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It was a glorious late summer day on Qing Jing Peak.
The sun hung low in the cloudless sky, pouring out the last of the day’s heat and bathing the bamboo groves in golden light. The humid air was filled with the wailing chorus of cicadas. Sweat dripped down Luo Binghe’s back and gathered on his brow, but his footsteps were light as he returned to the bamboo house, hoisting his reed basket higher on one shoulder.
The house looked cool and inviting; he longed to hurry straight to the study where he knew his master would likely be found poring over his latest bestiary or revising student essays. But Luo Binghe wasn’t entirely presentable, so he took himself instead to the kitchen annex, where he unpacked his marketplace purchases. It was only after he had rinsed the vegetables, gutted and marinated the fish, and dunked his head in a bucket of cold water that he entered the main house, drifting towards the back room on whisper-soft feet.
There, as expected, he found Shizun. His master was neither reading nor writing, however, but had laid a large parchment across a low table and was beginning a new painting. Luo Binghe froze in the doorway, savoring the sight. Shen Qingqiu had tied his sleeves back, exposing the pale skin of his forearms, his wrist flicking delicately as he sketched in a stand of bamboo. Occasionally he would pause and stare at the painting as if evaluating its progress; when he did so, he tapped the end of his brush against his lips, pressing a dimple into the soft pink flesh.
Luo Binghe would have happily stood there for a shichen or more, drinking in the sight, but after a few minutes Shen Qingqiu cleared his throat pointedly and said, “Is my disciple just going to stand there, or does he have something to say to this master?”
Luo Binghe jolted. “Begging Shizun’s pardon. This one just returned from the market. There were fresh grass carp—I thought I might grill some for supper.”
Shen Qingqiu turned to look at him, pursing his lips uncertainly. “It’s awfully hot for the grill. This master would be content with something cold, if it would be easier.”
Luo Binghe huffed. “The grass carp will be best if I grill them first. This disciple doesn’t mind the heat.”
Shen Qingqiu sighed and nodded, turning back to his work. “Alright. Binghe knows best, I’m sure. And of course you have a hearty constitution. But you’ve had a long day—don’t overexert yourself!”
“Yes, Shizun,” Luo Binghe replied, swallowing back everything else he might have said: that he would gladly undertake any exertion on his Shizun’s behalf, up to and including those which would get both of them quite hot indeed.
He didn’t dare speak of that, however, so instead he turned on his heel and went out to dunk his head in cold water again.
The grill was hot, but it was more than worth it for the noise Shen Qingqiu made when he took his first bite of the fish. Afterwards, Luo Binghe cleaned the dishes, closed the shutters, and knelt before his master.
Shen Qingqiu placed his hands lightly on Luo Binghe’s back. “Has Binghe noticed any disturbances in his energies today?” he asked.
“No, I don’t believe so,” Luo Binghe replied, suppressing a shiver. He closed his eyes, and opened his meridians.
“That’s good. It means the treatments are working.”
A moment later, there was a gentle tug on Luo Binghe’s demonic qi. Then, like the tide ebbing, it began to flow out of him, drawn slowly but inexorably into his master. Luo Binghe took deep, even breaths, suppressing the instinctual urge to fight that pull. Even so, his qi wasn’t entirely cooperative; it moved sluggishly at first, then in fits and starts, unfilially resisting Shen Qingqiu’s efforts.
It was strange to think this unruly energy had been inside him all along, only waiting to be unleashed. When his heritage had been revealed to Shen Qingqiu during a night hunt, Luo Binghe had feared the worst. However, his master had once again proved shockingly protective of him. Shen Qingqiu had promised to keep his secret, even going so far as to accept Luo Binghe’s tainted demonic qi into his own meridians during this nightly ritual.
“Does Shizun still believe this will be sufficient to disguise my true nature?” Luo Binghe asked.
“I hope it will be. And it’s been successful so far, hasn’t it?” Shen Qingqiu replied calmly.
Luo Binghe nodded. Shen Qingqiu was the only one who knew of his demonic blood, and they were both happy to keep it that way. At times, his demonic qi still threatened to bubble over and give him away, but these nightly treatments seemed to successfully pacify it. Tonight was no exception: the more Shen Qingqiu drew on the demonic qi, the less it resisted. After cycling it through his own meridians, he guided a portion of it back to Luo Binghe, where it lay calm and docile; what had been a raging river was now a still, dark pool. Luo Binghe sighed, sinking into the sensation, allowing lassitude to spread through his body.
“This won’t be necessary forever,” Shen Qingqiu reminded him. “When that demonic artifact exploded and broke your seal, your body underwent a tremendous shock. But you will find balance between your demonic and spiritual systems once again—we just need to keep your demonic energy safely settled until you do.”
“This disciple is grateful for Shizun’s help in the meantime,” Luo Binghe replied. It was a severe understatement, but anything else he might have added was cut off by a yawn.
Shen Qingqiu gently disengaged their energies and took his hands from Luo Binghe’s back. “Ah, I think that’s enough for tonight.”
Luo Binghe turned to face him, catching a fond little smile on his master’s face before Shen Qingqiu could tuck it away. He felt a bit woozy, as he so often did after these sessions. Perhaps that was why he leaned in closer than was strictly appropriate. “Shizun takes such good care of this one,” he murmured.
Shen Qingqiu regarded him for a moment, his dark eyes shining. Then he huffed, and patted Luo Binghe’s cheek briskly. “This master is happy to help. Now let’s get you to bed, hm?”
Feeling far too tired to protest, Luo Binghe stood. The room spun sickeningly around him, but Shen Qingqiu caught him by the elbow and walked him to the side room, his tender efficiency soothing any embarrassment Luo Binghe might have felt at his weakened state. He was not permitted to bask in his master’s care for long, however, for he was bundled straight into bed and firmly instructed to get some rest.
The last thing he saw before his eyes fell closed was Shen Qingqiu’s silhouette, framed in the door by the lamp’s golden glow.
The summer was unseasonably warm. Qing Jing Peak, normally spared the worst of the heat, was mired in a succession of sweltering, muggy days. Every evening, Luo Binghe threw the windows of the bamboo house open in hopes of catching a stray breeze. During the day, he lowered the bamboo blinds to keep the rooms shaded as the sun crept across the sky.
The kitchen annex was always hot, however. Today, flies hovered as Luo Binghe prepared a cut of pork, scattering when he brought his cleaver down. A hint of rancid scent lingered in the air, but it wasn’t the meat—a good sniff confirmed as much. Perhaps something had gone off in one of the cupboards? He’d have to check later.
There was a sound behind him, and he turned to find Shen Qingqiu in the doorway.
“Shizun?”
“Ah, there you are, Binghe. I can’t seem to find the list of disciples you prepared for the Immortal Alliance Conference. Do you know where it might be?”
