorum is truly an inspiration.”

“He’s been avoiding—”

“Because you terrorize him,” Shen Qingqiu cut in. “You have the subtlety of a falling boulder, Liu Qingge. Try walking around an obstacle once in your life, rather than through it.”

Liu Qingge’s mouth flattened.

Shen Qingqiu turned his attention to Shang Qinghua, who was crouched miserably among the wreckage, attempting to gather the fallen pieces of the screen.

“And as for you.”

Shang Qinghua froze, smile trembling into existence on sheer instinct. “Shixiong, I can explain—”

“I sincerely doubt that.” Shen Qingqiu bit out, tone dropping to pure disdain. “You are a father, Shang Qinghua. A father. Heavens preserve us. I pity the little beast who has to look at you and think this is what a peak lord looks like. Flailing like a carp, shrieking like a cornered hen. If you are the representation of An Ding, perhaps we should burn it down and start over.”

“Ah—Shixiong, I—”

“Out.”

The word cracked like a whip.

He pointed the closed fan toward the door. “Both of you. Before you test how well Bai Zhan steel fares against my patience. I will not have you defile my office another moment. Out.”

Liu Qingge hesitated—not from fear, but from the sheer audacity of being spoken to like a particularly slow ox. His eyes narrowed. “You—”

“Finish that sentence,” Shen Qingqiu said softly, “and I’ll nail your sword to my doorframe.”

Liu Qingge’s shoulders squared, his stance shifting almost imperceptibly—weight balanced, hand loose at his sword hilt. 

“You think you could get your hands on my sword?” he said evenly. “Fine. Let’s settle it now.”

The room seemed to contract around him. That quiet, heavy stillness that preceded every battle.

Shen Qingqiu’s eyes narrowed “Are you challenging me in my own office?” he asked, voice deceptively mild. “On my peak?”

Liu Qingge’s answer was as simple as it was infuriating. “You made the threat,” he said, already shifting one step closer.  “I’m giving you the chance to prove you can back it up.”

“Oh nonono,” Shang Qinghua blurted, voice cracking. “Absolutely not, no dueling! No one’s fighting anyone!”

Neither of them looked at him.

Oh fuck. This was it. This was how he died—not in the field, not by monster, not by System bullshit, but caught in the crossfire between the Sect’s two most unrelenting personalities. One too proud to back down, the other too stubborn to.

“Wait—Shixiong!” he squeaked, already scrambling upright. “Apologies, truly, deepest apologies for the disturbance, we’ll be going now, right, Liu-shidi?”

Liu Qingge didn’t even blink. His focus stayed fixed on Shen Qingqiu, like a predator assessing distance.

Shang Qinghua lunged forward and latched onto Liu Qingge’s sleeve with both hands. “So sorry, Shen-shixiong, I’ll get that tea to you like promised! Wonderful seeing you, love the ambiance, the flooring’s very intact, we’ll just—go!”

He tugged. It was like trying to move a mountain.

Liu Qingge didn’t budge, muscles solid under his grip. For a horrifying instant, Shang Qinghua thought the man really might swing—then Liu Qingge exhaled, a short, irritated sound through his nose, and allowed himself to be pulled backward.

Shang Qinghua could feel it. He wasn’t moving Liu Qingge so much as Liu Qingge was letting the situation end before it escalated. A tiny miracle. Maybe there was hope for him yet.

Still, the air between them felt carved from tension. Liu Qingge’s glare never left Shen Qingqiu—flint-edged and simmering. Shen Qingqiu met it with cool, faintly bored disdain, his fan idly flicking open again as if this entire incident were nothing more than an inconvenience.

Shang Qinghua, sweating through every layer of his robe, laughed too loudly. “Ahahaha! All sorted then!” He backed them both toward the door, still clutching Liu Qingge’s sleeve with determined desperation. “We’ll see ourselves out! See you at the sect meeting later, Shixiong!”

He bowed once, twice, three times for good measure, before finally managing to herd Liu Qingge over the threshold.

The door slid shut behind them with a merciful click.

Outside, the sudden brightness felt almost painful. The air was cool and clean, sunlight spilling over the eaves of the courtyard. For the first time in what felt like hours, Shang Qinghua dared to breathe properly. He let go of Liu Qingge’s sleeve, taking an unsteady step back.

“Oh, thank the heavens,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “I thought he was going to flay us both alive.”

Liu Qingge didn’t answer. He was still standing perfectly still, posture rigid, jaw clenched tight as stone. His eyes stayed on the closed doors of the study, as if sheer will might burn a hole through them.

Shang Qinghua risked a glance up at him, then quickly looked away. The man radiated focus.   Meanwhile, Shang Qinghua’s own nerves were a jangling mess. He could still hear Shen Qingqiu’s voice in his head. Icy, cutting, each insult as elegantly phrased as it was personally devastating.

For one stunned second, Shang Qinghua just stared at the words blinking across his vision. Then he let out a tiny, incredulous huff. He was half tempted to argue with it, but what was the point? It wasn’t wrong—cowardice and social manipulation were, regrettably, his strongest stats.

The humor drained as quickly as it came. The silence between them stretched—Liu Qingge bristling in quiet fury, Shang Qinghua still vibrating with leftover panic. Until, Shang Qinghua’s thoughts clicked back into grim awareness.

Right. He was standing next to Liu Qingge. The man who had come here to fight him.

And now that they were no longer under Shen Qingqiu’s roof…

Shang Qinghua’s eyes darted to the right. Liu Qingge’s sword was still strapped to his side, gleaming faintly in the sun. His expression hadn’t softened. Not even a fraction.

Yeah. No. Time to go.

He plastered on his best terrified grin. “Well! That was.. something! See you at the sect meeting later as well, Shidi!”

Before Liu Qingge could so much as blink, Shang Qinghua was already stepping onto his sword. It wobbled once, then caught his qi with a hum and shot upwards. The wind roared in his ears, Qing Jing shrinking beneath him. He didn’t dare look back. 

He needed to put as much sky between them as possible before the war god remembered why he was at Qing Jing in the first place. 

---

By the time An Ding Peak came into view—its familiar terraces layered in tidy, well-practiced disarray—Shang Qinghua’s pulse had finally started to return to something resembling normal. 

He landed lightly in the outer courtyard, sword settling with a faint hum before dimming to stillness. His boots had barely touched stone when a small, high voice called out, bright and thrilled—

“A-die!”

Shang Qinghua blinked just in time to catch the blur of motion barreling toward him. Luo Binghe, small and determined and not particularly coordinated, was toddling across the courtyard at full speed. His tiny steps were uneven but purposeful, his little arms thrown wide as if nothing in the world could possibly go wrong.

“Whoa there—!” Shang Qinghua dropped to a crouch, scooping him up before momentum could introduce either of them to the flagstones.

Binghe giggled—sharp, delighted, full of teeth that had only just started coming in. He grabbed at Shang Qinghua’s hair with one chubby hand, patting his cheek with the other, as if personally ensuring his father’s continued existence.

