Chapter Text
A knife.
He needed a knife, needed it now. His hand… what was it in his hand? A bit of wood, leprous with dust, splinters itchy against his palm. He threw it aside; it wasn’t enough, wasn’t sharp enough. He needed a blade—to thrust it straight into the top of his head, wrench it down and around, cleanly cut off the skin there and take out whatever was trying to rip its way out of his skull right now. It felt like a maggot come to life there: a gluttonous, insatiable maggot, squirming, pressing against the bone. But there was no knife, so he grabbed his head with both of his hands, dropped down, knees a dull, stupid thud! against the ground.
Get out of there, he wanted to scream. Get the fuck out of there, whatever you are, leave me alone, stop this, stop—
There was a voice saying something and hands trying to pry his own from his face, but the maggot twisted and spun and rubbed its distended belly against the insides of his skull, so Shen Jiu screeched until his throat went raw and then passed out.
When he came to, Wu Yanzi was a shadow in the corner of the room, waiting, polishing his sword. He came over when he saw Shen Jiu stir, and Shen Jiu flinched, involuntarily, at the displeased look on his face, at his eyes that were grey and cold like dead fish.
‘That was a pretty bad one, huh?’
Shen Jiu pulled his head back into his shoulders, trying to make himself smaller, less noticeable—it was stupid, he knew, it was just him and Wu Yanzi here, of course he was going to be noticeable.
‘I—I’m sorry, shifu—’ the last word was a nail dragged across a stone slab. His throat hurt, was raw; words came out raspy.
Wu Yanzi winced. ‘You better be. Some shitshow that was. If anyone was passing by and heard you, he might’ve thought I was slaughtering someone in here.’
‘This lowly one won’t—it won’t—’
A dismissive wave. ‘Won’t happen again? Doubt it. Get up, we’re going.’
A hand gripped Shen Jiu’s heart, squeezed it tight and twisted it, fleshy muscle bulging out grotesquely in the interstices between the fingers. ‘Sh-shifu, going where?’ It couldn’t be that Wu Yanzi had decided to get rid of him, to turn him in to the authorities? To tell them what Shen Jiu did, to…to…
‘To get your head checked. Now get up, move it.’
Shen Jiu jerked upright, stumbling, nearly tripping over. Wu Yanzi had already pivoted on his heel and was walking away from him across the room. To get your head checked, he had said. Like one would check the mould blooming ugly-black in the corner.
That was when Shen Jiu first knew, first realised. Those weren’t just migraines, weren’t exhaustion-induced headaches.
There was something really, really wrong with him.
*
‘Incurable?’
Wu Yanzi said the word like it was a chunk of mud stuck to his shoe. The physician looked up, with a raddled expression on his face, as if he was used to people saying “incurable?” with that look on their faces; used to explaining what it meant, what it entailed, over and over, to blank stares.
‘Capitagia is a rare illness of the brain, one might say.’
‘What, he’s some kind of psychopath now?’
Wu Yanzi was not looking at Shen Jiu, who sat there on the edge of the patient bed after he’d just been examined all over, his qi inspected thoroughly. This was the third physician Wu Yanzi had taken him to; the first one didn’t even want to look at the emaciated boy, the second one had honestly said she had no idea what was going on with him.
‘No, that’s different. The illness usually does not lead to the person becoming… a psychopath, as you say. The main symptoms of capitagia are headaches that feel much worse than normal and mood swings. There is also a distinct mark in the person’s qi—if one knows what to look for—in those with capitagia, and the boy has it.’
Wu Yanzi tapped his foot impatiently. ‘The kid screamed like he was being cut up alive. This master thought he was about to go deaf.’
Shen Jiu squeezed his eyes shut until he saw bursts of purple. The physician’s voice came from somewhere beyond that purple. ‘Little is known about capitagia, but it is theorised that a part of the brain randomly attacks itself, which the person experiences as intense pain in the side of their head. It is nothing like what the normal person thinks of as a headache, the mechanism is completely different.’
‘He hasn’t head one of these…fits before. First time.’
‘Well, the good news,’ the healer said as he moved something—Shen Jiu had opened his eyes—around the little table, bunches of herbs and notes scribbled on paper. ‘The good news is that there are some things he can take that will help alleviate the pain.’
‘The bad news being that he has to keep taking them,’ Wu Yanzi half-asked, half-finished the sentence for him.
The healer looked up at him and handed over one of the cheap-paper notes—a prescription, most likely. His other hand went up to push the half-moon glasses up the bridge of his nose, over the deep-seated wrinkles there.
‘The bad news,’ he corrected slowly, ‘is that “alleviate” in this case does not mean “make the pain go away”. It only means it can be brought down from unbearable to terrible.’ He looked down at Shen Jiu, not exactly with pity but with something Shen Jiu wasn’t sure of a name for.
The last thing Shen Jiu heard the healer say as the two of them were heading out the door was a mutter—he seemed to be talking to himself more than to anyone else.
‘So young… never heard of anyone so young with capitagia…’
*
Proud Immortal Demon Way. Chapter 1891
Author Notes:
a reader asked under the last chapter why the qi liang flower powder everyone’s been looking for just happened to be in our villain’s qiankun pouch when binghe blew it open. the reason for that is because sqq actually has capitagia himself, he’s had it since he was young~ just like binghe’s eighth wife~ that’s why he carried those herbs on his person at all times.
PeerlessCucumber: If Shen Qingqiu’s had the condition since he was young, why was this never mentioned up until now?