Luo Binghe froze, his hands tingling. He hadn’t made the list yet. “I don’t—”
“Binghe!” Shen Qingqiu suddenly cried, reaching towards him.
Luo Binghe followed his master’s gaze down, to find that the cleaver had somehow slipped in his grasp and sliced into the meat of his thumb. Blood welled up, falling in crimson blots onto the pork chop. “Oh,” he said in surprise.
As Shen Qingqiu took his hand, the wound was already closing. Flesh knit back together seamlessly, leaving only the blood behind. Shen Qingqiu tutted, rubbing his thumb across the new skin; it came away red and sticky. “Binghe should take more care. You heal quickly now, but that’s no reason to be reckless.”
“Sorry, Shizun,” Luo Binghe whispered. “This disciple will be more careful.”
They didn’t speak of the list again, and Luo Binghe threw out the tainted meat.
That night, as Shen Qingqiu steadily drained his demonic qi, Luo Binghe asked, “If this disciple’s heritage were to become known, what would we do?”
Shen Qingqiu hummed thoughtfully. “We would speak with the sect leader. He might be convinced to let you remain on Qing Jing Peak, if I vouched for you.”
“And if he couldn’t be… convinced?”
“Then I suppose we would have to make for the demon realm,” Shen Qingqiu said easily.
Luo Binghe turned to look over his shoulder. “‘We?’”
Shen Qingqiu stared coolly back at him. “Binghe is my disciple, and as such he will remain under my care until his education is complete. If that education must be conducted elsewhere than Qing Jing Peak, then this Master will make the necessary arrangements.”
Luo Binghe blinked. His head felt light and fuzzy, his thoughts muddled. “Shizun would leave his peak?”
“If need be. But it may not come to that.” Shen Qingqiu inhaled slowly, his eyes falling half-lidded as he sucked in another deep draft of demonic qi.
As it rushed out, Luo Binghe was left even dizzier. But he fought to remain upright, matching his breathing to Shen Qingqiu’s. The thought of traveling the demon realm together, just the two of them… it appealed very much, especially to the part of him that longed to keep Shen Qingqiu by his side always, and to share him with no-one else. But could Shen Qingqiu truly be happy in such a life? Or would he slowly wither, deprived of his peak, his other disciples, and his martial siblings?
Luo Binghe could happily sustain himself on Shen Qingqiu alone. But he feared the reverse wasn’t true.
“This disciple won’t let it come to that,” he vowed.
When they were done, Luo Binghe’s limbs felt heavy as lead. Shen Qingqiu had to walk him to bed again, gently but firmly wrapping an arm around his waist. Normally, the intimacy of the embrace would have left Luo Binghe wide awake and alight with desire. But he was so tired that he fell into bed like a sack of vegetables, only peripherally aware of long, cool fingers carding through his hair and a soft voice murmuring, “Sleep, Binghe.”
He awoke in the night, disoriented, half-expecting to find Shen Qingqiu still hunched over his bedside, one hand in his hair.
But he was alone in the room. A strip of moonlight illuminated only the familiar shapes of his wardrobe, his sword stand, and the small cabinet full of jade ornaments—all the little marks of Shizun’s care. It was sweltering despite the half-open window, so Luo Binghe threw off his sweat-soaked blanket, intending to fetch some water.
Just as he sat up, however, a shadow moved across the window’s paper screen—a silhouette, there and gone. Was someone outside?
Still feeling somewhat muzzy, Luo Binghe summoned Zheng Yang with an outstretched hand and strode to the window. The front yard—what he could see of it—was empty, bathed in silvery moonlight. Only the chirping of insects broke the night’s silence, until he heard the faint creaking of one of the porch-boards. Luo Binghe pulled his head back in and hurried out to the main room, where he discovered that the front door had swung open. Scowling, he tightened his grip on his sword.
Who would dare intrude on Shizun’s peace at such an hour?
But when he stepped out onto the porch, it was empty. He scanned the silent yard, looking for any sign of movement. The night air was still, thick and heavy as a wool blanket, yet several bamboo stalks swayed slightly—as if something had brushed past them moments ago. He stepped down off the porch, preparing to launch himself into the deeper shadow of the grove.
“...Binghe?”
He turned to find Shen Qingqiu behind him. His master was dressed in a single layer of milk-white silk, his feet bare, his hair escaping its braid in soft wisps. His eyes were sleepy and confused.
“Apologies for waking you, Shizun,” Luo Binghe said. “I thought I saw someone…”
Shen Qingqiu followed his gaze towards the bamboo, eyes narrowing. Then he raised his hand, and Luo Binghe felt a pulse of qi ripple across the yard as his master sent a questing wave of spiritual energy out into the night.
A moment later, Shen Qingqiu’s expression cleared. “There’s no one nearby. Are you certain you saw something?”
“I…” Luo Binghe shook his head. He was starting to feel dizzy again; perhaps he hadn’t seen anything after all?
“I’m not sure,” he admitted.
“Come back inside then,” Shen Qingqiu said with a sigh, beckoning to him.
Luo Binghe cast one final glance at the bamboo, then did as he was told. Back in the house, Shen Qingqiu had lit a night pearl, filling the main room with a soft, warm glow.
“You’re flushed,” he said, peering at Luo Binghe with a faint crease between his brows. “Let me get you some water.”
Luo Binghe felt he ought to protest, but in truth he really didn’t feel entirely well. As Shen Qingqiu strode out, Luo Binghe’s gaze drifted down to the desk, where his master had left some papers in an untidy pile. Out of habit, Luo Binghe gathered up the loose pages to put them back in order, but paused when he saw the topmost one: it was a list of disciples to send to the upcoming Immortal Alliance Conference.
His own name was not on it.
Luo Binghe stared down at the paper until the characters blurred—it took him a moment to realize it was because his hand was trembling.
The sound of soft footsteps heralded Shen Qingqiu’s return. Luo Binghe turned to him and held up the list. “Shizun doesn’t intend for this disciple to attend the conference?”
Shen Qingqiu pursed his lips. “It might not be… safe.”
“You’re worried I’ll give myself away.”
Shen Qingqiu handed him a cup of water, his mouth twisting. “It’s not that I don’t trust Binghe. But at the conference, there will be so many factors outside of our control. I worry I won’t be able to protect you.”
Luo Binghe took the cup, their fingers brushing. The contact, brief as it was, seemed to still his trembling. “Then… this disciple need not attend. I will remain on Qing Jing Peak,” he said.
After all, there was no place he’d rather be.