“Hello, Binghe,” Shang Qinghua murmured, smiling helplessly despite himself. “Missed me, huh? Bet you didn’t terrorize anyone at all while I was gone.”

The baby burbled something that sounded like a confident “Mm!” and pressed his drooling face against Shang Qinghua’s collar.

Li Suyin appeared in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, expression caught somewhere between fond and exhausted. “He’s been waiting since morning, Shizun. Refused his nap.”

“Of course he did.” Shang Qinghua bounced Luo Binghe lightly in his arms, earning another delighted squeal. “Why sleep when you can torture my poor disciples instead? Maybe you are destined for Qing Jing.”

At a year old, Luo Binghe was a collection of contradictions: soft and solid, fragile and fierce. He had a handful of words now—“a-die,” “give,” “no,” and the ever-useful “ba”. Plus a full arsenal of gestures that he deployed with terrifying precision. He babbled constantly, in tones that suggested he fully believed he was participating in meaningful conversation.

He’d cut two tiny teeth in the last month and was working earnestly on a third, which meant every toy, sleeve, and occasionally unsuspecting finger existed solely for the purpose of being gnawed on. He could wobble his way across a room now, balance still uncertain but ambition unshakable. When he fell, he rarely cried—just blinked, assessed, and tried again with grim determination.

Shang Qinghua traced a thumb along one round cheek. “You’re getting big too fast, little guy. How am I supposed to keep up?”

Luo Binghe blew a wet raspberry in response, utterly unbothered by existential concerns.

Li Suyin stepped fully into the courtyard, brushing her sleeves down gently. “Shizun,” she said, nodding toward the path. “The others are waiting. They’ve started preparing the carriages for the conference.”

“Already?” Shang Qinghua said faintly. “It’s not until—” He caught himself. Right. It was until very soon. He pressed a kiss to the top of Luo Binghe’s soft hair. “All right, little tyrant. A-die has to leave for a bit again. Go easy on Suyin.”

Luo Binghe immediately scowled—tiny brows knitting, mouth turning down in determined betrayal. When Shang Qinghua tried to hand him over, he twisted like an eel, small fingers fisting hard in his collar. A muffled sound of protest—half word, half growl—escaped him.

“Ah, come on, don’t make that face,” Shang Qinghua coaxed, prying one chubby hand loose only for another to latch onto his sleeve. “A-die has to work.”

Binghe’s dark eyes went watery with outrage. He made his opinion on work abundantly clear: a sharp, indignant “No!”

Li Suyin  stepped closer, patient as ever, and eased the child from his father’s arms with practiced care. “Let’s go Binghe,” she murmured. “We have fun, don’t we? You’ll see your A-die later.”

“I’ll finish as fast as I can,” Shang Qinghua smiled gently, already missing the small, warm weight against his chest.

Binghe let out a wounded little sniff, one fist still clutching a fold of his father’s sleeve until it finally slipped free.

Li Suyin adjusted her hold, settling Luo Binghe more securely against her hip. The boy’s lower lip was already beginning to tremble. She smoothed a palm over his dark curls, voice soft but firm.

“Come now, Binghe,” she coaxed. “Say goodbye to your A-die.”

For a heartbeat, the courtyard seemed to hold its breath. The child’s small shoulders hunched; his tiny fingers tightened in the fabric of her robe. Then—pointedly, defiantly—he turned his head and buried his face in her shoulder, resolutely silent.

Shang Qinghua blinked. “Oh,” he said faintly. “I see how it is.”

Li Suyin’s mouth twitched, amusement winning over sympathy. “He’s sulking.”

“I noticed,” Shang Qinghua said dryly, watching the back of that stubborn little head. “Didn’t even last a year before he learned to give me the cold shoulder.”

He reached out and brushed a finger down the curve of Luo Binghe’s cheek, but the boy only sniffed louder, refusing to look up.

“Fine, fine,” Shang Qinghua murmured, half laughing despite the small ache that bloomed in his chest. “Ignore your poor old A-die. I’ll just go work myself to death in obscurity. You enjoy your nap and your adoration.”

Li Suyin shook her head, turning toward the walkway with the faintest smile. “We’ll see you later, Shizun.”

“Yeah,” he said, softer now, eyes following them as they went. “Later.”

Luo Binghe didn’t look back, at first. But halfway across the courtyard, his tiny head tilted just enough to steal a glance over Li Suyin’s shoulder, dark eyes searching, checking that Shang Qinghua was still there watching. The moment he caught his father’s gaze, his mouth wobbled—then he hastily whipped his head forward again, doubling down on his sulk with exaggerated dignity, as if to prove a point.

Shang Qinghua’s breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “...so dramatic.”

The courtyard filled with motion again—disciples filtering in pairs and trios, each one balancing scrolls, inventory tablets, or the endless lists that defined An Ding Peak’s existence. Shang Qinghua straightened, tugged his robes into order, and exhaled the last of his fatherly softness. Peak Lord mode: engaged.

The Immortal Alliance Conference was the kind of event that turned every sect in the region into a swarm of motion, and even a logistics peak couldn’t escape it. Especially a logistics peak.

By evening, An Ding’s outer fields would be lined with carriages—polished, warded, and perfectly balanced for long travel. Teams of horses were being matched and measured; tack was being inspected for wear. Supply carts stood half-loaded, each tagged in neat brushstrokes: medical, armaments, essentials. Shang Qinghua’s disciples thrived on order, and it showed.

Despite all the effort they put into this whole spectacle, they never sent many. An Ding was the backbone of Cang Qiong’s supply chain, not its sword arm. A handful of senior disciples would be participating—Li Suyin and Yi Chen among them. The rest would remain to keep the mountain breathing.

Guo Zhao had pestered him for days about going until Shang Qinghua finally said, “Next time you can lift a crate without tipping it, we’ll talk.” The boy had sulked for half a day, then gone back to practicing his penmanship with tragic intensity.

Yan Wen, on the other hand, had volunteered herself to come along and help keep an eye on Luo Binghe before he could even suggest it. She had already participated four years ago,  and was not interested in a repeat performance. As his head disciple, she would handle any sect requests or interruptions that came their way and assist when needed. So her non-participating presence was greatly appreciated. Especially since Shang Qinghua had already decided there was no universe in which he left Luo Binghe behind. 

The thought of leaving him up here—out of reach, half a mountain away for a week—was unthinkable. Trusted disciples or not, he wasn’t letting that boy out of his sight until he could form full sentences and name, in detail, exactly who had hurt him and why. Logistics be damned. So Luo Binghe would come with him, tucked peacefully into the heart of the chaos, where Shang Qinghua could keep an eye on him himself. 

