Chapter Text
The Hall of Tranquil Winds on Qiong Ding Peak exuded the same unshakable serenity of its master. The scent of sandalwood incense coiled in the air, heavy and calm, like Yue Qingyuan’s own breath.
Shang Qinghua, in contrast, was a contained whirlwind of anxiety. He stood waiting, sweaty hands hidden in his sleeves, as the Sect Leader finished writing a letter with broad, steady brushstrokes. The silence was vast, broken only by the soft creak of the brush and Shang Qinghua’s internal sigh as he tallied all the tasks piling up on his desk with each passing minute.
"Shang-shidi," Yue Qingyuan’s voice emerged, smooth as silk sliding over jade. "Forgive the delay. These are the authorizations for the Northern lord."
He extended a small, perfectly aligned stack of documents. Shang Qinghua stepped forward, gave a quick bow, and accepted them with both hands, his eyes already scanning the red seals, anticipating the extra work.
"It is an honor to attend to Zhangmen-shixiong," he murmured, the automatic phrase leaving his lips. "An Ding will handle everything with the utmost diligence."
Yue Qingyuan nodded, a slight smile on his lips that did not reach his eyes, a gesture as habitual as the sunrise. "I have full confidence in your efficiency."
His gaze, however, lingered a moment longer on the pile of documents. Among the harvest reports and material requisitions was a slightly different scroll. Its paper was a purer, thicker white, and the tip of the silk cord binding it was a deep, almost black red, woven with a nearly imperceptible golden thread. It did not bear Qiong Ding’s standard administrative seal. It had an amber-colored wax seal, stamped with a double-character sigil: yuan.
Yue Qingyuan did not single it out. He did not mention it, he simply let it rest there, amidst the mundane papers, as if it were just another form to be processed. A secret offered to an inattentive gaze, a test of bureaucratic blindness.
"May Shang-shidi’s work be light," Yue Qingyuan said, turning to the window, his profile outlined against the soft afternoon light. The audience was over.
Shang Qinghua bowed again, more deeply, and retreated with quick steps, his heart relieved to have escaped without new Herculean tasks. His mind was already leagues away, on inventory lists and disciple schedules.
Back in his den at An Ding, chaos swallowed him. Disciples clamored for instructions, messengers from other peaks awaited answers, the aggressive smell of ink and old paper drowned out any other scent. He reached his desk, a mountainous landscape of pending work, and unceremoniously dumped the contents of his hands into an already crammed side drawer.
The drawer, made of dark cedarwood, had a small, faded label he associated with anything sent from the leader. It was the limbo of documents, the place where things that did not demand immediate action, but could not be discarded, went to hibernate. Weather reports from previous years, expired ceremonial invitations, draft speeches.
The silk scroll with the dark red cord slipped into the drawer without resistance. It landed softly against an old invitation to a Spring Festival and a report on the migration of spiritual birds. Shang Qinghua did not even see the amber seal or the yuan character. His vision caught only the official red stamps on the topmost documents, concerning equipment, disciples, that year's hunt.
With a dull thud, he kicked the drawer shut. The click of the wooden lock was the secret's last sigh, entombed there, confined to darkness and dust.
---
The unrecognized martyr of Cang Qiong's logistics was on the verge of a celestial ascension. Or, more accurately, a nervous breakdown. The deadline for the quarterly resource allocation reports was at sunset, and the final document – Sect Leader Yue Qingyuan's personal requisition – was missing.
"Where? Where?!" He growled to himself, rummaging through a pile of papers threatening to form its own miniature mountain range. The incense burning to clear his mind now smelled of burnt panic.
It was in a moment of despair, while pulling out a lower drawer clogged with archived papers, that his gaze caught a silk scroll of notably superior quality. Unlike common administrative cardstock, it was tied with a dark red silk cord and sealed with jade-colored wax, stamped with the double-character sigil.
A bureaucrat's curiosity overcame his hysteria. Shang Qinghua pulled out the scroll. The old wax cracked with a satisfying snap.
The document that unfurled was not a requisition for sword saddles or spiritual iron ingots; it was from the Imperial Department of Cultivator Rites and Marital Harmony. A marriage certificate.
Shang Qinghua read it. Read it again. The air left his lungs as if he had been punched in the stomach.
Yue Qingyuan has been married for nine years.
Shang Qinghua stared at the wife's name, Shen Yuan.
Who was Shen Yuan? There had been no wedding ceremony? Why had we never seen this spouse?
Shang QingHua looked around as if some stack of documents could answer his questions.
His brain, trained to connect logistical dots, began working frantically. Yue Qingyuan's occasional "health retreats." The winter pavilion in the depths of Qiong Ding Peak, permanently surrounded by "purification" barriers that smelled more like containment. The old rumors, always suppressed, of a delicate scent of lotus and rain sometimes caught on the night breeze, coming from the forbidden direction.
---
The initial shock had solidified into an unbearable itch in Shang Qinghua’s mind. Yue Qingyuan. Married. Nine years. The information spun in his head, mingling with supply lists and schedules, an absurd dissonance.
The opportunity to broach the subject came in a less bureaucratic and more human way than planned. He was delivering a packet of sealed letters from the East, official correspondence for the Sect Leader. Yue Qingyuan was in the private garden attached to his quarters, watering a pot of rare orchids with an almost reverent focus.
"Zhangmen-shixiong, this week's correspondence," Shang Qinghua announced, placing the letters on a nearby stone table.
Yue Qingyuan did not even turn. "Thank you, Shang-shidi."
Silence settled, filled only by the soft tinkle of water in the bronze watering can. Shang Qinghua should have left. But the characters forming Shen Yuan seemed to be burning on his tongue.