Behind the Bamboo House, there was a large herb garden. It had been small and neglected when Luo Binghe first moved in, but he’d carefully tended it over the years and now it boasted a wealth of plants both spiritual and mundane. Today he was picking shiso leaves, in the hope they might freshen up the lamb and daikon stew he had been simmering in the kitchen. As he reached into the dense little bush, however, he was surprised by a sudden stabbing pain. Drawing back, he found a long black thorn sticking from the pad of his finger. He gripped it carefully and eased it out—it was buried surprisingly deep, and came out red and sticky. He popped his finger in his mouth to suck away the blood before it could fall.
Where had the thorn come from?
He bent towards the shiso plant again and, more cautiously this time, spread apart its leaves. Sure enough, there was a strange plant growing in its shadow: it had wide, rubbery leaves the color of venous blood, and its thick stem was covered in long black thorns. Luo Binghe was fairly certain he had never seen such a plant before, and whatever it was, it certainly didn’t belong in the herb garden. So he reached in and pulled it up, roots and all, carefully avoiding the thorns.
By the time he returned to the kitchen, the small puncture wound on his finger had healed over. He laid the strange plant on the back counter, far away from where he was preparing dinner. Hopefully Shizun would know what it was—his master’s knowledge of plants was impressive, although not quite as encyclopedic as his knowledge of beasts. Luo Binghe then turned his attention back to the food, slicing the shiso into thin ribbons. Its familiar peppery, minty scent bloomed up into the air with each stroke of the knife. But underneath it, there was the smell he’d noticed earlier—something faintly putrid. Luo Binghe paused in his work, taking a deeper breath.
It wasn’t the stew simmering over the fire, which smelled of anise, ginger, and tangerine peel. The wooden counters were spotless, the floor clean of spills. None of the dried herbs hanging from the rafters had gone musty. But he was certain that he wasn’t imagining things, so he turned to the cupboards next, and began pulling out jars of spices, bundles of dried mushrooms, and pots of pickles. No matter where he looked, however, he couldn’t find anything that had spoiled. He had just pulled the last jar from the depths of the final cupboard and paused to wipe the sweat from his brow, when he heard a familiar voice.
“Binghe? What are you doing?”
Shen Qingqiu was in the doorway, staring down at him. As his master raised an elegant brow, Luo Binghe became keenly aware of what a strange sight he must make, sitting on the floor, surrounded by half the contents of the kitchen. He stood quickly, wiping his hands on his robes. “Apologies for the mess. I was…” He trailed to a halt. “Does Shizun smell anything strange in here?”
Looking bemused, Shen Qingqiu took a deep breath, then shook his head. “No, I’m afraid I don’t. But then my nose isn’t nearly as sensitive as Binghe’s.”
Right. Shen Qingqiu had taught him that demons had a much more acute sense of smell than humans. Perhaps the source of the odor wasn’t even within the kitchen itself, then. It really did smell like something rotting—maybe an animal had crawled under the floor boards or into the wall somewhere and died. Luo Binghe would have to look more thoroughly… but perhaps not while Shen Qingqiu was watching him with increasing concern.
“Shizun needn’t worry—I’ll clean everything up.” Luo Binghe began to gather up the jars and bottles, hastily shoving them back into the cupboards. Then he remembered the odd plant he had found, and turned back around.
“Shizun, do you recognize—”
He paused. The plant was no longer on the counter.
Shen Qingqiu, who had been on his way out, paused in the doorway. “Recognize what?”
Luo Binghe looked around in confusion. “I found an odd plant in the garden. But where did it go?”
“I didn’t see a plant,” Shen Qingqiu said slowly. “Are you certain you left it here?”
“Yes,” Luo Binghe said, frowning. “It had rubbery dark red leaves and long black thorns.” He began rooting through the dried ingredients he’d pulled from the cupboards, in case it had somehow become mixed up with them.
Shen Qingqiu watched in silence at first, but eventually halted Luo Binghe’s increasingly frantic motions by stepping into his space and taking his hands in a firm grip. “Binghe,” he said sharply. “You need to calm yourself. Your demonic qi is becoming restless.”
Luo Binghe froze. Shen Qingqiu was correct: thin tendrils of dark energy were wafting from his body, spreading into the humid air, making it thicker and even more oppressive. “Sorry, sorry—” he gasped.
“Shh, it’s alright,” Shen Qingqiu interrupted. “Come here.”
With a gentle tug, Shen Qingqiu pulled him down so that they were both sitting on the floor of the disordered kitchen. Luo Binghe would have liked to object to his master lowering himself in such a way. But even as he opened his mouth, Shen Qingqiu was shushing him again, squeezing his hands and beginning at once to drain away the excess demonic qi. For some reason, it was a greater struggle than usual to relax and let him do so; Luo Binghe’s qi roiled, pulsing angrily. But eventually it gave way, flowing out in a steady rush that left him lightheaded.
It was intimate, he thought, looking down at their clasped hands. His energy moved through Shen Qingqiu’s body, filling his meridians—it was almost like dual cultivation, except that Shen Qingqiu never gave Luo Binghe any of his own energy in return. He could hardly complain, however. Shizun was doing so much to help him already; it was unthinkable to ask for anything more.
“It doesn’t hurt, does it?” Luo Binghe asked. “Taking in this one’s demonic energy?”
“No, not at all,” Shen Qingqiu said softly.
That was good. Luo Binghe didn’t entirely understand how the process worked, and he had no idea where his master had learned to manipulate demonic qi in such a way. But then, there were many things he didn’t know about Shen Qingqiu; he could only hope that someday his master would see fit to share them.
“I’m glad it doesn’t hurt,” Luo Binghe said, resisting the impulse to tighten his grip on Shen Qingqiu’s hands. “But I wish I could do more to repay Shizun for his efforts.”
“Hm. Well…” Shen Qingqiu averted his eyes just slightly. “Binghe’s cultivation has gotten quite strong. Perhaps you could help this master, the next time Without a Cure is giving me difficulty.”
Luo Binghe did clutch at Shen Qingqiu’s hands then, his spine straightening like an arrow. “This disciple would be honored to clear Shizun’s meridians!”
It was a task he’d always longed to help with, especially because it was his fault that Shen Qingqiu had been poisoned by Without a Cure in the first place. To know that his master would entrust such an intimate form of care to him… little would make him happier. Plus, it was a good opportunity to show Shen Qingqiu all the ways in which he had matured—to demonstrate his power and reliability as a future partner. He had hoped to do so at the Immortal Alliance Conference, but since that was off the table, this would do as well.
He was so pleased by the thought that later, as he tidied the kitchen and prepared dinner, feeling drained but calm again, he hardly spared a thought for the strange plant and where it might have disappeared to.
That night, he awoke to a throbbing pain in his hand. The room was dark, the wind sighing around the eaves of the house. When he lit the lantern beside his bed, he found a drop of blood welling up on his finger—the same one he had pricked in the garden.