“Peacefully” being, of course, a deeply optimistic word. The immortal alliance conference was bound to be a headache. Delegations from every major sect. Envoys. Ambassadors. Hundreds of cultivators gathered under one roof to posture, trade favors, and drink themselves into declarations of eternal brotherhood. Even with Hua Hua Palace as the host, half the administrative load would land squarely on An Ding’s shoulders.

Which, Shang Qinghua thought grimly, was exactly the kind of situation fate adored.

He rubbed a hand over his face. Hua Hua Palace, of all sects. In Proud Immortal Demon Way, four conferences ahead, it had been Hua Hua Palace hosting too—the one where, by the original plot’s clock, Luo Binghe would tumble into the Immortal Abyss. The thought made his stomach knot. That storyline was still years away, but the pattern was already there, circling like a shark.

A coincidence, he told himself firmly. Just a bit of narrative symmetry. 

He hadn’t even asked the System about it. Couldn’t bring himself to. Some things you didn’t poke at—not when the answer might start the gears of the plot turning again. Better to leave it alone. Better to pretend there was time.

His gaze drifted toward the main hall, where Li Suyin’s voice carried faintly through the open doors—soft laughter, the low murmur of a baby’s babble. The sound hit somewhere deep, an anchor against the dread rising in his chest. Luo Binghe was here, warm and safe and smiling. That was the whole point of all this. Keeping him that way.

“Shizun?”

He blinked, realizing belatedly that Yi Chen was standing beside him, a ledger in hand and a politely puzzled look on his face.

“Ah,” Shang Qinghua said quickly, straightening his spine. “Nothing. Just thinking about—uh—carriage maintenance.”

Yi Chen, long-suffering as ever, inclined his head. “Of course, Shizun.”

Shang Qinghua exhaled, forcing his thoughts back to the present. “Right,” he said briskly, clapping his hands once. “Let’s go over the sleeping arrangements again. One more time. Just to be sure.”

Yi Chen’s expression didn’t change, but Shang Qinghua could practically feel the quiet sigh radiating off him as they turned toward the ledgers.

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his disciples’ planning. He just trusted fate less.

---

A week later, Shang Qinghua’s grand design stood assembled at the mountain’s base: carriages lined up, horses stamped and restless, disciples hurrying under the weight of perfectly labeled cargo. Every single peak was represented in their own little formations. It was the kind of departure that made visiting sects think, yes, Cang Qiong is terrifyingly competent.

Which it was. Because Shang Qinghua had personally bullied it into being.

He descended the last steps with Luo Binghe balanced on his hip and Yan Wen at his shoulder, taking in the procession with a quick, appraising sweep. Good. No one had decided to cancel last minute. No supply wagon was missing or unaccounted for. The heavens were, briefly, merciful.

He’d just turned toward the An Ding carriage—fourth in the column, plain but solid, wards discreetly inlaid—when a familiar cool voice snapped across the bustle.

“Shang-shidi.”

He turned. Shen Qingqiu stood near his own carriage—elegant, pale, and clearly above the indignity of crowds. His gaze flicked once to Shang Qinghua, once to the child in his arms.

“You’re bringing the little beast?”

“Shhh!” Shang Qinghua hissed, immediately clapping a hand over Luo Binghe’s ear. “Don’t call him that—he understands things!”

The words were out before he could stop them. The kind of tone one absolutely did not take with Shen Qingqiu unless one had a death wish or several lifetimes of patience to spare. Shang Qinghua winced internally, bracing for the inevitable verbal dissection. But—well. This was his son. Even Shen Qingqiu could take a number and wait his turn.

Luo Binghe, entirely oblivious to his father’s mortification, was in the middle of enthusiastically patting the front of Shang Qinghua’s robe with sticky hands, babbling a stream of joyous nonsense syllables that almost—but not quite—resembled words. Shen Qingqiu’s expression did something infinitesimally pained.

“Hn.” He scoffed. “See that he doesn’t disrupt the proceedings.”

“I plan to keep him alive, quiet, and far away from politics,” Shang Qinghua said. “In that order.”

Shen Qingqiu inclined his head the tiniest degree, then turned and stepped into his carriage without another word, curtain lowering with immaculate finality.

Shang Qinghua let out a slow breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. This was exactly why he had spent an entire afternoon shuffling assignments until he and Luo Binghe had their own carriage. The very idea of sharing a confined space with Shen Qingqiu again—so soon after the “oops Liu Qingge and I broke your fancy screen and then he tried to fight you” incident—was enough to make him sweat. This way, everyone had privacy, dignity, and, most importantly, he could bring a one-year-old without being murdered.

He adjusted his grip on Luo Binghe and crossed to the An Ding carriage. Normally, he’d have been on horseback like the rest of the peak lords and senior disciples—dust in his teeth, wind in his hair, pretending he didn’t hate every second of it. But parenting, he reasoned, had to come with some perks. And really, who was going to argue with a man traveling with a baby strapped to his chest? Not even Shen Qingqiu was that heartless. (Probably.)

He ducked into the carriage, careful not to bump Luo Binghe’s head on the doorframe. Inside, the air was faintly perfumed with sandalwood and oil polish. A low cushioned bench ran along one wall, already strewn with small comforts—folded blankets, a pouch of dried fruit, a wooden toy horse someone had carved during their spare minutes between inventory checks.

Luo Binghe wriggled free of his father’s arm and immediately began an inspection of the space: patting the bench, investigating the window latch, and, upon discovering his own reflection in the polished wood paneling, crowing in delight.

Shang Qinghua slumped onto the seat with a long, heartfelt exhale. “First conference, huh? They’re never as fun as you think.”

Binghe responded by attempting to eat the tassel of a window curtain.

“Alright,” Shang Qinghua said, fishing it gently out of his mouth. “We’re off to a strong start.”

---

By the time the carriages rolled to a stop at the foot of Yunzhong Lake, the sun was already high, warm light spilling over water and stone alike.

The site sprawled across the basin of a mountain-ringed valley, an expanse of water so still it mirrored the sky. The air shimmered faintly with the hum of wards, and the sound of hooves and murmured orders rippled across the space as Cang Qiong Mountain’s delegation descended in full force. 

It was quite different  from Jue Di Gorge, where the conference would be held sixteen years from now. A place of wild, untamed grandeur, all cliffs and hidden springs. That gorge had teeth; it swallowed the unprepared whole. Yunzhong Lake, by contrast, was all serenity and polish.

Shang Qinghua supposed the changing scenery was nice. Like the Olympics—those moved around, didn’t they? Hosted by some random country every few years. Or was it the winning country that got the honor? How did one even win the Olympics—by medal count? Some kind of point system? He’d never understood sports in his past life, and this hardly seemed like the right timeline to start learning.

One by one, the peak lords emerged. Behind them, rows of disciples fanned out into practiced formations, banners unfurling under the late morning sun.

Somewhere amid all that poise and grandeur, Shang Qinghua stepped down from the An Ding carriage with a squirming, bright-eyed child in his arms.