"Zhangmen-shixiong…" the address came out before his self-preservation instinct could stop it.
Yue Qingyuan stopped watering. "Yes?"
Shang Qinghua swallowed dryly. "Forgive my indiscretion, but… while organizing some old archives… I came across a record. A marital record." He avoided looking directly at the other man. "With Zhangmen-shixiong's name. And… another."
Now, Yue Qingyuan turned. His face showed no surprise, no irritation. There was an… intense serenity. As if he had been expecting this question for a very, very long time. The corners of his lips curved into a smile that, for the first time, seemed to reach his eyes, but in a way that left Shang Qinghua cold.
"Ah," Yue Qingyuan said, his voice a thread of warm silk. "The record. Yes." He set the watering can aside, wiping his hands on a white cloth with deliberate movements. "Shen Yuan. My little baihe."
The statement was so direct, so laden with sweet possession, that Shang Qinghua froze. It was not a denial, it was a display.
"So it's true? You are… married?" The question slipped out, boldly and invasively.
"For nine years and some months," Yue Qingyuan confirmed, the smile still present. He stepped closer, his calm scent of chrysanthemum tea and pine enveloping Shang Qinghua, who felt inexplicably cornered. "A very precious bond. Very private."
"Of course! Perfectly understandable!" Shang Qinghua spoke quickly, his head bowing in an automatic salute. "I was just… surprised. We have never… never had the honor of meeting your wife."
The word 'wife' hung in the air. Yue Qingyuan watched him, and that strange glint in his eyes intensified.
"Shang-shidi is curious about them?" The question was asked with a poisoned sweetness. "Do you wish to meet my wife?"
It was said with a light, almost inviting intonation, but there was an undercurrent of something — a challenge, a sadistic permission. As if the mere idea of another man, even the harmless, stressed Shang Qinghua, looking upon Shen Yuan, were a thought Yue Qingyuan not only tolerated but savored.
Shang Qinghua felt a cold sweat on the back of his neck. This was wrong. Very wrong. "N-no! That is, it wouldn't be appropriate! If their health is frail, privacy is essential! I just… the record caught me off guard."
Yue Qingyuan took another step closer. Shang Qinghua could see the silver threads in his hair, the unsettling depth of his gaze. "Shen Yuan is quite delicate," he murmured, as if sharing an intimate secret. "A flower that only blooms in the shade. Requires… very specific care. A very controlled atmosphere." His voice dropped even lower, to an almost conspiratorial whisper. "Sometimes, I wonder if such beauty, so guarded, does not yearn for… other gazes. To be truly appreciated."
Shang Qinghua stopped breathing. What the hell was that man implying?
"Zhangmen-shixiong…" He couldn't form a sentence.
Yue Qingyuan seemed to mentally withdraw, the smile softening into its usual, more distant version. "But I digress. Shang-shidi is right. Privacy is paramount. Please, treat this information with the discretion it deserves. As you have done until now."
Was that praise? A threat? Shang Qinghua didn't know. He just nodded frantically. "Yes! Total discretion! Absolutely! An Ding is a tomb for secrets!"
"Good." Yue Qingyuan picked up one of the letters, breaking the spell of tension. "Thank you again for your hard work, shidi. You may leave."
Shang Qinghua didn't need to be told twice. He left the garden with steps that tried not to run, his heart beating out of rhythm. The whole interaction had been… invasive. Yue Qingyuan wasn't angry that he knew. He seemed… pleased. As if Shang Qinghua had played a small part in a ritual that only Yue Qingyuan fully understood.
The unease within Shang Qinghua was no longer a simple thing. It was like having swallowed a live bird that flapped its wings in his stomach every time he remembered Yue Qingyuan's smile. "Do you wish to meet my wife?" It sounded like a courtesy question, but it felt like an S-rank spiritual trap.
He needed to get this out of his system. But to whom? Shang Qinghua did not speak to other lords except when necessary. Sometimes with Liu Qingge, but it was more often than not akin to talking to an angry tiger: efficient, but fatally messy. He needed someone discreet, with a brain that worked beyond "fight" and "train". Someone who appreciated good, poisonous gossip but knew how to keep it like a secret weapon.
He found Qi Qingqi inspecting her disciples' new summer robes at Xian Shu Peak, her critical eye evaluating every fold.
"Qi-shijie," Shang Qinghua greeted her, with a forced smile that hurt his face.
"Shang-shidi," She replied without taking her eyes off a slightly uneven hem. "If you're here to ask for more silk, I'll warn you now this quarter's budget is exhausted."
"No, no, it's not about silk! It's about…" He lowered his voice, leaning in. "...a bureaucratic enigma."
That got her attention. She gestured, and the disciples drifted away. "An enigma or an excuse for your latest cost spreadsheet?"
"A real enigma!" Shang Qinghua whispered, eyes wide. "During my last cleaning of Qiong Ding's dead archives… you know that corner no one has touched since the Elder Grandmaster had his jealous fit over that courtesan? I found a marriage certificate."
Qi Qingqi raised a perfect eyebrow. "So? Immortals get married all the time. It's usually a terrible deal."
"The name was Yue Qingyuan."
The effect was instant. Qi Qingqi's eyebrow shot up to her hairline. She finally looked at him. "Our Zhangmen-shixiong? The man with the love life of a polished jade stone?"
"The very same! And the date… was from nine years ago!"
Now, Qi Qingqi's interest was genuine. A calculating gleam lit up her eyes. "And the other name?"
"Shen Yuan. Apparently, a Fuerdai of some noble Shen family."