There was a strange squirming, pulsing sensation in the fingertip, and then something small and dark began to wriggle its way out of the tiny wound. When Luo Binghe plucked at it, it came away and the puncture quickly sealed over again. Holding the object close to the light, he saw that it was another thorn—or perhaps another piece of the same thorn, which had only just now worked its way to the surface. The pain was minor and already fading, but it was odd… his regenerative powers ought to have already cleared such a small item from his body, unless it had been lodged very deeply.
Before he could think more of it, however, there was the light shuffle of a footstep outside his door. Had he made enough noise to wake Shen Qingqiu? He hoped not—he certainly didn’t wish to disturb his master’s rest. He stood, then startled when a sudden gust of wind tore through the room, blowing out the lantern. A moment of silence followed.
“Shizun?” Luo Binghe asked, pushing the door open.
To his surprise, the main room was empty. It was also dark, but Luo Binghe saw very well in the dark now. There was no one there.
With a loud bang, the front door blew open. Another blast of wind flurried into the house, accompanied by a flash of lightning, a resounding thunderclap, and the scent of rain. Luo Binghe strode to the porch and looked out on the yard; he neither saw nor sensed anyone nearby, although his vision was soon obscured by sheets of water falling from the sky as the clouds opened up. He returned to the house, closing the door behind him and muffling the sound of the downpour. The back window overlooking Shen Qingqiu’s desk had been left open, so he hurried to close it before another gust of wind could blow the rain in and ruin the papers his master had left out.
As he was wrestling the shutters closed, there was another flash of lightning. In his peripheral vision, something moved: a shadow, deeper and darker than any of the others gathered in the corners of the room. Luo Binghe whirled around, summoning qi to his fingertips, the smell of rot suddenly filling his nose.
“Who’s there?” he called.
No one answered, the room empty again—until another lightning flash came. The sudden brilliance illuminated a tall, dark figure, standing in the center of the room. Its body was draped in shadows, its features impossible to make out. But in the depths of its face, two red eyes glowed like cinder chips.
The house plunged into darkness again, and Luo Binghe lashed out with a cry, the flash of his qi illuminating the room like another lightning strike. The figure vanished before he could make contact, but a second later he felt a cold touch on his wrist. Luo Binghe yanked his arm away and spun around. Long, demonic claws had sprouted from his fingertips, and he slashed out instinctively with them. Then he froze in horror.
Shen Qingqiu stood behind him. His forearm was bleeding, and he clutched it to his chest, red splotches blooming against the silk of his sleeve.
“...Binghe!”
The smell of rot was still thick in the air. Luo Binghe felt rooted to the spot, unable to speak, capable only of staring in horror at the injury he had dealt to his master. Finally, he took a lurching step backwards.
“Shizun, I—”
But Shen Qingqiu didn’t let him go far. He followed, reaching for Luo Binghe and catching his hands in his own. “Binghe, your qi—let me help! You need to calm yourself—”
Luo Binghe shook his head frantically, his hands shaking. They were smeared with Shen Qingqiu’s blood. “Shizun, I hurt you! I’m sorry—I’m so sorry! There was something—” He twisted around, searching the room for any sign of the intruder, but found nothing.
“Binghe, it’s alright. It’s just us.” Shen Qingqiu’s voice was soft, his touch unbearably gentle.
Luo Binghe didn’t deserve that gentleness, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull away from it either. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled again, helplessly. “I’m sorry.”
Shen Qingqiu sighed, then drew Luo Binghe to sit with him on one of the room’s reed mats. “We need to calm your qi before someone senses it.”
“But your arm—”
“I said it’s alright. This master is not so fragile that he can’t heal a scratch or two. Now be still.”
Luo Binghe subsided, allowing Shen Qingqiu to start draining his demonic qi. He drew deep breaths, trying to settle himself and make the process as easy for his master as he could. It was a relief to feel the dark, turbulent energy start to flow out of him. For a moment, he wished that his Shizun could remove it entirely—drain it all away, and leave him clean and untainted. But he doubted that was possible. His body was an overflowing spring, demonic qi bubbling up again and again, no matter how much his master siphoned away.
“Shizun,” he finally said, when he felt more in control of himself. “There was something in the house. I saw it.”
Shen Qingqiu sighed again. “I believe you. But I didn’t see anything, which means that whatever it is may have latched onto you specifically.”
Luo Binghe nodded, relief loosening the tightness in his chest. “We have to get rid of it.”
“Yes,” Shen Qingqiu agreed darkly, “we certainly do.”
In the morning, Luo Binghe still felt sluggish and off-kilter, his thoughts soupy. While Shen Qingqiu began preparations for the ritual they would perform that evening, Luo Binghe took a tub of laundry down to the stream, hoping the cold water and fresh air might clear his head. At first, it seemed to—the familiar rhythm of scrubbing and rinsing the clothes was almost meditative, and he sank into it gratefully. As he pulled the last silken robe from the basket, however, he was broken out of his reverie by a sudden, stabbing pain.
Yanking his hand back, he found a long, dark thorn stuck deeply in the base of his thumb.
It was immediately obvious where it had come from: a piece of the spiny plant that he had found yesterday was peeking out of the robe’s pocket. He stared down at it in confusion, his mind swirling, hardly noticing that he was bleeding onto the laundry. The robe belonged to Shen Qingqiu.
Had his master taken the plant from the counter? But he’d said he hadn’t seen it.
So then… had he lied? Why?
Luo Binghe tugged at the thorn with clumsy fingers—but somehow, it was stuck fast. When he pulled harder, he felt a tearing sensation, sparks of pain racing up his forearm. Looking closer, the thorn appeared to be embedded much more deeply than should have been possible. He could see something moving, deep in the meat of his palm, when he wiggled the thorn back and forth. Fresh blood welled up around it.
There was something under his skin, he realized, vein-like but much darker—a long, black tendril, winding its way up his forearm. What he had thought was a thorn was in fact only one end of this tendril, protruding from the skin.
He had to get it out. He extended the claws on his left hand, brought one razor-sharp tip to the base of the thorn, and sliced into his flesh—a smooth, bloody glide from thumb to elbow. The skin was thin, and it peeled like a peach, revealing the slick red casing of the muscles beneath. Nestled within was a thin black filament, like a root or a strand of yarn.
It seemed to be moving, writhing—
“...Binghe? Binghe!”
Before he could pluck out the tendril, his hands were caught in a vise-like grip.
“What have you done?!” Shen Qingqiu cried.
Luo Binghe hadn’t heard his master approach. But here he was, suddenly kneeling in the mud at the edge of the stream, his beautiful face as white as a sheet. He surveyed the damage to Luo Binghe’s arm with wide, horrified eyes.
Luo Binghe blinked at him. “There’s something under my skin,” he explained. “From that plant. It wasn’t coming out.”