Luo Binghe let out a delighted sound as sunlight spilled across the lake. His small hands reached for it, fingers splayed wide as if he might catch the light itself. The wind stirred his hair into dark little tufts.

“Yeah, yeah,” Shang Qinghua murmured, mouth tugging upward despite himself. “Very scenic. Don’t tell the others, but you’re right—it’s not bad.”

A Hua Hua Palace disciple approached—young, well-trained. He bowed neatly. “Peak Lord Shang,” he greeted, voice even. “Welcome to Yunzhong Lake. The Cang Qiong delegation has been assigned quarters along the southern terraces. If you’ll follow me, I’ll see that your belongings are delivered and your disciples settled.”

Then his gaze flicked to the bundle in Shang Qinghua’s arms. There was a half-second pause, the faintest tightening around the mouth, before the young man’s composure returned with professional smoothness. “And, of course,” he added, “we’ll see that your suite is supplied with the necessary—ah—child accommodations.”

Shang Qinghua blinked. “You have child accommodations?”

A brief flicker of panic crossed the young man’s face. “We… will.”

Shang Qinghua grinned.  “Good answer.”

The disciple bowed again, this time more quickly, and gestured for them to follow.

They began to make their way along the path that wound toward the guest pavilions. Around them, members of other sects were already arriving. Robes flashing, laughter echoing, the air alive with the swell of spiritual energy and social ambition. Shang Qinghua could feel the weight of eyes turning toward them as they passed: the glances caught and quickly averted, the whispers that rose and fell just out of hearing.

The sensation crawled along the back of his neck. He didn’t need enhanced senses to guess what they were saying. Heaven only knew what kind of rumors had already spread—about the baby, about him, about whatever sordid story imagination had supplied to fill the gaps.

He grimaced, then fixed his gaze firmly ahead and pretended not to notice. Luo Binghe, mercifully oblivious to scandal, was busy pointing at everything within sight—flags, carriages, passing disciples—with a steady stream of delighted babble.

Shang Qinghua was too busy watching Luo Binghe’s reactions to notice the movement stirring behind him. Liu Qingge fell into step at his side, having apparently abandoned his own disciples without a word.

He didn’t speak, didn’t so much as glance over, but the set of his jaw was carved from stone. His eyes swept the path ahead, then the dispersing crowd, sharp and cold enough to slice through any lingering whispers. The look alone was enough to send more than one onlooker hastily turning away.

Shang Qinghua blinked at him, a little startled, then exhaled a faint laugh through his nose.

Trust Liu-shidi to wordlessly terrify an entire courtyard into civility, he thought, half fond, half exasperated. Efficient as ever. 

He shifted Luo Binghe higher against his shoulder, murmuring something soothing as they followed the Hua Hua disciple up the curved stone path toward the southern terraces. Behind them, the murmurs had died completely—whether out of respect or fear, he didn’t care to ask.

Their assigned quarters were tucked at the edge of a quiet pavilion overlooking the lake, over-decorated and ostentatious as expected of Hua Hua Palace. Latticed golden screens, a covered walkway leading to adjoining rooms, a view that glimmered silver-blue in the distance. An Ding’s disciples set quickly to work unloading trunks and crates. Within minutes, the courtyard was a landscape of organized chaos.

Once their gear was arranged and their warding talismans checked, they joined the procession leading toward the upper tiers of Yunzhong Lake’s main hall. The great amphitheater curved around the lake’s far edge—a marvel of cultivation engineering, carved into the mountainside itself. Broad stone tiers stepped upward, overlooking a smooth arena below. Suspended in the air above it, an enormous series of mirrors shimmering with light, ready to broadcast the trials once the conference began.

At the highest tier, beneath a canopy of silk, the peak lords and sect leaders of every major sect were already gathering. The air there hummed with restrained power and polite tension. Bows exchanged, fans unfurled, the quiet rustle of robes hiding the weight of a hundred rivalries.

Shang Qinghua had barely stepped inside when he was intercepted.

“Peak Lord Shang,” called a voice—polite, urgent, the tone of someone on the edge of mild panic. A Hua Hua Palace disciple approached at a half-run, scroll case clutched to his chest. “Apologies, but we need you to review the allocation list for the temporary barrier wards. You were so kind to supply them in the first place. But, there’s been a—minor—mix-up in the distribution.”

Shang Qinghua blinked. “Of course there has.”

The disciple winced, bowing low. “If you could spare just a moment—”

“Right, right, give me a second to—uh—offload.” He glanced down at Binghe, who was staring up at him with wide, curious eyes. “Can’t exactly sign documents while he’s trying to eat the ink.”

He looked around, scanning for Yan Wen—surely his ever-reliable head disciple was hovering nearby—but before he could spot her, Yue Qingyuan turned from where he’d been speaking quietly with Mu Qingfang.

“Shang-shidi,” Yue Qingyuan said warmly. “If it’s just for a moment, I can hold him.”

Shang Qinghua froze. “Uh…” He looked between the baby and Yue Qingyuan “Zhangmen-shixiong are you sure?”

“Of course,” Yue Qingyuan said, smiling the gentle, unflappable smile “It is no trouble.”

Shang Qinghua hesitated, mind racing through every possible way this could end in catastrophe.

But the Hua Hua disciple was still hovering nearby, looking increasingly desperate, and Luo Binghe had already started making grabby hands in Yue Qingyuan’s direction, delighted by the shimmer of gold thread on his sleeve.

“...Alright,” Shang Qinghua said finally, with the weary air of surrender. He shifted Luo Binghe carefully and handed him over. “Just—don’t let him eat anything that’s not meant to be eaten. He’s moved onto solids now and he’s teething so he will try to chew on you so just. Fair warning.”

Yue Qingyuan accepted the baby with calm grace, adjusting his hold instinctively. “Don’t worry, Shang-shidi, we’ll be fine.”

Shang Qinghua didn’t quite believe him—but with a last uncertain look and a sigh that came from deep in his soul, he turned to follow the Hua Hua disciple down the corridor.

Behind him, Luo Binghe gurgled happily and patted Yue Qingyuan’s chest, immediately enamored with his new victim.

Shang Qinghua  followed the Hua Hua Palace disciple out into the courtyard, where the hum of conversation and soft echo of footsteps blended into the steady thrum of Yunzhong Lake’s activity.

The air grew cooler as they moved deeper into some hidden administrative wing. The disciple led him to a low table stacked with scrolls and ward diagrams, its surface already half-buried beneath meticulous chaos.

Shang Qinghua exhaled and rolled up his sleeves. “Alright,” he said, scanning the nearest parchment. “What’s the problem?”

“Ah, well—” the disciple began, voice hesitant, “there was a discrepancy in the talisman inventory for the west barrier. Some of the supply manifests seem to have been... duplicated?”

“Of course they have,” Shang Qinghua muttered, finding the matching records and scribbling annotations with quick, precise strokes. 

They worked in silence for a few minutes, the scratch of brush on paper filling the space. It was almost meditative—until a sound floated in from the outer hall.

