Chapter Text
“Luo Binghe,” Yue Qingyuan says as their rag-tag assortment of Cang Qiong members returns to the mountain. “Come speak with me.”
Luo Binghe wavers. He’s been wavering quite a bit, since they left the city and started heading home. Shen Yuan had coaxed him onto his rented sword, holding on tight in case he fell, despite Shen Qingqiu’s furious scowl of disapproval.
He had a suspicion that part of the reason for that scowl was so that he wouldn’t have to notice that he himself was being tenderly escorted home on the sect-leader’s Wang Jian sword.
Liu Qingge, riding Mu Qingfang’s sword with him at the doctor’s insistence, looked significantly more put out about sharing than Binghe or Shen Qingqiu did.
“Just me?” Luo Binghe asks, his voice raw and small.
Shen Yuan knows he’s been crying, but it aches to hear the proof of it. He squeezes the hand he’s holding, and lets out a breath when he’s squeezed back.
“Just you,” Yue Qingyuan agrees. “There has never been a half-demon disciple on Cang Qiong before. I would like to discuss the details of that with you.”
Luo Binghe swallows so hard Shen Yuan hears it. Some weird part of him wriggles with disappointment that he didn’t have his hand on Binghe’s throat for it, to feel his Adam’s apple bob, and his tendons flex, and—
Wow , okay, a functioning soul appears to have made significant other parts of him mal function. Cool. Great.
But Binghe’s looking at him for help, and Shen Yuan can’t deny him.
“Qingyuan’s trustworthy,” he promises softly. “He helped.”
“Okay,” Luo Binghe says, his dark eyes fixed on Shen Yuan and his loose hair tumbling about his still-pale cheeks.
Shen Yuan lifts his hands, cupping his face, and draws him down. Binghe’s lips tremble against his, vulnerable and soft.
“Eurgk?!” Liu Qingge adds to the moment, eloquently.
“Enough!” Shen Qingqiu barks, shoving off Yue Qingyuan and thrusting his fan between Shen Yuan and Luo Binghe’s faces.
Even as Shen Qingqiu drags him home, Shen Yuan watches Luo Binghe over his shoulder, and is watched in return. The sword inside him is singing, softly. He doesn’t like letting Binghe out of his sight.
It feels so good to know he doesn’t like it.
“Your sword,” Shen Qingqiu says, voice low.
It startles Shen Yuan so much he jumps, then lets out a breath of laughter.
“Yes?”
“It doesn’t…” His favorite scum villain works for the words, his mouth twisting as if he were holding an unpleasant taste. He reassesses. Begins again. “Xian Ya pained you.”
“Mm,” Shen Yuan nods, and presses a hand to his chest. “This one doesn’t hurt, Shizun.” And then, because he’s gotten used to pressing his luck while Shen QIngqiu didn’t dare scold him too harshly, he adds: “Yours shouldn’t either.”
It gains him a look that’s trying to be hateful, but just winds up looking wounded.
“Ridiculous,” Shen Qingqiu sighs, turning back forward in his walk towards the bamboo house.
He’s still bloody and bruised. His robes and hair are in disarray. Shen Yuan suspects that the only reason he isn’t using his fan is that the arm Binghe stabbed is still aching.
So when he sees Ming Fan and Ning Yingying sprinting towards them with worried expressions, he steps forward and claps his master on the back.
“I’ve got this,” he says lightly. “Go clean up, Shizun.”
For all the rest of his days, he will never tell a soul what he sees in that moment. Because he has only seen his scum teacher cry once before, when he thought Shen Yuan had died, and not even Yue Qingyuan will ever get to know that a tear slipped down his cheek here too, knowing that the boy he’d saved was saved once more.
Shen Yuan’s whole body feels light as he steps into a role he’d lost with himself, and embraces both his martial siblings tightly before telling them everything. They both hold onto his arms as he speaks, and the contact grounds him—reminds him of the bright lines of yellow and orange binding his new soul sword together.
By the time he sends them off to tackle their Luo-shidi, he’s expecting to feel tired. Instead, as he changes into fresh clothes and peeks into his Shizun’s room to find him in a lump on his bed, he finds that he feels more awake with every passing moment.
“Mingyan!” Shen Yuan greets as he heads towards Qiong Ding peak himself, lifting his hand in greeting.
