Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

PROUD IMMORTAL DEMON WAY: A/B/O DYNAMICS VERSION was a male power fantasy of a stallion novel with extra hormones and not enough brain cells.

To be more specific, Proud Immortal Demon Way: A/B/O Dynamics Version was not the kind of story Shen Yuan usually sought out. He had nothing against the Alpha/Beta/Omega trope, per se. It was just… a lot. Secondary genders, social and sexual hierarchies, strange mating rituals, scent-matching soulbonds, and all sorts of worldbuilding that sounded like someone had been unsupervised on webnovel for too long.

At first, Shen Yuan dismissed it. But then he read the summary. It had potential, he thought. Might as well give it a try.

...And that was his first mistake.

He ended up loving it. And hating it. At the same time. Violently.

The protagonist, Luo Binghe, was a tragic male lead with the backstory of an angsty drama protagonist. Immediately after birth, he was abandoned, swaddled in white cloth and floated down the Luo River in the dead of winter. If not for a fisherman pulling him from the freezing water, he would've died as a pup before the story even began. Thus, he was named Luo Binghe—Bing as in "ice"—because nothing screams protagonist material like trauma and symbolism.

Luo Binghe grew up hungry, cold, and unwanted. A kind beta washerwoman took pity on him and raised him as her own, but they remained poor and powerless, frequently mistreated by the wealthy family she worked for. Once, Luo Binghe endured a brutal beating from the young masters of the house, just for a bowl of meat congee. And he was still too late. His mother never even got a bite before she died.

Shen Yuan could admit: this part of the story got him. He shed tears. Multiple times. It was a masterpiece of suffering.

Then Luo Binghe was miraculously selected to join the Cang Qiong Mountain Sect, one of the four great cultivation sects. Hope! Light! A righteous path!

...Enter Shen Qingqiu.

Cold Beauty Alpha. “Xiu Ya Sword.” Peak Lord of Qing Jing Peak. Handsome on the outside, rotten on the inside. The walking embodiment of hypocritical trash.

Shen Qingqiu, as written by the author, was jealous of Luo Binghe’s sky-piercing talent and secretly terrified of his rise. So he did what every garbage mentor does: bullied him, humiliated him, and weaponized peer pressure like a professional. He even got the other disciples to pile on. And to make it worse? Luo Binghe hadn’t presented yet. No scent. No rank. No social power. Just an unwanted outsider at the bottom of every hierarchy.

It was cruelty porn disguised as character development.

Eventually, at age seventeen, Luo Binghe was finally allowed to attend the Immortal Alliance Conference—only to be betrayed by Shen Qingqiu again and shoved into the Endless Abyss, a rift between the Human and Demon Realms.

That’s right. Only then did the real story begin.

In the abyss, Luo Binghe found his destined sword, Xin Mo—a peerless demonic blade. He uncovered the truth of his origins, awakened his secondary gender, and presented as a Pure Alpha of All Alphas™. Half Heavenly Demon. Son of Tianlang-Jun, former Emperor of the Demon Realm.

What followed was a montage of training, power-ups, demon enlightenment, and a dramatic, blood-soaked return to Cang Qiong Mountain to claim his vengeance.

And he got it. All of it. Revenge, a harem the size of a small nation, omega consorts lined up like a buffet, and a legend that spanned three realms and uncountable descendants.

The ending chapter was... deeply upsetting.

Shen Yuan closed the novel, sat in stunned silence for a full ten seconds, then screamed at his screen:

“Dumbfuck author! Dumbfuck novel!”

Shen Yuan had read a lot of garbage novels in his life. A lot.

But nothing—nothing—prepared him for the madness that was PROUD IMMORTAL DEMON WAY: A/B/O DYNAMICS VERSION.

And the culprit? That hack of an author, Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky.

“Grade-school writing! Grade-school!!” Shen Yuan shouted at his laptop screen, eyes bloodshot, hair frazzled from sheer disbelief. “You wrote landmines into the plot like it was a battlefield! Are you allergic to logic?!”

The writing was a disaster. One moment, there was serious world-building; the next moment, someone was falling crotch-first into a knotting scene. The suspension of disbelief wasn’t just broken—it was yeeted into the Endless Abyss.

Plot holes? Everywhere.

Consistent character writing? Nonexistent.

The only ones with IQ points were Luo Binghe and Shen Qingqiu—everyone else had the mental range of a plastic sword.

And yet—somehow—it had so much potential. The novel was stacked with foreshadowing, layered mysteries, hints, and red herrings tangled like spaghetti. There were arcs on arcs. Lore threads that went nowhere. Side characters that screamed "I’m important!" before being completely forgotten.

And the smut?

Shen Yuan slapped the desk. “You don’t need papapa every ten pages !”

Omegas in the novel were all written as constantly needy, clinging to the nearest Alpha like limp noodles. Their entire purpose boiled down to waiting to be knotted and bred like NPCs in a poorly-modded dating sim.

Alphas, meanwhile, got horny from just breathing.

And don't even get him started on the harem.

Luo Binghe had so many wives and consorts—none of whom ever did anything except pop up once, get bedded, and vanish like they were summoned from a smut gacha. It was whiplash-inducing.

And Shen Qingqiu?

Oh, the Scum Villain.

Shen Yuan winced just thinking about it. The man got tortured. Then disfigured. Then tortured more until he became a literal human stick. Then—surprise!—he died. And that still wasn’t the end.

No, because Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky decided to keep the story going! Luo Binghe just... kept collecting omegas. Every few chapters, there’d be a new one to “rescue.” Rinse and repeat. It was like Pokémon, except worse, because every encounter ended in papapa.

And the final scene? The one that made Shen Yuan question all of his life choices?

Luo Binghe saved yet another helpless omega. She (or was it a he? They were never even named!) suddenly blew some kind of mysterious powder in his face. He inhaled, staggered, and—

BOOM. BLACKOUT. “TO BE CONTINUED.” THE END.

Shen Yuan stared at the screen.

He scrolled. Refreshed. Checked the author’s notes.

Nothing. That was it.

“Are you KIDDING ME?!?” he screamed, voice cracking. “That’s how you END IT?! I sat through six thousand and six hundred sixty-six chapters of knotting and betrayal for a final boss pollen puff scene?! ”

In his righteous fury, he flung his arms up—THWACK!—knocking over a full can of soda.

It spilled directly onto the laptop charger cable.

SZZZZZZT.

The charger sparked with a sharp hiss of smoke and betrayal.

Shen Yuan stared in mute horror.

“Ah, crap—!”

He dove forward, yanking the cable from the laptop and lunging toward the outlet—

ZAP.

Static. White light. A jolt of pain like he'd been drop-kicked by Heaven itself.

Shen Yuan collapsed in a dramatic heap, eyes wide, hair frizzed like a toasted mushroom.

The last thing he saw before the darkness took him was the author’s note on the web page:

          Sorry for the cliffhanger~ I might continue this someday! Stay tuned! ❤️

.

..

…

Disciple, Are You Flirting With Me?

Chapter one

“A Beta Disciple Named Zhu Xiao”

…

..

.

[ Activation Code Detected: “Dumbfuck author, dumbfuck novel.” System auto-initiation in progress! ]

The voice that followed was bright. Too bright. Sickeningly chipper—like a mobile game tutorial mascot with a permanent smile glued to its face and a voice that grated like sunshine through a hangover.

Shen Yuan groaned.

His entire body felt like it had been microwaved alive, left to thaw on a concrete slab, then whacked repeatedly with a rubber mallet. Limbs ached. Bones hummed with a low, almost electric throb. His skull pounded as though a drunken cultivator had used it for spiritual target practice.

Colors swam behind his eyelids. Blurred shapes. Smears of pale gold and soft brown. Light filtered in from somewhere—a window, maybe? The glow was paper-thin and silken, like morning fog over parchment.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

The world sharpened, reluctantly clicking into place like a lagging graphics card catching up after a bugged-out cutscene.

He was… in a bed?

No. Not just a bed. A creaky wooden frame held a stiff mattress that smelled faintly of dried herbs and clean linen. The sheets were thin but tucked neatly over his legs. Above him, the ceiling beams crisscrossed in uneven lines, aged, dark wood polished smooth by years of wear. Simple. Modest. Familiar in a historical, sect-style kind of way.

His spine went cold.

He bolted upright—and immediately regretted it.

The room spun. Gravity wobbled.

“Ow—shit—” he hissed, clutching his forehead. His fingers met warm skin. But his hair—long. Silky strands slid over his shoulders, trailing down to his waist. Black as ink. Glossy under the light. Not his usual modern-day undercut.

His heart jumped.

He scanned the room.

It was compact. Spartan. But not sterile. Lived-in, like a monk’s dorm that had somehow acquired the faint warmth of routine. Pale wooden walls boxed him in. A desk sat nestled under the window, with a book cracked open at its center. A single pressed flower lay between the pages—delicate, blue-tinged, personal. Nearby, a carved wooden comb, a tiny jar of ink, and a writing brush were neatly arranged.

Against the opposite wall stood a bamboo shelf. Jade tokens hung from hooks. Folded talismans rested in orderly stacks. A small lotus-shaped wind chime tinkled faintly with each breath of moving air.

In the corner, a lacquered trunk lay shut, a pile of folded robes stacked atop it. Not pristine—creased at the corners. Used. Maintained.

Then—his eyes locked onto the weapon leaning against the wall.

A sword. Plain scabbard. Dark wood lacquer, unadorned. Near the guard, a single character had been carved with deliberate precision: Ru Yi.

A name. A weapon. A breadcrumb.

Shen Yuan’s breath caught in his throat. “This… isn’t my room.”

Too quiet. Not the hum of electricity. Not the static buzz of city air conditioning or the murmur of cars. Instead birds. Wind threading through leaves. The distant gurgle of running water.

This wasn’t a hospital.

This wasn’t his apartment.

This was…

“…The goddamn novel world.”

[ ✨ Welcome to Proud Immortal Demon Way: A/B/O Dynamics Version! ✨ ]

A red holographic screen exploded into existence inches from his nose, the edges lined with shimmering gold filigree. Elegant script unspooled across it, painfully cheerful and aggressively cutesy.

[ System Online! (≧▽≦) Now Binding Host to Role: Zhu Xiao—Outer Disciple of Qing Jing Peak!
Subgender: Beta (´｡• ᵕ •｡`)
Weapon: Spiritual Sword ‘Ru Yi’.
Starting B-Points: 100!
Be a good Beta and climb that cultivation ladder, okay~? (づ｡◕‿‿◕｡)づ  ]

He stared.

Mouth ajar.

One eye twitched.

“…Holy shit. I died.”

His hand shot to his chest. Still warm. Still breathing. But not his body. The build was unfamiliar—slimmer, bonier. His limbs longer, fingers narrower. His clothes—definitely not pajamas. Inner white robes. Flowing. Silk. Real.

And inside him, something buzzed faintly. A pilot light of energy. Lingering. Nascent. Spiritual power?

“I got electrocuted.” he muttered numbly. “I actually got electrocuted. Died. And now I’m…”

His gaze flicked to the screen.

“…Zhu Xiao?”

He squinted.

Tilted his head.

“Who the hell is Zhu Xiao?!”

He racked his memory. Dug through his encyclopedic knowledge of the Proud Immortal Demon Way. Luo Binghe’s harem list? Nope. Random cannon fodder? Possible. Someone who died off-screen in the Hidden Abyss arc?

Maybe?

“Wait—Beta?” His brow creased. Then relaxed slightly. “…Actually, that might be a blessing.”

In a world where Alphas were ruled by their dicks and Omegas collapsed into trembling puddles of heat every other chapter, a Beta might be the only subgender not driven entirely by plot hormones.

Still.

“Zhu Xiao…” Shen Yuan scowled. “That name screams generic side character. The kind who dies in a flashback or gets one sentence of description and a gruesome offscreen death.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “Fan-freaking-tastic.”

[ Don’t worry, Host! This System provides you with a Main Mission: Make the scum villain Shen Qingqiu fall in love and live happily ever after! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ:･ﾟ✧ ]

Shen Yuan stared at the screen, aghast. “Hold on. Hold on —what the actual fuck do you mean I have to make that bastard villain fall in love?! Happily ever after?! Why?! What the hell kind of cursed otome-hell side quest is this?!”

After all, Shen Qingqiu was literally the worst. Smug. Petty. Lecturing sadist. A human embodiment of Ctrl+C, Ctrl+V scum villain tropes. Shen Yuan hated that asshole. He’d rather devote his time to Luo Binghe and give him the ending he deserved.

[ Host must complete the Main Mission! Failure to do so will result in penalties~ ✧(>o<)ﾉ✧ ]

“Unbelievable.” Shen Yuan rubbed his temples. “Can’t I get a main quest involving Luo Binghe instead? He’s the actual protagonist. The plot would make way more sense!”

[ Nope! Host has already activated this System and is now bound to Zhu Xiao’s account. Please ensure your B-Points do not fall below zero, or punishment will be issued automatically~ (๑•̀ㅂ•́)و✧ ]

“I want a refund.” he muttered.

He tried to swipe the System window away.

Nothing.

Tried again.

Still nothing.

It giggled.

[ You can’t get rid of me that easily~ ⸜(ˊᗜˋ)⸝ Let’s go, Zhu Xiao! Time to fulfill your destiny! ]

“Destiny my ass .” Shen Yuan snapped. He grabbed the nearest pillow and smothered his face in it.

His muffled scream echoed through the quiet room.

The pillow did nothing to muffle the pounding in Shen Yuan’s head—or the high-pitched giggle of the damn System window still hovering above his face.

He let out a long, world-weary groan that bled into the mattress.

Eventually, like a man crawling out of the wreckage of his own life choices, Shen Yuan dragged the pillow off his face and squinted at the still-glowing System window.

“Okay.” he said, voice hoarse, throat dry like he’d gargled gravel and sarcasm. “Fine. Let’s say— hypothetically —I play along with your ‘Main Mission’ bullshit.”

The red window gave a cheerful shimmer, like a fairy godmother had just sneezed on it.

“…What happens…” he asked slowly, voice dropping low and dangerous. “...if my score drops below zero?”

The response came immediately.

[ (≧▽≦) Instant death! Simple as that! ♪٩(✿′ᗜ‵✿)۶♪ ]

Silence.

Shen Yuan stared.

The window pulsed gently, as if proud of itself.

“…What.”

[ (^ヮ^)/ No takebacks! No retries! No save points! Just ✨DEATH✨! You’ll be permanently deleted from this world! Isn’t that fun?! ＼(＾▽＾)／ ]

His lips parted.

“Fun? FUN?! You lunatic, crazy bug-ridden interface! What part of that sounds fun ?!” Shen Yuan shot up, arms flailing. “You’re telling me I get dropped into a trashy A/B/O version of a third-rate stallion novel, wake up in someone else’s body, and now you’re dangling instant deletion over my head like a Sword of Damocles held up by a glittery friendship bracelet?!”

[ Host is so dramatic~ (｡･ω･｡)ﾉ♡ Please calm down. Stress wrinkles are not cute! ]

“I’m a man !” Shen Yuan barked, gesturing wildly to himself like a lawyer about to make a closing argument. “A man who doesn’t want to be groped, bitten, mated, or manipulated into an omegaverse-themed romance plot with a bastard like Shen Qingqiu, thank you very much!”

[ Main Mission still pending: Help Scum Villain Shen Qingqiu fall in love and live happily ever after! (*≧ω≦) ]

He inhaled sharply. “HOW? How the fuck am I supposed to do that? You do realize Shen Qingqiu is the villain, right? The scumbag villain. The sort of man who’d smile politely while stabbing you in the back and stealing your spiritual herbs. The type of refined hypocrite who’d lecture you about morality while doing tax fraud.”

[ (＾▽＾)✧ Scum or not, Shen Qingqiu deserves a happy ending too! Everyone does! ＼(￣▽￣)／ ]

“ No, he doesn’t! ” Shen Yuan thundered. “He literally tried to kill the protagonist like… multiple times! Threw him into the Abyss! Manipulated sect politics! Gaslit a fifteen-year-old! That guy deserves a ‘happily ever after’?!”

[ ( ≧∇≦ ) Yes! And you, dear Host, are the chosen one to help him achieve it! ]

Shen Yuan froze.

“…Wait. Me?” he said slowly. “You mean… me specifically? It has to be me ?”

[ (｡♥‿♥｡) Yup! Only you, Zhu Xiao! The lucky, compatible, perfectly matched Beta! ♪ ]

His mouth fell open in pure disbelief. “Why not someone else?! Anyone else! I’m sure the PIDW world is crawling with starry-eyed side characters who’d sell their kidney to get within breathing distance of Qing Jing Peak’s big-shot Peak Lord. Hell, I’m pretty sure one of the inner disciples wrote poetry about his eyes.”

[ Scum Villain’s compatibility level with other potential partners: 0%. (≖ᴗ≖✿) ]

Shen Yuan blinked. “Wait. Zero? That bad?”

[ Affirmative~ No one else could be assigned. Not even the System wants to ship him with anyone else. ( ´ ▽ ` )b ]

He groaned. “Of course. No one wants to date the guy who treats compassion like an optional cultivation technique.”

[ But Host is compatible! ٩(｡•́‿•̀｡)۶ Because Host is uniquely positioned to see the true Shen Qingqiu~! ]

That made him pause.

“…What the hell does that mean?”

The System’s smiley face did not change.

[ Just because a novel says something, doesn’t mean it’s the truth, right~? (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧ ]

Shen Yuan’s brows slowly furrowed. “What?”

[ Don’t take canon at face value, Host. That’s just lazy reader behavior. There’s more to Shen Qingqiu than meets the eye~! ]

Now that—that—was suspicious. Shen Yuan narrowed his eyes, lips twisting. “Okay, hold on. What’s that supposed to mean? Are you telling me the novel lied? That Shen Qingqiu isn’t actually a bastard? That he didn’t betray Luo Binghe? What, are you trying to tell me he’s secretly a misunderstood tsundere with a tragic backstory?”

[ ✧٩(•́⌄•́๑) Just saying~ Discover the truth for yourself~! ]

“STOP BEING SO VAGUE, YOU SPARKLY NIGHTMARE!” Shen Yuan grabbed the sides of his head and resisted the urge to scream again. “You’re doing that thing where you drop vague foreshadowing like you’re proud of yourself for watching one mystery anime! If you’re going to kill me for failing, at least give me a walkthrough!”

[ (｡•́︿•̀｡) That’s against System policy. Besides, spoilers ruin the romance~ ]

“There’s no romance !” Shen Yuan snapped. “I’m not even gay! I don’t even like him! I read what kind of woman he goes for—he goes to hit up brothels like it was a part-time job! He likes girls! Soft voices, pretty smiles, perfume that smells like peaches! Not some transplanted Beta with a working brain and an attitude!”

The System did a little bounce.

[ (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ People change~ Love is unpredictable~ Gender is a spectrum~ And don’t assume preferences just because of past behavior! ]

Shen Yuan made a sound like a dying engine. “This is hell. You’ve brought me to omegaverse-flavored hell.”

[ Yay! You’re adapting so well~ (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ ]

He collapsed back into the bed again, one arm thrown dramatically across his eyes.

“I want my life back.” he mumbled.

[ Nope! You’ve got missions, drama, and a scum villain to romance~! Fighting, Host! Let’s fall in love and not die horribly! (っ＾▿＾)💨 ]

“God.” he muttered, voice muffled. “Strike me down again. And this time, make it permanent .”

Eventually, Shen Yuan peeled himself out of bed with all the grace of a disgruntled cat hurled into a basin of water. His limbs ached with that peculiar stiffness that came from sleeping far too long in an unfamiliar bed—too rigid, too quiet, and reeking faintly of incense and ancient virtue, as though the mattress had been soaked in celibacy and monastic discipline for several centuries. He sat on the edge, legs swinging down, and the hem of his silk sleep pants whispered against the polished wooden floor with a sigh as he rose to his feet.

A neatly folded set of robes waited atop a lacquered writing desk nearby: the traditional garb of Qing Jing Peak’s inner disciples. Soft pale green, edged in immaculate white, and embroidered with faint, floating cloud motifs that coiled near the sleeves like mist. Silver thread caught the morning light, glimmering at the collar in elegant, understated patterns. Shen Yuan stared at the ensemble as if it had personally wronged him in a previous life.

“Great.” he muttered, tugging off his night robe with a sigh. “Now I’m cosplaying a celibate cultivator fashion model.”

The first layer gave him grief. Why so many layers? The inner robe clung like a stubborn second skin, the mid-layer folded around his torso with bureaucratic rigidity, and the sash seemed to have been invented by someone with a personal vendetta against fingers. He fought with the knots like they were miniature demons. The fabric, at least, was forgiving—high-quality silk, smooth and cool against his skin, pliant under his touch. But every inch of it screamed purity. Virtue. No sex allowed.

Once he’d wrangled the final knot into place, he turned to confront the next boss-level challenge: hair.

He caught sight of his reflection in the bronze mirror resting on a bamboo shelf—barely a glimpse, but enough to remind him of the waterfall of black silk now cascading over his shoulders to below his hips. It was long. Lustrous. Unreasonably well-maintained. He scowled and seized a carved wooden comb from one of the drawers of the desk, dragging it through the gleaming strands with no small measure of resentment.

“This body’s hair routine must take hours.” he grumbled under his breath. “Who the hell has time for this? I barely remember to moisturize…and that is only if my meimei reminded me.”

Gathering the heavy curtain of hair into an armful, he reached for the pale green ribbon laid beside the comb. He tried to wrap it around the mass, only for it to slither through his fingers and drop to the floor like a rebellious eel.

Fwip.

He stared at it, betrayed. “System. Why couldn’t the original host be bald or something?”

[ A bald inner disciple of Qing Jing Peak would statistically lower the sect’s aesthetic value by 17.8%! (⁀ᗢ⁀)✧ ]

“I hate you.” Shen Yuan said, voice devoid of heat. He tried again. The ribbon fought back. A strand slipped loose, curling across his face like a smug little whip. He bared his teeth at his own reflection.

“Gods above, I am going to shave this off.”

[ Host, please refrain! Long hair is a core cultural signifier of refinement and spiritual prowess in xianxia cultivation realms! You wouldn’t want to appear uncivilized, would you?~ (•̀ᴗ•́)و  ]

“You know what else is uncivilized? Me setting you on fire.”

It took five long minutes of internal screaming, silk wrangling, and hair-taming warfare before Shen Yuan finally tied the ribbon into a decent high ponytail. It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t artsy. But it was secure, and it didn’t fall apart when he blinked at it. He exhaled like a general after a long siege and turned back toward the mirror.

The bronze was cool and weighty in his hand, etched with delicate cloud motifs. He tilted it, and the reflection that stared back gave him pause.

“Oh.” he said aloud, now that he focused on his new appearance. 

The face in the mirror was… unfairly pretty.

Delicately sculpted features, a refined but not fragile jawline, and fox-shaped eyes in an arresting shade of garnet-amber, ringed with lashes so dark and long they looked drawn by brushstroke. His lips were the color of pale peach blossoms, soft and curved with natural melancholy, and just beneath the left corner of his mouth—an unmistakable beauty mark. A quiet signature of individuality. His complexion gleamed with the kind of smooth, luminous quality that made luxury skincare brands weep blood.

“…This is Zhu Xiao? Are you serious?”

Shen Yuan angled the mirror, peering left and right, squinting skeptically. “He’s not ‘devastatingly gorgeous’, but he’s that quiet-library-boy-who-writes-poetry level of pretty. The kind of guy you see in a costume drama and just know he dies in episode seven.”

[ Zhu Xiao’s facial structure contains genetic traits inherited from both Alpha and Omega lineages! (≧▽≦) ]

He blinked. “Wait—what? But he’s a beta. Isn’t that like… genetically neutral? Born from other betas?”

[ Generally true~ but recessive Alpha/Omega traits can emerge through ancestral inheritance! Zhu Xiao’s maternal grandfather was an Omega with superior aesthetic genes. (❁´◡`❁) ]

“Huh.” Shen Yuan hummed, still eyeing the mirror thoughtfully. In the logic of xianxia worlds, where bloodlines could involve phoenix spirits, dragon ancestry, and moon-blessed peach orchard cultivators, this actually tracked. A beta with legacy genes? Sure. Why the hell not.

That’s when he caught it. A faint, cool scent, threading through the air like rain on stone. Clean. Subtle. Sharp.

He sniffed again—instinctively. “Petrichor… and mint?”

He frowned, but not unpleasantly. The combination was soft, but refreshing. Rain and green leaves. Storm and clarity.

“Are these my pheromones?” he muttered, half-amused, half-impressed.

[ They are faint because Host is a beta. But a beta with excellent olfactory notes! ( •̀ ω •́ )✧ ]

“I’m not a scented candle.” he said flatly, placing the mirror down and running a palm down the front of his robes. “What’s next, System? Gonna market me as herbal aromatherapy?”

[ That can be arranged! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ ]

Shen Yuan—ah, no, Zhu Xiao—let out a noise of pure suffering and flopped back onto the edge of the bed, arms spread wide, staring at the paper ceiling in existential horror. “This is my life now. A pretty beta with storm-scented pheromones and a kaomoji-obsessed AI trying to turn me into romantic cannon fodder.”