“—really, have you seen him? Walking around with that child as if there’s no shame in it—”

A pause, then another voice, softer but no less cutting. “Well, what else can he do? It’s not as though there’s a wife to hide behind.”

A scoff, half-laugh. “And Cang Qiong still lets him represent the sect. Bold of them. I suppose logistics doesn’t require virtue.”

Shang Qinghua’s brush stilled. The ink bled slightly into the parchment before he set it down with deliberate care.

Across from him, the Hua Hua disciple had gone rigid, ears bright red, eyes fixed firmly on the documents as if willing the words away. “Ah—if you’ll, um, look at this portion here, Peak Lord Shang, the calibration array seems slightly misaligned—”

“Mm,” Shang Qinghua said evenly, picking the brush back up. “I see that.”

He didn’t look up. Just kept writing, each stroke calm and deliberate. His face remained neutral, expression almost mild—but his grip on the brush was just shy of snapping.

The laughter in the corridor faded, replaced by uneasy silence. Someone coughed, too loudly. Then the shuffle of retreating footsteps.

The Hua Hua disciple swallowed hard. “I—I apologize, Peak Lord Shang. Some guests lack restraint.”

Shang Qinghua flicked the brush to a clean section of parchment and signed his name at the bottom. “Don’t worry about it,” he said lightly. “Everyone needs a hobby.”

He set the brush down, straightened the stack of scrolls with unnecessary precision, and handed them back. “There. Distribution corrected, duplication purged. The barriers should hold fine now. Just make sure no one switches out the ink seals again—half the talismans last time were inverted.”

The disciple accepted the documents with both hands, bowing deeply. “Yes, Peak Lord Shang. Thank you for your assistance.”

“Of course.” He stepped back, smoothing his robes, composure slotting neatly back into place. “Always happy to rescue a collapsing logistics system.”

It was only when he turned away, striding down the corridor toward the sunlight at the far end, that the careful mask cracked just enough for a breath to escape. He’d built up a tolerance for this sort of thing. As long as Luo Binghe wasn’t old enough to hear and understand any of it, it was fine. He’d been called worse names by better people.

Still—

“System,” he muttered under his breath, “is there a setting for this? Like a parental control option? Maybe block out certain key phrases—‘bastard,’ ‘whore,’ general slander—something tasteful?”

Shang Qinghua sighed, long and deep. “Yeah,” he said dryly. “Thought so.”

He supposed it made a certain kind of sense. In the story, Luo Binghe’s early life had been one long parade of misery—poverty, hunger, beatings, a world that kicked him until he learned to kick back harder. Shang Qinghua had changed all that. He’d taken the boy out of that future, away from cruelty and want. But the universe, apparently, hated a narrative vacuum. If Luo Binghe wasn’t to suffer in the gutter, then fate would simply find another way to bruise him.

It was almost funny, in the bleak, cosmic sense of the word. He wasn’t naïve enough to think his son would grow up untouched by cruelty—no one ever did. It just stung that this was where the world had decided to start collecting the debt.

Well, time to reclaim his tiny scandal.

---

When Shang Qinghua returned to the terrace, the conference hall had settled into a tableau of poised anticipation. The sect leaders and peak lords were seated in their respective rows, voices lowered to courteous murmurs.

Yue Qingyuan sat near the center, Luo Binghe balanced carefully on his knee. The baby was busy tugging at the gold embroidery on his sleeve, but Yue Qingyuan didn’t seem to notice—his gaze kept drifting forward, past the child, to where Shen Qingqiu sat a few paces ahead. Shen Qingqiu was immaculate as ever, posture razor-straight, attention fixed on the stage below.The distance between them was barely a breath, and yet an ocean.

Shang Qinghua stopped in the archway and sighed quietly through his nose. Of course. The usual suspects.

He didn’t need the System’s commentary to know how that story went. He’d written it, after all—the guilt, the longing, the quiet devotion that would last far too long. Watching it play out in real time was… awkward.

Luo Binghe spotted him almost immediately. His little face lit up, and he let out a delighted squeal, chubby hands flailing. “A-die!” he crowed, the word tumbling out in a burst.

Shang Qinghua’s heart gave an undignified lurch. He crossed the floor at once, offering Yue Qingyuan a grateful nod before lifting the child back into his arms. Binghe immediately burrowed against his shoulder with a pleased hum, small fingers curling into his robe as if to make sure he wouldn’t vanish again.

“Thanking, Shixiong,” Shang Qinghua said softly. “I hope he wasn’t too much trouble.”

Yue Qingyuan smiled faintly. “He’s very… spirited.”

“That’s one word for it,” Shang Qinghua said, lips quirking.

Before Yue Qingyuan could reply, a subtle shift rippled through the air—the respectful murmur of conversation dropping a shade lower, the sort of quiet that signaled the arrival of someone important.

The Old Palace Master of Hua Hua Palace approached along the terrace, robes trailing like still water, attendants gliding in his wake. His smile was serene, his eyes sharp.

“Peak Lord Shang,” he greeted smoothly. “A pleasure to see Cang Qiong so well represented this year. I have already given my compliments to your sect leader earlier.”

Shang Qinghua bowed just enough to be polite. “Palace Master.”

The man’s gaze drifted downward, alighting on the bundle in Shang Qinghua’s arms. “Ah,” he said, tone rich with interest. “So the rumors were true. Congratulations, then—on your… remarkable child.”

The words were blandly civil, but the look that accompanied them wasn’t. For a heartbeat too long, the old man stared at Luo Binghe’s face—at the soft curve of his mouth, the delicate shape of his eyes. Something flickered there, quick and strange: recognition, disbelief.

A cold prickle crawled up Shang Qinghua’s spine. His arm tightened automatically around Binghe’s small body, tucking him closer against his chest. The boy, oblivious, let out a cheerful little coo.

Shang Qinghua met the Palace Master’s gaze, smile faint and bloodless. “Thank you,” he said, his voice as smooth as he could make it in the moment.

Whatever the man saw there made him hesitate, a faint line appearing between his brows. Then the mask slipped back into place, and he inclined his head with impeccable grace. “May your lineage bring you honor, Peak Lord Shang.”

“I’m sure it will,” Shang Qinghua said evenly.

The Palace Master moved on, the ripple of his passing fading back into the murmuring air.

Shang Qinghua stood very still for a moment, palm pressed lightly against the back of his son’s head. The noise of the hall pressed faintly at the edges of his hearing.

There was no way.

He swallowed once, the motion tight. There was no way that old vulture could have recognized anything. Luo Binghe was barely a year old—round-faced, babbling, all baby softness and drool. Su Xiyan’s features weren’t there yet, not really. Maybe a hint in the eyes, a turn of the mouth, but nothing anyone should notice. Not unless they were looking for it. 