"Oh, a little princess, then." Her expression shifted from curiosity to pure, malicious delight.
"And the worst part!" Shang Qinghua continued, energized by having a receptive audience. "When I, totally by accident, mentioned having seen the record… he didn't deny it! He smiled! That terrifyingly calm smile of his! And he said…" Shang Qinghua imitated Yue Qingyuan's soft voice, without much success. " 'Ah, yes. My wife. Shang-shidi wishes to meet them?' "
Qi Qingqi covered her mouth with her sleeve, her shoulders trembling not from fear, but from suppressed laughter. "He said that? 'Wish to meet them?' As if offering tea, not a spouse hidden for a decade? Oh, that is divine."
"Divine? It's terrifying! Where are they? Why has no one seen them? Does he have a spouse locked in a basement on Qiong Ding? Is it a demonic pact? A kidnapping victim?!"
"Calm down, calm down, shidi." Qi Qingqi waved her hand, regaining her composure, though her eyes still shone with perverse amusement. "It's probably something very mundane. It must be some political arrangement with the Shen family that went wrong and he's ashamed. Or they're horribly ugly. Or maybe they have an annoying habit, like collecting slugs. The point is: he hid it and we found out."
"What do we do?!"
"Nothing. Absolutely nothing." She adjusted her robe's collar with an elegant gesture. "For now. But, shidi… this changes everything. Every one of his 'meditation retreats,' every time he disappears to 'calm his energy'…" Her smile was the sharpest thing in the room. "Now we know where he really goes. And to whom."
Shang Qinghua left Xian Shu Peak feeling confused. The conversation hadn't alleviated his fear, instead it had transformed it into something else. Less gothic terror, more the nervous excitement of knowing where the body is buried.
And, deep down, Shang Qinghua also couldn't deny a sick little spark of curiosity. What were they like, this Shen Yuan? Yue Qingyuan's question now made a different kind of sense. He really… kind of wanted to know.
Yue Qingyuan’s private quarters on Qiong Ding were a shining example of a master’s refined taste with its dark wooden floors, calligraphy scrolls hanging on the walls, and expensive incense burning day and night. A sanctuary of false serenity.
At that moment, the serenity was suspended, cut by the presence that profaned everything.
Shen Yuan was standing by the window, watching as a bird dared to land in the forbidden garden. They were dressed, technically. It was more an experiment in textile tension.
The ruqun was of the finest silk, in a green so deep it almost seemed black in the shade, and embroidered with sinuous silver-threaded dragons. But the cut… the cut was heresy. The bodice, too tight, molded their slender torso in a way that bordered on obscenity, the sash at the waist accentuating its narrowness before the silk flowed over rounded hips. The skirt, of light layers, was long enough to be decent, but moved with every breath, suggesting the lines of legs beneath.
And the feet were shod in traditional black satin slippers, with a subtle platform of lacquered wood that added a few crucial centimeters to their stature. It made them seem more elegant, more elongated… and more unstable. He swayed slightly, the small heels tapping a restless click-click against the jade floor, like a caged bird pecking at its bars.
Yue Qingyuan was not meditating. He was not reading reports. He sat in his study armchair, posture impeccable, hands resting on his knees. He appeared calm.
Inside, he was a volcano of shame and desire.
Every single one of Shen Yuan’s movements, every time they stood on their tippy toes to see better and the silk stretched over his narrow shoulders, every muffled sigh of boredom, was a direct blow to the Sect Leader's core of self-control.
His body vibrated internally, a guqin string tuned to the point of snapping. His palms were damp and his eyes, normally so gentle and opaque, devoured obscene details with the avidity of an ascetic before a final temptation:
The line of the nape, pale and vulnerable, where a few strands of hair escaped the jade hairpin.
The way the light played with the silver threads of the dragons, making them seem to crawl over Shen Yuan's body.
The almost imperceptible sway of the hips with the click-click of the heels.
He was Zhangmen-shixiong, the pillar of Cang Qiong. But here, he was reduced to a state of pathetic, absolute arousal by his own caged bird.
“Laogong.”
His voice popped the silence, clear and calm like the tinkle of a wind chime.
Yue Qingyuan shuddered. The formal title, in the intimacy of this gilded cell, was more intimate than any endearment. “Qin’ai de?”
“These things are pretty, but difficult.” Shen Yuan lifted the hem of the skirt slightly, displaying the feet clad in the platform slippers. “My feet hurt.”
It was like pulling a dog's chain. Yue Qingyuan moved before thinking. In two steps, he was before them. Then, kneeling.
“Let this husband see,” his voice came out hoarser than intended. Hands that commanded legendary swords trembled slightly with desire, with devotion, as they encircled Shen Yuan's ankle. He slid the slipper off with the reverence of a jeweler before a gem.
The foot was tiny, perfect, with little toes like rounded pearls. It smelled of powder, peach blossom, and that inherent sweetness of Shen Yuan. To Yue Qingyuan, it was the most indecent sight in the world.
He began massaging the sole with his thumbs, pressing acupressure points with a tenderness bordering on ritual. Every little sigh of relief from Shen Yuan, every muscle that relaxed was an intoxicating victory.
He looked up from his place on the floor. From that perspective, Shen Yuan was a tower of silk and divinity. The ruqun fell in folds that almost touched him. His scent, intensified by body heat and contained movement, descended like an intoxicating mist.
Yue Qingyuan wanted to let his jaw drop and his pupils dilate at the sight, but he turned his gaze back to the delicate foot resting in his palm.
He concludes, distressed, that this is far more than a mediocre man like him should have.
But the line of thought blurs, shifting to blurred green robes—Yue Qingyuan wonders if even the most rancorous of souls would feel this weak, in this same way, for their spouse.