(replying to PeerlessCucumber) lord-of-mysteries-1997: Probably because Luo Binghe didn’t know about it. PIDW is from his point of view, after all, why would a disciple know something like this about his shizun. Anyway, Shen Qingqiu’s death in this chapter was soooo satisfying. I wonder what our Bingge is now going to do with his body?
(replying to lord-of-mysteries-1997) THEGREATFUJO: I have a few ideas about the body thing, but they would get me banned from Zhongdian immediately. 2333
(replying to lord-of-mysteries-1997) PeerlessCucumber: That is simply not true. Luo Binghe’s POV has been broken multiple times, beginning with chapter 2, where we suddenly get a glimpse into Ning Yingying’s inner monologue. In fact, I don’t think Airplane even knows what “third person limited” means. By now we’ve seen, albeit indirectly, glimpses of at least 103 different POVs other than Luo Binghe’s. Which brings the question: if Shen Qingqiu had such a debilitating condition (and it is quite debilitating from what we know about the eighth wife) his entire life, why was it never mentioned?
(replying to PeerlessCucumber) hualinglover69: who cares lol? shouldnt you finally be happy since you demanded his death the most. oh wait, i forgot that all you ever do in the comments is bitch. my bad.
*
The wooden bowl was thrust into Shen Jiu’s hands, a bitter, repulsive smell making him scrunch up his nose even through the mounting pain in his head: it has been mounting since an incense time ago, when Wu Yanzi had noticed it and grabbed the sachet with the herbal powder.
‘Drink!’
Obeying, Shen Jiu tipped the bowl back, let the warm liquid trickle into his mouth…
…and immediately lurched forward, spitting it out all over the table, a cough ripping through him. Vile, it tasted absolutely vile, there was no way he was going to—
‘I said drink it!’
Wu Yanzi’s face loomed above him, distorted through the mounting blur in front of Shen Jiu’s eyes. Wu Yanzi’s hand grabbed the bowl while the other one was on his chin, tugging it down. ‘Drink!’
And Shen Jiu drank, swallowed. He thought he might throw up any moment, thought just one more drop would take him over the edge, that he would spit it all out again—but he didn’t. He drank it all and swallowed every mouthful, the figure before him now no more than a mosaic through the tears that had welled up from the disgusting taste.
For an infinitely long time, there was only the gut-churning aftertaste in his mouth and the worm-wriggling pain from inside his head. The pain had been growing and growing and just when he was about to break into a scream—like the one from the last time, when his throat hurt for two days afterwards—it stopped intensifying. It was still there, it was all there, the distended maggot writhing inside his brain, looking to chew its way out, but the writhing had become slow, unhurried, the sensation dulled somewhat. It was like someone had been beating him up with a hammer and then, getting tired of holding the hammer, put it aside to switch to precise punches instead.
It was through this new kind of pain—and the gross, vomitlike taste on his tongue—that he heard Wu Yanzi saying, ‘Well done. You’ve done well, Shen Jiu. No screaming today, yeah?’ His sounded almost proud this time, but Shen Jiu couldn’t think about it.
As he lay down on his makeshift bed, eyes closed, the pain still there but not quite enough to make him want to take up a blade this time—he could only think about one thing. One thing turning over and over inside his brain until, some infinity times infinity later, the flare-up was finally over, leaving him empty, numb and drained.
Was this how it was going to be from now on?
For the rest of his life?
Shen Jiu almost wished he had stayed in the Qiu manor after he’d set fire to it.
*
‘If you hold the knife like this, and then chop at an angle like this,’ Shen Yuan demonstrated, blade slicing through the white cabbage easily like it was butter, ‘it’s a lot easier.’
Ai Lushe watched with rapt attention, thread-thin brows converged at the bridge of her nose, like she was about to whip out a notebook and start taking notes. Her ponytail bobbed with the motion when she looked up at Shen Yuan.
‘Shixiong is so good at this!’
‘Shimei can try now,’ Shen Yuan handed her the knife, watching carefully as the girl began to cut the cabbage—one of the many they had to prepare for tonight’s dinner. It was all well and good that disciples were sometimes roped into helping Qing Jing’s kitchen, but nobody had thought to start with introducing safe kitchen practices before giving two children—and he was currently fourteen while Ai Lushe couldn’t be older than ten—a mountain of leaves to chop up. Good thing he’d learnt some basic cooking skills in his previous life.
‘Shixiong?’
‘Hm?’
‘Shixiong is teaching Lushe… Who taught shixiong to do this?’ the girl was looking at him curiously, big-eyed. The mountain of chopped-up cabbage next to her was only a bit smaller than Shen Yuan’s. What a quick study.
For a moment—just a moment—Shen Yuan got a weird feeling; the scene before him suddenly reminded him of Shen Tang and the few times, usually special occasions, that the two of them would help their mother make dinner. Shen Tang even used to wear her hair in a ponytail before her short hair phase, too…
‘My mother did.’
There was a glint of surprise in Ai Lushe’s lambent eyes. ‘Ah! Lushe’s mother doesn’t cook so she never taught me anything like this… Shixiong, do you miss you mum? Will you see her soon?’
Not if the System had anything to say about it.
Shen Yuan tried to keep his tone as casual as possible. He had not been close with his parents for many years now, and if anything, missed Shen Tang more than he missed them. But his neglected-middle-child situation was too complicated to explain to a ten-year-old, not to mention that those weren’t the parents of the original owner of this body—he had been an orphan.