[ Correction! ✧٩(•́⌄•́๑)و ✧ You are the important character of a rare and emotionally rewarding role for Shen Qingqiu’s romantic route! ]

“…Oh yeah.” Zhu Xiao deadpanned. “That makes it so much better.”

.

.

.

.

.

..

...

Chapter Text

[Cang Qiong Mountain
Qing Jing Peak
Disciple Male Dorm
Moment Later…]

Zhu Xiao stood frozen in place, one hand curled around the hilt of Ru Yi, his spiritual sword. His brows drew together in suspicion, and the corner of his mouth twitched slightly as he stared at the air like it had personally offended him.

“…Wait a damn minute.” he muttered, narrowing his eyes. “System. My main mission is to… make that scum villain fall in love with me.” He squinted as if trying to physically wrestle the logic into something coherent. “Which is already stretching the boundaries of what’s believable, but fine. Whatever. But does that mean I have to save Shen Qingqiu from dying?”

A familiar chime resounded, and a semi-transparent red window flickered into view before him. It's golden text pulsed with almost obnoxious enthusiasm.

[ Host is correct! Shen Qingqiu must stay alive. If Host fails to save Shen Qingqiu, Host will be TERMINATED (╯✧▽✧)╯ ]

Zhu Xiao stared at the sparkling emoticon dancing at the end of the sentence, then dragged a hand slowly down his face.

“Why do you sound so excited about the word ‘terminated’? Are you… enjoying this?” he asked the void, deadpan.

The system cheerfully remained silent.

He let out a low, exhausted groan and plopped back onto the floor mat with all the energy of a dying protagonist who just realized he was in a plot-heavy otome game with death flags. Pressing his knuckles to his temple, he let his mind drift reluctantly toward the most horrific image from the novel that he really didn’t want to think about—but couldn’t unsee.

【…Within the dark, gloomy room, a metal chain hung from a wooden beam. A ring was clasped at its end, fastened tightly around the waist of something that might have once been a man. His figure was filthy and disheveled, stripped of dignity, limbs severed to stumps, tongue torn from his mouth. All that escaped his throat were hoarse, broken cries of agony…】

— Proud Immortal Demon Way: A/B/O Dynamic Version ,
Selected passage on Shen Qingqiu’s fate

“Right. ” Zhu Xiao muttered. “That hack author really did him dirty…even though he did deserve it.” He shuddered as the mental image stuck like week-old gum to a shoe. “I have to stop that from happening? I was hoping this whole mission would involve staying the trauma far away from Luo Binghe.”

He rubbed at his face with both hands, then lifted his head slightly. “Okay, okay, think. If I remember right, that scene happens after five years when Shen Qingqiu yeets Luo Binghe into the Endless Abyss. So logically, I just need to… make sure that never happens. Easy.”

Not easy.

“Wait—hold on. When exactly am I right now?”

[ Answering for Host! The current timeline is several months after the Disciple Selection Ceremony! ]

Relief flooded Zhu Xiao’s chest. “Okay, that’s manageable. Still early enough to intervene. Still time before the angst-ridden betrayals and demonic awakenings.”

He leaned back, plotting. “I just need to stay away from both of them, maybe manipulate things from the shadows. Subtle moves. Butterfly flaps wings, et cetera.”

[ ⚠ WARNING! Host must remain in character. The OOC feature is currently frozen. Completing the first task will unlock it. Any action in violation of the original Zhu Xiao’s character will result in a deduction of B-Points. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)ノ⌒*:･ﾟ✧ ]

A loud alarm rang in his ears—HONK HONK HONK—startling Zhu Xiao so badly he nearly leapt out of his own skin.

“What the actual fuck was that?” he snapped at the now-glittering system window.

He glared at the new message, reading the bold golden letters.

[ “OOC” refers to “Out of Character”, defined as any action or behavior inconsistent with the original Zhu Xiao’s established personality. ]

Zhu Xiao squinted. “You think I don’t know what ‘OOC’ means? I spent half my life reading forum debates on whether Naruto should cry less or if Ciel Phantomhive is a bottom.”

[ Just covering the basics! (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ ]

“Right. Because what I really needed right now was an overenthusiastic system with the emotional maturity of a boba shop mascot.” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair.

“So let me get this straight. Until I complete this first mission, I can’t do anything out of line with the original Zhu Xiao’s character?” he asked slowly.

[ Correct!  ]

Zhu Xiao groaned. “And how, pray tell, am I supposed to know what Zhu Xiao is like? He didn’t even have dialogue lines in the original novel! I didn’t even know he existed until I became him.”

[ This System will assist Host! Original Zhu Xiao is an aloof, quiet beta. He dislikes socializing, avoids unnecessary conflict, and spends his time focused on cultivation. He is considered distant but not unkind. ]

“…So he’s a boring background NPC.” Zhu Xiao rolled his eyes. “Great. I reincarnated as Beige Incarnate.”

Holstering Ru Yi with a frustrated sigh, he stood up. His sword settled comfortably against his left hip, the scabbard pressing lightly against the fabric of his robes. He exhaled and stared at the glowing interface. “Fine. Hit me. What’s the first task?”

[ Task 1: Get Shen Qingqiu Acknowledge You! (≧▽≦)ノ ]

Zhu Xiao froze.

He blinked once. Twice. Then, slowly looked up toward the heavens—or rather, the ceiling beams—and muttered:

“…I thought the first task was supposed to be the easy one.”

.

..

…

Disciple, Are You Flirting With Me?

Chapter Two

“A Beta’s First Task”

…

..

.

[Cang Qiong Mountain
Qing Jing Peak
Later…]

Zhu Xiao was starting to understand, on a visceral level, just how aloof and unapproachable the original Zhu Xiao had been.

After attending a few classes on Qing Jing Peak, the reality became abundantly clear: no one talked to him. In fact, no one even looked at him. Not a single “Shixiong, good morning,” not a passing nod, not even a sneaky side-eye from a gossip-hungry shimei. It was like he didn’t exist—a decorative screen panel in human form.

“Does the original Zhu Xiao not have a single friend? Like at all?” Zhu Xiao muttered under his breath as he walked down the stone pathway leading away from the lecture pavilion. The breeze was crisp, the air filled with the faint scent of pine needles, distant mountain rain, and… teenage hormones.

He wrinkled his nose, suddenly aware of just how overwhelming the scents of Alphas and Omegas were in this world. As a Beta, his nose wasn’t quite as sensitive as an Omega’s, but it still picked up the tangy sharpness of Alpha pheromones and the sweet, floral undertones of Omegas’—a cloying perfume cocktail that made him feel like he’d just walked through a department store's perfume section.

Back when he was Shen Yuan, just a regular twenty-something human with chronic internet addiction and a fondness for instant noodles, none of this was a thing. Now, at seventeen—because yes, apparently the original Zhu Xiao was a teenager who had already presented as a Beta—he was dealing with an entirely new sensory system. He was still adjusting.

According to the lore of Proud Immortal Demon Way: A/B/O Dynamic Version—ugh, what a stupid mouthful of a title—subgender presentation usually happened between ages thirteen and eighteen. So technically, he was right on schedule. Fortunately.

From what he could recall of the novel, Betas were the most common subgender. But cultivator Betas were on a whole other level: physically enhanced, strong spiritual roots, and most importantly, a balanced blend of yin and yang qi. Alphas skewed toward high yang qi—aggressive, powerful, and explosively domineering. Omegas, with their abundant yin qi, were the gentler, more nurturing types, often preyed upon in this ridiculous world Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky had created for horny readers with power dynamics fetishes.

Zhu Xiao’s lips twisted in distaste. “The logic of this setting makes less sense the more I think about it…”

Still, among Qing Jing Peak’s disciples, he’d already identified a handful of Alphas and a few Omegas—one of whom was Ning Yingying. Zhu Xiao made a mental note: must keep her as far away from Shen Qingqiu as possible. No sweet, bubbly Omega girls near that lecherous scum villain. Nope. Not on his watch.

Zhu Xiao grimaced. “Seriously, how the hell am I supposed to get him—the Cold Beauty Alpha of Qing Jing Peak—to fall in love with me? I’m just the person equivalent of furniture right now.”

He hadn’t even seen Shen Qingqiu yet. The man never showed up for lectures. He left teaching to the Hallmasters—lazy bastard. So far, Zhu Xiao had sat through three classes, learned absolutely nothing useful, and stared at wooden floorboards while trying not to fall asleep.

Today’s class was held at the White Leaf Pavilion, which, frankly, sounded like a placeholder name Airplane came up with after pulling an all-nighter and chugging expired Red Bull. Zhu Xiao narrowed his eyes at the plaque hanging above the doors. ‘White Leaf Pavilion? Really? Couldn’t even bother with “Jade Willow” or “Moonlit Crane”? Lazy hack…’

He shuffled inside and took his usual spot at the back, hoping for a nap. The lecture topic? “The Art of Pain in Classical Poetry.” Ugh. Perfect. He half-listened as Hallmaster Ping, a shriveled, scholarly man with a wispy beard and permanent frown lines, began reciting verses in a slow, dramatic tone.

Zhu Xiao sat upright with proper posture (Beta cultivators had standards, okay), folded his hands in his sleeves, and stared blankly at the lectern while his thoughts wandered far away.

Specifically… to Luo Binghe.

If this timeline was only a few months post-Disciple Selection, then Luo Binghe would still be a wide-eyed thirteen-year-old—barely in teenhood and tragically adorable. And probably, right about now, being bullied into oblivion by the rest of the disciples and living in some godforsaken woodshed with spiders the size of his face.

‘Poor kid.’ Zhu Xiao sighed, resting his chin in one hand. ‘White lotus protagonist treatment is a bitch.’

A gentle rustle caught his attention. His classmates were reaching for their brushes and parchment. Ugh—poetry time. Zhu Xiao mirrored their actions, dipping his brush in ink and staring at the blank paper like it owed him money.

His hand moved on its own, and he lazily scrawled down a line from a motivational quote he remembered from his previous life:

Growth is painful. Change is painful. But nothing is as painful as staying stuck somewhere you don’t belong.

‘Damn, that hits too close to home.’ Zhu Xiao mused, setting the brush down with careful precision, ensuring the tip didn’t splatter ink on the delicate parchment. He leaned back against the wooden seat, letting out a soft exhale as he allowed himself a moment of quiet reflection. The low hum of murmured voices and the occasional scratch of brush against paper filled the White Leaf Pavilion like background static.

His eyelids fluttered closed, shutting out the warm rays of sunlight filtering through the finely latticed windows, and for a moment, the classroom faded. His thoughts turned instead to the man he was supposed to make fall in love with him: Shen Qingqiu. The Cold Beauty Alpha. The scum villain.

In the original novel, Shen Qingqiu had been described as devastatingly beautiful—so beautiful that readers often questioned whether he was truly an Alpha at all. Not only, was he just gorgeous, Shen Qingqiu was scarily competent too. He had decades of cultivation training, bore the title of Qing Jing Peak Lord, and served as second-in-command to the entire Cang Qiong Mountain Sect. Standing, reputation, wealth—he had it all, wrapped up in a perfect bow.

‘So why.’ Zhu Xiao lamented. ‘Did this refined Alpha act like an underfed concubine locked in the back courtyard with nothing better to do than sneer at the protagonist and hatch petty schemes?’

Why did he treat Luo Binghe like a walking curse, picking fights and doling out punishments like it was a personal hobby? Even when Luo Binghe hadn’t done anything wrong! Sure, the kid was a protagonist with golden fingers and heavenly talent, but still, that didn’t justify the endless bullying.

Zhu Xiao sighed deeply. It wasn’t Shen Qingqiu’s fault, really. That lazy author, Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky, just wanted a cannon fodder villain to be a stepping stone for the main character. Shen Qingqiu had simply been the unfortunate soul chosen for over-the-top degradation. A glorified firework show meant to flare briefly and burn out.

And to top it all off, Airplane hadn’t even bothered to describe details about him properly. Just “too pretty to be real” and “dead behind the eyes.” Honestly. A hack of the highest order. Like, what is his skin tone? Shape of face? What about his height? Any special feature that stands out? Hell, not even eye color is mentioned!

The loud chime of the bell snapped Zhu Xiao from his musings.

Hallmaster Ping struck the ceremonial bell with practiced elegance, signaling the end of the lesson. Disciples rose in practiced synchronicity, the soft rustle of robes accompanying the scraping of chairs against the bamboo floor. They filed neatly toward the front, handing in their poetry assignments like good little scholars.

Zhu Xiao blinked and glanced down at his parchment, hurriedly scribbling his new name—Zhu Xiao—at the bottom in a fluid hand. He stood, stretching his arms behind his back until his spine cracked audibly, then made his way to the front to submit his paper. Hallmaster Ping gave him a perfunctory nod, eyes unreadable.

Once outside the White Leaf Pavilion, Zhu Xiao inhaled deeply, the scent of spring grass and pine hitting his sensitive beta nose. The crisp mountain air of Qing Jing Peak carried faint traces of incense and medicinal herbs, mixing with the distant chatter of disciples and the occasional chirping of birds.

He was just about to explore the sprawling, mist-kissed landscape when a loud, arrogant voice cut through the air like a cleaver through tofu.

“—bought this really nice jade for shimei. ” boasted a smug voice.

Zhu Xiao’s fox-shaped garnet-amber eyes narrowed. He turned over his shoulder, frowning in mild annoyance at the disturbance.

A youth stood surrounded by a small group of sycophants, tall and lanky with a Qing Jing disciple robe fluttering faintly in the breeze. He held up a polished rabbit-shaped jade like it was a precious artifact plucked from the heavens themselves. His tone reeked of self-satisfaction.

“Oh! She’ll love that, Ming Fan.” one of his toadies chirped, others chiming in agreement.

‘Oh.’ Zhu Xiao’s eye twitched.

‘So that’s Ming Fan, huh?’

Zhu Xiao studied the boy with barely concealed disdain. Ming Fan, the Head Disciple. A beta cultivator who somehow thought he was more important than everyone else. In the novel, he had been a pompous bully with a crush the size of Mount Tai on Ning Yingying and an ego inflated enough to launch into orbit. His looks? Tragically average. His sunken cheeks made him look permanently peevish, and his mouth was all sharp angles and judgmental sneers. Classic cannon fodder material.

Zhu Xiao squinted at the jade in Ming Fan’s hand, a sleek, clear carving shaped like a rabbit. A memory clicked into place.

‘Wait. Isn’t this right before that infamous scene where he tries to court Ning Yingying with that exact jade, only for her to swoon over Luo Binghe’s raggedy old Guanyin instead?’

Zhu Xiao pinched the bridge of his nose, already sensing the incoming drama.

That damn jade Guanyin had been Luo Binghe’s most cherished item—his final keepsake from his late adopted mother. After Ning Yingying's rejection, Ming Fan and his goons had stolen it and tossed it out, like it was trash.

The thought made Zhu Xiao’s chest tighten. That broken little lotus had clung to that trinket like it was the last thread connecting him to love.

Just as he was debating whether he could subtly interfere, a shrill alarm screeched in his ears like a vuvuzela from hell—HONK HONK HONK—and a bright red screen popped up in front of his eyes.

[ ⚠️ OOC WARNING! ⚠️
Zhu Xiao would not just help anyone. He would turn a blind eye and walk away. Please preserve character integrity! (๑˃̵ᴗ˂̵)/✨ ]

Zhu Xiao’s eye twitched again, more violently this time. ‘Seriously? Even this?!’ he mentally snapped.

[ (o^▽^o)✧ Cheer up, Host! You can observe the scene as long as you don't directly interfere~! ]

‘You’re so lucky I can’t punch you through the interface.’

[ ✧(≧▽≦)/✧ Thank you for your continued patience, Host! ]

Zhu Xiao heaved a sigh so long it could’ve been a wind technique. 'Fine. I’ll figure something out.' he grumbled. 'I’ll just… “coincidentally” pass by or drop a vague warning or something. That’s not technically interfering. Right?'

[ (*≧ω≦)b Correct~! You’re learning the loopholes so fast, Host! ]

Before Zhu Xiao could make a snide remark, the system gleefully dropped another bright red window.

[ Reminder! First task:
💘 Get Shen Qingqiu to ACKNOWLEDGE you! 💘
(๑>◡<๑) Good luck, Host~! ]

Zhu Xiao dragged a hand down his face with a groan.

‘How the hell am I supposed to get noticed when that scumlord isn’t even around?! He doesn’t show up to anything! Not one damn class!’

[ ☆⌒(≧▽° ) Then Host should go FIND him! ]

‘Easy for you to say! You’re not the one stuck in a teenage body, in a new world, dodging OOC alarms and suicidal plot triggers!’

[ (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ Keep up the great work, Host! I believe in you~! ]

Zhu Xiao let out another groan, arms folded across his chest as he began trudging down the stone path toward the bamboo grove. The wind ruffled his robe sleeves like ghostly hands whispering through silk.

‘I swear.’ he muttered internally. ‘If I have to climb a mountain to find that overly powdered iceberg, I’m pushing him down it.’

[ (*≧▽≦)ﾉ That’s the spirit! ]

.

.

.

Several hours had passed.

And Zhu Xiao was still trudging through Qing Jing Peak like a lost spirit wandering the desolate misty wilds.

At first, he had thought, How big could one sect peak really be? Just climb a few stairs, stroll past a few pavilions, maybe peek behind a fan-wielding disciple or two—and voilà, Cold Beauty Alpha sighted.

Wrong.

So very, achingly wrong.

“Are you kidding me?” Zhu Xiao muttered under his breath, brushing a stray leaf off his shoulder as he trudged along a winding stone path for what felt like the dozenth time. “This place is like a never-ending maze of polished wood, cold stone, and way too many flower beds.”

The sky had darkened to a mellow violet-blue, the sun dipping low behind mist-capped trees. Bamboo leaves rustled above, wind soft and scented faintly with plum blossoms. The ambient chirps of evening crickets began to rise, serenading his descent into utter exhaustion and growing annoyance.

[ ☆～(‘▽^人) Keep going, Host! You’re doing so well! Never give up, never surrender! ＼（＠￣∇￣＠）／ ]

Zhu Xiao’s left eye twitched.

“Shut up.”

[ You can do it, Zhu Xiao! (≧◡≦) This is your heroic journey to win the favor of the Cold Beauty Villain! Shine like the protagonist you are meant to be!   ]

Zhu Xiao exhaled sharply through his nose, massaging the bridge of it with one gloved hand. “I’m not the protagonist, you sparkly data gremlin. I’m the reluctant transmigrated bystander who’s stuck doing legwork because someone didn’t install a map function.”

[   (o´▽`o)ゝ A map would ruin the spiritual challenge, Host! You must walk your path with courage and perseverance! Fighting~!  ]

“Perseverance?” Zhu Xiao’s voice pitched upward incredulously as he stopped beside a koi pond so pristine it looked painted. “I’ve circled the same damn pavilion three times! I’m pretty sure the koi recognize me now.”

The largest koi indeed poked its head up with a slow blink.

[  (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ✩ That’s just the start of your bond with nature~! You’re becoming one with the peak! Your aura is like the protagonist in syncing!   ]

Zhu Xiao groaned. “Can you—I don’t know—be useful for once? Just once? How about telling me where the scumlord villain is hiding? Or give me a vague direction? A smoke signal? Morse code?!”

[  (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧ Nope! This is a trial of fate and willpower! You must find Shen Qingqiu on your own, with the strength of your passionate resolve and determination!! 💖💖💖  ]

Zhu Xiao deadpanned. “You mean you can help but you won’t, because you’re trying to manufacture character growth like a Saturday morning cartoon arc.”

[ (☆ω☆) Exactly!! See, you’re getting it~! Growth! ]

Zhu Xiao let out a long, exhausted sigh that deflated his shoulders. “Gods. I’m going to die here. On this mountain. My bones will be mistaken for decorative landscaping. Some squirrel’s going to build a shrine to me.”

He was about to turn away and continue his soul-numbing trek when—

A soft, distant melody drifted through the air.

It wasn’t quite like anything he’d heard before—no rambunctious strings or chaotic flute trills. It was serene. Soulful. Notes that shimmered like moonlight over a still lake, elegant and full of longing. Every pluck of the guqin thrummed with quiet grace, like brushstrokes painting a sorrowful dream.

Zhu Xiao froze mid-step. His breath caught.

Slowly, he turned his head toward the direction of the music, eyes narrowing slightly. That… wasn’t ordinary practice music. That was something performed with deliberate, haunting precision—every string tuned to melancholy, the kind that lingered in your bones.

As if pulled by an invisible thread, he followed the sound.

Through a narrow bamboo grove, past a serene lotus pond, and beneath the arch of a flowering peach tree, he came to a secluded pavilion of white jade and dark wood nestled at the cliff’s edge, surrounded by floating pink petals that danced gently in the evening wind.

And seated within the pavilion—

Was him.

Zhu Xiao’s breath hitched.

The figure at the guqin sat with such elegance that it looked staged. White jade skin like fresh-fallen snow, unblemished and almost glowing in the soft light. Delicately arched brows framed a serene expression, and long lashes brushed cheeks as eyes remained closed in concentration. His lips were a natural shade of dusky rose, soft and full, slightly pursed in focus. And his hair—heavens, his hair—flowed in obsidian-black ribbons, so silky and perfectly groomed that it shimmered in the wind. It was bound partly by a jade hairpin, the rest cascading over his shoulders like a waterfall of night.

He wore flowing white and green silk robes, layered with precision, embroidered subtly with cloud motifs and mountain patterns at the hem, designs that spoke of quiet wealth and status without ostentation. The fabric fluttered softly with the breeze, giving him an almost ethereal quality.

He looked like he had stepped from the pages of a painting—no, as if the painting had been based on him, and reality was merely trying to catch up.

Zhu Xiao just stood there.

Mouth slightly open. Brain is very much off.

[ ＼(≧▽≦)／ Ding-ding-ding~! Congratulations, Host! You have located Qing Jing Peak’s Lord, the Cold Beauty Alpha: Shen Qingqiu!! +10 B-Points Awarded!  ]

Zhu Xiao didn’t react.

Still staring.

Still very, very dumbfounded.

[  ٩(๑❛ᴗ❛๑)۶ Isn’t he beautiful~? Like, wowza!! Truly the pinnacle of immortal aesthetics!  ]

Zhu Xiao slowly turned his head. “That’s not a man. That’s a divine weapon designed to kill with visuals alone.”

[   (⁄ ⁄>⁄ ▽ ⁄<⁄ ⁄) You got this, Host!! Beliiieeeve~!! Seduce him with the power of your charm and poetry and maybe a little cleavage! ✧٩(•́⌄•́๑)و ✧  ]

“I hate you.” Zhu Xiao whispered as Shen Qingqiu opened his eyes.

And they were green.

Not ordinary green, no—bamboo green, shimmering and cool, with an edge of ice that could silence a room. The kind of green that looked like it saw through all pretenses, as if even a flutter of your thoughts had nowhere to hide.

Zhu Xiao’s breath left him again.

Shen Qingqiu blinked once, those inhumanly beautiful eyes flickering ever so slightly toward the intruder standing like a deer caught mid-swoon.

Their eyes met.

And Zhu Xiao had no idea what to do next.

“…How the hell—” he muttered faintly. “—am I supposed to seduce a glacier carved by gods?”

.

.

.

.

.

..

...

Chapter Text

[Cang Qiong Mountain
Qing Jing Peak
White Jade Pavilion]

Zhu Xiao’s breath left him again.

Shen Qingqiu blinked once, those inhumanly beautiful eyes flickering ever so slightly toward the intruder standing like a deer caught mid-swoon.

Their eyes met.

And Zhu Xiao had no idea what to do next.

“…How the hell—” he muttered faintly. “—am I supposed to seduce a glacier carved by gods?”

He didn’t move—couldn’t. His limbs felt like they’d been petrified by some divine gaze, or maybe just by the sheer intensity of that face. It wasn’t fair. That was the only coherent thought left in his mind. It wasn’t fair to look like that. No book, no adaptation, no cruel author’s prose had ever adequately warned him about this. The Shen Qingqiu he had prepared for—the arrogant scumlord with a venomous tongue and an evil smirk—was supposed to be handsome, yes. Ethereal, even. But this?

This was something else entirely.

The wind whispered through the bamboo leaves, carrying the faint scent of snow lotus and sandalwood. The pale silk of Shen Qingqiu’s layered robes swayed gently, catching the gold of the setting sun, making him look less like a man and more like a painting rendered by a divine brush. The long fall of obsidian-black hair spilled over his shoulder like liquid ink, glossy and weightless, catching the breeze like the strands themselves were alive. That hair alone could make a grown man weep.

He had skin that could shame polished jade, a flawless, snow-pure complexion unmarred by time or blemish. Those lips—lightly pressed in composure—were soft, pale rose, like dew-kissed petals. His straight, elegant brows were drawn with the precision of a calligraphy master, and above his brow rested a finely worked jade hairpin that gleamed like moonlight on still water.

He sat within the White Jade Pavilion, guqin before him, framed in the open space like a scene from some lost celestial court. Though he had ceased playing, his fingers still rested on the strings, as though reluctant to break the spell.