Shang Qinghua’s fingers flexed against Binghe’s back, grounding himself in the solid, living weight of the child. He knew what obsession looked like, what it did. He knew what kind of man could look at someone he’d destroyed and still think it was love.

That man had driven Su Xiyan to her death. And now he’d looked at her son.

He forced his shoulders to relax, slow and deliberate. The last thing he needed was to draw attention. Luo Binghe was warm against him, heartbeat steady, small hand curling trustingly into his robe.

Right. He was fine. They were fine.

Shang Qinghua glanced toward the direction the old Palace Master had gone, jaw tightening.

 “System,” he muttered under his breath, “quick question. Are there… any restrictions on the survivability of certain characters?”

“Well don’t say it like that!” Shang Qinghua said indignantly. He paused for a second. “But yes. Hypothetically. For Binghe.”

“I did give him a name!” Shang Qinghua exclaimed.  “His name is—Old Palace Master! That counts!” He paused, grimaced, and sighed through his nose. “...Alright, fine. Point taken. Still—good to know.”

Luo Binghe made a small sound and pressed a tiny palm insistently against his father’s chin. Shang Qinghua blinked down at him, startled out of his spiral, and let out a slow, unsteady breath that turned into a laugh.

“Alright, alright,” he murmured, smoothing a hand over Binghe’s back. “Message received. A-die will stop catastrophizing.”

The child gurgled in apparent satisfaction, tugging absently at the ribbon on his father’s sleeve. Around them, the quiet formality of the hall had begun to loosen. Voices rose again—low, amused, the tone of old rivals settling in for familiar sport.

Someone from Tian Yi Overlook laughed loudly from a few seats away. “Fifty spirit stones on my head disciple to take first place!”

“That boy’s too cautious,” came another voice. “Two hundred on the girl from Zhao Hua. That swordplay of hers could cut the wind itself.”

Within minutes, the dignified assembly of cultivators had devolved into a dignified gambling ring. Bets flew between fans and sleeves, murmured calculations traded behind barely concealed smiles.

Shang Qinghua could only watch in faint disbelief. He was used to this—the little games, the not-so-secret wagers—but he still found himself oddly detached. In the original plot, this entire conference had only ever existed as a footnote: the stage-setting for Luo Binghe’s grand debut sixteen years from now. He’d never bothered to map out who actually won these early tournaments. Why would he? None of them mattered.

Which meant, now, he had no clue who was about to triumph or face-plant in front of all the cultivation world’s elites. For someone who supposedly “knew the script,” it was humbling. And more than a little nerve-wracking.

He gave a low hum of disinterest and leaned back slightly, bouncing Luo Binghe on his arm. It was best that he abstained. 

Luo Binghe squirmed, making a small noise of protest. Then a louder one. Then a full, indignant wail that made several heads turn.

“Ah, no—no, no, don’t start,” Shang Qinghua whispered hastily, shifting him upright and patting his back. “What’s wrong? Hungry? Nap time?”

The answer came swiftly in the form of another, sharper cry. Shang Qinghua froze—then smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand.

“Oh, hell,” he muttered. “I forgot your food jars in our room.”

Several nearby heads turned, mostly Cang Qiong’s own peak lords, all varying shades of sympathetic and unimpressed. Shen Qingqiu, in particular, arched one pristine eyebrow.

“Admirable foresight,” he drawled, folding his fan with a snap.

“Apologies, really sorry for the disturbance.” Shang Qinghua said, already half-rising with Binghe in his arms. “I’ll be right back, just gotta take care of something.”

A soft snort came from somewhere behind him—Qi Qingqi, probably—but he didn’t look back. Luo Binghe was fussing in earnest now, cheeks flushed, little hands clutching desperately at his father’s robes.

“Alright, alright, we’re going,” Shang Qinghua murmured, already edging toward the corridor. “Don’t worry, A-Die’s got it handled. We’ll get your food and you can drool on my shoulder in peace.”

He made his way down the winding path that led back toward the guest quarters, the hum of the hall fading behind him. The moment they were out of sight, Luo Binghe quieted at once, blinking up at him with watery eyes and a hiccup that tugged at something in his chest.

He had only started eating real food—actual solids, not just carefully strained mash—a few weeks ago. Shang Qinghua had spent the entire week before the trip preparing for it: neat little jars lined up on the table, each labeled and portioned with military precision, even color-coded according to flavor. He’d triple-checked the seals, packed them in the correct order of meals. And even remembered to send a very generous thank-you gift down the mountain to Wen Mei, the wet nurse who’d seen him through Binghe’s first seven months.

“Genius,” he muttered to himself as he juggled the baby and the door latch. “Can you believe Cang Qiong would crumble without me?”

Inside, the quarters were blissfully quiet. A low breeze drifted through the open screens. He set Binghe on the cushioned bench and rummaged through the travel chest until his fingers closed around the small lacquered box of jars.

“There we go,” he said, victorious, holding one up to show his audience. “A-die may be forgetful, but he’s not heartless.”

Luo Binghe clapped delightedly, as if applauding his father’s belated competence. Shang Qinghua laughed, sank onto the bench, and pried open the lid wearily.

He didn’t even get the spoon to Binghe’s mouth before the baby’s face scrunched, eyes going wide with that unmistakable look of impending disaster.

“Oh no,” Shang Qinghua said flatly. “Don’t you dare.”

Luo Binghe dared.

A moment later, there was the distinct, damp sound that heralded parental defeat. Shang Qinghua closed his eyes, exhaled through his nose, and muttered, “Fantastic.”

By the time he was done dealing with it—changing, cleaning, rewrapping, trying to salvage both child and dignity—nearly half an hour had passed. 

At last, Shang Qinghua collapsed onto the bench, hair slightly disheveled, sleeves rolled halfway to his elbows. Luo Binghe, freshly clean and smug as a small emperor, sat on his lap and opened his mouth expectantly.

“Alright, round two,” Shang Qinghua muttered, spoon in hand. “Let’s try eating this time.”

Miraculously, Luo Binghe complied. He gummed his way through several spoonfuls. The quiet was almost peaceful. Which, naturally, meant it couldn’t last.

“Shang-shidi.”

The voice was crisp enough to make him flinch. He looked up to see Shen Qingqiu standing in the doorway, fan in hand, expression carved from cool disapproval. Qi Qingqi stood just behind him, her mouth curved in that faint, knowing smile that never boded well.

“Ah,” Shang Qinghua said brightly, caught mid–spoonful. “Shen-shixiong, Qi-shimei! What a surprise.”

Qi Qingqi arched an eyebrow. “You’ve been gone nearly an hour.”

“An hour? Really?!” Shang Qinghua said, then winced as Binghe banged his tiny fists on the table in perfect comedic timing. “Sorry. There was a, uh—logistical setback.”

Shen Qingqiu’s fan snapped open. “This,” he said, “is exactly why I said infants should not be permitted at the conference.”

“Right, and clearly the Heavens have decided to prove you right in detail,” Shang Qinghua said with a pained grin. “Consider me thoroughly humbled.”