‘My parents are no longer around,’ he said simply. When Ai Lushe’s eyes went wide, Shen Yuan hurried to add, ‘They died in an unfortunate accident, but…’
‘But?!’
‘…but their one final wish was for me to join the Cang Qiong Mountain Sect.’
She was only ten, he had to make it positive somehow! She might be an NPC Airplane didn’t bother to mention but that did not mean he could say to her whatever without consequences! And to be honest, as a female character who was not going to end up as Luo Binghe’s wife, Shen Yuan already felt like he had to at least try and protect her from whatever blow the narrative could throw at the poor girl.
[Character Depth +20 B-points. Character Relationships -300 B-points.]
Shen Yuan dropped the knife, which landed on the cutting board with a clank, dangerously close to his hand. There was a slight smile on Ai Lushe’s face as she had returned to cutting the cabbage—was that just a façade and she actually hated him? Enough for the deduction of hundreds of points?!
System??
The System was once again useless, and he really could not just ask Ai Lushe about what had just happened, so in the end, Shen Yuan had to return to cutting the cabbage too.
The twin chop-chop against the boards soon filled the silence between them, and his mind began to wander off. While the point deduction was strange, at the moment he had more important things to worry about, such as figuring out how exactly he was going to change the plot. He had a couple of ideas, but he needed to make sure that, firstly…
Shen Yuan’s eyes shot up from the chopping board.
Ai Lushe’s were still on hers. Bizarre, because he’d just got a strange feeling that someone was watching him, but behind Ai Lushe was the outer wall of the kitchen building, and behind him were…
A breeze swept down the back of his neck, gently and coolly brushed his skin. It left a trail of goosebumps in its wake.
Slowly, very slowly, Shen Yuan turned his head around to look behind himself.
From a short distance away, between the thick stalks of bamboo that grew all around the kitchen building, a pair of dark green eyes was watching him, the rest of the face hidden behind a fan. They did not look away when their gazes met; instead, they looked straight into Shen Yuan’s own, a penetrating stare, as if intent on burning a hole through him.
What is he doing here? Why is he sneaking around?!
After a good minute, the eyes turned away. Their owner disappeared behind the endless bamboo stalks in the blink of an eye.
It took Shen Yuan a few moments to realise that the loud, hammering sound that seemed to be coming from somewhere close was his own heart, beating fast and erratic in his chest.
*
He had not been wrong.
The flare-ups followed him through his teenage years and into adolescence, into his joining Cang Qiong Mountain Sect. They happened anywhere from once a month to every few days or so, never letting him get used to a particular frequency, coming on at the worst of times. Once he went three months without any flare-ups and he would never forget how he’d spent the last one of those three months in fear every single day. He’d become convinced that after the delay, the pain was going to come back with vengeance, to compensate for the lost time, and that this time there would be nothing he could do about it, and the whole of Qing Jing would bear witness to his screams, and they would all know.
When the flare-up did finally come, when he was in the middle of the lesson, Shen Qingqiu snapped at the disciples to run an impossible number of laps before he strode off to the bamboo house, and it was almost relief when the pain was exactly the same as usual—when it dulled to brain-sawing after he drank not one but two bowls of medicine. It was pathetic, how the tension in his muscles halved at the familiar sensation in the side of his head, the way he nearly sighed with relief.
Very few knew. Mu Qingfang, naturally; Yue Qingyuan, because somehow this was something he had to be privy to, and—out of all people—Shang Qinghua.
Not that he’d ever said it but the look he stole at Shen Qingqiu once when he was reporting a problem that had arisen during the transportation of a particular box of herbs, was enough for Shen Qingqiu to infer that Shang Qinghua had somehow come to know about his condition too. Well. As long as he kept his blabbering mouth shut about it, Shen Qingqiu didn’t care.
As for the other Peak Lords… He knew what they thought about him. Twice he had his flare-ups begin during a Peak Lord meeting, and both times caused some ructions.
‘Leaving in the middle of a meeting? You better have a good reason!’ Liu Qingge’s face was red enough already to fry an egg on it. One with those crispy golden edges.
Shen Qingqiu spread out his fan, lifted it to hide the lower half of his face—he did not trust himself not to wince, for the maggot was already awake and doing its morning exercise routine—and said, ‘This shixiong does have a good reason. He’s had enough of a certain shidi’s face, for today.’ Then he left, without looking back, to the backdrop of Yue Qingyuan’s voice calling after him.
The second time it was Qi Qingqi who spoke up, loud and commanding, ‘Shen Qingqiu. The meeting has not been adjourned. Where are you going?’
His eyes narrowed, held her steady gaze. Then, he allowed himself half a sneer.
‘To the Shanlu Street.’ That was a well-known street marking the entrance to the red-light district of the nearest town.
It was with a satisfaction he didn’t bother to mask that he watched Qi Qingqi’s face change, composure giving way to indignance as the other Peak Lords began speaking too—not Liu Qingge, whose reflex arc couldn’t be shorter than a thousand li at least. Shen Qingqiu strode out of the room, a flurry of robes, and flew to his peak. The maggot was finishing its stretching, the maggot was getting ready for the action.
Yue Qingyuan tried bringing it up with him exactly once. He was adamant to let the other heads of peaks know about Shen Qingqiu’s condition: not in great detail, just enough for them to understand the reason behind the sudden departures. Shen Qingqiu, jaw tight and a similar tightness squeezing across his chest, shot that down immediately; when he spoke, the words were acid dripping from his tongue, each enunciated slowly, clearly, leaving no room for misinterpretation.