Shen Qingqiu was shaking his head in bewilderment. “What plant? There’s nothing there, Binghe. Look.” He pulled at Luo Binghe’s arm, bringing it level with their faces.
And… his master was correct. The black tendril was gone, as was the thorn. There was only the long, angry gash that he’d torn in his own skin, already knitting back together. Blood ran down his forearm in red tracks, but the flow soon slowed, then ceased entirely as the wound sealed itself closed.
Frowning, Luo Binghe tugged his arm from Shen Qingqiu’s grip and began pawing through the bloody laundry. The plant he’d glimpsed was nowhere to be seen, and his filthy demon blood had ruined more than one set of his master’s robes. He was shaking again, but couldn’t seem to stop.
“Shizun, I—this disciple—I’m sorry, I don’t know what I—”
“It’s alright, Binghe! Shh, it’s alright.” Shen Qingqiu arrested his frantic movements, taking Luo Binghe’s hands in his own again.
“I don’t understand what’s happening,” Luo Binghe said. His voice sounded small and plaintive, even to his own ears.
Shen Qingqiu was watching him closely, a thoughtful frown on his face. “I think I do. Come, let’s get you back to the house. Then we’ll take care of this, once and for all.”
Despite Luo Binghe’s vigorous protestations, Shen Qingqiu insisted that they abandon the laundry by the streambank. He bundled Luo Binghe into the house, cleaned the blood from his hands, and commanded him to lie down on the daybed. Then he covered him with a blanket and settled his demonic qi. By the time he was finished, Luo Binghe was so drowsy he could barely keep his eyes open, and soon fell asleep even though it was the middle of the day.
When he awoke, night had fallen. The windows were shuttered, and the house felt close and still. Shen Qingqiu had cleared a space in the middle of the room, then drawn a large spirit-trapping array on the floor boards with a stick of cinnabar. When he saw that Luo Binghe was stirring, he hurried over, bringing a freshly-inked talisman.
“Ah, you’re awake just in time. Now, let’s see if I’m right.” Gently, Shen Qingqiu pressed the talisman to Luo Binghe’s chest and activated it with a small burst of qi. The ink glowed gold, then began to pulse red.
Shen Qingqiu nodded grimly. “Just as I thought: the spirit has attached itself to Binghe, and it’s only growing stronger. We need to deal with it right away. We’ll force it to reveal itself first, then Binghe will keep it trapped in the array while this master eliminates it.”
“Yes, Shizun,” Luo Binghe said, pulling himself to his feet.
The plan was logical; the two of them had dealt with evil spirits in just such a manner many times before. In fact, during their last night hunt, they had purged a whole nest of resentful ghosts from an abandoned shrine using a similar technique. The ritual had been interrupted, however, by the breaking of an ancient demonic artifact that had been hidden in the shrine. It had ruptured Luo Binghe’s cradle seal, revealing his demonic heritage to Shen Qingqiu. Perhaps, in the ensuing chaos, one of the resentful spirits had taken the opportunity to latch onto Luo Binghe.
When he suggested this theory, Shen Qingqiu nodded. “I thought the same thing. And, look here.”
He led Luo Binghe over to the desk, where a thick book was spread open to display a drawing of a plant with dark red leaves, large spiny thorns, and a long snarl of black roots.
“Is this the plant you thought you saw?” Shen Qingqiu asked.
Luo Binghe blinked. “Yes, it is.”
“Then it all makes sense,” Shen Qingqiu said with satisfaction. “This is Corpse-Devouring Nightshade. It grows in graveyards and sends its roots into the bodies of the dead, drinking up their resentful energy. The spirit’s corpse, wherever it is, is probably overgrown with such plants. In its anger, it’s been giving you visions of them.”
Luo Binghe nodded slowly. That was… a plausible explanation. “If the spirit is powerful enough to cause hallucinations, then it will be difficult to contain.”
“Yes, which is why we must act quickly. Once it’s trapped, we can’t hesitate.”
They returned to finish their preparations, anchoring the formation with four additional talismans. The two of them worked with a comfortable efficiency built through years of teamwork, although Luo Binghe still struggled to shake off his strange lethargy. Once everything was in place, they took up positions on opposite sides of the array. At Shen Qingqiu’s nod, they both pressed a palm to the cinnabar lines, and it flared with light as their qi poured in.
A moment later, a dark shape began to coalesce in the center. At first it was amorphous, but it soon took on the contours of a humanoid figure—a dark form draped in billowing shadows, with no discernible features save for a pair of glowing red eyes.
Immediately, the figure lunged toward Luo Binghe, only to be thrown back by the array’s boundary, as though it had struck an invisible wall. A high, sighing moan, like wind through a hollow reed, rose from the spirit—and with it came the stench of rot, thick enough to catch in the back of Luo Binghe’s throat. Was there something buried in that sound? A voice, straining to take shape? If so, Luo Binghe couldn’t make out its words.
The cinnabar lines shuddered, flickering as the spirit threw itself against them again, and again. It was strong, just as they’d predicted.
“It’s fighting the containment. We need to finish this quickly!” Shen Qingqiu cried, drawing Xiu Ya.
Luo Binghe nodded and pressed both palms flat to the array, pouring his qi into the failing lines to reinforce them. Shen Qingqiu leveled his blade at the spirit, his expression sharp and focused as he prepared to strike.
The figure blurred, and a wind gusted through the room despite the closed shutters, whipping their hair and robes into disarray. Still funneling qi into the array, Luo Binghe glanced down at his own arms; a network of black tendrils writhed beneath the skin, crawling upward from his wrists. A biting pain traveled with them, racing toward his shoulder, his throat.
Then, cutting through the wind’s moan, Luo Binghe heard a faint voice: “Luo Binghe, no! He’s not—”
Luo Binghe froze, his qi stuttering to a halt. At the same moment, Shen Qingqiu sent Xiu Ya flying into the trembling formation. But before it could reach the center, the spirit’s dark shape flickered once, then vanished. Xiu Ya’s point sailed through empty air.
The wind died as abruptly as it had risen. The scent of rot faded, silence smothering them like a blanket. When Luo Binghe looked down at his arms again, his skin was smooth and unmarked, no trace of black beneath it.
Shen Qingqiu stood still for a moment, then turned to Luo Binghe. Something tight and frustrated flashed across his face before he smoothed it away. “Why did Binghe stop?”
“It—it was trying to speak to me,” Luo Binghe said slowly. “It knew my name.”
“Yes, because it hoped to trick you,” Shen Qingqiu replied. “And now it’s gotten away, when we might have ended this for good.” He exhaled, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Still. Look.”
He nodded towards the talisman on Luo Binghe’s chest, which had burned down to a curl of ash that crumbled away as he watched.
“The connection’s severed, at least. With any luck, the spirit won’t come back.”
It didn’t.