Zhu Xiao couldn’t breathe.

And then—ding!

A sudden red window popped up to the side of his vision, all cheerful glow and bouncing sparkles.

[ Host seems to be suffering from Acute Beauty Shock~! (⁄ ⁄>⁄ ▽ ⁄<⁄ ⁄)
Diagnosis: Love at First Sight ♥
Recommendation: Breathe, Host! Fall for him after the Main Mission~! ( •̀ ω •́ )✧ ]

Zhu Xiao visibly flinched, shoulders jerking back like someone had thrown a brick at his face.

‘I did not fall in love at first sight!’ he hissed internally, eyes still locked on the man across the courtyard but now twitching with panic. ‘What the hell is wrong with you?! I was just—just—startled! Shocked! Appalled! Yes, appalled by this unattainable aesthetic standard that no mortal should possess!’

[ Eeeeeh~? (≧◡≦)ゞ  But your heart rate went up 30%! That’s what we call a ka-thunk!
Come on, Host, just admit it~ He’s your type, isn’t he? Ice-cold, beautiful, aloof dom vibes? ♪(´▽｀)  ]

Zhu Xiao’s eye twitched. ‘My type is breathing, thank you.’

[ He is breathing! Look closer~ (¬‿¬ ) ]

‘I will reprogram you with a hammer.’

The window vibrated as if giggling.

Before he could strangle the imaginary construct with his mind, a cold, clear voice cut through the air like the strike of a guqin string, snapping the humor from the moment with all the subtlety of an executioner’s blade.

“This area is forbidden to disciples.”

Zhu Xiao flinched, heart thudding like a bell struck too hard.

It wasn’t just the words. It was the way they were spoken—elegantly spaced syllables with not a trace of warmth. No anger, no exasperation, no human irritation. Only an arctic clarity that sent goosebumps down his spine. Like the man had never once needed to raise his voice to be obeyed. Zhu Xiao had never in his life heard anyone sound so dignified while so completely uninterested in his existence.

The system pinged again, almost too brightly.

[ Alert! Alert! Encounter with Mission Target: Shen Qingqiu
+10 B-Points awarded!
Status: Cold Beauty Alpha successfully located~! ♡(｡- ω -) ]

Zhu Xiao mentally buried his face in both hands. ‘Kill me.’

[ (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡ But then who would fulfill the mission~? ]

Straightening with all the grace he could muster—channeling every ounce of borrowed elegance from books he hadn’t finished reading—Zhu Xiao stepped forward, halting just outside the pristine white steps of the pavilion. He stood tall, back straight, hands respectfully cupped as he bowed with restrained dignity.

His voice, when it came, was smooth, calm, and practiced. As if he hadn’t just been caught gawking like a provincial peasant at a divine statue come to life.

“…This one greets Shizun.”

The breeze passed softly between them, ruffling the edges of both robes. The rustle of silk mingled with the faint rustling of pine needles overhead, the scent of sandalwood deepening on the wind. From within the White Jade Pavilion, the guqin remained still, its strings silent, save for the soft humming resonance left by earlier notes—an echo suspended in time, like the last breath of a dream fading before full wakefulness.

Shen Qingqiu studied him in silence.

That expression—placid, flawless, and impenetrable—didn’t so much as twitch. His gaze was steady, sharp as a blade, yet aloof in the way only immortals and men with too much restraint could manage. There wasn’t the slightest flicker of emotion, no recognition, no curiosity, no disdain. Just cool, contemplative observation, as though Zhu Xiao were some mildly interesting bug that had wandered a few inches too close to his teacup.

Zhu Xiao resisted the sudden, nearly overwhelming urge to tug at his collar.

Too hot. Way too hot.

Not the temperature—no, the mountain air was crisp and cool, the shade of the pavilion casting soft relief against the late afternoon sun. It was him. That ridiculous ice-prince aura, those perfectly sculpted features, that penetrating gaze that felt like it could expose every awkward, secondhand fan theory lodged in Zhu Xiao’s skull. It was like standing too close to a celestial artifact and realizing you were made of dirt and nervous sweat.

‘This is fine.’ he told himself. ‘Totally fine. Just a conversation with a literal legendary figure of cultivation literature who happens to look like a fallen god. Don’t mess this up.’

[ Kyaa~! (๑>◡<๑) What a sweet first meeting!  Our precious Host, so flustered~! ♡〜٩( ˃́▿˂̀ )۶〜♡ ]

Zhu Xiao’s eyelid twitched violently.

‘Shut up.’

[ Aww, don’t be shy~! It’s natural to be nervous when meeting your destined partner! ♪(๑ᴖ◡ᴖ๑)♪ ]

‘There is no destiny involved here! I am not nervous! I’m startled. Shocked. Emotionally blindsided, maybe. But there is nothing romantic happening!’

[ But Host stared for 11.3 seconds before greeting him~ (〃ﾟ3ﾟ〃) That’s a new personal record!
Also: facial flush detected! ♪(^∇^*) ]

‘I have circulation, thank you!’ Zhu Xiao snapped mentally. ‘And I am not gay! I am a perfectly neutral beta with perfectly reasonable heterosexual panic, and—!’ He paused mid-internal rant. ‘Even if I was—which I’m not, shut up—even if I was, what makes you think he’d be interested in some random beta intruder standing here like an idiot? Shen Qingqiu probably doesn’t even like people. He’s practically allergic to emotional intimacy.’

[ Wah~! What a tragic love story! Beautiful immortal cultivator avoids feelings until one brave little beta warms his frozen heart! ♥～(‘▽^人) ]

‘You’re writing fanfiction in my brain and I hate it.’

But before he could mentally throttle the system again, Shen Qingqiu moved.

Barely.

A tilt of the head. The tiniest shift of weight. His sleeves fluttered like drifting snow. And then, that cold, elegant voice broke the silence once more—so measured, so devoid of warmth, it felt like it had been stored in glacier stone for centuries before being spoken aloud.

“Is there a reason…” Shen Qingqiu said, voice neither loud nor soft. “...you are standing here?”

.

..

…

Disciple, Are You Flirting With Me?

Chapter Three

“A Hidden Prodigy”

…

..

.

Zhu Xiao swore he could feel the sentence crystallizing in the air between them. Each syllable was a shard of frost, perfectly formed, delivered with the care of a scholar and the detachment of a man who had better things to do than entertain a stray.

He mentally grimaced.

‘Oh, gods, he thinks I’m some lost disciple with delusions of grandeur.’

[ Awww, he’s talking to you~! (✿ ♥‿♥) Your first line exchange! Should I log this under ‘precious memories’? ]

‘I will uninstall you with fire.’

[  (｡・//ε//・｡) So shy~! Don’t worry, Host, I’m your number one wingman!  ]

‘You’re going to be the reason I die in this world.’

[ Then it’ll be a beautiful tragedy~! (*≧▽≦) ]

Zhu Xiao took a discreet breath, forcing his expression into something calm and courteous, carefully shielding the roiling chaos beneath his skin. His heart might have been flailing like a trapped squirrel, but his face said: I am completely in control of myself, and definitely not experiencing a sexuality crisis under the gaze of a fictional man.

He lifted his head, and with a voice that barely trembled, replied with as much grace as he could wrangle:

“…Shizun, I apologize for the intrusion—”

Zhu Xiao’s tongue moved ahead of his better judgment as his brain scrambled like a cornered rabbit, dragging out the most plausible, least ridiculous excuse it could assemble on short notice. He couldn’t just toss out a clumsy lie—not to this man. Shen Qingqiu wasn’t some bumbling elder from the outer peaks who’d forget a name or overlook a mistake. This was the Shen Qingqiu. Cultivation genius. Peak Lord of Qing Jing. Strategist. Scholar. Martial Arts master. Living library. He probably knew every disciple's face and their great-grandmother’s maiden name.

Zhu Xiao couldn’t lie to a man who probably did background checks on butterflies.

So he opted for a careful half-truth.

“I was… searching for an isolated area to meditate.” he said, voice smooth with a practiced calm that barely covered the tailspin going on inside his ribcage. His hands were folded neatly within his sleeves, posture respectful, bow angled precisely—not too deep, not too shallow. “But I became lost in thought and… stumbled here by mistake.”

There. A clean half-truth. He had been walking—no, wandering—the mountain paths, searching not for tranquility but for a fictional man with a sword collection and ice in his blood. He had followed the trail of guqin music like a moth chasing firelight. And now, scorched, he prayed that the flames wouldn’t bite.

A silence settled between them.

His bamboo-green eyes narrowed slightly—just a fraction—but enough to cool the air between them by several degrees. The breeze that passed through the White Jade Pavilion seemed to be still in respect, or perhaps fear, of the man at its center. His robe sleeves fluttered once before settling again with an immaculate fold, the green embroidery of bamboo and clouds as pristine as his silence.

Zhu Xiao resisted the urge to sweat through his robes.

There was a long pause. The kind of pause that implied judgment. A pause that pulled apart every syllable Zhu Xiao had just spoken and weighed it against Shen Qingqiu’s encyclopedic mental ledger.

Then, with the grace of a man bored by all things mortal, Shen Qingqiu turned slightly toward the open mountainside path, one hand resting near the edge of his guqin.

“…Then go.”

Two words.

Two syllables. Sharper than a sword unsheathed, delivered with the dispassion of a falling snowflake.

Zhu Xiao could practically hear the unspoken “You’ve wasted enough of my time.”

‘Hah—yes! Of course! Leaving now! Happy to vanish!’

He bowed low, much deeper this time, nearly tripping over himself in his rush to comply. “I thank Shizun for your magnanimity.” he said quickly, not daring to linger longer than a single breath.

And with that, he turned on his heel and made the swiftest, most dignified exit he could muster. His pace was just under a jog, his steps fast but polite, down the garden path and away from the pavilion, from the glacial aura, from the sharp eyes that had already seen too much.

And then—

[ Ehhhh? (＠°◡°＠) You’re leaving already?! What about bonding time?!
You two didn’t even share eye contact for at least five seconds! That’s like, tragic romance levels of missed fate~! (つ≧▽≦)つ ]

Zhu Xiao nearly choked on air as he stomped down the path.

‘Bonding time? Are you trying to get me killed?! That man radiated the energy of a sword forged from pure judgment! If I stayed any longer, he’d have stripped my soul out and used it to polish his guqin strings!’

[ Host, you missed a golden opportunity! What if you'd stayed and asked for cultivation advice?! Or accidentally touched his sleeve! Imagine the character development!~ (｡♥‿♥｡)   ]

‘Imagine my funeral, you mean! He would’ve ended me. Not in a sexy “enemies-to-lovers” way—in a “you breathe too loudly and now you're fertilizer” way!’ Zhu Xiao hissed mentally. 

[ But but but… he looked at you~! ₍՞◌′ᵕ‵ू◌₎♡ Doesn’t that count for something? ]

Zhu Xiao slowed his pace slightly, huffing, trying not to trip over his own feet in his aggrieved indignation. The mountain breeze still played at the hem of his robes, but now it was laced with pine sap and defeat.

‘Well, at least he knows I exist now. That means I’ve cleared the first task, right?’ He didn’t want to ask. He already felt the creeping sense of doom building in his gut. ‘Please. Please say that counts.’

[ Ara ara~! Sadly, no~! ( ≧Д≦)
Your First Task: Get Shen Qingqiu to Acknowledge You!
✨ STATUS: Failed~! ✨ ]

“…I’m sorry, what? ”

[ Task One: Get Shen Qingqiu to acknowledge you!
Result: ❌ Did not acknowledge!
Host was dismissed like a beggar at a noble banquet! That doesn’t count! ╮(─▽─)╭  ]

Zhu Xiao stopped walking entirely, frozen mid-step on the path. A bird chirped somewhere above, unaware of his impending aneurysm.

‘WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?!’ Zhu Xiao mentally roared. ‘He looked at me, spoke to me, told me to leave! What more do you want?! An invitation to tea?! Blood sacrifice?!’

[ Aww, don’t be pouty~! (๑˃́ꇴ˂̀๑)
By ‘acknowledge’, this System means he must recognize you as an individual of note! You can’t just be a passing NPC! You need to make an impression, like a main character! ]

Zhu Xiao stared blankly down the winding path, wind tugging his hair as if nature itself mocked him.

‘So you’re telling me I risked spiritual implosion just to be told “go,” and now I need to try harder ?’

[ Correct~! ＼(^▽^＠)ノ You’re doing your best~! This System believes in you~! ]

Zhu Xiao inhaled slowly. Exhaled even slower. Looked up at the sky with defeated rage. ‘I swear to the heavens. If this turns into a slow-burn enemies-to-lovers kind of life…I’m going to jump off the rainbow bridge.’

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[Cang Qiong Mountain
Qing Jing Peak
Blue Pond
Moment Later…]

Zhu Xiao hadn’t intended to wander this far, but the winding garden paths of Qing Jing Peak seemed to lead him by instinct more than reason. One turn led to another, steps quiet against polished stone and soft grass, until he came upon a break in the treeline. The forest gently bowed away from a hidden clearing, as if respectfully making space for something sacred.

A breath escaped him.

A pond lay nestled at the heart of the glade, its surface as still as glass, capturing the sky’s reflection like a mirror dipped in watercolor. The sunlight scattered across the water’s surface in glimmering shards—turquoise, sapphire, and streaks of silver—rippling softly when the wind teased the edges. Dragonflies hovered lazily above the pond, occasionally landing on lotus leaves that floated like jade coins upon the water. The air was crisp but gentle, scented faintly with moss, pine, and plum blossoms carried by the wind from who-knew-where.

It was perfect.

“Huh…” Zhu Xiao murmured, tilting his head slightly. “Now this… this is a good spot.”

It was the kind of place that made you want to sit down and stay for hours. A haven tucked away from the rest of the sect—untouched, serene. He could easily see himself meditating here, or practicing his sword forms. Hell, even napping in this secluded spot wouldn’t be a bad idea.

His hand moved on instinct to the sword strapped at his side.

He unsheathed it with quiet reverence, the sound a soft whisper of metal parting from wood. “Ru Yi.” he whispered to the blade, as if introducing himself for the first time. “As one wishes…”

The hilt was unassuming—black wrapped leather with glints of silver threading beneath it. But the blade… oh, the blade was something else entirely. Clean, polished steel with a faint sheen of spiritual light. Engraved plum blossoms adorned the flat of the blade, starting at the tip and curling down toward the midsection, delicate and fluid as if caught in an eternal snowfall.

“I never read about spiritual swords with engravings like this.” he muttered aloud, eyes narrowing in interest. “Plum blossoms… must be symbolic.”

A familiar ding! sounded in his mind as the red, semi-transparent screen of the system popped up with an almost smug flourish.

[ The Original Zhu Xiao received this sword from his late father. ‘Ru Yi’ meaning “as one wishes” was gifted with the plum blossom motif, symbolizing hope and new beginnings. His father wished him a future filled with both. (｡☌ᴗ☌｡)    ]

“…Huh.” A small weight tugged at Zhu Xiao’s chest. “That’s… oddly sweet.”

It was easy to forget that the Original Zhu Xiao had once existed—a real boy, with real pain. This sword wasn’t just a weapon; it was a memory.

He tapped the blade gently with his thumb and glanced over at the water again.

“Should I be worried about his family background?”

[ No need to worry, Host~! The Original Zhu Xiao’s family is… how shall we say… no longer on the mortal registry~ His late father was his last remaining relative and passed away when he was thirteen, just before joining Cang Qiong Mountain Sect.  ]

Zhu Xiao exhaled slowly. “So that’s why he was like that… no ties, no safety net. Just grief and a sword.”

He fell quiet, the weight of someone else’s life pressing against his shoulders. But it passed just as quickly as it had come—his gaze returning to the blade, now glinting under dappled light.

“Well… Let’s see what this body can do.”

He stepped deeper into the glade, the soft murmur of the pond behind him, and adjusted his grip on Ru Yi. His feet shifted naturally apart, grounding into the earth, and his spine aligned in a posture he hadn’t consciously learned but his body recalled effortlessly.

Then he moved.

The blade cut through the air in a single, clean arc—weightless, balanced. His right arm extended fluidly, left hand following to adjust his stance. Without thinking, he pivoted on the ball of his foot and brought the sword back in a crescent, letting the motion carry through his shoulders and hips. The edge of Ru Yi glinted like starlight, trailing afterimages that shimmered in the sun. It wasn’t just swordplay—it was choreography, a quiet and powerful waltz between wind and steel.

One movement flowed into the next: a feint that became a slash, a forward thrust that dissolved into a backwards whirl. Each step was confident, measured, and precise. His feet kissed the earth, never stomping, never dragging. His sleeves fluttered around him like clouds caught in motion. There was no hesitation in his limbs—his body knew this dance. Every gesture felt practiced, but never stale. He didn’t need to count the steps or memorize a form. He simply moved.

Time softened. The world around him blurred. The wind stirred in rhythm with him, the trees watched in silence, and even the dragonflies had stilled to spectate.

When he finally slowed, chest rising steadily, the quiet returned as if in awe. He lowered Ru Yi gently, reverently, the tip of the blade pointing downward, his fingers still curled around the hilt with something like reverence.

He blinked once.

“...I’m not even winded.” he muttered, both impressed and slightly disturbed. His arms didn’t ache. His legs weren’t shaking. His breath was even, his heartbeat calm. There wasn’t even a single drop of sweat on his brow.

DING!

[ ✨Excellent performance, Host~! (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ The Original Zhu Xiao trained himself in swordplay starting at age thirteen—completely self-taught! After receiving Ru Yi from his late father, he practiced day and night, developing astonishing muscle memory. Even without qi, he possesses above-average physical speed and exceptional kinetic control! He’s a hidden gem!  ]

Zhu Xiao slowly turned to the red-glowing window hovering in the air, face blank.

“…You’re telling me I’ve inherited the body of a secret genius with insane reflexes, zero stamina issues, and a sword that basically sings in the wind—and no one ever noticed? ”

[ (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) He was just a quiet background character, remember~! A lonely, pretty face with a mysterious air. But deep down? Total prodigy! All potential, zero attention! Lucky you~ ]

Zhu Xiao made a low sound in the back of his throat, one that might have been a growl if he were more dramatic. Instead, he reached up and dragged a hand down his face, groaning into his palm. “I feel like I just inherited a treasure chest locked in a broom closet.” he muttered, giving Ru Yi one last glance before slipping the sword back into its sheath with a sharp shk that rang with finality.

[ You’re welcome~! (๑˃́ꇴ˂̀๑) ]

He shook his head and looked out over the pond again. The sunlight was starting to shift, slipping lower across the trees and bathing the entire clearing in amber warmth. The pond shimmered like melted sapphire, its surface catching the glow and spreading it in delicate ripples. The rustle of pine needles, the gentle lapping of water against mossy stone, and the far-off call of a bird drifting overhead created a kind of sacred quiet. It should have been peaceful. Should have.

But Zhu Xiao’s mind was already whirring.

“Okay. Let’s recap.” he said aloud, mostly to himself. “This body’s not useless. Good. Actually, it’s stupidly competent. Great. Fantastic. I could probably cartwheel up a cliff and come down slicing raindrops midair if I wanted to.”

[ ✧٩(ˊωˋ*)و ✧ Probably! Your muscle control and proprioception are well above average! Test run confirmed elite host potential~ ]

“…Stop talking.”

But the moment of levity passed as he settled back into the gravity of his situation. He wasn’t just here to show off fancy sword forms in a pretty forest. He had a Main Mission—one that was definitely going to make his life increasingly complicated. And it all hinged on a single, nearly impossible task.

He had to keep Shen Qingqiu from becoming a villain. (He ignores the fact that he going to have Shen Qingqiu fall in love with him.)

…as if that would be easy!

Zhu Xiao flopped onto the grass with the grace of a man facing cosmic injustice. The grass welcomed him like a soft bed of green silk, bending gently beneath his weight. He laid back, folding his arms behind his head with a grumble, staring up at the sky that was starting to shift toward twilight. Thin clouds drifted lazily past, painted with strokes of gold and lavender, the kind of sky that belonged in a landscape painting or someone’s wistful dream journal.

“And I still can’t even clear my first task.” he grouched. “Because that bastard didn’t acknowledge me. No acknowledgment, no progress. I’m stuck on the OOC restriction.” 

Zhu Xiao closed his eyes, sighed again. A cool breeze swept over him, rustling the long grass at his sides and tugging gently at the hem of his robes. He let himself breathe it in—earth, water, blossoms, serenity—and, for the first time since waking in this ridiculous novel world, allowed himself to do something unexpected.

He relaxed.

“Forget it.” he mumbled, voice low. “I’ll deal with it after I nap.” 

[  ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ Heehee~ Sweet dreams, Host~ Don’t worry, I’ll be monitoring everything while you rest! 100% alert! No accidents, no intrusions, no—  ]

“Mute.”

[  . . . (｡´•ㅅ•｡)ゞ Okay… Muting cheerfully~!  ]

The system faded with a sparkly poof, leaving Zhu Xiao alone in blissful silence at last. The soft rustle of the forest returned, gentle and unhurried. Dragonflies resumed their lazy patrols. Somewhere above, a crane’s wings beat the air in slow, measured rhythm.

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[Cang Qiong Mountain
Qing Jing Peak
Bamboo House
Meanwhile…]

The afternoon sun poured in gentle beams through the narrow slats of the bamboo walls, casting a lattice of golden light across the smooth, lacquered floor. Outside, the wind moved like a breath through the grove—an endless rustling of tall emerald stalks swaying in rhythm, whispering secrets only the mountain could understand. The bamboo leaves shimmered faintly, their shadows dancing across the rice-paper windows in soft patterns, while birds trilled distantly like a lulling melody at the edge of waking dreams. The air held a quiet stillness, serene yet weighty, steeped in the mingling scents of ink, dry parchment, and the lingering trace of jasmine tea that had long since cooled.

Inside the heart of this tranquil refuge, Shen Qingqiu sat composed and motionless, a living sculpture of poise and self-discipline. Draped in dark robes trimmed in jade-green silk, his figure radiated an air of detached nobility. He perched behind a low desk of polished sandalwood, its surface worn smooth from years of use, each swirl in the grain gleaming in the filtered light. A cushion of soft silk beneath him, embroidered with cloud motifs in muted silver thread, elevated his already graceful posture into something almost regal. His long legs folded beneath his robes with casual elegance, spine perfectly aligned, hands relaxed yet controlled. Every movement he made—each lift of his brush, each flick of his sleeve—seemed to resonate with a subtle, practiced deliberation, as if even stillness itself bowed to his will.

The room, lined with scroll shelves and adorned with a misty mountain screen behind him, was suffused with the ambiance of refinement and order. A small, untouched cup of tea rested beside his right hand, its rising steam now faded to a ghost of warmth. Yet it was not the decor nor the tranquil silence that held his attention, but rather the scattered pile of parchment before him, a disorganized mess that disrupted the harmony of the space by its sheer mediocrity.

A faint exhalation, too slight to be called a sigh, slipped through Shen Qingqiu’s nose as he lifted the next parchment with long, pale fingers. His bamboo-green eyes drifted across the ink with a practiced gaze—calm, detached, faintly disdainful. One brow lifted, not in surprise, but in wearied resignation. Another poem, another attempt at melodrama: metaphors of shattered mirrors and bleeding petals, lamenting the agony of spiritual growth with all the subtlety of a street performer wailing for alms.

“The blade within reflects the wound without.” he read aloud, his tone flat with unimpressed critique. “Mm. Yes. Very profound. For the tenth time today.”

He let the parchment fall from his hand with elegant precision, stacking it beside the others like the addition of one more sigh to a long-suffering pile. His hand moved again—unhurried, clinical—plucking the next attempt from the stack like a surgeon reaching for a dulled instrument. Rain as tears. Loneliness in a sword’s echo. Despair carved into floral metaphors. His expression remained carved in stone, but a faint tension had begun to show in the slight narrowing of his eyes, the stiff edge to his silence.

Then, he paused.

His fingers froze in mid-motion, the next parchment cradled lightly between them. There was nothing unusual about it at first glance—no special feature, no unusual symbol, no fancy family surname. Yet as his eyes moved over the page, something in him shifted.

The poem unfurled like a blade drawn in silence.

The strokes of ink were sparse, clean, and deliberate. Each line measured, each syllable sharpened with restraint. It did not beg for attention. It did not weep or scream its pain across the parchment. It breathed with quiet, aching truth. The pain was not performative. It was lived.

Growth is painful.
Change is painful.
But nothing is as painful as staying stuck somewhere you don’t belong.

The lines settled in his chest like stones dropped into still water—soft, quiet, but creating endless ripples beneath the surface.

Shen Qingqiu’s eyes lingered on the ink long after reading. His expression had not changed, but something unreadable flickered behind his gaze. His lips parted, faintly, as if tasting the words again on his tongue. The hand holding the parchment tensed just slightly, pressing into the fiber of the page with unconscious reverence, grounding him.

Then, slowly, his gaze dropped to the lower right corner where the name had been neatly penned in precise, careful script.