“Shixiong,” Liu Mingyan greets in turn, inclining her head towards him. “Heading back to Luo-shixiong for the night?”
What’s that tone, Shimei?! Demands Shen Yuan’s internal voice. Also, how are you so well informed?! Has news spread that quickly?!
“I am,” he agrees despite himself, eyes flicking over her travel coat and the qiankun pouch at her side. “And you?”
“I’ve decided to return a favor,” Liu Mingyan says mildly. “Once an upstart young demon issued a challenge I failed to meet. I’ve decided a rematch may be in order.”
“Oof,” says Shen Yuan. “Poor Sha Hualing.”
Liu Mingyan laughs, and reaches out, clapping a hand on his shoulder.
“It’s good to have you back,” she says, and turns away.
“It doesn’t hurt?”
Ning Yingying’s voice filters through the paper walls of the guest house where Luo Binghe is currently staying while he and Yue Qingyuan decide how to proceed.
“No,” Luo Binghe agrees. “It’s… Not as comfortable if I’m hiding it. But like this it’s okay. You… Don’t mind shijie? Shixiong?”
“What mind?” scoffs Ming Fan in what must be his best imitation of Shen Qingqiu, but always comes out too whiny. “Don’t you already have an annoying face? Nothing’s changed.”
“A few things have,” Luo Binghe chuckles, sounding small and uncertain.
“Are you sure you want to come back?” Ning Yingying asks, and something in her tone darkens the atmosphere. “Luo-shidi, I saw what happened. He stabbed you. He pushed you.”
“He thought I’d hurt Shen Yuan,” Luo Binghe whispers. “I’d have done the same to anyone who touched him. And anyhow, I’ve stabbed him now too. Even is even.”
“That’s hardly even,” Ning Yingying sighs, sounding at a loss.
Shen Yuan clears his throat, feeling a little guilty for listening in this long, and reminds his feet that he can move. A few steps closer, and he taps lightly against the wood of the door.
“Shixiong?” Luo Binghe guesses, his tone so achingly bright.
I thought you were gone, Shen Yuan doesn’t say as he slides the door open to reveal that sunshine smile.
I thought I lost this, he doesn’t say as he smiles fondly at his three little martial siblings, huddled together happily around a plate of sweets and a pot of tea.
I thought I’d never be happy again.
“Good evening, you three,” he says, walking in.
Propriety says he should take the empty side of the table, filling all four sides.
He rounds it instead, and folds himself neatly to sit at Luo Binghe’s side, so close that their sides burn against each other.
“Any luck with Zhangmen-shixiong?” Shen Yuan asks, leaning further against his favorite little shidi.
The pieces of Xian Ya that Luo Binghe absorbed while inside the abyss sing softly in greeting. He feels the pieces of Zheng Yang inside his own soul echo the welcome.
Even without them, it would feel like coming home.
“Mm,” Luo Binghe agrees, tilting their heads together. “He says I may stay, and to hell with what any other sect has to say about any of us. We could take ‘em.”
Shen Yuan snorts.
“He did not say that.”
“Well,” Luo Binghe nuzzles closer into his hair. “Not in those words.”
“This is unbelievable,” mutters Ming Fan. “They were already bad enough!”
“Shush,” Ning Yingying hisses, stars in her eyes.
The return to Qing Jing Peak seems shockingly uneventful. Shen Qingqiu stands at the end of the rainbow bridge, swathed in fresh green robes that are perfectly tailored to make him look bigger than he is. His cold eyes study Luo Binghe over his fan, then shift to Shen Yuan at his side and soften visibly. He heaves a sigh even before they’ve approached, and snaps his fan closed.
“Stand against me again, and I will throw you off this mountain,” Shen Qingqiu warns Luo Binghe, pointing his fan at the half-demon’s chest.
“Yes, shizun,” Luo Binghe says easily, without any real reverence, but without any real hatred either.
“Go,” huffs Shen Qingqiu, turning away.
But before Shen Yuan has led Luo Binghe out of earshot, they both hear Shen Qingqiu say: “Wait.”
Shit , Shen Yuan thinks.
From the way Luo Binghe has gone stiff beside him, he’s not the only one anticipating the worst.
Shen Qingqiu stays with his back to them for a long moment, then whirls back around, storming the few steps between them. He looks furious in the way he only gets when he’s wounded. Shen Yuan’s fear redoubles. What is this? What happened? Wasn’t everything decided? Wasn’t everything okay and over now? Wasn’t—
“You saved my son’s life,” Shen Qingqiu spits, like it makes him sick. “As such, you will be safe on Qing Jing Peak, beast. Always.”