Days passed, the precise number of which Luo Binghe did not count. There were no further sightings of the spirit, no strange smells, no disappearing plants. Life returned to its normal rhythm: Luo Binghe cleaned the Bamboo House, prepared their meals, and assisted Shen Qingqiu with his grading. He meditated and practiced his sword forms. He knelt before Shen Qingqiu every night and breathed deeply while his master settled his ever-restless demonic qi.
Sometimes, Luo Binghe recalled the strange words the spirit had spoken… but he didn’t dwell on them.
The date of the Immortal Alliance Conference came and went. Luo Binghe did not attend, and neither did Shen Qingqiu—he said he needed to remain on Qing Jing Peak, to stay near Luo Binghe and help to manage his demonic energy.
Life was easy… and perhaps things would have continued that way indefinitely, if Shen Qingqiu’s health hadn’t taken a turn. One day Luo Binghe, returning from a session of light sword practice, stepped into the Bamboo House to find his master slumped over the low table, his head in his hand.
“Shizun!” Luo Binghe cried in alarm, hurrying to kneel at his side. “What’s wrong? Is it Without a Cure?”
Shen Qingqiu lifted his head, revealing eyes hazed with pain. “I’m afraid so. I seem to be having… something of a flare-up.”
“Should I fetch Mu Qingfang?”
“No, there’s no need for such a fuss.” Shen Qingqiu’s voice was tight, but he waved his hand airily, as if to swat away his disciple’s concern. “I merely need to have my meridians cleansed. Is Binghe… still willing to assist?”
Luo Binghe sucked in a breath. “Of course! This disciple will begin right away.”
He shuffled around to kneel behind Shen Qingqiu, placing his palms on his master’s shoulders—a strange inversion of their usual positions. Then he gathered his spiritual qi and began to gently thread it into Shen Qingqiu’s meridians.
It was readily apparent that something was wrong. His master’s qi, normally so bright and vibrant, lay cold and stagnant, pooling where it should have flowed freely. Shen Qingqiu’s spiritual veins felt tight, as if they were inflamed, and Luo Binghe soon encountered one of the blockages created by the poison: a strange knot of snarled qi. A gentle but firm nudge of his own energy forced it to dissipate, and Shen Qingqiu made a quiet sound of relief.
Encouraged by that small noise, Luo Binghe set to work. Carefully and methodically, he pushed through every blockage until Shen Qingqiu’s qi began to flow steadily again and the muscles of his master’s shoulders loosened. When the job was done, Shen Qingqiu heaved a great sigh and turned to look at Luo Binghe. Outside, the sun was setting; its slanted rays crept in through the open window, bathing Shen Qingqiu’s features in a golden nimbus. Their faces were very close to one another.
“Thank you, Binghe,” Shen Qingqiu said. He blinked languidly, then raised a hand, laying his palm on Luo Binghe’s cheek. “You take such good care of me. How can this master ever hope to repay you?”
Luo Binghe swallowed heavily, his throat suddenly gone tight. “There’s no need for repayment. This disciple owes everything he has to Shizun. And, when it comes to Without a Cure, it’s my own fault that—”
With a slight frown, Shen Qingqiu shifted to place two fingers across Luo Binghe’s lips. “None of that now. It was only proper for this master to protect Binghe.” Another small smile slipped across his face. “I’ll always do so.”
Luo Binghe went still. His heart was beating very quickly, fluttering like a small animal caught in a trap. He opened his mouth to respond but was rendered speechless by the salt-warm taste of Shen Qingqiu’s fingers.
Slowly, Shen Qingqiu slid those fingers down, dragging his thumb across the angle of Luo Binghe’s jaw. His eyes were half-lidded, the warm brown of the irises obscured by a soft sweep of dark lashes.
He was achingly beautiful. It was nearly unbearable how badly Luo Binghe wanted him; his desire felt large enough to swallow them both whole.
Shen Qingqiu leaned forward—
And Luo Binghe stopped him, this time placing his own hand against Shen Qingqiu’s lips, arresting their descent before they could make contact with his own.
“Shizun, no. I can’t.”
A small, petulant frown formed between Shen Qingqiu’s brows. “Can’t?”
“I can’t do this anymore,” Luo Binghe whispered. Shen Qingqiu’s lips were soft under the pads of his fingers, and tears were beginning to slip down his own face.
“Why not?”
“Because… Shizun would never lower himself to touch a demon like this. To touch me like this.”
Shen Qingqiu only leaned further into his touch. “What are you talking about? Shizun is right here. I’m touching you now. I want you, Binghe.”
But Luo Binghe forced himself to pull away. “No. No, you don’t. And I can’t pretend anymore. I thought I could, but… I can’t. It’s not working. I have to go.”
As he stood, a great rumbling crack echoed from outside. The light from the window had turned a deep shade of orange, flickering and dancing as though the bamboo groves had been set on fire.
As Luo Binghe moved towards the door, Shen Qingqiu grabbed at his robe. “Binghe, please! Don’t do this!”
Luo Binghe tore himself away, and stumbled outside.
There, he found a horrifying sight: the serene beauty of Qing Jing Peak was marred by an enormous gash, the earth split open like the rind of an overripe fruit. A pulsing red light leaked out of that wound, accompanied by wisps of acrid smoke. The ground under Luo Binghe’s feet shook, or perhaps it was only he that was trembling. Regardless, he forged ahead, striding directly up to the edge of the chasm. He couldn’t see the bottom; only seething clouds of vapor and strange shifting shadows were visible.
There was a tug on his arm. Shen Qingqiu had followed, and now seized him with a forceful grip.
“Binghe, step back. This is an Abyssal rift!”
“I know,” Luo Binghe said, his voice wobbling. “You said you would always protect me, but when the Abyss opened, Shizun threw me away.”
Shen Qingqiu was silent for a moment, the fear on his face fading into something more imploring.
“...He did,” Shen Qingqiu finally agreed. With terrible gentleness, he wiped at the tears that fell faster and faster from Luo Binghe’s eyes. “But I won’t. Stay with me, and I’ll never throw you away. This Shizun will keep you forever.”
He leaned in, and pressed his mouth to Luo Binghe’s. His lips were warm, and soft, and tasted like ash. It was everything Luo Binghe had ever wanted.
It was a lie.
Luo Binghe extended his claws to their full length and plunged them deep into his master’s chest.
Shen Qingqiu gave a wet gasp, going still in Luo Binghe’s arms. When their kiss broke, the expression on his face was one of surprise—or perhaps confusion. He staggered back, clutching at the gaping wound in his chest, blood pouring down his robes in thick rivulets. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but the only thing that came out was a faint gurgling sound, and more blood.
Finally, he collapsed, sprawling on the ground with one arm outflung, as if he was still reaching for Luo Binghe even as his chest stilled and his eyes went vacant.