‘Don’t—you—dare.’
Yue Qingyuan did not bring it up again.
Just thinking about it—the looks he would be getting, the usual disgust mixed with pity—was enough to make Shen Qingqiu feel unclean. Stained. To have his real condition, rather than his putative debauchery, as the cynosure of everyone’s attention—like hanging out your soiled undergarments for all to see in great detail. What a joke.
The mood swings were entirely random, too.
Sometimes he would come out of a meditation, heart calm like the still surface of a lake, mind emptied, and he would find a smudge on his robes, and a switch would be flipped. Hot, suppurating anger rising inside him—the reason was so small and insignificant, he would’ve laughed at it had he any control over himself at that moment, which he did not. Sometimes one line from a student during a lesson was enough to flip this switch, and as he struggled, through gritted teeth, to contain the irritation burning inside him, the switch would be just as randomly flipped back, and Shen Qingqiu would find himself looking at the student and wondering how the hell a few silly words out of a child’s mouth had just made him go through all of that.
The healer had used the words “mood swings” and not “anger outbursts”; it was anger that Shen Qingqiu found himself abruptly flung into most often, but that wasn’t exclusive.
‘Shizun?’ his disciple looked at him in confusion. He’d been pouring Shen Qingqiu tea when he lifted his head and saw his shizun’s expression.
Blank as sheet, Shen Qingqiu would have guessed, for at that moment, horror was climbing up his spine, worming its way around his vertebrae—he just suddenly, completely out of nowhere felt very, very terrified.
The disciple paled too, whipping around, probably expecting to see a ghost or a demon climbing out of a portal in the air or something—only to blink at the empty wall behind. The boy looked back at him.
‘Shizun?’
‘This master has just remembered his next mission will be with your Liu-shishu,’ Shen Qingqiu said as expressionlessly as he could manage with that fear, the feeling that something was about to go wrong, closing over him like a wave about to crash down. ‘Now leave your Shizun to feel sorry for himself.’
But Shen Qingqiu’s least favourite—if he could even rank them—was when he suddenly, inexplicably felt sad.
He had only experienced this a handful of times, and when the feeling did grip him, it was so powerful that every time it left him lying down on his bed and looking at the ceiling until it went away. It was not like the others for it did not come in spikes like the tidal anger or the onslaught of fear: this one was steady, without peaks and troughs, just a great, deep feeling of sorrow. As if there was something valuable that he had lost and wished to find, but no matter how much he thought of it, he could not remember what it was, and so he could only mourn its absence.
Three years thus passed since he’d become a Peak Lord.
He drank the medicine when needed, hid his symptoms and had his disciples believing he was a particularly mercurial teacher. It was perhaps for the best—except that it meant, after these three years, he still did not have a head disciple. Other than the Bai Zhan Peak Lord, who did not take disciples at all, all the other peak heads appointed a head disciple within the first year or two, and for a good reason. Shen Qingqiu might not have had as many things he’d rather have someone else do as the An Ding peak lord did, but appointing someone to take care of matters in his absences and assist him with administrative work was only the logical thing to do.
And it wasn’t as if there wasn’t a single disciple who’d shown themselves capable. There was one particular child whose quickness-on-the-uptake and bearing—more mature than was expected at his age—had caught Shen Qingqiu’s attention from day one.
It’s just that there was one thing holding Shen Qingqiu back from making this student a head disciple.
Shen Qingqiu hated him.
*
The bright morning sun limned the treetops of the Qing Jing Peak with a soft, peach-fuzzy yellow. A breeze, rushing in, broke the stillness of the indoor air as a disciple walked in.
‘Good morning, Shizun. Shall this one serve Shizun his breakfast as usual?’
‘Today, tell your shixiong Shen Yuan to serve it.’
The girl’s eyes widened, her mouth very clearly wanting to shape into an “o”. But under Shen Qingqiu’s unblinking gaze, she did not dare, and only gave a “yes, Shizun” and a respectful nod before closing the door behind herself, cutting off the fresh current of air pouring into the room.
Shen Qingqiu walked over to the window and stood, hands clasped behind his back, and waited. Soon, from between the trees, a figure appeared, carrying a tray. As soon as the figure was close enough for Shen Qingqiu to see their face, his eyes grew as cold as the bottom of a lake.
Shen Yuan had never served him breakfast before. His Shizun suddenly picking him for this duty that has been carried out by the quiet but earnest Ai Lushe for the past year ought to have set off some alarms in him—any other disciple would have been at least anxious, if not terrified. And yet here Shen Yuan was, expression free of worry, shoulders straight and hands steady as he walked across the patch of grass before the bamboo house.
As if he had a right not to be afraid.
Shen Qingqiu’s fingers beneath the wide sleeve moved, a tingle of qi. A rock that had been lying off to the side now re-materialised right under Shen Yuan’s foot, and the boy tripped. The tray slipped from his hands, the bowl in turn slipping off the tray in pursuit of an exciting meeting with the ground…
…and was caught inches above the grass. Shen Yuan stumbled forward from the momentum, but did not let go of the bowl, and in a blink he was not only perfectly upright again but continuing walking towards the bamboo house, the leprous grey marring the pristine white of his robes the only indication that any incident had taken place at all.
The congee had not spilled from the bowl, indicating an array was in place. Not the kind of array these disciples would have been taught, either. Which could only mean it was something Shen Yuan had sought out and learnt on his own.