Before Shen Qingqiu could retort, a burst of laughter floated in from the open walkway outside. Voices—low but not low enough—carried easily through the thin screen windows.

“—I heard the mother’s a prostitute,” someone was saying. “That’s why he insists she’s dead. Saves him the shame of admitting it.”

Shang Qinghua went very, very still. There was no doubt in his mind as to who they were talking about.

A second voice, scandalized, countered, “What? No, that’s not it! Don’t be ridiculous.”

For a fleeting moment, something almost like relief loosened the knot in Shang Qinghua’s chest. Finally, he thought, a little hysterically. Someone with basic sense!

But the speaker went on, righteous and pitying all at once:

“It’s because he tried to entangle a passing cultivator—lure them with a child, perhaps, or a promise of family. The man left him, of course. Wanted nothing to do with Shang Qinghua or his bastard. So he told everyone the mother died. Pitiful, really.”

Shang Qinghua flinched before he could stop himself, every muscle going tight. The tiny spark of vindication snuffed out, leaving only the familiar ache of humiliation. 

He resisted the overwhelming urge to drop his head onto the table. Why, he thought, despair edging into exasperation, why does this keep happening to me? 

A third person chimed in, voice eager. “I heard it was one of the other peak lords! But he just wasn’t sure which one. If you catch my drift.”

Shang Qinghua could practically feel his soul trying to climb out of his body. He pressed a hand over his face, groaning under his breath. Maybe if I hold still long enough, they’ll think I’m dead. That’d save everyone some trouble.

A sharp snap cut through his spiraling. Shen Qingqiu’s fan had closed, a clean, final sound.

Before Shang Qinghua could even blink, Shen Qingqiu was gliding toward the window, every step elegant and terrifying. He slid the screen fully open.

The sudden hush outside was immediate.

“Well,” Shen Qingqiu said, voice cool and edged, “isn’t this fascinating.”

Three junior cultivators froze mid-conversation, color draining from their faces. Shen Qingqiu’s tone was polite, lethally so. The kind of courtesy that meant someone was about to be disemboweled with words.

“I hadn’t realized Hua Hua Palace’s disciples spent their time honing gossip instead of their cultivation. But please—don’t let me interrupt your very important discussion of Peak Lord Shang’s personal life. After all, if your spiritual cores are this empty, I suppose you have to fill the void somehow.”

One of them made a choked sound that might have been an apology. Shen Qingqiu didn’t pause.

“Really,” he went on, eyes narrowing just slightly, “if you have so much free time to dissect others’ reputations, seeing as you were—what? Too incompetent to participate in the conference?  Perhaps, you should volunteer for the outer barrier ward maintenance. I hear it requires the kind of attention span and humility you so clearly lack.”

Shang Qinghua just sat there, momentarily struck dumb.

Oh my god, he thought, halfway between awe and disbelief. He’s actually being a bitch—for me.

Not to him, not about him—but for him. It was like watching a lightning storm from behind a protective barrier: terrifying, glorious, and deeply satisfying.

Qi Qingqi stepped forward then, arms crossed, tone deceptively mild. “Careful, now. There are a lot of ears around. You don’t want to embarrass yourselves any further. Not that I imagine that’s a new experience for any of you.”

The three cultivators bowed so fast one nearly toppled forward. “Our apologies! Forgive us, Peak Lords—we meant no offense—”

“I think we’ve all heard enough of your insight,” Shen Qingqiu said, voice smooth as glass. “Next time, think before you feel compelled to speak of your betters” 

He shut the window with a quiet, decisive snap.

Silence followed, deep and startled.

Shang Qinghua stared down at Binghe, who blinked back up at him, spoon hanging from his mouth. “Did you see that?” Shang Qinghua whispered. “That was beautiful. I might cry.”

He leaned back slightly, still dazed. So this is what it felt like when Shen Qingqiu’s verbal flaying wasn’t directed at you? Ten out of ten experience. 

He cleared his throat, straightening as Shen Qingqiu turned back toward him, every line of his posture still sharp with disdain. “Ah—thank you, Shixiong,” Shang Qinghua said, tone light. “That was...much appreciated. Truly. I could never—”

Shen Qingqiu’s gaze flicked to him, unimpressed. “Don’t misunderstand,” he said crisply. “I didn’t do it for you. I simply refuse to have my name dragged through your filth.”

“Of course,” Shang Qinghua said, nodding rapidly. “Entirely understandable. I’m sorry you were involved.”

Qi Qingqi, still by the window, smirked faintly. “Don’t let it go to your head, Shang-shixiong. But you’re part of Cang Qiong, and we protect our own.”

That hit him harder than he’d like to admit. He blinked, smiled—genuine this time, if a little crooked. “...Thanking, Shimei.”

Qi Qingqi waved him off with practiced nonchalance. “Just try not to make it such an uphill battle next time.”

Shen Qingqiu gave a quiet, disdainful scoff.  He flicked open his fan again, already turning toward the door. “Finish feeding the little beast,” he said coolly. “And try to rejoin the rest of us before he reaches adulthood.”

With that, he swept out, robes whispering against the floor, not sparing Shang Qinghua or the baby so much as a backward glance. Qi Qingqi lingered half a step longer, her expression wry. “Don’t mind him,” she said, tone softer now, though her mouth still curved in that sharp, teasing way. “You know how he gets.”

Then she, too, followed after Shen Qingqiu, her sleeves catching the light as the doorway emptied.

Silence fell again, the kind that felt almost like relief.

Shang Qinghua exhaled slowly, sagging against the bench. For a long moment, he just stared at the space where they’d stood, then down at Luo Binghe, who was smearing porridge triumphantly across his cheek.

“Well,” he said at last, voice dry, “maybe there’s hope for Shen Qingqiu yet.”

Binghe blinked up at him, solemn and sticky, then promptly shoved another spoonful of mash into his mouth.

Shang Qinghua sighed, wiping his son’s chin with the edge of his sleeve. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m as shocked as you are.”

---

When Shang Qinghua slipped back onto the terrace, the fighting was in full swing.

Above the water, the suspended mirrors caught every strike and slayed beast. The whole hall was watching, faces tilted toward the display, fans forgotten, tea cooling.

Even Cang Qiong looked briefly united by interest. Yue Qingyuan and Mu Qingfang were watching the mirrors with matching, faintly approving expressions. Shen Qingqiu, of course, managed to look bored, but even his eyes were on the spectacle. Liu Qingge was scowling, but that was also nothing new. 

He shifted Luo Binghe higher on his hip and began to angle toward Cang Qiong’s section

“Peak Lord Shang.”

The voice came soft, smooth as aged wine. He turned.

The Old Palace Master was standing uncomfortably close, that same serene smile on his face, attendants lingering a respectful distance behind. Up close, his eyes gleamed too bright in the lamplight. 

“Palace Master,” Shang Qinghua said, polite as protocol required. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Again. I trust the competition’s living up to expectations?”