“I’m sorry, Shizun,” Luo Binghe said, weeping. “I’ll find you again. The true you. I swear it.”
Then he turned back to the yawning rift, and stepped over the edge.
Luo Binghe woke up.
At first, all he could see was red-orange light, blurry and pulsing, as if he were looking at the world through a curtain of blood. His limbs would not obey him. His mouth, his nose, his throat—all were choked with some thick substance, and when he tried to draw breath, his lungs only spasmed weakly. He was submerged, he realized; suspended entirely in a viscous fluid, warm as bathwater but heavy and clinging. Its putrid stench—rot, mixed with the acidity of stomach acid—filled his airways. It was the same smell that had wormed its way into his dream.
He thrashed, and the movement sent white-hot pain screaming up his arms and legs. Peering through the murky liquid, he saw that a network of thin black tendrils wound around and through his limbs. They entered his body at multiple acupoints, coursing under his skin. He could feel them moving faintly, tracing the exact paths of his meridians.
Animal instinct took over; he jerked one of his arms, tearing free of several tendrils. They came out with a wet, tearing rush of pain, leaving long, trailing wounds behind. Blood bloomed into the liquid, tinting it a deeper shade of red. As the scent of iron crept into his nose, he only fought harder. One after another, he grabbed and ripped and clawed at the tendrils, until his arms and legs were a ruin of open furrows and his surroundings had gone the color of rust.
He still could not breathe, and yet he was not suffocating; whatever the fluid was, it seemed to be keeping him alive. It began to slosh, heavy waves rocking him back and forth. Somewhere above him, something vast creaked and clicked, like tree trunks rubbing together. Although he had freed himself from the tendrils, they did not go still; they wound through the liquid like snakes, questing blindly, snapping and coiling and stabbing back toward the wounds he’d just torn open.
Luo Binghe kicked and clawed, sinking deeper into that terrible womb, until his back struck something with give to it: a membrane, thick and elastic, stretched taut and bulging. Beyond it, he could make out only darkness.
It didn’t matter what was on the other side; he had to get out. He unsheathed his claws, and drove them forward with everything he had.
The membrane tore, bursting open like a blister, at the same time that a hideous screech echoed from above him. Then he was falling, borne out on a gout of fluid, plummeting through open air in a disorienting freefall until he met the ground like a fist. There was a snapping crack as he landed, and a lightning bolt of pain shot up his leg as the bone broke. It was far from the first time such a thing had happened to him, but the pain whited out his vision nonetheless, obscuring everything else.
Finally, he blinked the fluid from his eyes and sucked in his first true breath of air. He was shaking, drenched, half-blind, his leg bent wrong beneath him. As the world came into focus, he saw that he was sprawled across a mound of old bones, most of them gray-white with age, at the bottom of a vast, lightless pit. Even his eyes, well-suited to darkness as they were, struggled to find its edges. He could see the shredded remains of the sac he’d torn himself out of, however; it hung above him, fluid dripping from it in slow, viscous ropes. The severed tendrils draped out of it, still twitching.
Then there was movement. The sac, he suddenly saw, was not a thing unto itself; it was attached to the underside of something far larger—something with many multi-jointed legs, each one as thick as a temple pillar, folding and unfolding as the creature dragged itself, groaning, up the sheer wall of the pit. Then it vanished into some black seam in the rock above, and Luo Binghe was left alone in the dark, bleeding, broken, and unable to move.
He reached for the small corner of his mind where Meng Mo resided.
“...Meng Mo?”
“Yes, I’m still here,” came the dream demon’s acerbic voice. “I wasn’t destroyed, just forced out of the dream. What madness possessed you to let it trap you like that?!”
Steeling himself, Luo Binghe reached down and grabbed his lower leg, then gave it a sharp tug. There was another flash of pain and a wet, meaty crunch, as the broken pieces of his tibia were pulled back into alignment.
“The creature—it’s a Dream Weaver,” he said, when the pain had faded enough that he could form a coherent thought again.
“I know what it is, boy,” Meng Mo snapped. “What I don’t understand is why you let it ensnare you so thoroughly and keep you so long!”
“I thought—never mind.”
Shen Qingqiu was the one who had first taught Luo Binghe about Dream Weavers, when he’d lent him a text on rare demonic beasts. They were enormous, sentient, insectoid monsters that fed on demonic qi, trapping their victims in a dream while draining them dry. The dream kept the demonic victim docile, while the Dream Weaver ate away at their meridians. Although a rare few individuals were said to have survived the experience, their demonic cultivation was permanently crippled. The last of the Dream Weavers had supposedly vanished years ago, hunted to extinction by the demonic race. Apparently, however, at least one had survived… within the Endless Abyss.
Meng Mo hissed in frustration. “It’s not only your own life at stake, remember? The Dream Weaver came much closer to eliminating me than I would have liked. And all because I had to venture into the dream when you refused to save yourself!”
“My apologies,” Luo Binghe gritted out. His bone was beginning to knit itself back together—a process which felt as though thousands of tiny, gnawing insects were crawling through the marrow. “I didn’t recognize you.”
“I’m aware. The Dream Weavers of old were unparalleled masters of illusion,” Meng Mo acknowledged. “This one seems to have had a very long time to hone its craft, trapped down here with little else to do. Even I was bound by the dream’s own rules while trying to pull you free. But you’re no novice at dream manipulation yourself, so how could you not have noticed—”
“Enough,” Luo Binghe said tightly. “Let’s just focus on getting out of here.”
In hindsight, he could see that Meng Mo had been trying to help. His attempts to draw Luo Binghe back into the waking world, however, had been transmuted by the Dream Weaver: its tendrils became the roots and thorns of Corpse-Devouring Nightshade, and Meng Mo himself became a “ghost” haunting the bamboo house.
Meng Mo made a sound of frustration, but thankfully ceased his needling. “Fine, then get up and start climbing.”
It was easier said than done. Even with Luo Binghe’s unique physiology, it took some time for his leg to heal enough to put his weight on it. By the time it had, the torn furrows along his limbs had closed as well, leaving only smears of blood behind. Slowly, he pushed himself upright. When he was certain that the newly-healed bone could hold his weight, he began to climb.
The walls of the pit were sheer and jagged, disappearing into darkness. Handholds were small and far apart, and the few he found had sharp edges that slashed his hands to ribbons as quickly as his skin could heal. He pushed himself on regardless, until at last his questing fingers found the edge of a tunnel, the same crevice the creature had dragged itself into. Warm, stagnant air gusted out of it, carrying an unmistakable trace of rot. Luo Binghe pulled himself over the edge and crouched low, peering down the tunnel’s long, dark throat. Somewhere within, he sensed, the Dream Weaver waited.
“We’ll have to get past it to get out,” Meng Mo said.