A blurred face but still unmistakably sarcastic and beautiful, twisted by an equally uncontrollable desire for something that belongs to him, his Omega, hit Yue Qingyuan like a shock. The internal tremor transformed into a warm chill. A blush rose to his cheeks.
Shen Yuan, oblivious to his husband's mental whirlwind, tilted his head. His eyes, the color of weak green tea, reflected the kneeling figure of Yue Qingyuan with no reverence, only a tired curiosity. “Laogong is good.”
He murmured, satisfied, and with their other foot, still clad, he gently pushed against his chest, in an unpretentious gesture of affection and ownership.
Yue Qingyuan held his breath. The pressure of the heel against his sternum always electrifies him with a sweet humiliation. There he was,the leader of Cang Qiong, being used as a footstool by his own spouse, and loving every part of it.
He closed his eyes for a second, drinking in the sensation, the smell, the sweet-sourness of the humiliation. The journey couldn't come soon enough. He could hardly wait to orchestrate the presentation of his flower, his poison, his half-caged bird, to the world. And to see, especially in his Didi's eyes, the reflection of Yue Qingyuan's own pathetic and delicious damnation.
“Laogong,” A yawn escaped them. It wasn't theatrical, nor exaggerated. It was a small, genuine yawn that rounded his pale cheeks and misted their eyes for a moment. When he came to, he murmured to the air, more a thought spoken aloud than a complaint:
"Ah... I'm a little bored today."
The phrase, soft as a falling petal, hit Yue Qingyuan like a cutting wind.
He's bored.
The conclusion exploded in his mind, followed by the usual deluge of guilt: It's my fault. I keep him here. I am monotonous. I failed him. A wife deserves gardens, festivals, poetry, a better man. I give them four walls and my silence.
"It is this husband who has failed," Yue Qingyuan said, his voice lower and graver than usual. "I have failed to entertain you. I have failed to be company enough."
Shen Yuan widened his eyes, surprised. "Husband, it's not—"
"It is," Yue Qingyuan interrupted, with a vehemence that was almost painful. His eyes, normally so controlled, shone with a fervent self-deprecation. "Baobei is a rare flower. This husband is... dry earth. Stagnant water. I cannot nourish your spirit."
He bowed further. Not with the ritual elegance of before, but with a sudden, almost desperate movement. The hands that commanded thousands grabbed the edges of Shen Yuan's ruqun, fingers burying themselves in the dark green silk.
"Punish me," Yue Qingyuan begged, his voice a rough whisper. "For being so lacking. For making my flower feel bored inside their own cage."
Shen Yuan blinked, completely lost. "Punish? A’Qi, I don't need to punish anyone. I was just a little... distracted."
"You do." Yue Qingyuan's insistence was feverish. He released the fabric and, in a move that left Shen Yuan agape, leaned forward until his forehead touched the jade floor at the foot of the divan. A deep bow of total submission. "Step on me."
Shen Yuan recoiled, his foot instinctively curling under the skirt. "What?! No!"
"Please." The voice came muffled from the floor. "Step on this useless husband's back. Crush this spine that does not know how to rise to bear your burdens. Use these shoes I gave you... to show me my place."
The logic was twisted, sick, and pulsed with a need so visceral the air around them seemed to grow heavier. Yue Qingyuan was not asking for sadistic pleasure. He was asking for absolution. For the painful, humiliating confirmation that he was, indeed, so low, so unworthy, that even his spouse's casual boredom deserved to be paid for with the weight of their body under their feet.
"Husband, get up," Shen Yuan said, his voice trembling, trying to touch his shoulder.
Yue Qingyuan shuddered at the touch but did not move. "I do not deserve it. Not until A-Yuan accepts this small punishment. Until you use this body as a footstool for you."
Shen Yuan looked at the exposed nape of Yue Qingyuan's neck, at the broad back of the most powerful man they knew, offering himself as a rug. A chill ran down their spine. This was wrong. So wrong. But there was a gleam in Yue Qingyuan's eyes, glimpsed before he bowed, that was not of suffering... it was of expectation. Of yearning.
Hesitant, moving as in a dream, Shen Yuan slid to the edge of the divan. His feet, returned to the platform slippers, hovered for a second over their husband's back.
"Like this?" His voice was a thread of doubt.
"Yes," came the answer, muffled and intense. "Please."
Shen Yuan closed his eyes. And, with a weight infinitely lighter than Yue Qingyuan deserved, placed the sole of one shoe against Yue Qingyuan's shoulder blades.
The contact was electric. Yue Qingyuan held his breath. The weight was minimal — Shen Yuan was barely leaning, but the sensation of the satin, the small wooden heel against his spine, the tacit permission... It was a cataclysm. An agonizing and perfect confirmation of his unworthiness.
"My wife's boredom is proof of my failure," He murmured against the floor, each word an act of devotion. "And this is the place of a failure: beneath your feet."
Shen Yuan said nothing. He remained like that for a long moment, feeling the heat of Yue Qingyuan's body through the thin sole of the shoe, hearing the man's ragged breathing. The humiliation in the air was so thick you could taste it, but while Shen Yuan looked distressed, Yue Qingyuan seemed very pleased.
Finally, he removed his foot. "Enough," He said, his voice soft but firm. "Get up, husband. Please."
Yue Qingyuan obeyed, rising slowly. His face was flushed, his eyes bright with an indescribable emotion — guilt, gratitude, shame, ecstasy. He did not look directly at Shen Yuan.
"Thank you," He whispered, as if Shen Yuan had done him a great favor. "For letting me... correct my failure a little."
