sesamin

Though he'd originally climbed the mountain in the hopes to become stronger and also find refuge, the Sect was no safer than the streets. How overjoyed he had been, to be chosen, to follow the angle of the pointed fan and find himself at the other end. Qing Jing disciples typically enter the Peak by passing an arduous test of intellect and wit. Luo Binghe had long since given up on entering the Scholar's Peak, but to think he'd be /chosen—

Yet Luo Binghe should know that favor given carelessly attracts flies.

His chest heaves with sharp, desperate breaths, never quite filling his lungs for fear of being heard by his pursuers. Dried leaves crunch as feet tread upon them gleefully, the shouts of young boys nearby making his heartbeat quicken with fear. He presses himself flush against the tree, praying to the heavens for mercy.

‘Not again,’ he pleads silently. His arms tremble where they keep him from sagging to the ground, his knees too weak for him to trust in. ‘I can't do it again, please.’

Peak Lord Shen had been called away for some diplomatic matter or another, and had only returned for the disciple selection before departing again. He was a severe man, with exacting standards— at least, that's what Binghe heard. He hadn't seen hide or hair of the man since that day.

Severe enough to correct the injustice that Binghe faced from his shixiongs, to eradicate the impudence on his Peak? Or so severe that he'd turn a blind eye to a weakling who can't even protect himself?

Binghe's heart aches. His eyes sting with tears that don't fall.

He was supposed to be safe.

“Luo-shidi!” one of the boys croons, too close for comfort. Binghe doesn't dare breathe. “How impertinent, to not heed the calls of your shixiongs! What should we do when we find you?”

Red hands. Scratches on his forearms. The cries and wails of the soft furred body they forced beneath his fingers. The cracks of tiny, tiny bones.

Binghe would rather die.

He spends eternity in that shadowy patch of forest, not daring to breathe more than he needed to to live, numb with fear. It's long before the voices in the distance fade away. It's even longer before Binghe dares to move his head, so terrified he is of finding the boys just next to him, patiently waiting for him to notice. His neck aches with stiffness, but the moment he confirms that he is alone, his legs give out from under him, sore and aching. He sucks in breath through his teeth. His knuckles are scraped raw from where he'd anxiously pressed them against the tree.

He feels hungry. Nauseous. After so long listening and being hyper aware of his surroundings, he can no longer see what's in front of him. He doesn't dare breathe properly.

He wonders if he's too dehydrated to cry. He can't ever feel water on his skin without wanting to hurl, can't tolerate it on his tongue without thinking of thrashing little limbs, of helpless, sodden paws. Even the thought of it makes him shake his head furiously, bile rising in his throat.

He's thirsty. He's starving.

So out of it he is, that it takes him a moment to notice the hand pressed up against his forehead.

He just about jolts out of his skin from fright, eyes wide with terror, scrambling for something to defend himself with.

He'll kill them. He really will. He'll sink his teeth into their throats, dig his nails into their flesh if he has to, he'll do whatever it takes, anything, everything—

“Don't let it consume you,” says the figure in front of him.

They almost blend in with the shadows. Dark robes are draped across their shoulders, fine embroidery glinting under the faint light of the stars. The hand against his forehead is cold, like fine jade. He feels long, sharp nails lightly graze his temple, though they are careful not to harm. He can't discern much of their face, besides the slitted golden eyes that peer down at him, and the strange accessory sitting high on their temple, glowing a peculiar shade of green.

Their silhouette is tall and looming, though their long robes belie their true physique. Their clothes are much too fine to be in any way related to his shixiongs, no matter how wealthy their families are.

Somehow, the touch makes Binghe calm down, breath finally coming easier, his initial surge of energy rapidly dissolving as his shoulders slump with the reprieve. He can only lie there, vulnerable to this person's whims.

The hand on his forehead pulls away to drag a single finger down the side of his face. It takes Binghe a moment to realize that they are tracing the scratches on his cheek, though they'd long since scabbed over.

Had he not been too busy running for his life from his shixiongs to attend his classes, maybe he'd know how to heal them by now.

Their eyes narrow. “Little ones like you should be having dinner or playing with friends, yet you're out at this hour,” they murmur. Binghe's breath catches. “Why?”

Luo Binghe stares despondently back.  “I… my shixiongs…”

Water. Bones. Fur. Hunger.

His face is hot, he realizes. His head is hazy. He can't think. His mouth opens to finish his sentence, but the words don't quite make their way past his lips.

It's all my fault, he means to say.

“Maomao only has one kitten left,” is all he can choke out.

The figure shifts closer, their robes rustling with the movement. Their hand slips over Binghe's eyes, shutting them gently. They are polite enough to make no mention of the wetness trailing down his face, or the trembling of his shoulders, or his rasping breaths. Every movement is slow. Methodical. Intended to soothe, almost. Thumbs lightly brush over his eyelids, carefully minding their nails, before sweeping over the swell of his cheeks with their knuckles.

“Rest,” they order. 

Binghe crumbles under their touch.

...tonight, his dreams are warm.

