Chapter Text
Taking care of his lifetime rival had been easier than imagined. It took him only a day, or perhaps night, and Liu Qingge had been unconscious throughout. The only time Shen Jiu had to look at him in the eye and say a few words unladed with poison was just before he overstayed his reluctant welcome.
He had exhausted himself on more than one occasion, mostly because even in his sleep, Liu Qingge could still afford to be prickly, but they were sacrifices he could shove down his throat if it meant he could ease the guilt he’d been carrying since his greatest failure.
He only hoped it wouldn’t be too weird of a life with Liu Qingge still hovering in the background.
Hopefully Liu Qingge wouldn’t have to die under anyone else’s hand if not his.
Shen Jiu’s eyes snapped open. He didn’t like what he was seeing.
He rose from the meditation array and breathed. That wasn’t right. He didn’t know why he had thought Liu Qingge would have involved himself—why would he associate with that monster for my sake?
Wrong.
Think again. The monster alone is enough of a reason.
Shen Jiu approached his painting materials with furrowed brows. A brand new canvas called for him, eagerly waiting behind brushes tucked in the cup, one he had used as his paint holder days ago, and a makeshift palette board he had found in one of his qiánkūn pouches.
He took his place in front of them all, eyes closed for an image. He opened them again not a second later, stood up and passed by a row of paintings he had accumulated and set aside these past few days. He stopped at a particular painting of a crane—this pretty little white thing sullied by a large dab of bright red.
Hands itching, he grabbed the painting and replaced his empty canvas. The ground was dirty and cold but so was he and his canvas, so he crossed his legs and lowered himself on bristling vines and peevish thorns.
He was going to fix it. He would fix the crane. And if only to restore its innocence and rid it of the ugly stain, he would break his wrist and spill his blood—his brush and paint.
He had to get rid of that monster.
How? How? How!
It didn’t matter how. He just would. He would!
Can you? Can you!?
He could. He definitely could! He could. He could.
No you can’t. You fear him.
Shen Jiu dabbed frantically, wrist rigid like a cranky machinery, then he stopped. He fixed the finished product with a glare until he heard something snap. He opened his palms and trembled.
It was the paint brush. His favorite one. And he was all the more furious. His trembling hands reached over, ripping the painting off the easel. The sound of paper tearing echoed off the walls as pulled the corners of it apart. Then he flung it in the air, uncaring of where they would land, and hurried off to sit on the meditation array.
He didn’t meditate, but he squeezed his eyes shut and cradled his head between his hands. It was an effort not to dig his nails through his scalp but steadying his breathing fortunately occupied more of his attention. He inhaled then exhaled, then repeated, each time a labor than the last until everything felt like needles and ants.
It wasn’t working. He wasn’t calming down. His awareness of his breathing was not a good idea.
Shen Jiu stood up in panic. This won’t do. He would qi deviate if it went on!
He looked around frantically—everywhere was dark and cold—and his eyes stopped on the entrance. There was faint light, far but inviting. Shen Jiu didn’t think twice and staggered over.
His head hurt, and lying down on a hard and cold surface made it worst. He wanted to get up but a hand pushed him back, then a light click of what sounded like a person.
“Tch.” It sounded like Liu Qingge. “ ‘Even if you dislike me so much, won’t you at least prioritize your life?’ ” —and a really bad imitation of Shen Jiu’s voice.
“I’m not dying like you were,” Shen Jiu replied sourly, frowning when a strong wave of pain hit his head.
It was immediately relieved by a pleasant coolness running about his dāntián, and he finally registered Liu Qingge’s fingers on his shoulder. Ah.
So that’s where it’s coming from.
“Like hell you are. Bad weed never dies.”
“Shut up.” Shen Jiu sneered, the effect falling short when he inhaled sharply at another painful throb.
“You shut up. You’re still talking at this state? What kind of cultivator faints like this unless they’re having a qi deviation anyway?”
Indignation demanded a retort, but Shen Jiu’s lips pressed into a flat line instead. There might have been a tiny little cut in his ego but his silence was well-received nonetheless as Liu Qingge focused on his task so he kept it at that.