A privilege Shen Qingqiu had not shared, at his age.
‘Good morning, Shizun.’
Setting the bowl on the table, Shen Yuan looked up. The lack of any fear of uncertainty in his expression made Shen Qingqiu regret he had not chosen a bigger rock.
‘Which tea would Shizun like this disciple to serve him today?’
‘Chrysanthemum tea.’
‘Understood.’
Shen Yuan moved smoothly. It was his first time serving his Shizun breakfast, and yet he did not behave as someone who had ever done it before should have: there was no asking Shen Qingqiu where the tea was stored, no dilatoriness in front of the qi-operated stove, and the hands that poured the steaming water over the fragrant dried flowers did not tremble.
Shen Qingqiu wanted to take that water and splash it into his face.
‘How old is Shen Yuan?’
Clear brown eyes met his. ‘This disciple is fifteen, Shizun.’
‘Fifteen is a critical age for the development of one’s body. Shen Yuan has been spending too much time in the library lately, neglecting physical training. From today on, Shen Yuan will be responsible for filling the bathtub for this master in the evening—with water from the stream down the mountain, carried in buckets without the use of qi.’
There was a change in his disciple’s expression: brows crawling up slightly, eyes widening at the realisation of what was being asked of him. Shen Qingqiu could almost see the cogs turning.
‘Understood, Shizun.’
Shen Qingqiu took a sip from the bowl. ‘Shen Yuan will also be responsible for the upkeeping of the bamboo house from now on. He will be cleaning it every three days, without the use of qi.’
‘This disciple understands.’
How funny Shen Qingqiu found that word at the moment.
Who could ever understand?
Who could comprehend all the hours he had spent doing meaningless, tedious tasks at the Qiu household that could have been done with a moment’s flick of qi? Who could ever get a full grasp on what it was like to have wasted his most critical learning years as a slave while his peers stepped onto the cultivation path, one by one, and he was left behind?
His seeds bore fruit soon. Shen Yuan now had a lot less time to spend in the library—when it wasn’t a cleaning day, Shen Qingqiu made sure to give him a different task. Running errands to other Peaks, collecting firewood, cleaning the stables: he wasn’t picky as long as it was physical and time-consuming. Shen Yuan no longer woke up before everyone, as he used to, and on one occasion was even late with Shen Qingqiu’s breakfast, blinking through the heavy eyelids as he muttered apologies. He was probably using something to get rid of the aches and pulled muscles, but that was not important. What was important was that he no longer had the free time nor the energy to study outside of the formal lessons, to practise with the sword on his own, to hole himself up in the library. Even more important was the frustration Shen Qingqiu could sense from him.
And yet…
Shen Yuan continued to do well in all the arts taught. His shidi and shimei continued to look up at him and would throw him sympathetic looks whenever his bucket-carrying form passed their training grounds in the evenings. A few other Peak Lords, from peaks Shen Yuan was frequently sent to with errands, spoke of him warmly.
Not only was Shen Yuan bright, he was also charismatic.
Shen Qingqiu’s dislike for him had spread out like the roots of a tree, growing deeper, more solid every day. These days, he mostly kept the boy out of his sight, instructed him to do the house cleaning only when his Shizun was not in, yet he still saw Shen Yuan regularly—whenever the maggot did its dance.
When the maggot moved again—when his head was hot with the familiar feeling of nails being driven into his skull—and Shen Qingqiu took his medicine and lay down, he saw him. His fits used to mean a few hours spent in the dark as he waited with his eyes shut, but now he shut his eyes and saw Shen Yuan tripping with a breakfast tray but not falling, Shen Yuan smiling at a shimei, Shen Yuan with exhaustion etched into his face and a bucketful of water in each hand. Shen Yuan, an orphan, a nobody. Shen Yuan, who had nothing other than what Shen Qingqiu didn’t have.
Shen Qingqiu ground his teeth together hard as the maggot wriggled on for its single-spectator performance, and hated, hated, hated.
*
‘Shidi is yet to appoint a head disciple…’
‘You asked me to stay after the meeting to tell me that?’ he didn’t bother to hide the near-sneer in his tone, fanning himself with his constant companion as Yue Qingyuan’s dark-pocked brown eyes looked at him from across the table.
‘I did not mean to be presumptuous. But with especially with Shen-shidi’s condition, a head disciple…’
‘Has my condition ever got in the way of carrying out my duties as the Peak Lord?’
‘This Sect Leader was greatly impressed with Qing Jing’s organisation and disciples the last time he visited. Shen-shidi’s perseverance in the face of his illness is truly admirable.’
It was something dangerously close to pride in Yue Qingyuan’s tone that set Shen Qingqiu off, the corners of his mouth twisting down. ‘Shixiong is once again mistaking capitagia for me being an invalid.’
Some of that collected Sect Leader mask slipped, then, the light coming in through the window to the left casting the other half of Yue Qingyuan’s face into shadow. ‘The other Peak Lords do not have Shen-shidi’s condition, and they have all taken on head disciples to help manage matters.’
‘Some of them have also taken to regularly damaging buildings on their peak or near-poisoning the entire mountain at the last banquet. Should this shidi follow their example, too?’
Overworking led to careless mistakes. Shen Qingqiu had no idea whether Shang Qinghua had learnt his lesson from the incident or whether he’d been too brain-fatigued at the time to even care.