“…Zhu Xiao.” he murmured, the syllables falling from his lips like a breath not meant to be heard. His voice, usually cool and crisp with authority, was softened by a rare note of contemplation. He said the name again, silently this time, letting it linger in the quiet.

Something stirred in him. A recognition not of the person, but of something deeper—something mirrored. The poem’s restraint reminded him too much of his own carefully locked heart, of truths he dared not speak aloud. For a moment, a crack in the ice of his composure widened, and a breath of vulnerability leaked through.

He scented it.

Barely perceptible, barely real, a whisper in the air. His nostrils flared ever so slightly. The faintest trace of scent had curled around the edge of his perception, warm and alive. 

His pulse stilled. His control did not falter outwardly, but his awareness honed in like a blade drawn beneath silk.

‘Already?’ he thought coldly.

Without disturbing his stillness, he moved. His left hand slipped smoothly into the depths of his qiankun sleeve—a hidden dimension stitched into the folds of his robe, accessible only to those trained in spatial spells and misdirection. From its interior, he retrieved a small porcelain bottle, its surface etched with faded lotus motifs that caught the light with gentle shimmer.

Uncorked with a single practiced twist, the vial revealed a single pill: pale, near-translucent, like a pearl carved from moonlight. With silent precision, he tipped it into his palm and swallowed it without water. The bitterness clung to his tongue, sharp and lingering, but he did not flinch.

Within seconds, the scent faded. The unnatural flush beneath his skin cooled, returning his body to balance. His qi, subtly agitated before, slipped back into its disciplined flow.

And Shen Qingqiu—the cold, poised, and inscrutable Peak Lord of Qing Jing—remained unchanged.

No one needed to know that the pill wasn’t for injury or cultivation fatigue.

No one needed to know that Shen Qingqiu’s scent suppressant dosage had to be finely balanced enough to cover the subtle traces of his true designation, but not so much that it affected his swordsmanship or qi circulation.

He set the parchment down and reached for his tea at last, now lukewarm. He took a sip, letting the silence reclaim the room once more.

But the name stayed with him.

‘Zhu Xiao…’

A disciple to keep an eye on.

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...

Chapter Text

[Cang Qiong Mountain
Qing Jing Peak
Blue Pond
A Week Later…]

The afternoon sun was a lazy creature today, slouching across the sky with a golden yawn, its warm breath pouring over Qing Jing Peak in a soft, soporific haze. The Blue Pond shimmered quietly beneath it, its surface dappled with drifting petals and the occasional ripple of a koi fish gliding just beneath the mirror-like water. Dragonflies danced between reeds like glinting sparks, and the surrounding trees rustled in lazy waves, casting mottled shadows across the ground.

On a sloped patch of grass overlooking the pond, Zhu Xiao lay sprawled like a man thoroughly betrayed by life itself.

His limbs were flung in a careless sprawl, boots kicked off and one leg bent at the knee, while both arms were pillowed behind his head. The grass beneath him was cool and fragrant, and tiny wildflowers tickled his sides with every breeze. His half-lidded eyes gazed up into the endless blue of the sky, their expression not contemplative so much as resentful. His mouth twisted into a pout as a long-suffering sigh escaped him, theatrical in both length and volume.

“A whole week…” he muttered aloud, voice tinged with incredulity and exhaustion. “It’s been a fucking week and I still haven’t completed my first goddamn task.”

It wasn’t as though he’d spent the entire week slacking off. On the contrary, Zhu Xiao had made a concerted effort to familiarize himself with this new, young body that didn’t quite move the way he remembered his old one doing. He had practiced sword forms in private under the bamboo eaves at dawn, and even attempted meditation despite his intense allergy to sitting still. He had collected B-Points from minor achievements—like waking up before noon or not tripping during footwork drills—which the system had cheerfully rewarded with sparkles and confetti every single time.

But none of that brought him any closer to the task at hand.

‘All this effort.’ he thought bitterly, scowling at the innocent clouds overhead. ‘And I haven’t seen that scumbag even once. Well… except for that one time I accidentally stumbled across him while he was playing the guqin.’ 

He groaned again, more to himself than anyone else. But the world, cruel and unjust as always, had other plans. His mind went flashed back to Shen Qingqiu’s unnaturally beautiful appearance.

A cheerful chime rang in the air, bright and grating as a windchime made entirely of judgmental porcelain teacups. A translucent crimson window flickered into view above his head, words scrawled across it in glowing, gold-hued script.

[ (づ｡◕‿‿◕｡)づ Hohoho~ Is Host thinking about Shen Qingqiu~? Daydreaming about your future beloved already~? ✧٩(ˊᗜˋ)و✧ ]

Zhu Xiao flinched as if struck, bolting upright like a startled cat and swatting the air uselessly in front of him. “NO!” he barked, his voice cracking with sheer indignation. “Absolutely not! Don’t even joke about that!”

His face flushed red—not from embarrassment, but from sheer outrage—as he jabbed an accusatory finger at the floating text. “I was not thinking about him like that! I was just… just musing on how stupidly aesthetic he looks! That’s all! He looks like a damn work of art that wandered off from a museum. Honestly, it’s no wonder that hack author couldn’t describe his face in the novel—it’s like staring at the sun and trying to write poetry about it while going blind.”

[ (｡♥‿♥｡) Host is so adorably flustered! Don’t worry, I understand~ You’re just in the denial stage! （＾・ω・＾❁） ]

Zhu Xiao’s eye twitched. He let out a groan so long and mournful it nearly curled into a wail. “We’ve talked about this.” he grumbled, dragging both hands down his face. “I told you—repeatedly—that we are not going to be lovers. I’m aiming for sworn brotherhood at most. Platonic bonds. Comradeship. The beautiful bromance kind!”

[ But Host~ the Main Mission states clearly: Help Shen Qingqiu fall in love and live happily ever after~ ♡( ◡‿◡ )  ]

Zhu Xiao slumped back into the grass, defeated by the overwhelming optimism of his chirpy tormentor. “Honestly…” he muttered into the crook of his elbow. “...I highly doubt that Cold Beauty Alpha would ever be romantically interested in me. I’m a Beta. And a man. Last I checked, he frequents brothels and simps over Ning Yingying like a creep with no boundaries.”

He made a face like he’d swallowed sour vinegar. “Which is wrong on so many levels I don’t even know where to start.”

[  Host~ hasn’t it been a full seven days and Shen Qingqiu hasn’t been seen among the disciples at all? Suspicious, no~? (¬‿¬)   ]

That drew a thoughtful frown from Zhu Xiao, who sat up halfway and brushed grass off his sleeves. “…You think that means he’s not here for the last seven days?”

[ (๑˃̵ᴗ˂̵)و Guess where he might be~? ]

Zhu Xiao's frown deepened, his lips thinning. A slow, grim realization dawned on his face.

“…He’s probably at the brothel.”

[ (╯︵╰,) Boo… Host guessed it right, but not in the way he thinks… ]

Zhu Xiao tossed a pebble into the pond with mild aggression. “Unbelievable. That scum villain is seriously making this entire task impossible. How am I supposed to help him fall in love if he’s too busy flirting with women and being an absolute disaster of a man? This is why I know for a fact that scumbag is not gay at all.”

He let his body collapse back onto the grass again, one hand flopped dramatically over his forehead like a tragic heroine in a third-rate play. “…this is going to be a long, long mission.”

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..

…

Disciple, Are You Flirting With Me?

Chapter Four

“OOC is OOC”

…

..

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[Cang Qiong Mountain
Qing Jing Peak
Later…]

The late afternoon sun filtered through the canopy of ancient trees, casting long, dappled shadows across the stone path that wound through Qing Jing Peak like a silver ribbon. The air was crisp and pine-scented, faintly tinged with mountain dew and lotus blossom. Cicadas hummed lazily in the distance, their shrill chorus marking the descent into evening. Zhu Xiao walked this trail in slow, measured strides, boots crunching faintly over gravel and fallen needles. His hands were folded behind his back, posture casual, yet his mind restless.

It had been days—days!—of wandering this peak, all in the hopes of catching even a glimpse of the future Demon Emperor himself. Luo Binghe. The protagonist of this tragic, blood-soaked tale. But it was proving more difficult than anticipated. Zhu Xiao hadn’t seen so much as a strand of that boy’s hair, let alone his wide, sheepish eyes or infamously tragic smile. For all he knew, Luo Binghe was either scrubbing out chamber pots or being dragged around like a servant by Ming Fan and the other prissy cultivator brats.

‘Luo Binghe is too kind for his own good…’ Zhu Xiao sighed internally, his brows drawing together in a furrow of complicated thought.

He didn’t consider himself a saint, far from it. He was no selfless hero in gleaming armor, no noble martyr with a bleeding heart. If someone tossed a starving orphan at his feet, sure, he’d flick a few snacks their way or give a few coins, but that didn’t make him charitable. He had morals, not martyrdom. He was sarcastic, petty, and could hold a grudge with the grip of a rabid hawk. He wasn’t inherently cruel—just pragmatic. Especially to people who let themselves get kicked around like doormats. And yet, he couldn’t help but feel a weird, almost paternal sort of annoyance when he thought about Luo Binghe’s pitiful white-lotus phase.

The sound of girlish laughter broke through the quiet. Crisp, bell-like, and unmistakably obnoxious.

“A-Luo, A-Luo! Look! There’s a huge ditch in the ground here!”

Zhu Xiao halted mid-step, head snapping in the direction of the voice. That voice. Familiar. Cloyingly sweet. He darted toward it, softening his steps as he crouched low, hiding behind the thick trunk of a pine tree. He slowly peeked around the edge.

There she was—Ning Yingying. A delicate, picturesque little omega, skipping through the clearing with all the elegance of a nobleman's pampered daughter. She wasn’t heavenly by any means, but she had that perfectly maintained prettiness, like a decorative porcelain doll set out for display.

And beside her—

Zhu Xiao’s eyes locked onto the boy wielding the axe. ‘There you are.’ he thought, his sharp garnet-amber gaze softening for a moment.

Luo Binghe.

Gods. He looked so young. Barely fourteen at most, with sun-kissed skin, fluffy black hair matted slightly with sweat, and cheeks still rounded with lingering childhood softness. There was something sheep-like about him. That blank-eyed innocence. That fluff. ‘Like a baby lamb… A baby lamb that’s about to get shoved off a cliff.’ Zhu Xiao thought darkly.

The boy glanced toward Ning Yingying, his expression a flicker of polite exhaustion. A tiny, weary smile curled at the corners of his lips before vanishing again as he returned to his task.

“A-Luo, tell me.” Ning Yingying chirped, hopping onto a mossy old log, her skirt flaring like petals. “Which shixiong was practicing their sword glares out here? There’s a huge cut in the ground!”

Without pausing his swings, Luo Binghe answered dutifully. “On Qing Jing Peak… only Shizun has this level of cultivation.” His voice was soft but clear, strained slightly as he hoisted the axe above his shoulder and brought it down in another rhythmic thunk against the tree trunk.

He was clearly exhausted. His sleeves were damp, sticking to his skin, and his hands, still a little too small for the axe, gripped the handle with practiced care. His brow shone with sweat he hadn’t the time to wipe.

Ning Yingying, bored as usual, propped her chin in her hands and watched him. “A-Luo, A-Luo! Come play with me!” she said, her tone wheedling as her pheromones began to leak into the air, sweet and thick like peaches drenched in rosewater.

Zhu Xiao’s nose crinkled. ‘Ugh. Too much. She’s practically marinating the forest in perfume.’ He grumbled silently to himself, rubbing at his nose. It wasn’t a bad scent per se, but it was aggressively floral, like someone had spilled an entire bottle of omega cologne.

Besides, didn’t she know? Luo Binghe couldn’t even smell omega pheromones yet. He was still unpresented. And he’s too young to know what to do with that kind of attention.

“I can’t.” Luo Binghe said softly, swinging the axe again. “Shixiong told me that once I finish chopping today’s wood, I still have to carry water down from the stream. If I finish quickly, I might have some time left for meditation.”

Zhu Xiao winced. ‘Meditation? After all that? What is he, a masochist?’ His gaze sharpened as he observed the fatigue etched into the boy’s spine. Each swing came a little slower than the last.

Ning Yingying pouted, lips drawn into a pink petal scowl. “Our shixiong are awful! They’re clearly bullying you on purpose. Humph! I’ll tell Shizun! Once I do, they won’t dare mess with you again!”

‘If only.’ Zhu Xiao grimaced, jaw tightening with restrained irritation. ‘As if Shen Qingqiu would lift a finger for Luo Binghe unless it was to flick him off the mountain.’ Watching Luo Binghe like this made his hands itch. He wanted to storm into the clearing, grab the axe, chuck it into the woods, and tell the poor boy to go nap under a tree for the rest of the damn day.

A soft ding! broke through his brooding, and a semi-transparent red window shimmered into view beside his head.

[ ✧ Reminder! ✧ Host is not allowed to break character! Don’t be OOC! ( ≧Д≦)   ]

Zhu Xiao narrowed his eyes into a flat, murderous glare at the obnoxiously perky window hovering just beside his head, the bright red kanji glowing like an infected wound against the greenery. “Why don’t you go chop the wood then, if you’re so full of emojis and cheer,” he muttered through gritted teeth, voice low and acidic with contempt. His fingers twitched against the rough bark of the pine he was leaning on, his nails scraping a long, satisfying gouge in the bark.

The system, mercifully, did not respond.

Below, Luo Binghe had paused, sweat clinging to his brow as he offered Ning Yingying another tired, placating smile. “Absolutely don’t. I don’t want to trouble Shizun with these small matters.” he said, words careful and composed, tone betraying not even the slightest complaint. “Our shixiong don’t mean any harm. They just see that I’m young and want to give me more chances to train.”

Zhu Xiao blinked slowly, then again—a little harder this time, as though he could dispel the absurd illusion that seemed to descend around the boy like divine light. For a single, surreal moment, Luo Binghe looked as though he had sprouted a golden halo behind his head, the sunlight piercing the canopy above dappling his skin with a soft radiance that bordered on holy. A stray breeze stirred the edges of his torn sleeve and tousled his already messy hair, making the scene appear annoyingly picturesque.

‘What in the sanctimonious hell… is that the Protagonist Filter at work?’ Zhu Xiao thought, arms folding across his chest as he leaned harder into the tree, thoroughly unimpressed but helplessly entranced. ‘Ten thousand rays of righteous light and not a single drop of self-preservation. Heaven really does play favorites.’

Luo Binghe, oblivious to the divine narrative scaffolding cradling his existence, continued working. The axe thudded against wood in rhythm, not precise, but persistent. His swings lacked refined cultivation technique, but each strike was honest, steady, and driven by a quiet, tireless determination that made Zhu Xiao’s teeth itch.

Ning Yingying, meanwhile, prattled beside him like a decorative songbird with no volume control. She perched herself on an old, sun-bleached log, kicking her heels idly as she called for attention with singsong whines, her omega pheromones flaring gently in the air—a floral blend of overripe peaches and cloying roses.

Zhu Xiao’s nose wrinkled in automatic distaste once again. Ning Yingying really needs to learn to control her pheromones better because it feels like it was smacking of perfume worn too thick at a banquet. Cloying. Overdone. ‘Tone it down already, flower garden.’ he thought, rubbing his temple with the heel of his palm. ‘Aren’t you way too young to scent out such pheromones on a kid?! Too young, I say!’  Zhu Xiao is grateful that Luo Binghe is still unpresented, because he wouldn’t be able to smell a single note of it. He was immune to her charms, for now.

The light filtered through the trees in warm shafts of gold, slanting across the ground where Luo Binghe had begun to sit cross-legged, face tipped down in silent meditation. Zhu Xiao narrowed his eyes. The boy’s posture was rigid, tense in all the wrong places. His breathing, while even, did not match the flow of qi a genuine cultivation exercise would require.

‘Right… I almost forgot.’ Zhu Xiao grimaced, pushing a hand through his dark hair. ‘Ming Fan gave him a fake cultivation manual. On Shen Qingqiu’s orders, no less. Scumlord and his toady.’ His eyes sharpened. ‘If Luo Binghe were a normal human cultivator, this garbage technique might’ve crippled his meridians by now. But of course, no one here knows about the demon blood yet. Not even Luo Binghe himself.’

The crackle of twigs snapped him from his reverie. He turned his head slightly, just enough to catch the approaching footsteps without giving away his position. A handful of Qing Jing Peak disciples emerged through the underbrush, their gait heavy with self-importance and casual cruelty. Zhu Xiao sighed internally. ‘Wonderful. The circus has arrived.’

At the front was Ming Fan — tall, smug, dressed in too many layers for someone who clearly hadn’t broken a sweat all day. His voice rang out the moment he spotted Ning Yingying. “Shimei! There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you. What are you doing all the way out here? What if a snake bit you, or you were mauled by some beast?”

Without waiting for a reply, he grabbed her hand.

Zhu Xiao raised a brow. ‘Bold of you. And stupid. Grabbing an unmated omega’s hand without permission?’ His lips curled into a smirk. ‘Traditionalists would have your fingers chopped off at the wrist.’ He recalled reading a lot of those similar scenes from the novel, after all. 

Right on cue, the system cheerily chimed in:

[ ✧ (灬º‿º灬)✧ Host is correct! That is indeed a violation of the courting tradition! Touching an omega without consent is forbidden unless mated or familial! ]

Zhu Xiao silently hummed at the window, then returned his attention back on the scene. 

Down below, Luo Binghe had opened his eyes, offering a polite bow of the head. Ming Fan ignored him entirely — as if the boy were a shrub or a wayward breeze, not even worth acknowledgment.

“I’m not afraid of poisonous snakes or beasts,” Ning Yingying chirped, beaming. “Besides, A-Luo is here with me!”

Ming Fan turned to glance at Luo Binghe, sneered, and said with disdain, “He’s unpresented. How could he protect you?”

Luo Binghe’s gaze dropped like a stone, shame heavy in his lowered eyes. His hands clenched over his knees. Beside him, Ning Yingying merely pouted as though nothing had happened, utterly oblivious.

Zhu Xiao let out a quiet, scornful exhale. ‘Girl… did you really not realize how hard that hit him? That bastard just implied he’s worthless as a protector and then waltzed off as if that bastard complimented your shoes. Heaven above, was Ning Yingying truly that naive?’

Ming Fan, now glowing with the smug satisfaction of someone who thought he had the upper hand, fished out a jade trinket from his sash. It was a deep green pendant shaped like a rabbit, ornate, finely carved, and utterly impersonal.

“My family brought back a bunch of these.” Ming Fan announced proudly, puffing out his chest like a rooster on parade as he held out a small jade rabbit. The figurine caught the sunlight and shimmered faintly, a delicate pale green carved into a squat little bunny shape. “I thought this one was the prettiest. I’ll give it to you!”

Zhu Xiao’s eye twitched. ‘Oh yes. Truly, what a heart-throbbing declaration. Nothing says romance like, “here’s a leftover trinket my parents gave me in bulk.” Bravo, Romeo. Did your brain forget to cultivate before you showed up here?’ he mused, deadpan, arms loosely crossed as he leaned against a stone pillar with the aura of a man already calculating the emotional damage about to be inflicted.

Ning Yingying stepped forward delicately, her silk sleeves fluttering as she accepted the jade rabbit with a polite smile. She tilted it toward the light, the lacquered whites of her eyes glinting with polite disinterest as she examined the carving. Then, just as easily, she tossed it back into Ming Fan’s hands as if it were a scrap of unwanted cloth. It spun once midair before he caught it reflexively, his previously confident smile cracking like brittle clay.

Ming Fan blinked. His fingers clenched the figurine, knuckles pale. His lips, parted in protest, failed to produce a sound.

Zhu Xiao watched the scene unfold with dry amusement and not a hint of pity. Of course, Ning Yingying rejected the thing—it reeked of lazy effort. The girl might have the intellectual depth of a soap bubble, but even she had taste. And besides, Betas like Ming Fan had pheromones so low on the sensory spectrum, they might as well not exist. It was no surprise she couldn’t smell the bitter cocktail of embarrassment, jealousy, and crushed pride oozing off him like overcooked cabbage. (Although Zhu Xiao is slightly surprised that he can smell that far. Isn’t he Beta too? Should he not actually smell that?)

Then a flicker of memory sparked in Zhu Xiao’s mind. ‘Wait… wait, wait, isn’t this the scene where Luo Binghe loses his fake jade?’ His thoughts narrowed. ‘Oh, right. The “tragedy strikes and no one helps him” arc. I remember nearly throwing my laptop across the room when I got to that chapter.’

“The color is so ugly.” Ning Yingying declared with a pout, wrinkling her nose as if she were smelling spoiled fruit. “The one A-Luo has is prettier.”

That did it. Not only did Ming Fan’s face sour like spoiled vinegar, but across the courtyard, Luo Binghe, who had been wisely pretending to be one with the background like an anxious houseplant, tensed. His lashes fluttered as his eyes opened wide, trembling slightly.

“Does Shidi also wear this kind of thing?” Ming Fan sneered, his voice low, sharp.

Luo Binghe hesitated, his fingers twitching as if unsure whether to protect his secrets or himself. He didn’t get the chance to speak before Ning Yingying chimed in with all the bright ignorance of someone who never shuts up. “Of course he does! Every day, he wears it close around his neck. It’s his treasure. He refuses to even let me look at it.”

And just like that, Luo Binghe flinched. His hand moved instinctively, curling protectively over his chest, where beneath his robes and layers, the jade Guanyin pendant lay hidden. His lips parted, but no words came out. His eyes flicked toward the ground. He looked like a child clinging to the last memory of a warm hand that no longer existed.

Zhu Xiao blinked slowly, caught off-guard by the emotional accuracy of the moment. ‘...Huh. She’s not dumber than I thought. A rare moment of canon correctness. Must be a glitch.’ Then he just remembered that this is Ning Yingying, who doesn’t think of the consequences of her action, which made his expression sour again. ‘Nope. False alarm. That hack author just made all the omegas airheaded and bubbly around Luo Binghe like it’s a law of the universe. Never mind. I should’ve expected this.'

Ming Fan’s face had gone from bitter to acidic. He took a few aggressive steps forward, his boot heels clicking sharply against the flagstones. “Luo-shidi, you sure are stuck-up, refusing to show Ning Yingying-shimei your pendant.” he bit out through clenched teeth. “What, are you going to be selfish like that when we’re on the battlefield? Refuse to even lend a hand when enemies come knocking?!”

Zhu Xiao raised both brows, his expression pure deadpan. ‘What kind of galaxy-brained leap of logic was that? Pendant secrecy equals battlefield cowardice? What are we, a sect of philosophers or gossiping aunties?’ He groaned inwardly. ‘I want to close my eyes and walk away before I catch the stupidity like it’s airborne.’

“It’s fine if he doesn’t want to. Shixiong, don’t bully him!” Ning Yingying protested, her voice high-pitched with anxiety as her pheromones flooded the air in a suffocating wave of bitter peach and rose. The saccharine sweetness clung to the back of Zhu Xiao’s throat like overripe fruit rotting in a sealed jar.

‘Oh great, now my headache’s got a signature fragrance. Can someone hose the courtyard down in Omega-neutralizer, please?’ He truly wishes that it were a thing. Omega-neutralizer would be wonderful for his keen nose. 

Ming Fan snarled. “How dare you make Ning Yingying-shimei anxious!”

With the subtlety of a drunk ox, he gestured to his pack of obedient lackeys. They lunged forward, surrounding Luo Binghe like hyenas around a wounded fawn. Moments later, fists and feet flew.

Zhu Xiao straightened instinctively, fists clenching at his sides. The metallic tang of aggression hit the air, overlaying the floral scent of worry with something more bitter, more cruel. He itched to step in. His bones screamed for it. But then—

[  𝙊𝙊𝘾 𝙒𝘼𝙍𝙉𝙄𝙉𝙂! (≧▽≦)ゞ Zhu Xiao, calm down~! Punching people here ruins canon! Remember, you’re an aloof Beta shixiong! ♥  ]

Zhu Xiao’s eye twitched again. ‘Shut up. I know. You don’t have to squeal every time I think about doing something that makes sense.’

He sent the red pop-up a venomous glare. The system cheerfully sparkled in reply.

Meanwhile, Ming Fan had stepped back, holding up something in his hand. A small jade pendant gleamed faintly in his fingers. Zhu Xiao’s breath caught. It was the pendant.

Ming Fan stared at it, then burst out laughing—a harsh, ugly sound that echoed around the courtyard like someone strangling a peacock.

“Why… why are you laughing?” Ning Yingying asked, peering at him with innocent confusion.

“I thought it had to be some rare treasure, for him to protect it so fiercely,” Ming Fan jeered, his lip curling. He tossed the pendant into Ning Yingying’s waiting hands with theatrical disgust. “Guess what it is? It’s a counterfeit!”

Ning Yingying blinked. “Counterfeit? What’s that?”

Luo Binghe’s body was locked in place. His fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned bone-white, veins stark against his wrists. His voice was hoarse when it came out—raw and quiet. “Give it back.”

Zhu Xiao sucked in a breath through his nose. His stomach twisted. ‘This was the last thing she gave him. His mother. His only keepsake. And he loses it right here. He never gets it back. This was the moment everything cracked.’