"But what failure, husband?" Shen Yuan's question was genuine and a bit confused. He saw the agitation in Yue Qingyuan's gaze but did not understand its origin. “Laogong, you’re so strange…”
Yue Qingyuan raised his eyes, and in them was a moist, feverish gleam. "For being so boring, qin'ai de." The affectionate ending sounded like a lament. "I... I see how you look out the window. How you read the same books. I cannot be... stimulating enough for you." He swallowed dryly, his fingers clenching. "Don't you want... something more? Someone... different to talk to?"
Shen Yuan stood still, his mind processing slowly. "Someone different? Here? Who could come here?"
Yue Qingyuan took a step back, as if the idea itself was a confession burning him from within. "I thought... I thought of inviting a younger brother. To keep my precious wife company while this husband must be away."
"A younger brother?" Shen Yuan repeated, his eyes widening a little. Another man… in these quarters. "Which brother? A disciple?"
"Not a disciple," Yue Qingyuan replied quickly, his voice slightly nasal. "A... a shidi. A sect brother. Strong. Intelligent. Cultured." Each adjective came out as if he were cutting himself with it. "He could... discuss poetry with you. Perhaps play Mahjong. Someone with interests… sharper than those of this monotonous husband."
He looked at Shen Yuan with an expression that was both pleading and tense. As if begging for a confirmation, for a sign that Shen Yuan wanted it, that he felt the lack of something he, Yue Qingyuan, could not provide.
Shen Yuan thought. The logic was strange, but the offer... The offer was tempting. Someone new. He’s not malicious, he’s simply... functional. If his husband wants to bring another man into their pavilion to entertain him, he will receive them. It's like a knee-jerk reflex.
Perhaps the brother reads the same novels he does, perhaps they would have stories from the outside world. Shen Yuan leans toward attention like a flower leans toward the sun.
“If… if Laogong thinks it’s a good idea,” Shen Yuan murmured, wary, their fingers playing with the edge of their sleeve. “I… admit it would be good to talk to someone new.”
The confession, made with such candor, was the final blow Yue Qingyuan both desired and feared. He saw the flash of curiosity in Shen Yuan's eyes, curiosity over another man, and a wave of something hot, bitter, and intensely addictive flooded his chest.
“Then it is decided,” Yue Qingyuan said, his voice now soft and controlled again, the Sect Leader reasserting himself over the humiliated husband. “When I leave for the conference in the North, he will come. My didi… to look after you.” Seeing a faint, almost imperceptible smile of anticipation touch Shen Yuan's lips, Yue Qingyuan knew he had succeeded. The trap was set. For all three of them.
He just needed to wait, and feed on the delicious agony of the wait.
He turned and went to the window, his trembling hands gripping the windowsill. His body still trembled, but with relief now. He had been judged and punished, and offered his gift of pardon.
The gossip reached Qing Jing Peak not with a bang, but with a slow, persistent leak, like the mist that seeps through bamboo at dawn.
Ning Yingying was the culprit. Her gossiping was not done out of malice, but it was a result of a childish inability to hold onto information that left her so perplexed. She had overheard the older disciples whispering in the corridors of An Ding while delivering a message from her Shizun. The fragments — "Zhangmen-shixiong," "married," "Omega wife," "hidden" — stuck to her like dandelion seeds.
She found Shen Qingqiu in his study pavilion, sharpening the tip of a brush with a small, precise blade. The late afternoon light cut his profile, making it even sharper.
"Shizun," She began, hesitantly, twisting the ends of her sleeves.
Shen Qingqiu didn't even look up. "If it's to complain about the little beast's training, the answer is no."
"It's not that, Shizun! It's just…" She waved her hands hurriedly. "I heard something strange. About Zhangmen-shixiong."
The movement of the blade stopped for a millisecond. "What has the great Sect Leader done now? Dropped his virtue while handing out piety?"
Ning Yingying leaned in, lowering her voice to a confidential whisper. "They say… They say he's married, Shizun. For many years. And that he has an Omega wife, but no one has ever seen them! That they're sickly, or frail, and kept hidden in his quarters on Qiong Ding."
The silence that followed was so absolute Ning Yingying could hear the buzz of an insect against the rice paper of the window.
Shen Qingqiu set the blade and brush aside. Slow, deliberate movements. When he raised his face, his expression was one of pure, frozen disdain.
"Married," he repeated, the word coming out like a spit. "Of course he is. The honorable, the virtuous, the impeccable Yue Qingyuan. Would have to have an impeccable wife too, wouldn't he? A hothouse flower. A porcelain doll." His gaze, always so cutting, fixed on the void, but Ning Yingying saw something dangerous glint in its depths. It wasn't surprise, it was anger. An old, familiar anger being fed new fuel.
"Who else knows about this?" His voice was a blade now.
"I think… I think it's only among the older disciples of An Ding and Qiong Ding, Shizun. But Shang-shishu seems to know something… he got very nervous when asked."
Shang Qinghua. That rat. It made sense. Shen Qingqiu almost let out a dry laugh. So it was true. Not just corridor rumors. Yue Qingyuan had a secret, a juicy secret.
The revelation burned inside him like bad liquor.
Yue Qingyuan had allowed himself domestic happiness. Hidden, but real. While Shen Jiu languished with the ghosts of the past, the other had built a cozy nest. The debt didn't weigh on his shoulders enough to keep him from marrying. That disgusted Shen Jiu.
It was an insult. An Omega wife, hidden away. What did that mean? That Yue Qingyuan was so possessive, so controlling, that he didn't even wish to share the status of consort? Or that the creature was so inadequate, so shameful, it could not be displayed? Either way, it was hypocrisy. Qiong Ding's perfection was a facade for a filthy secret.