‘Is it that Shen-shidi cannot decide on a disciple suitable for the role?’ Yue Qingyuan’s detestably not-raised voice carried a genuine question. ‘If so, this shixiong cannot recommend Shen Yuan enough.’
Blood rushed to Shen Qingqiu’s face at once. ‘Has there been an announcement this shidi missed? That Zhangmen-shixiong is now taking on a more prominent role in the Peaks’ inner affairs?’
‘Xiao Jiu, I’m merely suggesting…’
He almost breathed with relief, a big lungful of exhale, finally having something to clutch onto. His fan snapped shut with a loud pop.
‘Don’t call me that.’
Yue Qingyuan sighed. ‘Shen Yuan is hardworking and quick on the uptake. He is clearly attached to the peak and his martial siblings—all essential qualities for a head disciple. This Sect Leader would never force Shen-shidi’s hand, but he wanted to bring this up for Shen-shidi’s consideration.’
…clearly attached to the peak…
Of course the bastard would have grown attached to a place that fed him, clothed him and taught him cultivation, all with the added bonus of having a gaggle of shimei and shidi trailing after him starry-eyed. So having enough brain to appreciate one’s favourable circumstances was some kind of virtue, now?
Shen Qingqiu stood up as quickly as if someone had lit a fire under him. It was not often that his fits occurred following an identifiable trigger—in most cases their timing tended to be entirely random—but the pressure now rapidly spreading out from a single point in his temple was unmistakeable. His grip around his fan tightened.
‘Is there anything else,’ he said through gritted teeth and the waking-up ritual of the creature inside his head, ‘Sect Leader would like to bring up for this shidi’s consideration?’
A wave rippled across Yue Qingyuan’s expression. He rose also, the cascade of grey and gold robes rising with him. He opened his mouth, then closed it, the opened it again as he stepped around the table—whatever he wanted to say lost halfway up his throat when Shen Qingqiu took a mirror step back.
He was not stupid. He knew that look, the guilt at the bottom of the brown eyes. The idiot had taken the question for an open invitation to broach the subject of their past, no doubt.
Shen Qingqiu couldn’t be less interested.
‘This shidi’s condition is acting up now, may Zhangmen-shixiong excuse.’
As if this wasn’t bad enough, a hand landed on his shoulder, Yue Qingyuan’s expression transforming into stiff concern. ‘This shixiong will have someone bring the medicine immediately, Shen-shidi should…’
When Shen Qingqiu pushed the unwanted hand from his shoulder, it was a knee-jerk motion without any illusion of ceremony—the same gesture someone might use when flicking a clump of dirt suddenly found on their sleeve. The only satisfaction was the sharp, shaky breath he heard Yue Qingyuan suck in, and the look in his eyes—stupid look, in Shen Qingqiu’s opinion, for the man could not have been foolish enough to expect anything else.
Or had Yue Qingyuan perhaps been under the impression his shidi was feeling so unwell he would even welcome that touch?
Disgust swept through him. ‘This shidi will return to his peak immediately to rest.’ His head now throbbing, he walked, then flew, then finally was at the bamboo house, medicinal liquid burning his throat as he forced it down. He nearly choked on it, in the most un-peak-lord-like way, hand coming up to clasp around his throat as he willed himself to swallow. Even after all these years, this medicine still tasted as revolting as the first time he’d had it—but not as revolting, he thought, as the tea he’d just had on Qiong Ding.
*
[Current mission reminder: Change Luo Binghe’s fate, fix the plot! Time remaining: Two years and three months until Luo Binghe joins Qing Jing Peak. Host should hurry up!]
He was trying, system! But there was not a lot he could currently do considering how little free time he now had! He was way, way too exhausted after hours of carrying water up the hill in the evening to have any energy to go to the library afterwards. He’d tried it a few times and ended up falling asleep without having got through the first page of the book on the analgesic properties of plants his first time, and falling asleep on the floor or the library the second time!
‘It’s not like there’s thirty-six hours in a day!’
[Host doesn’t actually need eight hours of sleep a day~~]
‘I literally can’t stay awake, you imbecile. Not that you would understand what physical exhaustion is.’
[Host could use a Pocket Item to help him stay awake.]
What?
‘What the hell is a pocket item?’
[A Pocket Item is an item that Host may purchase for B-points from this System. The Item would be placed into the physical world upon the successful completion of purchase. Pocket Items available at this point in time: Coffee.]
‘Did you rip that concept off from some videogame? Wait,’ the cogs in his head turned, ‘did you just say coffee? This world doesn’t have coffee!’ Believe him, he would be the first to know if it did.
[Host is correct. The coffee available for purchase from this System is based on that from Host’s original world, and the specific drinks available are based on Host’s preferences and memories from his previous life.]
…
……
Shen Yuan was speechless, but also too exhausted at this point to look further into that questionable explanation.
‘Okay, how much do you want for it?’ It felt ridiculous just asking this, they weren’t in a shop…
The Google Translate-like voice began rattling options off so fast it gave the impression the System was buzzing with excitement. [The price varies depending on the drink! An espresso costs 50 B-points—a small but strong two-shot that does the job! A Turkish-style coffee like the kind Host’s parents used to always make is 70 B-points. A high-quality filter coffee with notes of caramel and spiced apple, made with single-origin arabica beans from Colombia, just like from Host’s favourite coffee shop in his past life, is 100 B-points.]
…
Who’d turned the System into a Starbucks?!
‘I’ll have an espresso, no, make it three!’