He wanted to lunge forward, to snatch the jade from Ming Fan’s grubby fingers, to throw it back into Luo Binghe’s hands and whisper run. But—

[ 𝙊𝙊𝘾~!! ( ≧▽≦) Don’t ruin the beautiful story beats! This is character development!! Emotional trauma is a feature, not a bug~! ✧ 。٩(｡•́‿•̀｡)۶*。✧  ]

‘Oh my gods. Do you enjoy watching orphans get beaten up? What kind of sociopathic Tamagotchi are you?!’ Zhu Xiao snarled internally.

Ming Fan rolled his eyes. “You want it back? Fine. Who knows which street stall this cheap thing was bought from.” he said with a sneer. “I’m afraid giving it to Shimei would dirty her hands.” Yet despite his words, he made no move to return it.

And that was the final straw.

Luo Binghe snapped. With a choked breath, he surged forward, striking out with surprising speed. His fists caught two of the disciples squarely in the gut and shoulder, enough to knock them off balance. For a second, Zhu Xiao’s heart leapt—maybe he can get away—

But hope was a cruel lie. Luo Binghe was still weak. Still the lowest-ranked disciple. He staggered, barely on his feet as more fists descended, driving him to the ground like a wounded beast. He didn’t cry out, but his breath hitched audibly, and blood flecked his lips.

“Teach him respect!” Ming Fan barked.

The circle closed again, boot heels scraping and fists rising. Ning Yingying stood frozen in place, her perfume-sweet scent now soured and acidic with fear and guilt. No one stepped in. No one helped.

Zhu Xiao stared in mute disbelief, mouth set in a hard line. ‘...Reading this in the book was one thing. Watching it happen? This is sickening. That’s not a spar. That’s not discipline. That’s a goddamn mugging.’

He closed his eyes. Just for a second. Just to keep himself from breaking canon.

[ 𝙊𝙊𝘾~! ヽ(・∀・)ﾉ Warning! Hero Complex Detected! Please remain in your lane, Zhu Xiao~! Remember, you can’t break your character~!   ]

‘I swear if you had a physical body, I’d yeet you into a river.’ Zhu Xiao growled mentally, grinding his teeth.

He had been locked in a one-sided mental battle with the chirpy, chaos-loving System—an entity so saccharine it might as well fart glitter—when sudden shouting and muffled laughter yanked his attention back to the training grounds. His head snapped around sharply, eyes wide and unblinking as he took in the chaotic scene before him.

Ming Fan’s nose was clearly broken, bent at an unnatural angle as blood gushed down his face like a grotesque crimson waterfall. His lackeys, low-ranked disciples who lived to grovel and bully in equal measure, were holding Luo Binghe down, their fists slamming into his ribs and stomach with savage rhythm. The sound of knuckles against flesh was sickening, muted by the dirt but no less brutal. Luo Binghe, bruised and barely resisting, curled slightly with each blow. Not out of weakness, Zhu Xiao noted grimly, but out of silent endurance—as if he expected this, as if this was familiar.

Ning Yingying’s voice cracked as she screamed at them to stop, her wide eyes brimming with unshed tears. Her cheeks flushed a bruised shade of pink from distress, while her usually soft expression twisted in helpless fury. Peach and rose—her dual pheromones, once sweet and calming—now hung bitter in the air, choked with sorrow and desperation. Her hands trembled, fists clenched at her sides.

‘What the ACTUAL fuck?! I looked away for five minutes, and everything’s on fire?!’ Zhu Xiao’s expression twisted in disgust, arms folded tightly across his chest.

“I’m telling Shizun!” Ning Yingying screamed again, this time turning on her heel and bolting toward the inner peak, her long sleeves fluttering behind her like panicked wings. Her voice was high and thin, cracking under the pressure of panic.

Ming Fan’s eyes widened, panic flashing behind the blood on his face. “Shimei!” he shouted, attempting to lunge after her, but she was already gone, vanishing past the treeline like a ghost. He clicked his tongue sharply, his voice curling into a hiss of irritation. “Shit! Guys, let’s get out of here—now!”

The lackeys understood without needing further instruction. Like rats scurrying from a collapsing ship, they abandoned Luo Binghe without hesitation, fleeing the scene with the practiced cowardice of serial bullies. Ming Fan, ever the spiteful bastard, lingered just long enough to spit at Luo Binghe, mouth twisting into a sneer as he hurled the fake jade pendant into the air. “Useless liar!” he snapped venomously before turning tail and vanishing into the distance.

Zhu Xiao, for a single blessed moment, seriously contemplated homicide.

His grip on Ru Yi tightened with a creak of leather and wood, and dark, bloody visions began blooming across the landscape of his mind—of bones breaking, of screams echoing through bamboo groves, of Ming Fan’s sneering mouth torn permanently sideways.

[  (｡•́︿•̀｡) Host... is scary...   ] the System’s text bubble wobbled in the air like it had been shaken by a sudden earthquake.

Zhu Xiao rolled his eyes but said nothing, watching instead as Luo Binghe slowly, painfully forced himself upright. The young disciple’s face was swollen, blood trailing down from his nose, lip, and eyebrow. Each breath seemed to shudder through him, his body taut with pain. But he didn’t cry. He didn’t call out. He merely turned away from the spot where he had been beaten and began to stagger across the dirt path with the mechanical determination of someone chasing a dream in a nightmare.

‘Gods.’ Zhu Xiao thought, shoulders slumping under the weight of unwanted emotion. ‘This scene broke me when I read it the first time. Him searching for that cheap fake jade for hours while bleeding and in pain—like it was the only thing anchoring him to life.’

He wanted to help. He wanted to walk down that hill, hand Luo Binghe a cloth, and say something reassuring. But…

[ OOC is OOC~ (≧▽≦)ゞ Don’t be naughty, Host~! ]

Zhu Xiao exhaled through his nose, long and slow, and leaned back against the sturdy tree behind him. The bark scraped against his uniform, grounding him in the present. He crossed his arms tightly, tipping his head back against the trunk as memories of the novel came rushing back, especially the part where Ning Yingying came back hours later, guilt-ridden and ashamed. She had tried to tell Shen Qingqiu what happened, but he brushed her off. Too busy. Too “important.”

Shen Yuan had raged in the comments section back then. Spilled paragraphs of vitriol at the author for crafting such a cruel, passive scumbag of a Shizun. Called it lazy writing. Left a wall of text longer than the chapter itself.

Even when Ning Yingying had returned, crying softly as she coaxed Luo Binghe away for food and healing, the boy had gone with her, but not before looking back. His face, raw with emotion, had stayed with Zhu Xiao long after he left with Ning Yingying. He remembered reading the part of the novel when Luo Binghe had searched and searched for his pendant but never found it, that was the kind of heartbreak that wormed its way into your ribs and never left.

‘I want to find it.’ Zhu Xiao thought, heart clenching. ‘But if they couldn’t find it in the novel even after weeks, what chance do I have?’

He straightened, pushing away from the tree when something sharp flickered at the edge of his vision. A shadow. Movement. Zhu Xiao immediately slipped back behind the tree, holding his breath.

A familiar figure stepped into the clearing, his long sleeves trailing like silken mist. Shen Qingqiu.

The man moved with infuriating grace, each step measured, his folding fan lazily opened and fluttering against the summer heat. His eyes—sharp and green like bamboo leaves in sunlight—scanned the empty space with mild interest, expression unreadable.

‘Why is he here?’ Zhu Xiao narrowed his gaze, confused. ‘He was supposed to be too busy to care. That’s what the novel said!’

Shen Qingqiu drifted forward like a wraith, and paused beneath one of the taller trees. He tilted his head upward, eyes narrowed at something above the branches. Then, with fluid elegance, he bent to pick up a single bamboo leaf from the ground. He studied it for a heartbeat before raising it between two fingers.

Zhu Xiao’s eyes widened.

‘Is that—?! That’s the “Plucking Leaves, Flying Flowers” technique!’ he thought, watching as Shen Qingqiu blew lightly on the leaf. With a whisper of wind and a glint of spiritual energy, the leaf shot upward like a blade, spinning through the air and slicing gently at a hidden thread. Something glimmered among the branches.

The object dropped like a stone. Shen Qingqiu caught it without looking, folding his fingers smoothly around it. When he raised it to eye level, Zhu Xiao’s breath hitched.

A dull green pendant shaped like Guanyin. Cracked along the side. The fake jade.

‘No fucking way… that’s Luo Binghe’s jade pendant!’ Zhu Xiao almost shouted.

Shen Qingqiu examined it with detached disinterest, brows lifting ever so slightly. “All the trouble for this?” he murmured aloud, voice smooth as silk yet cold as winter. “That beast really needs to take care of his treasures better… if he doesn’t wish to lose them.”

With that, he tucked the pendant into his qiankun sleeve like it was a boring object. A trinket. Nothing worth commenting on. Then, still fanning himself idly, he turned and walked away without another word.

Zhu Xiao stood frozen for a long moment, thoughts spiraling.

“So that’s why Luo Binghe never found it.” he muttered under his breath, stunned. “Shen Qingqiu… had it the whole damn time?! But—why?! That wasn’t in the novel! It doesn’t make any sense!”

A crimson System window bloomed in the air like a fresh papercut.

[  (ﾉ≧∀≦)ﾉ～～☆ Why don’t Host go talk to Shen Qingqiu and get the jade pendant~? It’ll be fun! Teehee~!   ]

Zhu Xiao stared at it. Then back at the disappearing figure of Shen Qingqiu. Then back at the window.

“Why the hell would I—” he paused, eyes narrowing. “Wait. Isn’t that totally OOC for the real Zhu Xiao? He wouldn’t care.”

[  (｡♥‿♥｡) This System can give Host a little~ wiggle room, as a treat~! Just talk to him! Pleeeeeease~!  ]

Zhu Xiao groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “I can’t act out of character when it comes to Protagonist but it’s fine for that scumbag?” 

[  This System only wants to help the Host succeed in the first task~ (・∀・) ] 

“...now why do I think there is more to it than you tell me?” Zhu Xiao grumbled.

.

.

.

.

.

..

...

Chapter Text

[Cang Qiong Mountain
Qing Jing Peak
Moment Later…]

The distant swish of silk and the steady rhythmic thwap of a folding fan punctuated the fading silence. Zhu Xiao watched from beneath the shade of the tree, eyes narrowing into thoughtful slits as Shen Qingqiu's retreating figure moved with languid grace down the cobblestone path lined with crooked bamboo stalks. The sunlight filtered through the leaves in fractured beams, gilding the soil with veins of gold, but even the warm light failed to touch Shen Qingqiu. The man moved like mist given form—detached, soundless, and unbearably pristine in his green robes embroidered with subtle bamboo motifs. He fanned himself without urgency, as if the violence from earlier, the shattered jade, and the boy left bleeding in the dirt were nothing more than specks of dust beneath his heel.

Zhu Xiao exhaled slowly through his nose, his expression twisted in a blend of reluctant admiration and deeply rooted exasperation. ‘This bastard. Cold as an untouched winter lake and twice as deep. No expression, no emotion, not even a trace of scent. Nothing. How the hell am I supposed to approach that without getting skewered by verbal icicles?’

The jade pendant had disappeared into Shen Qingqiu’s qiankun sleeve like a magician’s sleight-of-hand, and the image of Luo Binghe’s bloodied hands pawing through weeds and moss, searching for it with such raw desperation, burned behind Zhu Xiao’s eyes. ‘I have to get that jade back. It might be fake, sure, but to Luo Binghe, it meant the world.’ And unfortunately, said world was now tucked into the cold bastard’s sleeve like a trinket of no value.

[ ٩(｡•́‿•̀｡)۶ You can do it, Host! Go talk to the aloof ice cube! Maybe he’s a popsicle inside~! Teehee~!  ]

‘You’re pushing your luck, glitter gremlin.’ Zhu Xiao’s mental voice dripped acid. ‘You go talk to him if you’re so goddamn cheerful about it. Better yet, shove your code into a puppet and skip your ass down the path!’

[ Ehhh~? But Host is so brave and charming! This is your mission, remember? ]

He resisted the urge to throttle air. With a mental groan, he began walking, the soft crunch of gravel beneath his boots barely audible over the wind rustling through the canopy above. The scenery was deceptively serene with crickets chirping, birds chirping occasionally in the distance, and a lone bamboo leaf fluttering past his ear. But Zhu Xiao’s mind was racing like a thousand galloping horses. ‘What the hell am I even supposed to say? “Oh, hi, Shizun~! Fancy seeing you here! By the way, give me the broken keepsake you carelessly pocketed after a hate crime scene!” Yeah, that’s not suspicious at all.’

He kept a respectful distance, observing how Shen Qingqiu walked ahead, utterly unhurried. His back was straight, his posture refined like a painting of a noble immortal from a scroll. Every inch of him exuded effortless superiority, the kind that was neither forced nor announced—he simply was above them all.

‘Gods, no wonder Luo Binghe wants this scumbag’s attention. Cold, unreachable, mysterious… that’s like catnip for traumatized protagonists.’

And then, just as Zhu Xiao was still composing his imaginary script of feigned casualness, Shen Qingqiu abruptly stopped.

The fan paused mid-sweep.

A single tap of his foot against the moss-edged stone path sent a sharp, echoing note into the air.

“You’ve been following me.” Shen Qingqiu said coolly, his voice like still water under thin ice—smooth, but brittle with underlying chill. “How long do you intend to skulk behind trees like a half-trained thief?”

Zhu Xiao froze in place.

A pulse of awkwardness skittered up his spine like a cold centipede. ‘Shit. Busted.’ With a tight grimace, he cleared his throat and stepped into the open, raising both hands before folding them neatly in a respectful fist-to-palm salute. “Shizun.” he greeted, forcing his tone into one of humble reverence.

Shen Qingqiu turned slowly, folding his fan with a quiet snap that sounded more ominous than it had any right to be. Those striking bamboo-green eyes locked onto him with unflinching precision. They were like blades behind jade—polished and deadly, studying him with cool disinterest and a faint trace of impatience. His expression betrayed nothing, not even curiosity.

Zhu Xiao offered a thin smile, the kind that could pass for polite or terrified depending on the lighting. “I didn’t mean to intrude… merely, I happened to see you nearby and—uh—thought I should greet Shizun properly.”

‘Oh gods. That sounded even stupider out loud.’ Internally, he was already smashing his face into a metaphorical desk. ‘Ten out of ten for awkward diplomacy. Zero for subtlety.’

[ (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ Good job! You didn’t burst into flames or faint! Progress!  ]

‘Oh shut up! I’m two seconds away from grabbing that stupid fan and performing a live demonstration of what true OOC looks like!’

Shen Qingqiu blinked slowly. There was no shift in his posture, no raised brow, not even a wrinkle of amusement. “Mn.” he murmured neutrally, as if entertaining a mosquito buzzing politely by his ear. “So you followed me to… say hello.”

Zhu Xiao felt sweat gather at the base of his neck. This man was unreal. Was he even human? Did he have tear ducts? Blood? A pulse?

‘System, are we sure he’s an alpha? I mean, what kind of alpha gives off zero scent? What kind of man doesn’t even sweat? The only scent I’m getting is bamboo, and that’s from the forest, not him!’

[ Ah~! That’s one of the mysteries of the “cold male lead” trope~! Teehee~! The author never gave him a scent descriptor because~! Plot device~!  Probably something like "snow lotus on a frozen cliff" if they ever remembered to write it! ]

‘Snow lotus my ass. More like “regret and cold-blooded apathy.”’

But Zhu Xiao had to figure out how to ask for the jade pendant back. Fast.

He clasped his hands again, lowering his voice to a tone of practiced modesty. “Forgive the interruption, Shizun. It’s just… earlier, during that unfortunate altercation… there was something missing. A jade pendant. It… belongs to Luo-shidi.”

That got a slight flicker. The fan resumed its lazy sweep, and Shen Qingqiu’s eyes narrowed just a fraction.

Zhu Xiao’s heart skipped. ‘Oh shit. Here it comes.’

.

..

…

Disciple, Are You Flirting With Me?

Chapter Five

“A Quest”

…

..

.

Zhu Xiao stiffened slightly at the weight of that sharp, bamboo-green gaze drilling into him with the cutting edge of a honed blade. Shen Qingqiu’s fan hung languidly in his fingers, half-opened like a veil hiding his true thoughts, the painted silk catching the dying light of the evening sun. The shadows of plum trees stretched long over the stone path, rustling in a breeze far too delicate for the tension thrumming between them.

For a moment, nothing passed between them but silence, so deep and pointed that it practically hummed. Zhu Xiao gave a tight-lipped smile, the fist-to-palm salute still held in place. His brain scrambled, gears squealing as they tried to conjure up a good opening line. A clever excuse. A heartfelt lie. Something not humiliating.

Then, Shen Qingqiu finally spoke.

“Does Disciple Luo Binghe not know how to communicate with this Master on his own?”

The words were smooth as flowing water, but twice as cold. A hint of something unplaceable curled beneath that frigid tone—dismissive, yes, but edged with irony, as though Zhu Xiao had just tried to explain poetry to a scholar.

Zhu Xiao blinked. His face, carefully schooled into polite decorum, briefly cracked. ‘Huh?’ That was not what he had prepared for. ‘What the hell kind of ice-coded riddle is this supposed to be?’

[ (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡: Host, isn’t Master Shen so refined and elegant when he speaks? Kyahh~! Truly the pinnacle of aesthetic cold beauty! (≧◡≦) ♡ ]

‘What the fu— Shut up. No one asked you, decorative waste of code.’ Zhu Xiao mentally hissed, his inner voice dripping with enough sarcasm to pickle vegetables. ‘I’m trying not to have a brain hemorrhage figuring out what that icicle just meant.’

Outwardly, Zhu Xiao didn’t let his confusion show more than a twitch in his left brow. He cleared his throat lightly and replied with practiced ease. “Luo-shidi seems the type of child who would rather not trouble Shizun unnecessarily. He holds too much respect, perhaps.”

Another moment of silence followed. One that stretched… and stretched ... and didn’t stop stretching until it snapped taut like a guqin string, humming with unbearable tension. Shen Qingqiu didn’t say a word. He merely stared at him.

His eyes narrowed a fraction—barely perceptible—but Zhu Xiao felt the temperature drop by ten degrees. The fan in his pale fingers shifted just enough to catch the light again, casting thin lines of shadow across his face. It was expressionless. Smooth. Statuesque. Beautifully carved in marble with all the warmth to match.

‘...Why is he just staring at me like that? Say something, you frosty bastard! You’re scaring the spiritual root out of me—’

[ (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ: Look at that intense gaze! Don’t worry, Host! This is definitely a flag! Maybe even a super rare ‘Mystery Tsundere Ice Lord’ route opening up!! ♡(≧ω≦) ]

‘This is the ‘Serial Killer About to File a Disciplinary Report’ route, you bubble-brained tamagotchi.’

At last, Shen Qingqiu exhaled softly, more a breath than a sigh. His voice, when it came again, was low, brittle, and dry as winter frost.

“No disciples of mine are worth my time… if they cannot come to me on their own.”

The words settled over the air like snowfall. Quiet. Cryptic. Irrefutably dismissive, and yet laced with a thorny underside that suggested something deeper—an invisible undercurrent beneath the surface of icy disdain.

Then he turned, as fluid as flowing ink, his robe trailing like mist behind him. Without another glance, he walked away, leaving behind nothing but the soft scuff of his steps and the scent of... absolutely nothing.

Even the air around him refused to carry his pheromones. How the hell did that even work?

Zhu Xiao stood there, utterly baffled. His mouth opened once. Then again. Then a third time like a dying fish trying to form words.

‘What the fuck does that even mean?!’

[ It means Shen Qingqiu has hidden layers! Mysterious depth! What a cool, aloof character! ♡ This is good! He’s talking to you, Host! So dreamy~~! (｡♥‿♥｡) ]

‘Are you high on binary code?! That man just told me his students are trash and walked off into the fog like a cryptic final boss!’ Zhu Xiao wailed internally. ‘He gave me an existential riddle and vanished like a moody philosopher ghost!’

Zhu Xiao sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with a groan that came from somewhere deep in his soul. Around him, the bamboo leaves rustled again, leaves drifting down like confetti thrown by the universe to celebrate his ongoing, spiraling failure. One delicate green leaf landed squarely on his shoulder. He didn’t even bother brushing it off. He failed to get the fake jade. 

“Great.” he muttered under his breath. Then, through gritted teeth, he hissed at the air, “And don’t think I didn’t notice that I haven’t cleared the first task. That bastard didn’t even acknowledge me yet?!”

[ ~♪ Host is absolutely correct! Shen Qingqiu has not acknowledged you as someone worth noticing yet! ٩(｡•́‿•̀｡)۶ ]

Zhu Xiao’s eye twitched. The cheery voice of the system echoed in his skull like an overly excited merchant hawking glittery trash at a street market. “Wow. Thanks for confirming my failure with such enthusiasm.”

[ ヾ(＾∇＾)ノ  You're welcome! Would Host like a helping hand from this friendly system? This kind System is always here to help Host fulfill his goals~ ]

Zhu Xiao folded his arms, squinting at nothing in particular. His expression was that of a man who’d just been offered a free sample from a very suspicious vendor. “You mean you actually have a plan?”

[  (๑˃̵ᴗ˂̵)و Success rate: 87%! This system can issue a quest to assist Host in earning Shen Qingqiu’s acknowledgment!   ]

That made Zhu Xiao pause. He narrowed his eyes, then reluctantly asked. “...Will it count toward the first task?”

[   Yes! And it comes with additional B-Points!   ]

Well. That was tempting. He did need to start accumulating those Badass Points if he wanted to unlock more system functions—and more importantly, he really, really needed to break the OOC restriction that still bound his personality like spiritual duct tape.

“Fine.” Zhu Xiao muttered, crossing his arms. “I’ll bite. What’s the quest?”

[ Quest received! Objective: Present Shen Qingqiu with a heartfelt gift that will resonate with his noble character! Success will award Host with +500 B-Points and moderate progress toward Task One. Good luck~! (✿◕‿◕) ]

Zhu Xiao made a face like he’d just chewed on a bitter plum pit. “A gift? To that ice sculpture of a man? Are you insane? He’s a Peak Lord—he probably already has five of everything expensive and a sixth set just to throw at people who annoy him.”

[ （＾▽＾） No need to worry, Host! Gifts come in many forms! It’s the thought that counts! ]

He groaned, throwing his hands up in defeat. “The thought? What kind of ‘thought’ can impress a man who breathes disdain like air and has a face carved from disappointment itself?!” He glanced at the lingering bamboo leaves. “Ugh, this is already hard!”

[ ╰(´︶`)╯This system is prepared with helpful suggestions! How about… cooking a warm meal for Shen Qingqiu? Food is a universal gesture of kindness~ ]

Zhu Xiao barked out a dry, humorless laugh. “Cooking? Are you out of your silicon mind? I was the third young master in my past life. The most I ever cooked was instant ramen. Barely.”

[ ... (・_・;) ]

“I once set off a fire alarm just trying to microwave soup.”

[ ... (๑•﹏•) ]

“I am a walking, talking kitchen hazard, alright?!”

[ New suggestion! Host can buy Shen Qingqiu a precious item from the market! Many merchants sell rare materials, fans, or precious teas! ]

Zhu Xiao snorted. “With what? Good vibes and debt? You realize I don’t even have two taels to rub together, right? I’m broker than a shattered jade token. He’s a Peak Lord. He probably wipes his mouth with gold-threaded silk.”

[ ... (Ｔ▽Ｔ) ]

“Exactly.”

[ Next suggestion! Host could perform a piece on a musical instrument! Perhaps a guqin melody to soothe the mind and body! ]

Zhu Xiao slowly closed his eyes and pinched the center of his brows, massaging it like a man trying to rub away the sheer absurdity of existence. “Do I look like someone who knows ancient music theory? The closest I’ve come is plucking a few broken notes on a pipa, and even then it sounded like a chicken in distress.”

[ ... (⚆_⚆) ]

Zhu Xiao cracked one eye open, his gaze sharp. “Don’t even say it.”

[ New suggestion! How about poetry~? A heartfelt poem written by Host might warm Shen Qingqiu’s icy exterior! ]

Now that… actually made him pause.

Poetry.

Zhu Xiao frowned, glancing at the soft sway of plum branches overhead. The idea wasn’t entirely without merit, but…

“I mean… maybe?” he muttered, chewing on his lip. “But Shen Qingqiu is literally a walking library. He’s probably read a thousand verses before breakfast and critiques couplets for fun. How the hell am I supposed to impress him with amateur hour?”

[ （＾ｖ＾） This system believes in Host~! Your poem will be unique and carry your sincere effort! That is worth more than flowery vocabulary!   ]

Zhu Xiao stared up at the sky for a long moment. Then, one little bamboo leaf drifted down, landing on his nose for a brief moment before falling to the ground.

He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “Fine. Fine. I’ll try. But if he roasts me for a weak rhyme scheme, I’m feeding your code to a demonic cultivator.”