And Shen Jiu had a weakness for hypocrisy. He loved to judge as much as he loved to be judged.
An Omega. The only class of person for whom Shen Jiu still held reserves of tolerant generosity—not out of kindness, but categorization. Omegas, to him, were potential victims, figures to be sheltered into ignorance. The idea of Yue Qingyuan locking away an Omega, possessing them in secret… it didn't awaken compassion in Shen Jiu. It awakened covetousness.
He imagined the treasure that propped up Yue Qingyuan's false peace. The pillar of happiness he didn't deserve, and he was immediately struck by a desire for vandalism.
And a thought, black and sweet as pitch, dripped through Shen Jiu's heart.
He was the type who broke the favorite toy if it meant the big brother could no longer play with it.
"Shizun?" Ning Yingying called, frightened by her master's distant, dark expression.
Shen Qingqiu blinked, returning to the present. Disdain covered his features again like a mask. "Idle disciple gossip," he declared with an icy voice. "If Zhangmen-shixiong has a wife, it's his business. It's not our concern."
But the gleam in his eyes said otherwise. It was his concern. Everything about Yue Qingyuan was his concern. If anything in Yue Qi's life wasn't in line with the unspoken punishment Shen Jiu had imposed on him, then it was Shen Jiu's to keep or to shatter.
"You may go," he dismissed Ning Yingying with a gesture.
As soon as the girl left, his face twisted into an ugly, satisfied smile. He stood and walked to the veranda, looking towards Qiong Ding Peak, which rose imposingly and hypocritical against the sky.
So that was it. Yue Qingyuan had a hidden jewel. A frail Omega, probably spoiled and bland, raised to be the perfect decoration for a perfect man.
The resentment, an old acquaintance, mixed with a poisonous curiosity. A hidden Omega. Reclusive. "Frail health." Shen Jiu knew that jargon. It was what they said about concubines too valuable or too mistreated to be displayed. The idea of Yue Qingyuan, the saint, the immaculate leader, keeping a songbird locked in a jade cage… had an intrinsically hypocritical flavor.
Not out of desire for the Omega themself—he didn't even know them. But for the taste of seeing Yue Qingyuan's possession tainted. For the satisfaction of being the rust that corrodes polished perfection. And, who knows, if this Omega were interesting enough… taking her from there would be a double benefit. A new jewel for himself, and the humiliation of his pathetic brother.
The seed of covetousness was planted. And Shen Jiu, who hoarded poisons like a coiled snake, already felt its black roots beginning to grow.
The Peak Lord meeting had ended with the usual sense of wasted time. Shen Jiu was already rising, eager to return to the controlled isolation of Qing Jing, when Yue Qingyuan's soft, inescapable voice reached him:
"Shen-shidi. A moment, please."
Shen Jiu froze for half a second, his fingers already closing around his fan. He turned slowly. The hall was nearly empty, just the two of them and the echo of futile debates.
"Does Zhangmen-shixiong have further instructions?" The question came out sharp, not bothering to disguise his annoyance.
Yue Qingyuan approached, his habitual smile seeming denser in the hall's empty air. "Not an instruction. A… personal request. May we speak?"
It was a trap. Every instinct in Shen Jiu screamed it. But to refuse would be weakness, and his curiosity — the same that made him poke wounds to see them bleed — spoke louder. He gave one curt nod and followed Yue Qingyuan in silence.
Yue Qingyuan did not offer tea. He stood in the center of the room, hands clasped behind his back.
"Shidi must have heard the… rumors," Yue Qingyuan began, without preamble.
Shen Jiu let out a short, harsh laugh. "Rumors? About the honorable Zhangmen-shixiong having an Omega hidden away? Yes, I heard. I thought it was a tasteless joke. Or monumental hypocrisy. I'm still deciding."
The direct attack did not rattle Yue Qingyuan. His eyes only gleamed with a more intense light. "It's true. I am married."
The admission, made so calmly, was like a punch to Shen Jiu's gut. The anger, always near the surface when it came to Yue Qingyuan, boiled over. "Marvelous. Congratulations. Why the hell am I hearing this?"
"Because I must be absent," Yue Qingyuan continued, his voice dropping to a confidential tone that made the hairs on Shen Jiu's arms prickle with rage. "And I cannot leave him alone. My wife… is fragile. The world is dangerous for them."
My wife. The comfort Yue Qingyuan did not deserve. Shen Jiu felt a surge of fury so intense his vision blurred for a second.
"What a pity," Shen Jiu spat the words. "And what does that have to do with me? Hire a nursemaid. A eunuch. Anyone who doesn't have better things to do."
"I need someone strong. Someone I… trust." The word 'trust' was laden with a perverse meaning.
Shen Jiu took a step forward, contempt dripping from every pore. "Trust? Me? Have you lost what little mind you had, Yue Qingyuan? Or do you think me some servant at your disposal to tend to your pet wife?"
"It is a request, Shen-shidi." Yue Qingyuan did not retreat. Instead, his eyes swept over Shen Jiu's furious face with an almost feverish intensity. "As payment on an old debt."
That was the last straw. The anger exploded.
"Don't you dare bring your regret to me now." Shen Jiu's voice scraped the walls, violent and raw. "You want to pay a debt by rubbing in my face what you have? It's an insult, a mockery. Do you think you can buy me with crumbs from your perfect life? Keep your locked-up Omega and your rotten conscience to yourself!"
He was nearly shouting, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He expected Yue Qingyuan to be defensive, to shrink with guilt. Instead, the man seemed… fed by his fury.