Surprisingly, the System wasn’t bullshitting. It didn’t actually have a whole roastery in its possession, of course, and the drinks tasted just slightly off—if Shen Yuan had to guess, it was probably using the caffeine compounds from this world to synthesise the drinks and then adjusting their taste and texture based on Shen Yuan’s memories. It was strange to be drinking coffee from the small bowls, and he had to make sure not to be seen by anyone, but the most important part was that it worked. The familiar and much-missed eugeroic effect was almost immediate: his bone-deep exhaustion replaced by a keen sense of mental clarity that had Shen Yuan speed through an entire book on medical conditions in the span of one very late evening, on the very first day.
No doubt the adenosine manipulation would catch up to him one day, but what did he care if it meant he could prevent Luo Binghe from suffering his original fate?
And if preventing the protagonist’s suffering coincidentally also meant helping the scum villain—well…
*
In hindsight, Shen Qingqiu had begun having his suspicions a while ago.
He probably wouldn’t have, had it not been for a mission that several disciples, including Shen Yuan, were brought along to. The forced proximity during those few days meant no little detail about his oldest disciple escaped Shen Qingqiu’s attention. How easily Shen Yuan answered Ai Lushe’s question about Blood-Weeping Axolotls when it was not something he should even know, considering the creatures resided only in the Demon Realm. How it only took him a few moments longer than it did Shen Qingqiu to realise they had been led into a trap—meaning Shen Yuan had not only noticed the barely perceptible strange qi in the building but also correctly analysed the implications.
The signs were all there: despite every single effort Shen Qingqiu had taken to ensure this wouldn’t happen, Shen Yuan still had managed to find time for extracurricular studying and cultivation.
The very thought made the hairs at the back of Shen Qingqiu’s neck rise from rage.
When and how Shen Yuan had done it, was another question. Every evening after Shen Qingqiu’s bathtub was filled, he saw the same tiredness as always etched into Shen Yuan’s features, and sometimes there would be a few yawns Shen Yuan failed to suppress. Every instinct told Shen Qingqiu his disciple fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow in the evening, but it was not until Shen Qingqiu was suffering from insomnia one particular night that he was proven wrong.
He wrapped the cloak around his shoulders tighter the further he advanced into the chill, midnight air. He walked without purpose in the dark, with only the sounds of the rustling foliage and the wind to break Qing Jing’s nocturnal silence, when a flash of light far ahead made him halt in his step.
The light was coming from the library that lay beyond the dark copse of maple trees in front of him.
Shen Qingqiu’s gait, before merely unhurried, now became catlike. He walked towards the library, making sure not to step even a hair’s breadth away from the spots of shade under the trees, his pale robes moving lithely with him like moonlight turned liquid. As he approached the low building, it became clear the light was coming from one room on the side, a latticed yellow square cast on the ground before the window. Shen Qingqiu did not have to risk giving away his presence by moving closer: he could see even from where he stood well-hidden by the shade of a maple tree some forty paces or so away from that window, that the light was coming from a lantern on Shen Yuan’s side, a lantern well-placed for Shen Yuan to be able to read the book he was currently absorbed into.
Shen Qingqiu’s eyes narrowed into slits.
So the bastard had found a way to stay awake even after all the bucket-hauling, after all. He did not even look sleepy, his expression that of blade-sharp concentration as he read the book.
Shen Qingqiu approached the library from the other end in the same stealth fashion. It was like a silencing spell suddenly becoming inactivated when he walked into the room Shen Yuan was in—Shen Yuan whipping around at the sound a bit too late, his eyes going saucer-wide.
Not that Shen Qingqiu looked at his eyes for longer than a split moment, for something else grabbed his attention—a thick notebook lying between the books that littered the low table.
He seized it immediately. He began flipping through the pages, populated with Shen Yuan’s unmistakeable neat, if sometimes rather whimsical-looking, handwriting. With each line he read—each drawing his eyes fell upon, each diagram he spotted scribbled hastily in a corner—Shen Qingqiu’s gaze grew darker.
The notebook, this thick little book, was filled with notes about a rare chronic pain disorder known as capitagia. Not just any notes but most detailed descriptions of related conditions, well-recorded cases from the past, all the current theories about what caused the disorder and what made its symptoms worse.
Slowly, he looked up at his disciple, who stood there pale as ghost, his skin waxlike from the light of the lantern and the sheen of sweat on his face.
‘What an impressive compendium about my condition. Especially the pages about the worst flare-up triggers and drug interaction. Very detailed.’
Impossibly, the bastard’s face went a shade paler. Finally, he was finally scared—as he should have been from the beginning, from that day he’d been summoned to serve breakfast at the bamboo house, the day when Shen Qingqiu thought to nip this in the bud.
Except that the nipped bud seemed to have found a way to grow anyway.
‘Shizun, this isn’t what you think…’
Shen Qingqiu’s mouth twitched, a mock-up of a smile. ‘No one but a few peak lords even know about my condition. My disciple's determination to get rid of me must be truly impressive to have gone this far to dig up something so confidential.’ Was it that squirrely Shang Qinghua who’d told him? It must have been: Mu Qingfang was under an oath, and as much as he loathed Yue Qingyuan, he did not believe the man would have leaked something like this to anyone after the hard line Shen Qingqiu had drawn.
‘Shizun, please let this disciple explain—’
There was a rattle from the bookshelves on the side when, without holding back, Shen Qingqiu slammed the notebook down on the table—the glow-bathed room around wobbled as the lantern nearly toppled over from the impact. Hot white flashed across his vision.