[ (⌒▽⌒)☆ Yay! Host has accepted the quest! Poetry writing for Shen Qingqiu initiated! Please begin composing a heartfelt gift that even a Peak Lord can’t ignore! ]

Zhu Xiao grumbled under his breath, already regretting every life choice that brought him to this exact moment. A poem. For the coldest, snobbiest, most elegant cultivator to ever glide down a mountain in silk robes like a frostbitten crane.

What could possibly go wrong?

.

.

.

[Cang Qiong Mountain
Qing Jing Peak
Disciple Male Dorm
Later…]

The oil lamp flickered weakly on the wooden desk, casting dancing shadows across the walls of Zhu Xiao’s dorm room. The faint scent of ink, old parchment, and plum blossom incense lingered in the air. Outside, the night wind whispered through the bamboo, and the tall grass swayed. 

Zhu Xiao sat hunched over his desk, one elbow propped up as he rested his cheek in his palm, glaring at the blank parchment before him like it had personally insulted his intelligence. A fine wolf-hair brush sat idle in his other hand, its tip barely grazing the paper, as if daring him to write something worth the ink. But his mind was emptier than a hollow gourd.

He’d written thousands of comments before—snide criticisms, hilarious one-liners, passionate defenses of tragic characters, deep literary dissections of narrative arcs, and essays of nearly scholarly length hidden in forum threads under Shen Yuan’s old username: “Peerless Cucumber.” There was once a time he could churn out 5,000 words at midnight after reading a dog-blood c-novel ending that had fried his nerves. His fingers had known no fatigue, his tongue had been sharper than a dagger dipped in vinegar, and his vocabulary had been so vast he could summon entire essays laced with poetic metaphors and cutting sarcasm with a few keystrokes. Peerless Cucumber even wrote long-length comments of each chapter in Proud Immortal Demon Way: A/B/O Dynmic Version that were over six thousand chapters. 

But now?

Now he was in a xianxia world with a brush instead of a keyboard and the demand to write something heartfelt instead of a flaming roast.

And not just for anyone, but for Shen Qingqiu.

That insufferable, cold-blooded, fan-obsessed, sleeve-flicking bastard who probably quoted poetry in his sleep. Every fiber in Zhu Xiao's being rebelled at the idea of composing verses for someone who could probably recite the entire Classic of Poetry backwards while trimming his damn peach trees.

“Fuck.” Zhu Xiao muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “Why is it so fucking hard to write for him?”

The System chirped in, obnoxiously chipper as always.

[  Host! You're doing great! Just remember—poetry is the language of the heart~! (❁´◡`❁) ]

Zhu Xiao turned slowly to glare at the crimson window with a glowing string of gold text hovering beside his lamp like some smug floating scroll of encouragement. “You say that like my heart hasn’t been trampled by that man’s eyes every time he looks at me like I’m a speck of dirt on his sleeve.”

[ That just means he hasn’t seen the real you yet! Show him your soul through your words, Host! Open your heart like a lotus blooming on a tranquil lake! ♡～('▽^人) ]

Zhu Xiao leaned back in his chair, mouth twisted into a grimace of disbelief. “You’ve got a real talent for making me want to headbutt something delicate.”

The System responded with a sparkle of animated emojis. 

[   (⌒▽⌒)☆ Your passion is overflowing! I knew you were a spirited type! ]

“I’m going to throw up.”

He turned back to the parchment, brush hovering uncertainly. His thoughts twisted and tangled like a knotted fishing net. He’d read so much poetry in his past life, devoured wuxia stories and cultivation romances until his eyes bled digital blue light. He could quote lines from Su Shi and Li Bai, even make up couplets just to win debates online.

But this wasn’t a debate.

This was… personal.

The idea of Shen Qingqiu reading something he wrote, something genuine—it made his stomach tighten and his jaw clench. If he poured too much sincerity into it, it’d feel like baring his throat. If he made it too sarcastic, he might as well hang himself for failing the quest. And worst of all, if he wrote something good, something truly beautiful, what if Shen Qingqiu read it and still didn’t acknowledge him?

What if the cold scumbag just said. “Acceptable.” and walked off?

Zhu Xiao sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, knuckles pale. The quiet rustle of bamboo leaves outside gave no answers. He wanted to scream into a pillow.

“System.” he said, voice tight. “You ever think about shutting up for five minutes?”

[ ٩(◕‿◕｡)۶ Host, are you asking for a dramatic silence to heighten your poetic mood?! Excellent idea! Activating Quiet Mode for one minute. Use your inspiration wisely~! (๑˃̵ᴗ˂̵) ]

“Wait—no, that’s not—ugh.” But the glowing text winked out before he could retract it.

Finally, alone with his grumbling thoughts, Zhu Xiao sat back, stared at the parchment, and let the silence wrap around him. The brush felt heavier in his hand now. Maybe he couldn't write something perfect. But maybe… just maybe, he could write something real.

He dipped the brush in ink, exhaled slowly, and lowered the tip to the paper.

The first stroke bled across the parchment like the opening of a wound.

The first poem died an unceremonious death halfway through the second line.

Zhu Xiao stared at it—two carefully inked phrases, the brushwork clean but uninspired. It was a safe beginning, the kind that might appear in a scholar’s primer or a mediocre love confession—flowery, inoffensive, entirely forgettable.

He sighed, muttered a curse, then crossed the lines out in one decisive slash of ink. The parchment crinkled beneath his fingers as he rolled it up and tossed it into the growing pile at his feet.

Another sheet. Fresh ink. A deep breath. This time he tried something different, sharper, something with more edge to reflect the rigid discipline and cool detachment that clung to Shen Qingqiu like a second robe. A line about frost and moonlight emerged, carefully crafted—then derailed by an awkward metaphor involving phoenix trees. His nose wrinkled as he leaned back, squinting at it with critical disapproval.

“No, that won’t work.” he muttered under his breath.

The second parchment joined the first, crumpled, discarded.

The cycle repeated.

Parchment after parchment unfurled before him like an army sent into battle, only to fall under the merciless sword of his perfectionism. He tried solemn admiration, restrained longing, and wistful distance. He scribbled one that was dripping in literary references and elegant couplets—only to realize it read like an overly polished homework assignment, the kind that would make Shen Qingqiu arch a perfect brow and say. “Did you write this or plagiarize the Book of Songs?”

Zhu Xiao groaned, dragging both hands down his face, smudging ink on his cheek. His brush trembled in his grip—not from exhaustion, but from mounting frustration. He had always known how to find the perfect phrase, how to sharpen his wit into a weapon, how to couch meaning beneath layers of sarcasm or irony. But this? This was different. This required vulnerability. Sincerity. An uncomfortable openness he had long kept buried beneath years of digital armor and internet bravado.

The pile of failed attempts grew like a paper mountain beside his desk. Crumpled parchment scattered across the floor like fallen leaves in autumn—messy, brown-edged with fatigue, stained with half-dried ink and the scent of quiet defeat.

He didn’t even notice when the System stopped speaking.

The absence of its animated kaomojis, its glittering pop-ups, and chirping encouragements, created a strange silence, almost reverent. The room was hushed except for the occasional rustle of his sleeves or the gentle tap of the brush against the rim of the inkstone. Even the wind had gone still, and the sound of wind outside ceased its noise, as if nature itself paused to let him work.

Time unraveled. Minutes bled into hours unnoticed.

Zhu Xiao hunched deeper over his desk, a lock of ink-black hair falling loose against his temple. His ink-stained fingers moved with focused deliberation, the tip of the brush gliding in careful strokes. He no longer flinched at failed lines; he crossed them out with silent precision and began again. The words came slower now, but each one felt truer, weightier. He no longer tried to impress. He simply… wrote.

And then, with the first blush of morning seeping through the wooden lattice of the window, something clicked.

The horizon outside turned a pale amber, softening the dorm room’s shadows. The bamboo leaves, now dusted with dew, began to glisten as golden light caught their edges. A bird crowed faintly in the distance, and a breeze stirred the parchments on the floor.

Zhu Xiao blinked as the light reached his desk, throwing the ink on the latest parchment into relief. He hadn’t realized the sun had risen. His back ached, his fingers were stiff, and his eyes were dry from lack of blinking, but the words before him stirred something in his chest.

He leaned back, shoulders heavy, lips slightly parted as he read the poem aloud under his breath. It wasn’t grand or overly embellished. It didn’t hide behind metaphor or drown itself in literary flexing. It was quiet. Measured. A piece that mirrored Shen Qingqiu’s restraint—but also the warmth he tried so hard to bury beneath layers of propriety.

A note of sincerity. A flicker of admiration. A thread of softness wrapped in dignity.

Zhu Xiao stared at it.

For the first time that night, he didn’t cross it out.

“…This might actually work.” he whispered, almost afraid to jinx it.

There was no snarky reply. No sparkling kaomoji. The System remained respectfully silent, as if even it understood that this—this quiet moment of effort, exhaustion, and hope—didn’t need commentary.

Zhu Xiao let the brush fall gently to the side, the parchment drying before him. His gaze lingered on the final lines, and he let out a soft, disbelieving laugh.

“Gods help me… If that cold bastard reads this and says it’s ‘adequate,’ I’m stealing his tea while he sleeps.”

Still smiling faintly, he tilted his head back and closed his eyes, letting the golden morning light soak into his skin. He was tired. He was sore. He wasn’t even sure if it was good enough.

But he had written it.

And somehow, that was enough.

.

.

.

[Cang Qiong Mountain
Qing Jing Peak
Bamboo House
Early Morning…]

The world had only just begun to unfurl from the darkness when Shen Qingqiu’s eyes fluttered open.

Dawn’s quiet breath kissed the corners of the bamboo house, casting faint ribbons of pale blue and silver across the floor. Shadows stretched like sleepy arms along the wooden beams, and the faintest rustle of leaves stirred beyond the rice-paper walls. The air still held the cool hush of night—clean, damp with dew, untouched by birdsong or footsteps.

Shen Qingqiu pushed aside the silken coverlet with a practiced grace, rising from his low bed in a single, fluid motion. The white inner robe he wore—a soft, finely woven garment with subtle embroidery at the hem—clung loosely to his frame, the collar just beginning to slide from one shoulder as he moved. A single braid hung over his shoulder, thick and dark as ink, woven neatly but loosely, the silken strands glinting faintly in the morning light. The rest of his hair fanned softly down around his face like flowing shadows, unbound from its usual scholar’s crown.

Barefoot and silent, Shen Qingqiu moved into the kitchen. The bamboo flooring creaked softly beneath his steps, the only sound within the house. The cabinet opened with the slightest groan of old wood, revealing his neatly arranged ceramics. He selected a white porcelain mug, its shape simple but elegant, and retrieved the glass pitcher of chilled water from the cold-box nestled in the corner—one of the few modern luxuries quietly integrated into the immortal sect's timeless aesthetics.

The water poured in a clear stream, catching the pale light in a quiet shimmer. Shen Qingqiu brought the mug to his lips and took a slow, careful sip. It was cold and clean, crisp against his tongue, enough to fully awaken the rest of him.

As he turned, he walked toward the nearest window. With a delicate touch, he pushed the paper-latticed shutter open and secured it with a carved wooden rod. Outside, the rising sun painted the edges of the sky in strokes of gold and rose, like the first brushstrokes on a blank silk scroll. The grove of bamboo rustled softly in the morning breeze, their slender stalks swaying like dancers—elegant, serene, unbothered by time or storm.

The gentle silence was broken not by a sound, but by a flicker of movement at the edge of the porch.

Shen Qingqiu’s eyes narrowed, sharp as a blade beneath his long lashes. Something sat at the top step of the wooden platform that encircled his house, just barely within the perimeter of his wards, yet untouched by them. He could see the glint of something pale pinned under a stone. A message?

He set the mug of water carefully down on the windowsill, the ceramic clicking softly against wood, and turned toward the door. His fingers slid the frame open with quiet efficiency, and a breath of fresh, cool air met his face. He paused in the doorway, bamboo-green eyes scanning the quiet forest beyond. The wards held. The silence was too clean, too untouched for intruders. Still, he extended his senses outward, the delicate threads of his spiritual energy sweeping like a net across the perimeter. Nothing stirred.

No scent. No aura. No trace.

He stepped barefoot onto the platform, his long sleeves brushing against his sides like falling water. The hem of his inner robe trailed slightly behind him as he moved, silent as snow. He approached the object cautiously and knelt, one knee bending, the other leg drawn up in perfect, practiced elegance.

It was a single sheet of folded parchment. A pebble—smooth, flat, and clearly chosen with care—rested on top to keep it from drifting in the morning wind.

Shen Qingqiu lifted the stone with two fingers, then delicately took the parchment and unfolded it.

His eyes scanned the lines.

It was a poem.

And not a bad one.

Beneath green stalks, where quiet winds abide,
One stands alone, as mountains turn the tide.
Cool ink and fan, unbent by summer's heat,
A soul as distant as the snow-capped peak.

Like brush to scroll, his grace a fleeting trace,
A stroke of stillness none can dare replace.
Yet even jade may yearn beneath the moon,
For echoes carved in silence, soft and soon.

Shen Qingqiu blinked slowly. His gaze returned to the top of the page—no signature. No identifying seal. No sect insignia. The calligraphy was precise, elegant, and—infuriatingly—anonymous.

He turned the parchment over, checked for watermarks, hidden messages, spiritual energy marks.

Nothing.

He frowned, standing upright with the parchment held lightly in his hand. The breeze stirred again, curling the edge of the page gently as though encouraging him to read it one more time.

He was used to strange things.

He had seen lots of strange things in his long life. Had done strange things in order to survive, to understand, and to live his life. He had gotten used to it that it no longer fazed him. 

But poetry on the porch?

This was new.

He glanced around once more, his expression unreadable. Suspicion and curiosity warred beneath his tranquil surface.

There was no trace of a spiritual signature. No aura clinging to the message. Whoever left it had done so carefully and well. Shen Qingqiu considered throwing it into the brazier later. He still might.

But not yet.

Instead, he looked back down at the final couplet. “Yet even jade may yearn beneath the moon…” His fingers tightened slightly on the edge of the parchment. Ridiculous.

Still…

He folded the parchment neatly. Not to dispose of it—at least not immediately.

Not yet.

There were still questions to ask. And he would find answers. Eventually.

But for now, he turned back toward the house, his long sleeves whispering against the wind. The bamboo swayed behind him, tall and silent, as if hiding secrets in their rustling leaves.

.

.

.

.

.

..

...

Chapter Text

[Cang Qiong Mountain
Qing Jing Peak
Blue Pond
A Couple of Days Later…]

The sky above Qing Jing Peak was a flawless expanse of pale sapphire, feathered with clouds so thin they looked like brushstrokes across silk. Bamboo rustled lazily in the wind, the air carried the scent of pine and blooming spring grass, and not a single sect disciple dared to come near the Blue Pond—especially when Zhu Xiao had been camped here like a moody stone lion for the past two days whenever he was on break.

Zhu Xiao sprawled across the grass in an utterly ungraceful tangle of limbs, a bamboo leaf stuck stubbornly to his cheek. His outer robe served as a makeshift pillow, and his face was twisted in a half-scowl, half-pout at the shimmering pond. The water caught every subtle hue of the sky—from silver to soft turquoise—and beneath the surface, the koi drifted peacefully, wholly unbothered by his personal crisis.

“I don’t get it!” he exclaimed, flinging one arm upward in theatrical despair. “It’s been two days and the quest still isn’t complete?!”

He flopped back down with a groan loud enough to startle a bird from a nearby tree. “Does he not like poetry? Does he not have eyes? That poem took me all night! My back still hurts from sitting like some cursed calligraphy goose!”

No sooner had he said it than the familiar ding! chimed right above his face.

A semi-transparent red screen shimmered into existence, framed in gold-leaf filigree. Words began to scroll across it in an irritatingly cheerful font that sparkled faintly.

[   Host can write Shen Qingqiu a new poetry again? (๑>ᴗ<๑)   ]

Zhu Xiao squinted up at it, unimpressed. “…No.”

The window blinked at him innocently.

[  Don’t give up, Host! Even the coldest beauty can melt with enough heartfelt effort ! (灬º‿º灬)♡   ]

“I am trying! I poured out my literary soul!” Zhu Xiao growled, flinging a pebble through the screen. It passed harmlessly through, of course, and plopped into the pond. “Is there a way for me to check my progress? Like in those cultivation dating sims—affection meter, favorability bar, red heart turning pink, something?! ”

The System paused, as if genuinely considering it.

[  Sorry! This isn’t a dating simulator~! (≧◡≦)  ]

Zhu Xiao barked a hollow laugh. “Could’ve fooled me.”

[  Host should believe in the power of sincerity! Also—poetry! Poetry is the bridge between souls! ٩(◕‿◕｡)۶   ]

“Sincerity? I used the line ‘Yet even jade may yearn beneath the moon’ to describe his presence and beauty. I nearly wept writing that!” Zhu Xiao gestured vaguely toward the heavens like a betrayed artist. “And what did I get? No notification. No ‘wow, Host, he blushed’ moment. No quest update! Nothing!”

[  Perhaps Host should consider writing a poem that reflects Shen Qingqiu’s interests more?  ]

Zhu Xiao narrowed his eyes. “You mean like... tea appreciation and stabbing people with a fan?”

[  (≧∇≦)b Excellent guess!   ]

“…That wasn’t a guess. That was sarcasm.”

[  Host is doing great! Keep it up! (๑•̀ㅂ•́)و✧ ]

Zhu Xiao dragged both hands down his face and collapsed flat onto the grass with a groan of mortal suffering. The koi swam by like lazy gods. A breeze teased his hair. Somewhere, a bird chirped mockingly.

“…Fine. Fine! I’ll write another damn poem,” he grumbled. “Only because I want to succeed in this stupid quest in order to have my first task to get that cold Alpha to acknowledge me. I really need my OOC feature unfrozen soon.”

[  Yay! System believes in Host! ₍₍ ◝(・ω・)◟ ⁾⁾   ]

“Stop dancing.”

[  (o´∀`o)ﾉ♪  ]

“I said stop dancing! ”

[  ┌(★o☆)┘   ]

“I swear to all the Heavens, I will learn talisman scripting just to find a way to delete you. ”

.

..

…

Disciple, Are You Flirting With Me?

Chapter Six

“A Beta’s Struggle”

…

..

.

[Cang Qiong Mountain
Qing Jing Peak
Bamboo House
Meanwhile…]

The bamboo house atop Qing Jing Peak stood in absolute stillness, veiled in an atmosphere of austere serenity. Thin shafts of sunlight filtered through the woven shutters, painting faint golden lattice patterns upon the polished wooden floor. The scent of bamboo, aged paper, and faintly astringent ink permeated the room, anchored by a silence so sharp it could cut through thought.

Shen Qingqiu sat in precise stillness upon a square meditation cushion, legs folded with seamless elegance, posture immaculate as ever. The sleeves of his pale green robes were neatly arranged, the outer layer draping like flowing water over the tatami mat beneath him. In front of him stood a low lacquered table, upon which a small stack of handwritten scrolls awaited his inspection, each an assignment from the junior disciples under his charge.

With a fine brush held between two long fingers, he graded the essays with mechanical precision, the ink of his corrections flowing in sharp, controlled strokes. His face remained unreadable, carved from jade and shadow, with an expression of clinical detachment. Occasionally, his bamboo-green eyes would narrow ever so slightly, not out of irritation, but cool assessment as if dissecting the thoughts of his students with a scalpel.

But even as he worked, a quiet irritation lingered at the back of his mind. That poetry. The one from a couple of days ago was left anonymously, without a signature, without a single scent or explanation. He had not discarded it, nor burned it, though he could have done so with a flick of his sleeve. Instead, it now rested folded with careful deliberation in a hidden compartment beneath his writing desk, tucked away among a few other private things he never let anyone see.

He still hadn't discovered the author.

Nor did he hurry to uncover them.

Patience was a weapon as much as it was a shield and Shen Qingqiu, more than most, knew how to wield it. The truth always revealed itself, eventually. All things unraveled in time, like worn knots beneath steady fingers.

A flicker of spiritual presence—subtle, yet unmistakable—brushed the edge of his senses. His hand paused mid-correction. Then came the knock. Light, hesitant.

“Shen-shidi?” came the familiar voice, polite yet tentative.

Shen Qingqiu’s lips curled into a faint scowl. He did not answer. With practiced ease, he returned to the parchments in front of him, ignoring both the knock and the man behind it. A second knock followed. Then, without permission, the door slid open.

He did not bother to look up. “I did not say you could enter, Zhangmen-shixiong.” he said coldly, his tone sheathed in frost.

Yue Qingyuan stepped inside, his presence warm and broad like sunlight, uninvited and overly familiar. The scent of pine and cinnamon—the distinctive pheromonal aura of his Alpha nature—rolled into the room with him, subtle to some, but pungently offensive to Shen Qingqiu’s fastidious senses.

A crease formed between Shen Qingqiu’s brow. “Control your scent.” he said sharply, each word clipped like a blade. “You know I do not tolerate the stench of Alpha pheromones in my residence.”

Yue Qingyuan faltered, his smile becoming strained. “Ah… this one apologizes to Xiao-Jiu.”

The fan in Shen Qingqiu’s hand snapped open with a sharp clack, punctuating the warning in his narrowed gaze. “Do not call me that.” he said, his voice cold enough to frost the room. It wasn’t simply a preference; it was a boundary carved deep, carved long ago.

Yue Qingyuan’s expression stiffened, the corners of his mouth twitching with discomfort. “Right. My apologies.”

The silence that followed was taut and brittle, like spun glass stretched too thin.

With calculated poise, Shen Qingqiu laid down the brush and steepled his fingers, scrutinizing the man across from him like one would regard a persistent stray dog. “What is it?”

Yue Qingyuan shifted uneasily, then approached the table. Without being invited, he knelt opposite Shen Qingqiu, folding his legs carefully beneath him, as if hoping to avoid further offense. Shen Qingqiu did not mask the faint lift of his brow in disapproval; he hadn’t asked Yue Qingyuan to sit, and the presumption grated.

“It’s regarding your earlier request.” Yue Qingyuan began, reaching into the voluminous sleeve of his robe. “The one about sending your juniors on a field mission for additional training.”

Shen Qingqiu gave a slight nod, expression unreadable, fingers idly tracing the edge of his open fan. “Mm.”

From his sleeve, Yue Qingyuan retrieved a scroll, the seal freshly pressed. He offered it to Shen Qingqiu, but the latter made no move to take it. After a brief pause, Yue Qingyuan set it gently on the table and nudged it forward, as if wary of being reprimanded again. “This mission is in Shuang Hu City.” he said with a faint smile. “If it seems too much for your disciples, this shixiong can make alternate arrangements for you, Xia—Shen-shidi.”

Another slip. This time, Shen Qingqiu let it pass with an arched brow and a cold glance.

He placed the fan aside and reached for the scroll with graceful finality, unrolling it with a flick that was as fluid as it was dismissive. His eyes skimmed the contents with swift precision, absorbing every detail. When he spoke, his voice was like black ice—still, smooth, and merciless. “It is acceptable. My disciples will complete it without issue.”

“You’re certain?” Yue Qingyuan asked, hesitant, perhaps hoping to prolong the moment, to speak of something else. Anything else.

Shen Qingqiu’s gaze lifted, sharp as broken crystal.

“I do not speak carelessly.”

Yue Qingyuan lowered his eyes under the weight of that cold finality, his hands folding together in his lap as if to keep himself from saying something further. Something personal. But Shen Qingqiu had already turned his attention back to the scrolls, the rejection as silent as it was absolute.

A terse silence lingered between them, thick with the things neither dared voice.

Shen Qingqiu exhaled sharply, a clipped huff of breath through his nose as he set the scroll aside. “If you have nothing else to say, Zhangmen-shixiong.” he said coolly. “You may leave.”

It wasn’t rude—not in word. But the tone carried the frigid edge of dismissal, like snow sliding off a high peak, silent and final.

Yue Qingyuan did not move right away. He lingered there, kneeling across from him, gaze quietly fixed on Shen Qingqiu’s expressionless face. A hesitation rooted him to the floor, as if he were waiting for warmth, for permission, for anything other than this unyielding distance.

But there was none.

Shen Qingqiu did not look up again. His posture remained flawless, his brush already returned to his hand, his eyes fixed on the characters before him as if the presence in the room had already ceased to exist.

“…this shixiong has nothing further.” Yue Qingyuan said quietly. His voice was gentle, but hollow. “I will take my leave.”

He rose with careful, deliberate grace, his robes whispering softly against the wooden floor. As he turned, the air shifted. His spiritual scent—normally steady and soothing, like pinecones warmed by sunlight and the comforting hint of cinnamon—flickered out of rhythm. Just slightly. Just enough to betray the fault line beneath the surface. Sadness. Regret. A hollow guilt that clung to him like smoke.

Shen Qingqiu’s brow twitched just barely. The faintest flicker of distaste, or perhaps discomfort. He said nothing.

The door slid open with a quiet shhhhk and then closed again. The scent faded with Yue Qingyuan’s departure, dissipating like mist into the air. Only silence remained, thick and unmoving.

For a moment, Shen Qingqiu sat still, brush held loosely between his fingers. His other hand clenched into his sleeve with rigid restraint, jaw tightening just enough to show the strain behind his frozen façade.