Luo Binghe’s mouth drops open. Shen Yuan can’t even appreciate his gobsmacked expression. He’s too busy staring at his scumbag villain.
“Now get out of my sight,” Shen Qingqiu sneers, whirling and stalking off.
Only once their shizun is well out of sight does Luo Binghe croak: “What?”
“No idea,” wheezes Shen Yuan, fumbling for his little notebook to try making sense of the dizzy array of conflicting feelings.
“Should…does…” Luo Binghe starts twice before shaking his head. “I guess… that’s a blessing?”
“Mm,” Shen Yuan agrees, writing down weird and flattered and ew , one after another. “From him? I’d say definitely.”
Gently, an arm wraps around Shen Yuan’s back, stilling his hurried calligraphy.
“Shixiong,” Luo Binghe says quietly. “Can we go now?”
Shen Yuan draws a slow breath, and closes his notebook with a decisive nod.
First is the kitchen. Luo Binghe’s shoulders sink with relief as he rinses rice and chops vegetables. Shen Yuan leans against a counter and watches him, feeling the world settle around and inside him.
The congee isn’t just perfect. It’s the first thing he’s tasted in years.
After they eat, they wander. Their feet lead them past the scarred training ground, where grass is already growing over the scar of the abyss. Past the Lotus Pod Pavilion where they first meditated together, and so often met. Into their special clearing in the bamboo forest—still warded and made safe just for them.
There, in the same place as the first time, Shen Yuan arcs back into Luo Binghe’s arm and lets his soul be drawn safely into the hands that love him most.
Then, carefully, hesitantly, he dips Luo Binghe back in return, presses a kiss to his demon mark, and sets a hand against his chest.
The sword he draws from Luo Binghe’s heart is neither the brutal Xin Mo nor the shining Zheng Yang. It’s dull gray, lost in the middle between them, but it’s real.
It has time to figure out who to be.
In the clearing, they sit together, holding one another’s souls in reverent palms. They lean against one another, and breathe—slow and deep.
We are safe, sings between them. We are together .
Out behind the bamboo house, wind rustles through leaves. Close at hand, a fresh stream trickles through the steep rock faces—the same system that fills the cold pool and flows so sweetly throughout the peak. From out over the peak, the faintest strains of guqin music flow.
“Ah,” Shen Yuan sighs, leaning back on one arm with his eyes closed. “Wealthy silence.”
A snap of a fan over the back of his head answers, nevermind that it’s Shen Qingqiu’s own words he’s using.
“You’re supposed to be mediating,” Shen Yuan scolds, refusing to even acknowledge the hit.
“You may be surprised to learn, probationary head disciple, that if an idiot is rambling it cannot be considered silence.”
“Oh? I thought masters could meditate through heavenly tribulations,” Shen Yuan snarks back, easy and relaxed.
One of his legs dangles off the back porch, and he kicks it idly back and forth. A trail leads from the back of the house, through the small back garden, and out into the bamboo forest. Glimpses of the white stone path peek through the tall stalks here and there—alluring in their uncertain promise.
“You’re far worse than a heavenly tribulation,” mutters Shen Qingqiu.
Xiu Ya, bare over his lap, moans softly at the lie. Its master shudders.
“It’s okay,” Shen Yuan soothes at once, his voice low and calm.
Xin Fei rests in his own lap, colors gleaming in the light—as casual and relaxed as he is. It’s not a sharp blade, but then it wasn’t built for combat.
“This is pointless,” Shen Qingqiu huffs, but it’s a blatant attempt to mask despair with annoyance.
“It’s not,” Shen Yuan says. “It’s already changed, shizun.”
He turns, meeting his master’s narrow eyes and offering a soft smile. “ You’ve changed.”
“Fat lot of good it’s done me,” Shen Qingqiu grumbles, tearing his eyes off Shen Yuan’s expression. “Willful disciples, half demons—”
“Extremely solicitous sect leaders?” Shen Yuan offers, quirking a brow and smirking.
“Respect your elders,” sneers Shen Qingqiu.
“I always do. Didn’t I write you that lovely treatise about the importance of filial piety? You never published it.”