Yue Qingyuan went on as if he hadn't heard a word. “My wife is very… bored. I fear I am not interesting after so many years. If he is left alone, it will be even more tedious.”
"And what the hell does your inadequacy as a husband have to do with me?" Shen Jiu snarled, teeth clenched. The anger rose, hot and familiar. "Take them to a brothel if they need entertaining. Or are they too fragile even for that?"
He expected Yue Qingyuan to be defensive, to shrink with guilt or explode with indignation. Instead, something strange happened. Yue Qingyuan seemed… to feed on his fury. His eyes shone more intensely, and a faint blush rose to his cheekbones.
"My wife is not a courtesan," Yue Qingyuan replied, but his voice held no reproach. It held a strange sweetness.
But you are offering them as if they were one. Shen Jiu had to bite his tongue to hold the words back.
Shen Jiu laughed, a dry, harsh sound. "So you want a tutor? A rent-a-scholar to entertain your Omega? You've completely lost your mind, Zhangmen-shixiong. Or you are just pathetic."
The jab was direct, meant to wound. But Yue Qingyuan merely inclined his head, accepting the blow as if it were a compliment.
"For him, perhaps so," he admitted, his voice a hoarse whisper. "But it is the truth. I fail to entertain him. You… you would not fail. I am certain." He raised his eyes, and the expression in them was so complex, so laden with contradictory emotion, that Shen Jiu almost recoiled. There was shame, yes. But there was also a burning desire, an almost desperate need. "Stay with them. In my quarters, for a few weeks. Xiao Jiu, talk with him. Show him… something different."
The old nickname was resiliently ignored by Shen Jiu with a spasmodic twitch of an eyelid. And the implication hung in the air, heavy and sick. Show him something different. Something you, Shen Jiu, could offer. Something I, Yue Qingyuan, cannot.
Shen Jiu stood frozen. The proposal was repugnant on its most basic level. It was the husband offering his wife, on a platter of guilt and yearning, to the man he owed the most and who despised him the most.
But the psychology behind it… was fascinating. Yue Qingyuan's self-imposed humiliation. The admission of his failure. The perverse desire to be… replaced, even temporarily, in his own home. It was fascinating.
And there was, of course, the bait. The wife themself. An Omega. A living weak point of Yue Qingyuan's. Left vulnerable. Almost offered up.
"You are disgusting," Shen Jiu said, but the force of the accusation had already waned, replaced by an icy curiosity. "And if I accept… and decide the bored Yue-furen needs more than conversation?"
It was a test. A probe thrown into the sick depths of Yue Qingyuan's mind, a provocation designed to force a reaction — of revulsion, of anger, of defensiveness for his wife's honor.
Yue Qingyuan took a deep breath. His body seemed to tremble for a second, a fine line of tension running through his shoulders. His eyes closed for a brief moment, eyelids fluttering rapidly. When he opened them, there was no denial. There was no fury. There was only a deep, charged silence, and a blush that rose from the collar of his robe to his temples.
He did not say "No."
He did not say "How dare you."
He did not even repeat "He is not for that."
He just… endured it. That gaze, that tension, the humiliated blush — it was a mute confession. It was the physical, visceral admission that the possibility Shen Jiu had thrown into the air was not an anathema, but a specter that Yue Qingyuan himself had already fed in his darkest thoughts.
The silence stretched, more eloquent than any word.
Finally, Yue Qingyuan averted his eyes, directing them to the polished stone floor of the corridor. His voice, when it came, was strangely contained, almost hoarse, but firm in its evasion: "His name is Shen Yuan. The quarters will be prepared for you at the next full moon."
And, with a final nod that was more a retreat than a farewell, he turned and began walking in the opposite direction, leaving Shen Jiu standing in the semi-dark corridor.
The message was clear. Yue Qingyuan had not given permission. But he had not denied it. And, by providing the name, the date, by proceeding with the arrangement after a provocation of that magnitude, he was, in fact, giving Shen Jiu everything he needed to know.
The cage door wasn't just unlocked. The cage's owner was handing over the key while looking away and pretending not to see what purpose it would be used for.
Shen Jiu stood for a long moment, the chill of the marble rising through the soles of his shoes. A slow, utterly cold smile began to curl his lips.
"Yuan," he whispered to the empty corridor, tasting the name. It sounded soft. Sweet. Vulnerable.
The icy curiosity within him now had a target, a face, a name. And the most dangerous permission of all: the one that came dressed as omission.
He wants to humiliate me with this chore. Wants me to smell, see, touch the thing he has won and I have not.
Very well.
He took a step back, snapping his fan open with a sharp gesture.
Shen Jiu would be participating out of pure, venomous, self-interest.
The atmosphere in the quarters after the conversation with Shen Jiu wasn't one of silent anguish, but of a certain… contained electricity. Yue Qingyuan entered and found a scene almost like a trap set by the universe to test his sanity (and feed his fetish).
Shen Yuan was kneeling on a meditation mat in the center of the room, but not meditating. He was holding one of those stretching poses from a secular yoga manual Yue Qingyuan had brought for "exercising his fragile body." The current pose required him to bend forward, spine forming a gentle curve, arms extended.
The problem was the ruqun.
It was a summer style, made of almost transparent water-green silk, and the neckline, already generous, became catastrophic in that incline. From Yue Qingyuan's perspective at the door, it was a glorious, forbidden view of pale shoulders, delicate collarbones, and a generous expanse of smooth skin disappearing into the shadows of the fabric.
Shen Yuan heard the door and turned his head, the pose still held. "Ah, Laogong! I was waiting. How did the… talk with your didi go?"