Then he sighed.

Not a light exhale, but a low, heavy breath dragged from deep within his chest, like something poisonous refusing to dislodge. There was a flicker of anger there, cold and sharp, like frost laced with ash. Not rage. Something quieter. More dangerous. The kind of emotion that did not roar, but simmered.

He hadn’t meant to feel anything. Certainly not from that man. But Yue Qingyuan always managed to leave behind a trace of something he couldn't quite suppress.

His hand moved before his thoughts caught up, an instinct more than intention. He reached toward the side of the writing desk, where the grain of the wood was unbroken to the untrained eye, but familiar to him. There, with a subtle shift of his fingertips, he slid open the concealed panel.

Inside lay only a few items. A slender wooden comb. A folded silk handkerchief embroidered with the bamboo leaves. And resting neatly atop them is a thin smooth parchment. He paused.

His hand hovered for a second longer, then closed gently over the parchment.

With slow, practiced grace, Shen Qingqiu drew it out and unfolded it. The brushstrokes were confident, fluid, with an elegance that couldn’t be faked. The words etched across the page had been on his mind for a couple of days.

He read them again silently.

No sound in the bamboo house but the rustle of the wind outside and the soft creak of the paper as it unfurled.

His anger, sharp and bitter a moment ago, began to ebb.

He couldn’t explain it. But the moment his eyes met those words again, something in him quieted. Not entirely soothed but stilled. Like a trembling thread gone taut. Like a tide that stopped just before it could crash.

He stared at the poetry, expression unreadable, lashes casting long shadows down his cheeks.

It wasn’t just the beauty of the words. It was the way they made him feel—unseen emotions stirred from the depths, unwelcome and unsought, yet undeniably real.

His fingers tightened slightly on the parchment.

“…foolish.” he murmured under his breath, voice low, semi-cold, but no longer sharp. He folded the poem again, almost reverently, with barely a hint of fond, and returned it to its hiding place.

The silence returned.

But it no longer felt quite so empty.

.

.

.

[Cang Qiong Mountain
Qing Jing Peak
Disciple Male Dorm – Nightfall]

The dorm was quiet. Peacefully so. The kind of hush that only came when the other disciples had long since retreated to bed, leaving the night to the crickets outside and the occasional breeze rustling through the bamboo groves. A single lantern cast golden light across the room, its soft glow illuminating the furrowed brow of one very frustrated senior cultivator.

Zhu Xiao sat cross-legged on top of his chair, hunched over his desk like a man teetering on the edge of madness. Ink smeared the side of his hand. Crumpled scraps of paper surrounded him like the fallen petals of a particularly dramatic heartbreak. His brush hovered in the air, trembling slightly—the bristles already abused more than his poor dignity. He scowled at the blank parchment in front of him like it had personally insulted his ancestors.

“Ughhh! Why am I doing this again?” he hissed under his breath. “I should be sword practicing. Or sleeping. Or not wasting my night scribbling sappy drivel on paper like a lovesick debutante in some tragic novel—again!”

[   You can do it, Host! ヾ(≧▽≦*)o   ]

“Shut up.” Zhu Xiao muttered immediately. “You don’t get to be cheerful right now. You’re not the one who’ll die of public humiliation if someone ever reads this trash.”

[  But it's not trash! It's heartfelt! Emotional expression is healthy! (o^▽^o)  ]

“Healthy for who? Certainly not for me!” Zhu Xiao hissed, jabbing the brush at the paper like it was an enemy combatant. “I might as well just write about that bastard’s eyes. Bamboo green yet so cold they shimmer or something—”

[ That sounds like a wonderful idea! (＾◡＾)っ ]

“I was being sarcastic. Sarcasm, you overly enthusiastic data sponge. You really don’t understand sarcasm, do you?”

[  I do! Sarcasm is when humans say the opposite of what they mean with a tone that indicates dissatisfaction or irony. For example: ‘Great job’, when it’s actually a terrible job! (¬‿¬)  ]

“…why do I feel personally attacked by that example?”

With a groan, Zhu Xiao dropped his brush and flopped backward over the back of the chair behind him, head tipped back and one arm dramatically flung over his eyes. “I’m a cultivator, not a poet.” he muttered in despair.

He sighed heavily but didn’t move, staring up at the ceiling. His thoughts wandered—unfortunately—back to the first poem he’d written for that scumlord Cold Beauty Alpha. Did Shen Qingqiu ever even read it? Or had he just tossed it into the nearest trash pile with that look of eternal disdain he seemed to wear like a second robe? Either way, it clearly hadn’t been enough to fulfill the system’s ridiculous quest.

So what the hell did Shen Qingqiu want, then?

Zhu Xiao tried digging through his mental archives, recalling everything he could from the Proud Immortal Demon Way: A/B/O Dynamic Version novel.

Fact one: Shen Qingqiu is a Cold Beauty Alpha. (He could admit that much. The man was—fine, fine… he is beautiful.)

Fact two: Shen Qingqiu is a smart, scumbag villain.

Fact three: Shen Qingqiu hates everyone.

Fact four: Shen Qingqiu abuses Liu Binghe.

Fact five: Shen Qingqiu is a lecher.

Fact six: ….

Zhu Xiao frowned. ‘What else… huh…’ He uncovered his eyes and stared up at the ceiling, where the flickering lamplight carved long, crooked shadows across the age-darkened beams—twisted, spindly lines that stretched like skeletal fingers toward him, as if even the architecture had joined in on mocking his failure. The air in the room was thick with the faint tang of old ink, worn parchment, and bamboo creaking in the wind, as if the night itself were conspiring to remind him that inspiration was, once again, late to arrive.

“…I just realized.” he muttered into the silence, voice flat and unimpressed. “I don’t know anything about that scumlord.”

He pushed himself upright with a sigh so heavy it might’ve weighed down the rafters. His ink-stained fingers raked through his hair, a mindless, irritable motion that only succeeded in streaking more black across his temples like war paint on an increasingly unhinged scholar. His desk was a battlefield of abandoned drafts, parchment curling from the lamplight’s heat, ink pools dried into crusty rings like withered scars. The brush in his hand trembled as he jabbed it into the inkwell again, harder than necessary, and the ink retaliated with a sharp splurt, dotting his wrist with flecks of black. He cursed low under his breath.

“That stupid novel—Proud Immortal Demon Way: A/B/O Dynamic Version—had more goddamn pages dedicated to Binghe’s ‘turgid knot’ than any meaningful backstory for Shen Qingqiu!” he hissed. “I read the whole damn thing! Twice! Just in case I missed something the first time. But no. Nothing! No tragic childhood. No distant mentor. No offhand mention of a dying cat he failed to save in childhood and never emotionally recovered from. Not even a hint of depth. Just a beautiful bastard with no emotional arc and too many sleeves!”

In a fit of despair, he tossed the brush aside and collapsed forward onto his blank parchment and messy desk with all the drama of a dying noble concubine. One arm flopped over his head, the other dangling limply off the edge of the desk. His grumbled silently as his chin rested on the parchment, colored with theatrical bitterness and righteous fury.

“He’s a villain-shaped void.” he seethes. “Made entirely of contempt, fine robes, and cold, unearned authority. A two-dimensional ice sculpture with trust issues I don’t even know about, because Airplane Shooting Toward the Sky wrote him like a prop. Not a person. Just a convenient, pretty antagonist with bitchy eyebrows and emotional availability of a damp stone.”

For a moment, silence reigned except for the slow tick-tick of a cricket somewhere outside the shutters, taunting him like punctuation at the end of a joke he didn’t find funny. Then Zhu Xiao narrowed his eyes at the ceiling again, sharp as a dagger unsheathed.

“…System.”

[   Yes, Host? (⌒‿⌒)ゞ  ]

The ding noise heard that popped up too fast, too perky, too ready. Zhu Xiao's brow twitched. He sat up slightly, glaring at the thin red projection hovering innocently above his desk.

“…do you know anything about Shen Qingqiu’s past?” he asked, his voice flat but suspicious, like a man asking his reflection if it had lied to him all his life. “And I don’t mean the reputation he’s got in the novel now. I mean before. Before the narrative starts. Before he became Binghe’s emotional punching bag in expensive brocade. Surely you’ve got more data than that hack author left behind, right? Something buried in the backend? Admin notes? A hidden codex?”

There was a long pause. The kind of pause that made him hope, just briefly, that the System might take him seriously.

[  (๑>◡<๑) That’s classified information, Host! I can’t tell you that! But don’t worry—if you complete the first task, you’ll definitely unlock new information about Shen Qingqiu! Once he acknowledges you. ＼(＾▽＾)／  ]

Zhu Xiao moved up with glacial slowness, as though physically restraining himself from throttling a projection made of light. His expression, caught between disbelief and impending aneurysm, hardened until it looked like it had been carved by someone who hated statues.

“After he acknowledges me?” he echoed, voice dangerously low. “Are you kidding me?”

[   (・∀・) Best to suceeeeeed in the quest, Host! Fighting~! (★ω★)/  ]

He groaned, dragging his sleeve over his face in a slow, circular wipe like he could erase the System’s chirpy nonsense from existence. “Unbelievable.” he muttered. “The one damn thing I wanted an answer to, and you slap a progress bar on it like it’s a mobile gacha game.”

[   (づ｡◕‿‿◕｡)づ But I believe in you, Host! You're doing your best! I can feel it~!   ]

“Shut up .” Zhu Xiao groaned, his forehead thunking onto the desk with a hollow thud. The lamplight flickered again, casting a golden halo around his slumped figure, like the room was trying to romanticize his suffering. “This would be so much easier if Airplane Shooting Toward the Sky had spent five minutes giving Shen Qingqiu a soul instead of tossing him in a ‘Cruel Ice Beauty Alpha’ blender and hitting purée.”

[  Host can still analyze Character Shen Qingqiu! (≧◡≦) ✧ It may aid Host’s understanding! Character interpretation is an important step toward the Main Mission. ]

Zhu Xiao grunted, barely lifting his head. “Analyze? What, like dissecting a frog?”

[  Metaphorically, yes! ┐(＾▽＾)┌  ]

He snorted, shaking his head. “I don’t need to analyze him. I already know what I need. Luo Binghe gave me everything in his point of view, and the man was as straightforward as horny protagonists come.”

The System’s screen blinked. Blank. Empty. No emoticons. Not even an ellipsis. Just silence.

Zhu Xiao squinted at it. “What?” he said slowly. “What’s with the ominous pause? Don’t tell me it’s broken now.”

[   This System apologizes, Host. It’s just… novels written from a protagonist’s perspective tend to feature… unreliable narrators.   ]

Zhu Xiao’s eyes narrowed, affronted. “No way. Luo Binghe was pure-hearted before he was shove into the Endless Abyss by that scumbag.”

[   …Host is biased. (。-ω-)  ]

“…Rude.”

Zhu Xiao folded his arms with a dramatic huff, glaring at the red window as if he could intimidate it into submission. Admittedly, the System wasn’t entirely wrong. Maybe he was a bit biased. But could anyone blame him? Luo Binghe was his favorite character! Loyal, tragic, gorgeous, traumatized—what wasn’t to love? Of course he took his side.

Still.

Zhu Xiao leaned back in his chair, his scowl deepening into something more thoughtful. The System’s chipper tone echoed in his mind, despite its text no longer flashing on the screen.

Unreliable narrator, huh?

He hadn’t really thought about it like that before. The novel Proud Immortal Demon Way: A/B/O Dynamic Version had always been a mess of tropes and fanservice, but it was entirely from Luo Binghe’s point of view. Everything filtered through his emotions, his experiences, his trauma. And Luo Binghe… had a lot of those.

The longer Zhu Xiao sat in silence, the more the cracks began to show in the narrative he had clung to.

Plot holes he used to roll his eyes at were starting to twist into something uglier, more interesting. Why had the original Shen Qingqiu—a supposed lustful, arrogant villain—barely shown any signs of lechery in the entire damn book? There were fewer than a handful of people interested in Ning Yingying, but they never explained any details. Where was the smoking gun? Why didn’t he ever try to actually abuse his power over the disciples if he was such a monster? Why had he turned a blind eye to bullying but seemed aware enough to intervene when it almost got fatal? And then he remembered that Shen Qingqiu had found and kept Luo Binghe’s fake jade pendant. Yet he has not returned it to the rightful owner.

Why did Shen Qingqiu hate everyone?

Or... did he?

Zhu Xiao was slowly rubbing his temple with his fingers. “Great.” he muttered. “Now I’m thinking like a literature student with a dissertation due tomorrow.”

But the seed was planted. He couldn’t ignore it anymore. The more he tried to stuff Shen Qingqiu back into the tidy little “villain” box, the more the edges frayed and curled up like burned paper. There was something complicated lurking under the icy bastard’s beautiful sneer, and Zhu Xiao knew—knew—he had to dig it up if he wanted to survive this stupid quest.

Because unfortunately, this wasn’t just about being a snarky, self-aware transmigrator.

He actually had to succeed.

At the main mission.

Which, apparently, he need to—

To become Shen Qingqiu’s best friend. (Completely ignoring the detail that he was technically supposed to make the man fall in love with him. One existential crisis at a time, thanks.)

Zhu Xiao groaned and buried his face in his folded arms on the desk again, voice muffled and full of regret. “Why couldn’t I get isekai’d into something simple? Like a farming sim. Or a cooking otome. Or literally anything without a villain made of ice, trauma, and emotional repression.”

[  (＾▽＾) But you’re doing great, Host! Keep going!  ]

He resisted the urge to flip his desk.

.

.

.

.

.

..

...

Chapter Text

[Cang Qiong Mountain
At the Mountain’s Gate
A Few Days Later…]

‘I hate this quest so much.’ Zhu Xiao thought with a mental groan, his patience thinning like mist under the morning sun. He stood stiffly by the arching stone gate of Cang Qiong Mountain, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his robes rustling faintly in the breeze like the temper barely held in check beneath them. ‘Why is it so fucking hard to get that lazy sumbag to acknowledge me?!’

He scowled deeply, the corners of his mouth twisted in disdain, his garnet-amber eyes narrowing to slits under his furrowed brow. ‘Are my poems that awful to him? He just… forgets them?! Who the hell forgets handwritten poetry?’ Zhu Xiao bristled, jaw twitching as he stared at the bustling crowd of junior disciples preparing for departure.

Cang Qiong’s morning air was cool and fragrant, scented faintly with pine needles, early-blooming blossoms, and the ever-present crispness of cultivated spiritual qi. A few light clouds drifted lazily across the sky, unhurried and mocking, as if the heavens themselves found his suffering amusing.

Zhu Xiao’s attention slid sideways to the chaos just beyond him.

A small herd of disciples was gathering supplies near the stables—armfuls of bedding, carefully packed medicinal kits, jars of food, and ropes. Among them, Ming Fan, ever the loudest peacock in a flock of sparrows, was talking animatedly as if he had personally slain a hundred demons and written a treatise on etiquette right afterward. His sleeves flared like banners as he gestured, his mouth running faster than his brain.

Zhu Xiao’s gaze sharpened. ‘I cannot believe I’m one of the senior disciples stuck babysitting this group of ungrateful gremlins. Skinner Demon Arc my ass…this only mention a couple of paragraphs, not worth it to called it an arc! You damn hack author!’

He turned his eyes to where Luo Binghe was patiently adjusting the bridles and saddle straps of the horses, his expression composed, even serene, as Ning Yingying chattered beside him like an overexcited songbird. Her laugh rang high and bright, far too loud for this early in the day. Luo Binghe merely nodded along, deft fingers tightening knots, lifting saddlebags, checking feed, shifting reins. Methodical. Quiet. Efficient.

Too efficient.

‘You’d think the other disciples would help, but no, let’s just make the Protagonist do everything.’ Zhu Xiao thought with another irritated twitch of his brow. His fingers tapped restlessly against his sleeve. ‘The boy’s practically dragging this whole caravan by himself while everyone else pretends to be allergic to manual labor.’

There had been whispers, of course—rumors floating through the sect like incense smoke.

The Cold Beauty Alpha fainted.
Minor qi deviation, they said.
He was ill, or maybe poisoned, or perhaps—

Zhu Xiao didn’t buy half of it. Shen Qingqiu was the type to die before showing weakness in public, and if something had kept him from this mission for days, it had to be serious. Or, Zhu Xiao darkly suspected, he just didn’t want to come and found a convenient excuse to delay.

Ding!

A familiar, aggressively cheerful chime interrupted his thoughts as the red System window bloomed into view before his face in sparkling golden font:

[ ✧٩(ˊᗜˋ∗)و I wonder WHYYYY? What could be the real reason, Host? ]

Zhu Xiao didn’t even bother responding with words. He rolled his eyes so hard he could practically see into his own soul. ‘Probably either too busy with whatever nonsense he was doing or just too damn lazy to deal with brats.’

The red window pulsed once. Then again. Then settled into a single, unimpressed:

[ … ]

Zhu Xiao scoffed and turned away from it with the air of a man who had mastered the art of willful ignorance.

His attention drifted back to the carriage parked at the side of the path. The wood was dark, lacquered to a shine, carved with faint motifs of clouds and phoenixes. Ornate, unnecessary, and far too luxurious for someone who could fly. Sword-flight was the norm for cultivators, yet Shen Qingqiu had an entire carriage to himself.

Zhu Xiao’s eye twitched. ‘What is this? An imperial procession? Who the hell rides a carriage when you can slice through clouds on a flying blade? Oh no, not our esteemed Cold Beauty Alpha. His dainty little ankles must not touch the sky unless it’s gilded.’

Still leaning his weight on one leg, Zhu Xiao shifted, trying not to look too interested as he watched Luo Binghe—again—do everything. The boy was lifting bundles of rice onto carts, handing reins to wide-eyed disciples one by one, offering steady instructions with a calm voice and gentle nods.

No one helped him.

Not a single damn one.

Zhu Xiao’s fists clenched, knuckles pressing white. He felt the words bubble up his throat, sharp and stinging, ready to leap out—Help him, you lazy bastards!—but he bit his tongue.

He wanted to help. Gods, he wanted to.

But just as he shifted forward, muscles coiled to step into the fray—

Ding!

[ (⁀ᗢ⁀)♡ OOC is still OOC, Host! Remember your Role! ]

Zhu Xiao nearly exploded.

‘That’s so fucking annoying!’ he growled internally, grinding his teeth. ‘I hate just to stand here and let the literal Main Character break his spine while everyone else stands around like incompetent NPCs!’

[ (≧▽≦)b You’re doing amazing, sweetie. ]

Zhu Xiao made a mental note to punt the System into the sun. (Ignore the fact that it's impossible, but daydreaming of doing that makes him feel better.)

Then—finally—like a scene from some artsy, overproduced stage play, a faint rustle of robes caught his attention.

Heads turned.

All voices quieted.

From the top of the long stone staircase, Shen Qingqiu descended.

Not hurried, not out of breath, not even slightly winded, despite having walked down thousands of steps carved into the mountainside. He moved like a cloud drifting over water—elegant, serene, and utterly untouchable.

His pale green robes fluttered softly in the breeze, silk sleeves trailing like willow branches in spring. Not a hair was out of place. His expression was unreadable, poised, the usual mask of detached grace glued perfectly in place. He didn’t even glance at the gathered crowd.

He didn’t need to.

Every eye followed him.

Zhu Xiao stood frozen, arms crossed again, mouth pressed into a flat line as Shen Qingqiu passed by, like royalty ignoring the commoners.

No one spoke.

The carriage door opened without a sound.

And Shen Qingqiu stepped inside, not with haste, not with drama, but with the effortless fluidity of someone used to people watching him and never caring about their thoughts.

Zhu Xiao stared after him, jaw tight.

‘How the hell am I supposed to get close to him?’ 

.

..

…

Disciple, Are You Flirting With Me?

Chapter Seven

“A Beta’s Doubt”

…

..

.

[Inside the Carriage
Moment Later…]

The interior of the carriage swayed gently, its wheels creaking over the uneven stone path that wound down from the lofty peaks of Cang Qiong Mountain. Delicate light filtered through the silken curtains, casting soft, shifting patterns across the polished floor and the elegant folds of Shen Qingqiu’s pristine robes. The faint scent of sandalwood lingered in the air, perhaps from a charm tucked in one of the ornate compartments. It was peaceful, serene, exactly the kind of silence that left one alone with one’s thoughts.

Shen Qingqiu sat perfectly composed on the cushioned bench, his posture straight and his long sleeves draped neatly across his lap. His bamboo-green eyes, narrow and sharp like a phoenix's gaze, were trained on the small chessboard resting between him and the opposite wall. The black and white pieces remained untouched, frozen mid-game since the moment the journey began. He had intended to distract himself with strategy, with logic and maneuvering. Yet his hand never rose to make a move.

Instead, his thoughts drifted again, almost against his will, to the poem he had found on the porch of his bamboo courtyard several days prior.

It had appeared without announcement or trace, neatly folded and placed with deliberation, but without flourish. There had been no accompanying gift, no name inscribed, not even a whiff of spiritual scent that could hint at the sender’s identity. It wasn’t the first—no, this was the second piece of verse left for him in this clandestine manner. And like the first, the calligraphy was artful and deliberate, the brush strokes smooth and confident. He had analyzed it twice over and memorized every line, but the mystery only deepened.

What perplexed Shen Qingqiu the most was not the flattery—he was used to that, as tiresome as it often was. It was the tone. There was no pandering, no transparent obsequiousness, none of the syrupy reverence he usually associated with attempts to curry favor. The poem read more like an observation, quiet and almost reverent, as if the author had captured a private moment and preserved it like a pressed flower in verse.

With an elegant movement, he reached into the voluminous sleeve of his qingkun robes and retrieved the parchment again, unfolding it with the same delicate care one would offer a sacred relic. The texture was smooth between his fingers, the ink faded just slightly from exposure outside, but no scent clung to the fibers. That detail unsettled him. Every living person leaves a scent, especially cultivators. The only ones who didn’t were either incorporeal… or used special concealment techniques.

His gaze lingered on the poem once more.

Bamboo leaves twirl in a wind-borne waltz,
Each step a secret, every breath withheld.
The fan he wields, a white crane’s plume—
Dances with grace where moonlight dwells.

Eyes like verdant jade, sharp and deep,
Holding storms the sky dares not reap.
A fleeting glance—no word, no sound—
Yet the mountains pause, the world unwound.

He read it again.

There was something intimate in the imagery. The poet saw him. Not just his appearance, not just the aesthetic performance he offered the world in his meticulously curated robes and refined expressions, but the way he moved through space, the tension beneath the stillness, the elegance that veiled steel. It unsettled him. It intrigued him.

He narrowed his eyes slightly and leaned back against the padded wall of the carriage, deep in thought.

Who could it be?

It couldn’t be one of the other Peak Lords—he dismissed that idea immediately. Most of them despised him, or at best, regarded him with cautious politeness. He had no current paramours, no secret admirers (at least none he hadn’t already caught in the act). His senior disciples? No, impossible. He would have noticed if any of them were harboring such poetic leanings. The Hallmasters? No… though, wait—

He paused.

‘Beta Hallmasters…’

That was a thought. He had a couple of Beta Hallmasters and perhaps a few Beta senior disciples under his command. Betas, with their faint, nearly imperceptible scent profiles, often went unnoticed in a room full of Alphas and Omegas. Their presence could slip through unnoticed, especially if they’d mastered a few minor cultivation tricks to suppress their pheromones even further.

He tilted his head, lips pressing into a contemplative line.

It was plausible. Concealment scent pills were rarely used by disciples—they were expensive and hard to come by without a reason. But someone truly intent on remaining anonymous might go to such lengths.

“I’ll need to consult the disciple logs once this mission is over.” he murmured to himself, his voice as soft as silk rustling in the wind. “I’ll cross-reference for Betas with knowledge of poetry and fine calligraphy…”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips—wry, but curious.

For now, though, he would keep this poem tucked away. Like a puzzle with too few pieces, it was impossible to solve just yet. But the mystery stirred something in him—something long buried under layers of courtly detachment and wearied pride.

Outside, the wind rustled through the trees as the carriage rolled onward. Inside, the fan in Shen Qingqiu’s sleeve remained folded, resting against his thigh like a sleeping bird.

But the image of bamboo leaves and dancing white feathers lingered.

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.

[Outdoor
On the Road
Later…]

The sun peeked through a thinning veil of clouds, casting a golden sheen over the procession of disciples making their way down the mountain road. Dew still clung to the tips of pine needles, and the air smelled of moss and crisp leaves. Somewhere, a magpie sang a bright trill that clashed horribly with Zhu Xiao’s growing irritation.

“You have got to be shitting me.” Zhu Xiao muttered under his breath, tugging lightly at the reins of his horse as he turned his head over his shoulder.

Behind them, several paces back and clearly lagging, Luo Binghe trudged forward with a heavy bamboo basket strapped securely to his back. The load looked punishing, the straps digging into his shoulders, the weight shifting awkwardly with every step. And yet, the boy kept his head down, refusing to complain, his footsteps dogged and determined.

Zhu Xiao’s jaw twitched.