“Good,” Luo Binghe replied. “I’m not finished with it yet.”
He crept forward, his claws extended and ready. The stench of rot thickened with every step, until it seemed to coat his very skin. The passage was straight and featureless, with no branching points or side-passages—only stone, and darkness, and the suffocating reek growing steadily worse.
Finally, Luo Binghe paused. Ahead, he could see the tunnel’s end as a small circle of lighter gray, filled with the Abyss’ equivalent of an evening sky. But between himself and that exit, he could also sense the Dream Weaver, waiting.
He took another step—
Black tendrils erupted from the ceiling, seizing him before he could react, wrapping around his ankles and stabbing deep into the meat of his shoulders. As they did, he experienced a lurching moment of memory: this same sudden grip, from the night he’d dragged himself into this tunnel half-dead, seeking a place to lick his wounds after another beast had nearly torn him apart. He hadn’t known, then, what waited in the dark. But once he’d realized what manner of creature had snared him…
“Binghe!” Meng Mo’s voice resounded in his skull, sharp with alarm. “Fight it properly this time, don’t just—”
Luo Binghe went limp, and let the tendrils drag him forward.
They hauled him off his feet entirely, hoisting him up through a jagged crevice in the tunnel’s ceiling and into a wider cavern above. There, the Dream Weaver waited in the dark. He could see it clearly now: it was crouched low, vast and ancient, its bulbous body held aloft by thick, many-jointed legs. Its head was covered in clusters of round eyes, all trained on Luo Binghe. Where a spider’s spinnerets would be, its tendrils slithered forth in a writhing mass, reeling him in. And from its distended abdomen hung the ruin of the sac he’d torn his way out of, oozing like a ruptured egg yolk.
It pulled him up to dangle in the air before it, blood dripping down his sides to splatter on the ground below. One tendril uncoiled from the mass and crept up, wrapping once around his throat before burrowing, almost gently, into the skin of his neck.
A voice bloomed inside his skull, warm and familiar.
“Binghe,” said Shen Qingqiu’s voice, “come back to me.”
But of course it wasn’t Shen Qingqiu—only a facsimile, built from Luo Binghe’s own memories. He thrashed once in the monster’s grip.
“No,” he gasped. “You’re not him.”
“And he’s not going back!” Meng Mo added.
“Are you sure?” asked the Dream Weaver, still using Shen Qingqiu’s stolen voice. “He seemed happy enough with me. He hardly struggled at all. One would almost think he wanted to be caught…”
It paused, cocking its head; Luo Binghe met its flat, insectoid stare.
“Perhaps… you hoped I would destroy your demonic cultivation?” it said. “Perhaps you thought that if you were broken in such a way, your master might one day love you again?”
Luo Binghe drew in a shaky breath, straining against the tendril coiled around his neck. “...Perhaps. But it didn’t work,” he said quietly.
“No,” the Dream Weaver agreed. “You’re a Heavenly Demon: the ultimate prize for one of my kind. No matter how many times I drain you dry, you always fill again with more demonic qi. You must know that your master will never take you back… but I will. Stay with me, and we could both be happy forever.”
“Don’t listen to it, kid!” Meng Mo interjected.
“I’ll happily swat that little pest for you too,” Shen Qingqiu’s voice crooned. “Then it will just be you and me. I’ll build you the sweetest dream you can imagine—our own personal paradise.”
Luo Binghe’s mouth pulled into a hard, cold smile. “No… I don’t think so. You’re of no more use to me. Maybe you’re right—maybe Shizun won’t ever take me back. But it doesn’t matter, as long as I find a way to return to him. And although you seem to know much of Heavenly Demons, you’ve forgotten one important thing.”
The Dream Weaver snapped its mandibles irritably. “What’s that?”
“You should be very careful about making us bleed.”
The whole time they had been speaking, Luo Binghe had been quietly at work, reaching out to the blood it had ingested through its tendrils, the blood now circulating within its vast, alien body. When he called, his blood answered, exploding outward through the creature’s vital organs like a thousand tiny blades all unsheathed at once. The damage was invisible from the outside, but catastrophic within; Luo Binghe felt the Dream Weaver’s organs rupture, its immense heart emptying into its thorax in a great gush.
The Dream Weaver seized. Its grip on him spasmed, its tendrils lashing without purpose as its massive legs skittered and scraped across the cavern floor. It tossed its head and screamed—
—and the scream was Shen Qingqiu’s own voice, raw and anguished, as though Shizun were dying in front of him again.
Luo Binghe’s stomach lurched, and he flinched at the sound despite knowing it for the lie it was. He shoved his feelings aside and tore himself free from the last of the tendrils, dropping hard as the creature’s grip failed, then scrambling back from its thrashing bulk.
“That’s it—finish it!” Meng Mo crowed triumphantly.
It was already finished, however. The Dream Weaver’s convulsions slowed, its many legs folding inwards, one by one, twitching and then falling still. The awful scream faded into a low, burbling rattle, then trailed off into silence. Its clustered eyes dimmed to a flat, lifeless black. It didn’t move again.
Luo Binghe stood over it for a moment, breathing hard. Then, wordlessly, he turned and made his way back to the crevice, lowering himself down through it and limping the rest of the way to the tunnel’s mouth, trailing blood behind him.
When he emerged, the Abyss stretched before him, exactly as he remembered it. The flat, endless grey sky hung low and close. Below it, jagged hills rolled out in every direction, dark and barren. In the distance, a vast mountain range crowned the horizon, their peaks wreathed in perpetual lightning.
“Well. Here we are again,” Meng Mo said.
“Yes,” Luo Binghe agreed, somewhat dully.
“You know, for a moment there I really thought you might have let it take you,” Meng Mo added, his voice unusually soft. “When you refused to wake from the dream… I feared you might have actually given up.”
Luo Binghe set his mouth in a hard line. “No. I could never give up on Shizun.”
But he had thought that perhaps if he submerged himself in the dream—if he let himself forget, just temporarily, and allowed the Dream Weaver to feast on his demonic qi—then perhaps by the time he finally escaped, his ability to manipulate that qi would be destroyed. And then maybe, just maybe, Shen Qingqiu would see that he wasn’t a monster after all. Or at least that he was a thoroughly defanged one. But it seemed his demonic nature couldn’t be uprooted so easily.
Meng Mo sighed. “I can’t pretend to understand your fixation on that master of yours. But if it gets us out of here, then I suppose I can’t complain either. Keep holding on to that determination, alright?”
“I will,” Luo Binghe promised. Already, he had begun to make his way down the hill, setting a course for the far-off mountains.
He would discover a way out of the Endless Abyss, or die trying.
And when he finally emerged, he would just have to find some other way to prove himself to Shen Qingqiu—and perhaps, someday, to earn back all he’d lost.