“Shen Yuan, that drivel was filled with barely-disguised crass jokes, and you are well aware of it. Not to mention your proposed pseudonym— what is that expression?”
“Hm?” Shen Yuan asks, not bothering to stifle the ridiculous grin stretching his cheeks.
“You look possessed, stop it.” Shen Qingqiu sniffs, closing his eyes and pretending to start meditating again.
“I’m happy, shizun,” Shen Yuan informs him, light and easy. Then, because he’s a terrible, disrespectful, unfilial disciple, he adds: “I’m happy you’re okay.”
Shen Qingqiu’s eyes snap open, staring fixedly at his so-called ‘probationary head disciple’, who hadn’t been replaced in the three years he was completely unable to fulfill his duties, and who’d been treated better than even a son could have hoped to be treated.
“You’re the best,” Shen Yuan adds, gaze soft and warm on his scumbag master.
In Shen Qingqiu’s lap, the wailing of Xiu Ya finally quiets. She’s still barbed—still vicious, and painful. It may be that she will always hurt to hold. But if Shen Yuan could build a new soul from scratch, surely Shen Qingqiu can coax some of his hard-earned gentleness into the blade that represents him.
“Save your sap for that demon brat of yours,” rasps Shen Qingqiu, his voice nearly cracking under him. He clears his throat with a furious expression and a petulant sneer.
“Yes, shizun,” Shen Yuan agrees easily. “Now since you got so distracted, let’s start from the beginning. Breathe deep, and find one feeling. Just one. Something that makes you feel safe.”
“I hate this.” Shen Qingqiu mutters under his breath.
But despite his distaste, he breathes deep.
Time passes smoothly on Qing Jing Peak. The quiet is carefully manicured, but frequently broken by the sounds of tactical water balloon endeavors—now sanctioned by an exasperated peak lord. It is not unheard of for the Bai Zhan war god himself to enter the fray, and whenever he does so the Xiu Ya Sword deigns to face him.
Rare is the day they do not both emerge soaking wet, though neither ever laugh about it, and woe on any outsiders who might.
In the evenings, the sect leader himself often visits. Some days he sits in the bamboo house for hours, his presence shrouded by silencing talismans. Other times, he and Shen Qingqiu descend the mountain together. Occasionally, Liu Qingge and Shen Yuan accompany them.
Out in the mortal realm, the Red Lotus Pavilion gains a bewildering mix of wealthy clientele who refuse all of their customary services, until they decide they may as well shift their business model and become the first mortal Cultivation Retreat.
Rumor has it that their rose baths rival even Madam Meiyin’s.
On Qing Jing Peak, there are many mysteries. It is said that it was here the custom of speaking to one’s soul sword was born, when the head disciple was overheard coaxing: “Come on, be a good sword, just a little sharper?”
It is also said that the same head disciple only fights with a forged sword, and only uses his soul blade for his spiritual cultivation. It is said, in fact, that his soul sword is so beautiful that maidens weep at the sight of it.
It is certainly true that many on Qing Jing Peak have seen a certain maiden-hearted individual weep at the sight of the stained-glass-like sword.
(“It’s just so beautiful,” Luo Binghe has sniffled more than once to an increasingly disbelieving audience. Isn’t he the one who sees Xin Fei the most in the world? Isn’t he used to it by now?)
Some say that the demon lord Luo Binghe was bewitched by the head disciple of Qing Jing Peak. Just as many insist the reverse is true. None doubt that however it occurred, the two are inseparable now. Whether on Cang Qiong or in the demon realm, they are never without one another.
Some say that they are ruthless. Some say that they are kind. At least one extremely vocal witness is most likely to proclaim them shameless idiots!
Time passes smoothly on Qing Jing Peak, and with his hand clinging tightly to Luo Binghe’s, Shen Yuan finds he no longer fears the tide of days. His notebooks fill, his sword settles, and Luo Binghe’s soul shifts slowly into something new.
“Yang Xin, I think.” Luo Binghe whispers a long time later, wrapped around Shen Yuan in the house they now share, befitting the son of a peak lord, if not a demon emperor.
“I’ll always be both of them,” he adds, something forlorn in his voice.
“Mm,” Shen Yuan hums, his head pillowed on the protagonist’s swoon-worthy chest. “Good.”
Once, long long ago, a man died alone.
Now, held tight and chosen over and over, that man lives on, changed forever.