When he next sees his shixiongs, their faces are no longer morphed by arrogance and mockery, now bearing the unusual twist of hatred. 

Though they'd certainly made no effort to make his life easier, Binghe couldn't really say they hated him. He was just a convenient vessel for their frustrations, someone new and weak to pick on. Now they looked at him like it was personal.

The wide brim of a fan cuts their line of sight like paper.

“Mind your eyes,” a low, frigid voice pierces the air.

Binghe almost dips into a shaky bow, fervent apology on his tongue, when his shixiongs yelp in fear and run off. The man in green robes turns to face him. Phoenix eyes look balefully down at him, appraising in their sharpness. The man's aristocratic features hold no room for warmth, giving off the impression that no one was welcome in his presence; only tolerated.

Barely tolerated.

“This Peak is for those seeking to sharpen themselves in the way of the Four Arts,” Peak Lord Shen speaks like he moves — with a deadly, vicious elegance. “We are cultivators who seek to purge evil from the world.”

He glares at Binghe, as though daring him to argue. Luo Binghe can only stare.

The man scoffs.

“If Disciple Luo finds a monster on this Peak,” he says slowly, enunciating every word as though speaking to a particularly slow child. “This master expects him to cut them down without remorse.”

Luo Binghe stares. A monster? For a moment, he thinks the man is referring to him — but he'd said ‘them’. Then…

His heart aches with a fragile wisp of hope.

He only barely manages a meek, “Yes, Shizun,” ducking his head to try and hide the glassiness in his eyes behind his hair. He earns another disdainful look, but Binghe is too overwhelmed to pay it any mind.

“What does he even see in you,” Peak Lord Shen grouses under his breath.

Binghe doesn't dare frown, yet still he wonders. What does who see in him?

Luo Binghe learns the answer, when Shen Qingqiu brandishes his spiritual blade, points it imperiously at the demon horde invading Qiong Ding—

And someone leaps onto it.

It takes a moment for Binghe to process the fact. The movement is so seamless, so perfect — Shen Qingqiu's sword does not tip one bit as the mysterious man practically dances upon the blade's edge, the heel of his boot unfaltering. Was the figure weightless, or was Shen Qingqiu simply that strong, to hold someone up on the opposite end of his sword with just one hand?

Something thick and long trails behind the figure, thrashing with anticipation. The light makes the surface of it glitter with serpentine patterns, matching the teal horns that emerge from the man's temple. 

Binghe's eyes widen.

“You came to receive lessons?” Shen Qingqiu sneers at the demon saintess. “Then allow this master to teach you the most valuable one.”

Then all at once, the figure vanishes, leaving only sea mist in their wake, and with their disappearance, Shen Qingqiu's blade blazes a brilliant green. The Peak Lord descends upon the mob with a solemn tilt to his chin.

Amusement glints in his eyes.

Luo Binghe and his martial siblings can only look on as the Qing Jing Peak Lord proceeds to wreak havoc.

Now Binghe understands the sudden boost in morale that came with the arrival of their Shizun. What followed could hardly be called a battle. Even the large, intimidating demons closest to the front were toppled by the scholar's wicked blade, and soon, the demon saintess found herself standing in a circle of her fallen followers. Shen Qingqiu was a blur of metal and silk, cutting through their numbers with ease, a flurry of qi-sharpened leaves following his every motion, surrounding him like a halo.

Was this why the Sect Leader could leave Cang Qiong without worry?

It is when he comes to a stop a ways away from the young demoness, his sword soaked in the blood of her allies, that he pauses in his purge. Flicks his blade sharply to the side, a good amount of the blood flying off. Slowly turns to face the demon saintess. She stares back at him with something between disbelief and horror, looking like a child who'd been careful not to get caught, only to be punished all the same.

Shen Qingqiu takes a step toward her. She takes a tremulous step back.

“Fortunately for you,” says the Peak Lord, looking awfully serene for someone with blood splattered across their cheek. “Xiu Ya seems curious about your future. Otherwise, this master would see you and your fellows erased from the face of this mountain and be done with it. You suggested three matches? Make your selection, then, Sha Hualing.”

The demon saintess can only stand there blankly for a moment. Then, she places a fist against her open palm and bows deeply. “This Ling'er was rash and foolish. Thanking Peak Lord Shen for his teaching, but to proceed with the demonstration after such a valuable lesson would be too impudent. We will take our leave.”

Her form is slouched and awkward. Her gauzy fabrics cannot disguise the tremor in her shoulders.

The green light bleeds from Shen Qingqiu's blade, and with its loss comes the reappearance of that mysterious figure, his tail flicking idly as he materializes seemingly out of thin air. Now that they stand a bit closer, he looks remarkably similar to the Peak Lord in stature and clothing, though his bearing seems lighter, as if he lacked in woes and worries. The man leans in as though to get a closer look at Sha Hualing, his curtain of hair spilling over his shoulder. The demoness flinches. The man tilts his head inquisitively, almost birdlike in his movement. Slowly, he turns to look at the crowd—