One of those fits of rage was happening now, he could tell by the way his blood had begun to bubble up hot and simmering in his veins, by the way his hands began to itch with the desire to do something, to destroy—he gave into the itch, grabbed Shen Yuan by his bony teenage shoulders.
‘And to think,’ he hissed, words leaving his mouth faster than he could think of them, now, ‘that I was planning on making you my head disciple…’
He almost thought some chicanery was going on when a pain shot through his temple—until he realised, moments later, that this was not someone’s trick, this was the maggot suddenly awakened from its slumber. The mood swings and the headaches never happened at the same time, no, it couldn’t be…
…but it was. His grip on Shen Yuan’s shoulders loosened against his will as he began to slide down, began to lose control.
He had never lost control before, but he had also never had the two symptoms attack at once.
Before he could fall inelegantly down to the floor, however, arms caught him.
‘Get away from me, call Mu—’ he tried to push Shen Yuan away but could not even finish that sentence. The maggot’s electrified throbbing came on faster than usual this time, perhaps accelerated by the rage coursing through him. Over the years, with the medicine’s dulling effect, he had forgotten—forgotten how nightmarish the raw, unalleviated sensation was, like his brain was being scraped out from inside, like something was growing against his skull and pressing hard there, threatening to burst out any moment, like—
Suddenly, the maggot’s dance slowed.
Slowed?
Had he passed out? No, he was still conscious; the pain was fading away rapidly, now lightened to something like a cluster headache—unpleasant, but not something that made him want to take up a knife.
There was a coolness against his temple. Shen Qingqiu opened his eyes.
And met Shen Yuan’s. At some point they had both sagged to the floor and his head was in Shen Yuan’s lap, one of the boy’s hands holding it while the other rubbed something into the skin just down from Shen Qingqiu’s cheekbone.
‘The root of Starlight-Ripened Nightshade, made into a balm,’ Shen Yuan said. His complexion had recovered some of its colour, no longer ghost-pale, and it was with a quiet focus that his fingers worked the mildly spice-scented balm into Shen Qingqiu's skin. ‘There was a healer in the past century who wrote about this plant's potential beneficial effects on the condition Shizun has…is it working?’
Shen Qingqiu stared at him.
The fingers rubbing circles into his temples were firm but did not press hard. They dipped into a glass vial on the side briefly to scoop up more balm and then returned to spread the coolness against Shen Qingqiu’s skin.
He grabbed that wrist before those fingers could touch him again.
‘Shizun?’ Shen Yuan sounded panicked. ‘Is it not working?’
It was. And that was not normal.
His chest rose and well as he held that wrist, thin and warm to the touch, in a tight grip, eyes locked on Shen Yuan’s face. Shen Qingqiu hated to be clueless. This was a trick, no doubt, but how many people exactly were behind this? For a sixteen-year-old student, not from Qian Cao, to have made a balm from scratch for such a little-known condition…
‘Was it Mu Qingfang,’ Shen Qingqiu finally asked. Shen Yuan tried to pull his wrist out of the grasp, only for Shen Qingqiu to tighten his hold around it until Shen Yuan winced. ‘Was it Mu Qingfang who gave you this?’
‘No, Mu-shishu had nothing to do with this…’
‘Why did you do this?’
He sat up finally, holding the wrist firmly still. His other hand came up to hook under Shen Yuan’s chin and tilt it upward—not much upward because the bastard had just had his growth spurt, it seemed.
Colour had come into the edges of Shen Yuan’s ears, sticking out from between the loose strands of hair that flanked his face. Ah, so he still had some sense of shame.
‘This disciple once overheard about Shizun’s condition from Shang-shishu, and he thought he would…’
‘Would?’
‘…help Shizun...’
Shen Qingqiu’s index pressed hard into Shen Yuan’s jawbone, right into the dip just beneath; the boy’s mouth twitched. Had he really failed as a teacher that his own disciple was taking him for a complete fool?
‘Doing this behind my back for years to “help” me? What a poorly thought-out lie.’
Shen Yuan’s throat bobbed, flush against Shen Qingqiu’s hand locked under his chin.
‘It’s not a lie—’
‘Then why is Shen Yuan’s heartrate so quickened?’
The pulse point was pressed right against Shen Qingqiu’s other palm, still holding Shen Yuan’s wrist—a warmth beating erratically, thud-thud-thud, too fast for someone who’d been sitting down.
The pink started bleeding into Shen Yuan’s cheeks now, too; for Shen Qingqiu, that was enough.
He let go swiftly, released his grasp, like Shen Yuan was a piece of dirt he was desperate to flick off, and got up. His robes swept against Shen Yuan’s folded knees.
‘I am confiscating this for investigation,’ he first picked up the vial with the balm and then the notebook from the table. ‘You are now under house arrest and are not to leave Qing Jing Peak nor use the library outside of mandatory study sessions.’
The bastard had the temerity to look shocked, to jump up in surprise.
‘Shizun—’
Shen Qingqiu turned to face him fully, notebook in hand: took in the dark circles under the boy’s eyes, the dust on his otherwise pristine sleeves, the terrified look in his eyes. To leave no room for misunderstandings about nonsensical changes of heart, he put as much contempt into his voice as he could manage with that light-headedness still fraying at the edges of his mind.
‘I will make you regret the day you wrote the very first sentence in this notebook, Shen Yuan.’