“Exceedingly,” the man replied, though his attention barely touched the stage. “Hua Hua Palace is honored by Cang Qiong’s presence. And by yours, of course.”

He reached out, almost casually, to clasp Shang Qinghua’s hand.

The contact was light—nothing overt—but the fingers tightened, inexorable. A scholar’s grip, deceptively gentle, carrying the slow insistence of a snake testing the air.

Shang Qinghua’s other arm tightened automatically around Luo Binghe, angling the child against his chest, half-turned away from the Palace Master. Luo Binghe made a soft, curious sound, small fingers clutching at the fabric of his father’s robe.

“Such a devoted father,” the Palace Master murmured, tone just shy of kind. His gaze lingered on the boy, unreadable. “It’s admirable. Tell me—what of the child’s other parent? I confess myself curious. One hears… such interesting stories.”

Shang Qinghua froze. Every instinct screamed at him to pull away, but he couldn’t without making a scene. Yue Qingyuan and Shen Qingqiu were only a few paces off, still engaged in the delicate politicking that came with these gatherings.

He summoned a strained smile. “You know how stories are,” he said lightly. “They improve in the telling.”

“Indeed,” the man said, leaning infinitesimally closer. “But not all stories end well, do they?”

The pressure on his hand increased—barely a fraction, just enough to make the fine bones of his fingers protest. The old man’s eyes had gone soft and distant, as if he were seeing something that wasn’t there.

Shang Qinghua’s pulse stuttered. He could feel the chill bleeding through that grip, the kind of cold that had nothing to do with temperature. His arm around Luo Binghe remained steady, the weight of the baby anchoring him,  the only thing that kept him from shoving the Palace Master straight off the terrace.

He pitched his tone steady. “Palace Master,” he said quietly, “you’re holding rather tight.”

A flicker of something—amusement? Memory?—passed through the man’s expression. “Am I?” he murmured, not letting go. “Forgive me. I was only… reminded of someone.”

“I can’t imagine who,” Shang Qinghua said, voice thin around the edges. “Now if you’ll excuse me—”

“Palace Master.”

Yue Qingyuan’s voice, mild as always, cut neatly through the tension. He approached at a measured pace, hands folded in his sleeves, expression still gracious—but his gaze, when it turned toward the Palace Master, was cold.

“I was hoping to consult with my shidi about tomorrow’s coordination schedule,” he said, tone perfectly pleasant. “If you’ll forgive the interruption.”

The Old Palace Master’s hand loosened. Slowly, reluctantly, he released Shang Qinghua’s fingers, leaving behind the faintest imprint of pressure.

“Of course,” he said, composure smoothing back into place. “Sect affairs do seem to demand much of Cang Qiong. I would not wish to intrude.” His gaze slid to the child in Shang Qinghua’s arms one last time—a long, measuring look that made his stomach twist—and then away again. “Do enjoy the rest of the conference, Peak Lord Shang.”

Yue Qingyuan inclined his head in return, unruffled. “And you, Palace Master.”

He waited until the man had drifted away down the terrace, attendants flowing after him, before turning back.

Shang Qinghua’s breath came out shallow, like he’d been holding it for too long. The corner of his mouth still curved politely, but the muscle beneath his eye betrayed him. His knuckles were white where they pressed against Luo Binghe’s back. Yue Qingyuan’s gaze flicked briefly to the tense line of his arm, then back up—his expression as gentle as it was unreadable.

“Come,” Yue Qingyuan said softly, with a firmness that brooked no argument. “Let’s sit.”

Shang Qinghua opened his mouth—probably to insist he was fine—but his throat refused the lie. So he just nodded.

They crossed the terrace together. The crowd’s attention remained fixed on the mirrors above the lake, where a flurry of light marked another monster’s death. Polite laughter and the rustle of silk covered their retreat.

Mu Qingfang rose slightly as they approached, already clearing a space on the low bench beside him. His brow furrowed when he saw Shang Qinghua’s face.

“Shang-shixiong,” he said quietly, “how are you fairing?”

“Fine,” Shang Qinghua said immediately. Too fast. "Everything's great.”

Mu Qingfang’s expression didn’t change, but disbelief radiated from him like the faint heat off a forge. His eyes lingered on the brittle curve of Shang’s smile, the drawn lines around his mouth, the hand that still hadn’t quite loosened from its protective brace around the child.

“Mm,” Mu Qingfang said neutrally, which somehow carried the weight of an entire dissertation’s worth of concern.

Shang Qinghua attempted another smile, but it flickered halfway to failure. He looked down at the baby—at the solemn, round face, the drool-darkened chin, the way those tiny eyes were fixed on him with unblinking concern.

Then, without warning, Binghe reached up with one damp hand and patted at his father’s cheek, in perfect imitation of the way Shang Qinghua wiped his tears when he cried.

The laugh broke out of him before he could stop it. 

“Don’t worry Binghe,” he murmured, catching that small hand gently. “Point taken. A-die’s fine.”

Luo Binghe cooed, apparently satisfied with this answer, and promptly grabbed a fistful of his father’s sleeve for emphasis.

Shang Qinghua leaned back, breath easing out of him, and forced his shoulders to loosen. Around them, cheers rose as another beast fell—a great, rippling noise of triumph and pride. He cleared his throat, made his smile a little more convincing.

“Let’s cheer for Li Suyin and Yi Chen, huh, Binghe?” he said lightly, turning the child toward the glowing mirrors. “They’re making your old man look competent.”

The baby blinked solemnly at the light, then broke into a delighted squeal. Shang chuckled and shifted him higher, resting his chin briefly atop the child’s head.

By the time the last of the beasts had been slain, days later, the air over Yunzhong Lake shimmered with heat and residual qi. The audience’s energy had ebbed from raucous excitement to the quieter satisfaction of those who had spent all their outrage and now simply wanted to go home.

In the end, victory went to a disciple from Bai Zhan Peak—a sharp, broad-shouldered boy whose sword strikes were as unsubtle as his master’s temper. He’d felled three beasts in as many breaths and punched a fourth for good measure, which had earned him both the top score and several horrified gasps from the more refined sects in attendance.

Li Suyin and Yi Chen had not placed nearly so high, but both had fought clean and clever, making it into the top fifty before bowing out. Perfectly respectable, Shang Qinghua thought—perhaps a little too competent, if he was honest. He’d have to remind the next batch of disciples to pace themselves. The last thing he needed was Bai Zhan’s miniature war gods chasing his disciples around deciding they’d found new rivals.

He hadn’t bet on anyone this year—a rare bout of wisdom for which his purse, and probably his blood pressure, were profoundly grateful. Watching the others settle their wagers with groans and thinly veiled excuses was entertainment enough.

Overall, he decided, he could count the conference a success: no deaths, no disasters, no new enemies—at least, none that had acted on it yet—and no lost money.

A rare, miraculous combination.