Yue Qingyuan swallowed dryly. His brain split in two: one part registering the obscene beauty of the scene, the other processing the innocent question. He asks as if I closed a business deal, not arranged his future lover.
"It was… productive," Yue Qingyuan managed to say, his voice a bit rougher than usual. He closed the door and approached, his eyes glued to the line of Shen Yuan's spine, the way his loose hair fell and swayed with his movement. "He accepted. He will come to stay with you."
"Really?" Shen Yuan finally released the pose, sitting cross-legged and looking up with genuine curiosity. "Your brother, agreeing to stay with this boring Omega?" He laughed, a clear, carefree sound. "He must be kind."
You have no idea, thought Yue Qingyuan, feeling a perverse chill.
"Or…" Shen Yuan continued, tilting his head, his green eyes gleaming with a more daring curiosity. "Is he handsome? The 'younger brother'? Because the books always say those temperamental types are either very ugly or disgracefully handsome. There's no middle ground."
The question was asked with the lightness of someone asking about the weather. But for Yue Qingyuan, it was as if Shen Yuan had placed a hand directly on an open, exciting wound.
He stood still, looking at Shen Yuan's open, curious expression. The image of Shen Jiu — the sharp beauty, the cold emerald eyes, the mouth always ready with a biting comment — invaded his mind and merged with the sight of his wife, with the gaping neckline and moistened lips, asking if the other man was handsome.
"He is…" Yue Qingyuan began, the word coming out as if made of glass. "…considered refined in appearance. By some."
"Ah." Shen Yuan seemed to ponder the information, a finger tapping his chin. "Refined, but terrible. Interesting." He then rose in a fluid motion, the ruqun fluttering. "Well, if he's boring, I can always try to scare him with my cheap horror novels. Or fake an Omega hysterics fit. The books say strong men don't know how to handle that."
He said this with a glint of fun in his eyes, as if planning a prank. The innocence of his mischief was killing.
Yue Qingyuan could take no more. He closed the distance between them in two steps and pulled Shen Yuan into a kiss. It wasn't a devout or melancholy kiss. It was possessive, voracious, full of a tension that came from the conversation with Shen Jiu and the vision he'd just had.
Shen Yuan was surprised but responded with enthusiasm, his hands rising to Yue Qingyuan's shoulders. When they parted, both were a little breathless.
"Laogong is… excited," Shen Yuan observed, flushed, lips swollen.
Yue Qingyuan buried his face in his hair, breathing deeply the scent of lilies. "Just missing you," he murmured, the half-truth coming easy. "And thinking… that perhaps it will be good for you. To have someone handsome and refined to look at, for a few weeks."
Shen Yuan pulled his face back, frowning in a mix of worry and disbelief. "Laogong, stop saying things in that tone… As if you're pushing me toward another. It's strange!"
Yue Qingyuan smiled, a smile that didn't reach his eyes but was full of a dark, overly dramatic warmth. He let his body fall back onto the divan, pulling Shen Yuan with him, and brought the back of his hand to his forehead like a swooning maiden.
"Forgive me, forgive me. It's just that this husband is weak! I merely think of the injustice! I will have to travel through arid lands, deal with boring old cultivators, while he…" he pointed a trembling finger at nothing, the symbolic direction of Qing Jing Peak, "...will have the supreme privilege of staying here, in this paradise, in the company of the most dazzling Omega in the three realms!" He turned his face to Shen Yuan, eyes gleaming with self-indulgent lamentation. "It is a feast for his eyes! A banquet for his senses! And I… I will have only the dust of the road and the memory of your beauty to sustain me!"
Shen Yuan watched him, mouth slightly agape. Then, he began to laugh. A light, disconcerted laugh. "Husband, you're being ridiculous! You sound like a character from one of those cheap dramatic novels…”
"Ridiculous?" Yue Qingyuan rose in a fluid motion, the dramatics giving way to a more real intensity. He grasped Shen Yuan by the shoulders. "It is the purest truth! Do you think a man like Shen Qingqiu, surrounded by mediocre disciples and bamboo, won't be dazzled upon seeing a flower like you? He will look, and smell, and desire…" His voice dropped to a charged whisper, his own fingers tightening slightly on the flesh beneath the ruqun. "...and this poor husband, far away, will feel each of those glances like a needle in his heart."
Shen Yuan fell quiet, his breathing quickening. The mix of absurdity and genuine fervor in Yue Qingyuan's voice confused and, he couldn't deny, aroused him. "Then… then why did you invite him? If you'll suffer so much?"
"Because I am a virtuous husband!" declared Yue Qingyuan with the conviction of a martyr. "And a virtuous husband places the well-being and entertainment of his wife above his own suffering! If you will be less bored with a new face to observe… then so be it! Let me pay the price in solitary agony!"
Before Shen Yuan could process the twisted logic of it, Yue Qingyuan scooped him up and carried him toward the bedroom. "But! Since the suffering is mine, I demand my consolation in advance."
He deposited Shen Yuan on the bed and stood before him, undoing his own belt with deliberate slowness, his gaze dark. "Tonight, you will not think of beautiful or refined little brothers. You will think only of how your husband, so wronged by fate, will be granted a blessing to travel with peace of mind…"
And, truth be told, Shen Yuan didn't think of anything else for a good while, crying out his husband's name in a broken gasp. Between kisses, gentle bites, and firm caresses that mixed tenderness with a fetish being slowly fed, Yue Qingyuan allowed the invasive image of another man in his place, and he, the husband, watching the scene, to play in the darkest corners of his mind, transforming the pleasure into something complex, forbidden, and deeply, deeply addictive.