A few paces ahead of him, Ming Fan, seated tall and proud atop his horse, cast a smug glance over his shoulder. The smirk that curved his lips could’ve soured wine. Zhu Xiao caught it, and his grip tightened on the reins.

“Short horses my ass.” he grumbled under his breath. “I passed by the stables just two days ago. There were at least twenty fresh horses—maybe more. Don't tell me they all suddenly grew wings and flew off in the night.” His gaze sharpened, darting toward Ming Fan. “How convenient that somehow none were available for the one kid with enough luggage to flatten a demon boar.”

His horse gave a light huff, almost as if in agreement.

Zhu Xiao’s conscience prickled, watching Luo Binghe stumble slightly over a loose stone, only to right himself without pause. It wasn’t fair. But what was he supposed to do? Yelling at Ming Fan would only stir trouble, and Shen Qingqiu was still in the carriage. So much for justice. So much for honor among cultivators.

A sudden feminine voice chimed in from his left.

“Shizun—Shizun!” Ning Yingying called out, her voice rising in volume as she rode her pale gray mare toward the curtained window of the elegant carriage. Her omega scent, light and sweet like blooming rosebuds on a spring morning with a hint of sweet peach, drifted faintly in the breeze, pleasant for the most part, until emotions turned it otherwise.

“Shizun!” she whined again, drawing up beside the slowly moving carriage. Her mare trotted with more grace than Zhu Xiao expected for a disciple’s horse. “Shizun, it’s really unfair! Luo-shidi is walking, and he’s carrying that huge basket on his back! He didn’t even get a horse! It’s too much!”

She pouted dramatically as she reached out to knock gently on the edge of the window frame, careful not to be disrespectful. “He’s going to fall behind at this rate, and everyone’s ignoring him!”

For a moment, the carriage remained still and silent. Then, with the delicate grace only Shen Qingqiu possessed, the curtain lifted.

He hadn’t used his hand.

Instead, the closed tip of his signature white and green fan had slid beneath the curtain, nudging it just high enough to reveal the elegant lines of his face. His expression was calm—infuriatingly so. Not cold, not warm, but that unreadable serene neutrality he wore like a second skin.

From his higher vantage point, Zhu Xiao had a perfect view of Shen Qingqiu’s features, backlit softly by the dim light within the carriage. The Peak Lord’s bamboo-colored eyes blinked once, slowly, before focusing on Ning Yingying with all the patience of a teacher indulging a tantrum.

“What do you mean—” Shen Qingqiu said in a smooth, even tone. “—he doesn’t get a horse?”

Ning Yingying’s pout deepened. “Meng-shixiong said there weren’t any left. But I saw one or two back at the stables yesterday! They didn’t look broken or anything!”

For a split second—just a heartbeat—Zhu Xiao saw something in Shen Qingqiu’s expression shift. A faint flicker of confusion. Or maybe suspicion. It was subtle, but noticeable. His brow twitched, only to immediately smooth over.

Zhu Xiao blinked.

Was that… a trick of the light?

[ Nope! That was real, dear Host! Shen Qingqiu was definitely confused just now! ☆彡(ノ^∇ ^)ノ SURPRISE! ]

Zhu Xiao mentally waved the floating System window away like swatting a particularly cheerful mosquito. ‘Fuck off, sparkly nuisance.’ he thought, trying to stay focused.

“Luo-shidi doesn’t even have a horse.” Ning Yingying complained again, her pout audible in her voice. “Meng-Shixiong said there weren’t any left, but that’s not true! I know there were more in the stable!”

“Is that so?” Shen Qingqiu’s tone was mild, but his eyes flickered once more. Zhu Xiao didn’t miss it.

‘He knows something’s off.’ he realized, watching the faint narrowing of those phoenix eyes again.

And just as quickly as it came, the flicker of awareness was hidden once more beneath calm detachment.

“Then…” Shen Qingqiu said, voice as smooth as lacquered wood. “...if Disciple Luo has a grievance, he may present it himself—with his own words.” 

Ning Yingying’s jaw dropped, clearly shocked. “But—but—Shizun! He’s just a new disciple for a few months now! What if he thinks he’s not allowed to speak up? It’s not fair! I—I’ll just let him ride with me, that’s all!”

“No.”

Shen Qingqiu’s voice turned sharp, cutting through the air like the snap of a fan. It was the first time he had raised it during the exchange. Ning Yingying flinched slightly in her saddle.

“It is not appropriate.” he continued, his tone low and firm. “For an unmarried, unmated omega to share a mount with any male disciple. Especially not in public view. Do you understand what kind of implications that invites?”

The air turned awkward. Bitter.

Zhu Xiao wrinkled his nose as Ning Yingying’s rose-petal and sweet peach scents soured almost instantly. What had once been airy and light now bloomed into something acidic—like dried petals dipped in vinegar with rotten peach. The scent of an upset omega was never subtle, and she was definitely broadcasting her feelings now.

A few disciples at the front of the group shifted uncomfortably. One of them actually coughed into his sleeve. Another’s horse sidestepped anxiously.

Zhu Xiao sneezed and muttered under his breath. “Gods, someone bottle that before it kills us.”

The other disciples squirmed in their saddles. No one dared speak.

What shocked Zhu Xiao most, however, was that Shen Qingqiu didn’t even flinch.

No visible discomfort, no distracted cough or expression of distaste. He remained still and composed, as though her volatile pheromones didn’t even reach him.

Then, for the first time, Shen Qingqiu's eyes flicked to her again.

“Ning Yingying. Control your scent properly. You’re drawing unnecessary attention.” he said, and though the words were quiet, the reprimand was clear.

Zhu Xiao almost choked.

Wait—did he just…?

‘Is this really Shen Qingqiu?’ Zhu Xiao thought incredulously, jaw slightly slack. ‘Where’s the creepy pervert from the novel? Wasn’t he supposed to be spineless when it came to pretty omegas? Didn’t he bend over backward the second Ning Yingying so much as pouted?’

The curtain on the carriage fluttered one last time, then fell shut with a quiet swish, veiling Shen Qingqiu back behind its pale green silk. The brief glimpse of that composed, impenetrable expression lingered in Zhu Xiao’s mind like an afterimage burned onto his retinas.

Before he could make sense of it, the System’s familiar chime lit up across his peripheral vision.

[ (◕ ‿ ◕ ) User is now witnessing never-before-seen scenes omitted from the novel! Please enjoy this improved adaptation™ with popcorn and a raised brow!

Now that Host finally gets to see the hint of more accurate character portrayals! ]

Zhu Xiao blinked. Then narrowed his eyes.

“…I don’t have popcorn.” he muttered, shifting in his saddle. “But I do have a confused expression and a low tolerance for this bullshit.”

His horse flicked its ears, sensing his mood. Zhu Xiao scratched behind one ear absently, gaze still fixed on the now-still carriage. Inside, Shen Qingqiu sat, serene and silent. Not a single ripple of irritation. No indulgence. No smarmy praise for Ning Yingying’s “lovely little rose and sweet peach scent” or whatever garbage the original Shen Qingqiu used to spew in the novel like perfumed puke.

‘Okay… ’ he thought slowly, dragging a hand down his face. ‘What the fuck is going on? ’

This wasn’t a deviation. This was a full-on alternate timeline.

‘Was this really the same world as the one described in that chaotic crazy ass of a novel?’ Because Shen Qingqiu just rejected an omega’s overly emotional appeal with all the concern of a block of carved jade. And that scent discipline comment? That wasn’t the move of someone obsessed with collecting pretty omegas like human plushies.

Zhu Xiao’s garnet-amber eyes flicked behind him, past the line of horses, past the junior disciples chattering uncomfortably in Ning Yingying’s wake, all the way to the lone figure still walking in the distance.

Luo Binghe.

The poor kid looked like he was carrying half a forest on his back. The bamboo basket jostled with each step, the straps straining at his shoulders. But even from this distance, Zhu Xiao could tell: he wasn’t complaining. His steps were slow but steady, deliberate. The boy’s expression held no bitterness. Just… quiet determination.

Zhu Xiao’s stomach twisted. He remembered this part from the novel. This was Luo Binghe’s perspective: the lonely struggle, the painful endurance, the naïve optimism. How he’d believed—truly believed—that by pushing through unfair treatment, he’d get stronger. Earn acknowledgment. Become someone worthy.

Shen Yuan, the original reader, had raged over this scene. Ranted in internal monologues about the injustices. Screamed that Shen Qingqiu was a villain. A scumbag. Trash that didn’t deserve Luo Binghe’s loyalty.

But now?

Now, Zhu Xiao had seen the same scene from a new angle. Not from the bottom of the mountain. Not from the back of the group. He had seen the moment Shen Qingqiu lifted his fan and raised his voice—not to coddle, but to correct. Not to manipulate, but to maintain decorum.

And it was like a mirror had cracked somewhere inside his assumptions.

Maybe the System was right.

Maybe this world was deeper than the pages had shown. Maybe Luo Binghe’s point of view—this poor, suffering white lotus protagonist—wasn’t as reliable as everyone thought.

After all, how much of a person can you truly see when your back is always turned to them?

Zhu Xiao let out a slow, bone-deep sigh. His thoughts felt scrambled. Jumbled puzzle pieces of canon and reality, of assumptions and contradictions. And the worst part?

He leaned forward on the saddle and rested his forearm against the horse’s neck, scowling into the wind.

They weren’t even halfway to Shuang Hu City yet.

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.

..

...

Chapter Text

[Shuang Hu City
Chen Mansion
Later…]

Shuang Hu City wasn’t vast by any means, but it held a respectable bustle—a modest liveliness that danced through the cobblestone streets like the chatter of gossip on market day. The sun dipped low across the skyline, its golden light washing over worn rooftops and worn-down merchant stalls, casting long amber shadows beneath painted awnings. From where he rode, Zhu Xiao’s sharp garnet-amber eyes took in everything with cautious interest, ever alert as his gaze flicked behind to ensure Luo Binghe was still nearby—still trailing them at a distance, that heavy bamboo basket strapped to his back like a burden too stubborn to fall away.

After a brief exchange at the gates, their group was welcomed past the lacquered doors of the Chen Estate—a sprawling manor that clearly spared no expense. Polished tiles gleamed underfoot, and carved dragon motifs curled across the pillars. According to Ming Fan’s earlier mutterings, this was the residence of Old Master Chen, supposedly the richest man in the city. Zhu Xiao found that believable enough. The walls alone looked like they’d eaten half the region’s tax budget.

He dismounted in one smooth, practiced motion, letting his boots touch the stone with a muted thud. It came so naturally that he paused for a second to appreciate it—muscle memory working in his favor, courtesy of the young prodigy body he currently inhabited. Honestly, there were worse transmigrations.

But the momentary gratitude vanished when a loud, theatrical voice boomed from the courtyard.

“Oh, Immortal Master! This lowly one is eternally grateful for your arrival! You must help us!”

Zhu Xiao blinked and turned. A rotund man in his late sixties rushed forward in embroidered robes far too garish for mortal taste. Rings glinted like gaudy baubles on his fingers, and his receding hairline only seemed to emphasize his painted, eager smile. He waddled toward the front of the carriage and threw himself into a deep bow, posture trembling with exaggerated devotion.

‘Well… this is awkward.’ Zhu Xiao mused dryly. The junior disciples had frozen like decorative bamboo stalks, clearly unsure of what to do with themselves now that the local nobility had begun their over-the-top groveling performance. Zhu Xiao glanced toward the carriage, where the green silk curtain remained drawn. He resisted the urge to whistle.

Thankfully, Ming Fan took the initiative—albeit with a huff—and stepped forward, lowering the wooden footstool attached to the edge of the carriage with a practiced motion. The soft clunk echoed across the courtyard.

A faint movement stirred the curtain. With a flick of a white-and-green folding fan, the silk parted.

Shen Qingqiu descended.

The descent was elegant, fluid, and almost surreal. The sun caught the edge of his long robes, turning them to pale fire as he moved with the grace of falling water. He stepped lightly down the stairs as if they’d been carved just for him. His expression, however, was unreadable—his phoenix-shaped eyes, the shade of wind-kissed bamboo, scanned the courtyard once before landing with dull disinterest upon the groveling old man.

He fanned himself lazily, a breeze stirring through his ink-black hair, which shimmered with the faint scent of sandalwood and ink. That single look carried more weight than a paragraph of scolding. But it didn’t stop Old Master Chen from continuing his theatrical flailing.

“This humble one is so grateful for your arrival, Immortal Master! This one has been living in fear for days, ever since the demon began prowling! My household trembles in the shadow of its evil!”

Before Shen Qingqiu could respond—or even blink—a new figure darted from the manor doors in a whirlwind of silk and jingling jewelry.

“My Lord!”

Zhu Xiao’s eyes narrowed immediately.

A teenage girl—barely older than Ning Yingying, if that—rushed forward, her perfume trailing behind her like syrup. She wore robes clearly tailored to flaunt every line of her youthful figure, glittering bracelets on both wrists, and a painted flower on her forehead: the unmistakable mark of a registered concubine. Around her slender throat rested a thin leather collar embossed with silver threads—ornamental, yes, but unmistakably functional in its purpose.

‘Oh for the love of—are you serious?’ Zhu Xiao stared, aghast. ‘She’s younger than me!’

“Die-er!” Old Master Chen turned to catch her hands, slender, pale, like carved white jade, and pulled her toward him with clumsy affection. “Why did you come out? It’s not safe! You should remain inside where it’s protected!”

“This Die-er couldn’t bear to be without her Lord.” she murmured, her voice thick with affected sweetness. Her large eyes filled with tears and her lashes fluttered like trembling wings. “This Die-er fears being alone. What if the monster comes again?”

Zhu Xiao tried not to gag. The display of affection between the crusty old man and his teenage concubine made his skin crawl. The lecherous affection, the indulgent cooing—it was all so public, so brazen. So disgusting.

From what he remembered of Proud Immortal Demon Way: A/B/O Dynamics Version, concubines of noble households wore flowers on their foreheads as identifiers, and those with “delicate” statuses were given regulation collars to prevent… accidents. Not that it made the power imbalance any less disturbing.

Old Master Chen turned back to Shen Qingqiu while cradling Die-er’s trembling hands like they were porcelain. “Immortal Master, please… I fear for my precious Die-er! If she is careless for even a moment, she may fall victim to the same fate as my two other beloved flowers—ripped apart, devoured by that vile demon!”

Zhu Xiao resisted the urge to vomit. He scanned the pair again. The girl, Die-er, had only one scent—unusual in itself. It wasn’t a blend or a natural balance, but a thick, overpowering cloud of lavender. Artificially dense, like someone had doused her in perfume to mask something else.

‘That’s weird…’ Zhu Xiao squinted, tilting his head just slightly. ‘A single-scent omega? Is that even a thing?’

.

..

…

Disciple, Are You Flirting With Me?

Chapter Eight

“A Beta’s First Case: Part I”

…

..

.

[Shuang Hu City
Chen Mansion]

Zhu Xiao's eyes narrowed at the concubine, who still clung to Old Master Chen’s arm like a delicate, perfumed vine. She smelled strongly—too strongly—of lavender, dense and powdery like someone had poured a whole vial of fragrance down her dress. It clung to the air like fog in a perfume shop, masking everything else around her.

‘Wait… was she even in the original novel?’

His brows furrowed as he stared, mind searching, flipping through memories of the Proud Immortal Demon Way: A/B/O Dynamics Version like someone rapidly scanning an index. But no matter how far back he searched, he couldn’t recall any character named Die-er—especially not a single-scent omega with suspiciously thick perfume and the personality of a wet sponge trying to seduce a raisin.

Then again...

Zhu Xiao’s eye twitched. It was one of the arcs. 

That, stupid, underbaked, rushed-to-hell arc.

The so-called “Skinner Demon” incident, which Airplane Shooting Toward the Sky had written in exactly two flimsy paragraphs. A full arc, supposedly filled with tension, mystery and demon-hunting action… summarized like a lazy Wikipedia entry. Barely enough detail to wet a sphone, let alone satisfy a reader. 

‘Fucking hell. I hated when that hack got lazy.’ Zhu Xiao internally groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. ‘Two paragraphs. Two! He spent four whole pages describing Luo Binghe’s abs in one scene, and only gave this arc a goddamn summary!’

He remembered how, back then, as Shen Yuan, he didn’t really care. Shen Yuan had always skipped the parts that didn’t directly feed into his revenge-fueled rants about Shen Qingqiu or anything to do with Luo Binghe’s growth. Anything not involving “Luo Binghe’s angst” or “Shen Qingqiu being a scumbag” got brushed aside like crumbs off a table. And this arc? It wasn’t even a speed bump—it was a narrative pothole. Shen Yuan didn’t let that bother him, since it wasn’t crucial and didn't make a significant impact on the story.

But now?

Now that he was the one living through the chaos with an active Main Mission wrapped around the mystery of Shen Qingqiu, who he was supposed to do…yeah, that. 

Zhu Xiao was suddenly full of bitter regret and starved for intel.

‘Great. No script. No plot points. No fuckin’ clue what’s going on except… Skinner Demon. Murdered girl. Horses. Luo Binghe heard it secondhand and admired his shizun for killing it. That’s it!’

The lack of concrete information gnawed at him. He felt like a blindfolded actor stumbling across an unfamiliar stage, waiting for lines that didn’t exist.

‘This is so goddamn useless! I hate not knowing this in full detail! Damn you, Airplane!’

The frustration surged, sizzling at the edge of his scalp like static electricity. He wanted to grab that idiotic author by the collar and shake some narrative responsibility into him— “Don’t you dare skip arcs just because it’s not sexy enough, you lazy gremlin!”

Zhu Xiao took a deep, grounding breath, trying to dispel the mounting headache that throbbed behind his left temple like a slow, mocking drumbeat. The sounds of the city buzzed around him—distant chatter of merchants hawking wares, the soft rustle of silk robes brushing stone, the high-pitched squeal of a child laughing far off in the market square. All of it too normal, too bright, too alive for a demon hunt.

He exhaled, the air heavy with spice, dust, and the cloying perfume still wafting from the concubine’s sleeves.

‘Okay. Deep breath. Calm the hell down, Zhu Xiao.’ he told himself, clenching and unclenching his jaw. ‘You actually have a brain. Let’s figure this out.’

As if summoned by the karmic irony of that thought, a familiar and increasingly obnoxious chime interrupted his moment of clarity.

A red glow burst across his vision—vivid, flashing like a smug traffic light. Golden words sparkled across the window, each one practically winking at him.

[  (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧ This is a great opportunity for Host to investigate this case! Maybe even gain Shen Qingqiu’s attention! ✧٩(•́⌄•́๑)و  ]

The system chirped with the kind of optimism only a digital gremlin could possess.

Zhu Xiao’s expression withered into a flat stare of pure, exhausted disdain. His lips pressed into a tight line, eyes dead as fish on a slab. He didn’t even blink as he glared at the glowing message hovering smugly in the air like a toddler’s participation trophy.

He tilted his head back ever so slightly and glared up at the endless blue sky, as though beseeching some higher force to explain why he was being punished with motivational posters in sentient form.

His shoulders slumped, defeated under the invisible weight of sparkles and disappointment.

‘I’m going to go insane.’ he thought, voice dry in his head. ‘I’m going to go insane with sparkles and a motivational system scream echoing in my ears. This is hell. This is what hell looks like.’

The system did not offer sympathy. If anything, it doubled down with another cheerful blip.

[  (≧◡≦)ゝ  Believe in yourself, Host! You’re not doomed…. (ง •̀_•́)ง  …yet.  ]

He briefly fantasized about uninstalling the system. With fire. And a sledgehammer. Possibly holy water. (Really, imagining so much about this makes him slightly feel better.)

Despite the absurdity of it all and the creeping suspicion that the system derived some kind of sick pleasure from his misery, Zhu Xiao managed to draw a slow breath and steady himself. He straightened his back and rolled his shoulders with a quiet exhale, grounding himself again in the physical world.

His eyes flicked back to Shen Qingqiu.

The man stood near the steps of the mansion, perfectly composed, barely touched by the heat of the sun or the clamor of the city. He moved like poetry carved from jade—each gesture deliberate, controlled, beautiful in that dispassionate way ice sculptures are. His green-and-white fan moved lazily in his hand, flicking back and forth with quiet grace as he conversed with Old Master Chen.

Old Master Chen wrung his hands together, his fingers adorned with thick jade rings that clacked faintly with every nervous motion. Though he smiled, it was the kind of tight-lipped smile a man wore when hoping not to offend someone far above his station.

“Immortal Master.” he began, voice a mix of reverence and thinly-veiled desperation. “Your presence is truly a blessing upon this humble estate. I—I had not dared hope the sect would respond so swiftly. This humble one is deeply grateful.”

Shen Qingqiu didn’t blink. His eyes, that cool, bamboo-green, fixed lightly upon the older man’s face with the faintest flicker of acknowledgment. Not warmth. Not quite.

“We have prepared as soon as we could to come here.” Shen Qingqiu replied, his tone even, clear, and neither curt nor warm—like fine porcelain: elegant, distant, and utterly smooth. “Your messenger was timely. Qing Jing Peak does not make a habit of ignoring calls for assistance. Especially when rumors involve a creature capable of skinning mortals.”

Old Master Chen’s expression tightened. He bowed low again, voice trembling slightly this time.

“It is true. I swear upon my ancestors, Immortal Master, we have lost three citizens—two flower girls from the red district, and my own cousin’s maid. Two of my flower girls. And now… I fear for Die-er.”

At the mention of the concubine, Shen Qingqiu’s eyes flicked to the girl still standing behind Chen, wringing a silken handkerchief between trembling fingers. Her eyes were wide, moist with tears that sparkled suspiciously under the sunlight, and her delicate figure trembled just enough to seem tragic without toppling over into melodrama.

“She was nearly taken three nights ago.” Old Master Chen continued quickly, as though afraid that Shen Qingqiu’s chilling silence meant disinterest. “The guards found her collapsed near the plum garden, screaming about clawed hands and shadows with no face. Since then, she refuses to sleep unless I remain nearby. My poor Die-er has been inconsolable.”

Shen Qingqiu’s expression remained unreadable. But the rhythm of his fan—previously a slow, languid beat—faltered for the briefest of seconds. His bamboo-green eyes, calm yet keen, narrowed slightly. That small shift alone felt like a ripple across still water. A subtle sharpening of presence.

His head turned, movements fluid and without wasted energy. “Head Disciple Ming Fan.” he said smoothly. “Go examine the corpse. Take two juniors with you. I expect thorough observations.”

Ming Fan immediately lowered into a crisp palm-fist salute. “Yes, Shizun.”

Without missing a beat, he turned on his heel and called out two junior disciples by name, both of whom stiffened upright before moving to follow. Their departure stirred only a faint gust of air, and their retreating footsteps grew quieter as they headed toward the gate where the body was presumably kept.

Shen Qingqiu’s gaze flicked to him, cool and expectant. There was no urgency in the look, only a quiet demand that tolerated no delay.

“Disciple Zhu.” he said. His voice was like lacquered silk—smooth, firm, polished. “Gather the remaining juniors and see to it they are settled in appropriate rooms.”

Zhu Xiao was momentarily caught off guard—he hadn’t expected to be addressed next.

Then, as if only remembering the host's existence, Shen Qingqiu turned slightly and addressed Old Master Chen without even pausing his fan.

“...Assuming Lord Chen is gracious enough to spare the space?”

Though the words were politely phrased, the tone was anything but a question. It was the soft edge of authority honed to a blade.

“O-of course, Immortal Master!” Old Master Chen stammered, hastily nodding as he gestured toward the left wing of the estate. “The left side of the guest quarters is available for Immortal Master’s disciples—yes, perfectly available! I’ll have my steward escort them at once!”

He paused, then brightened, clearly attempting to be hospitable. “And perhaps, before anything, Immortal Master would care to refresh himself? We have chilled tea—very fine green tea from the west—and roasted walnuts, if it please you—”

“That won’t be necessary.”

The refusal came like a closed door. Not abrupt, but solid and final. Shen Qingqiu stepped forward, his green robes gliding behind him in a quiet sweep, the embroidered clouds at his sleeves catching the sun like threads of mercury.

“I don’t care for roasted walnuts.” he added flatly, without looking back. “Only results.”

Old Master Chen’s face twitched. He laughed—thin and unsure—and reached for his silk kerchief to blot his forehead, now glistening under the pressure of entertaining someone far above his status. “Y-yes. Of course. As Immortal Master wishes.”

Zhu Xiao, still standing off to the side with the rest of the juniors, fought the sudden urge to whistle low and long. ‘Damn.’ he thought, shoulders tight with a complicated mix of awe and reluctant admiration. ‘That was smooth. Brutal. Efficient. A touch terrifying.’ He might’ve even clapped if the atmosphere weren’t one poorly timed breath away from freezing solid.

Shen Qingqiu’s eyes shifted back to him, reminding him—wordlessly—that he had yet to fulfill his assigned task.

“Disciple Zhu.” he said again, voice neutral but weighted with unspoken expectation.

“Y-yes!” Zhu Xiao straightened as though struck by lightning, mentally cursing his momentary lapse. “This disciple will escort the juniors to the guest wing.” he said quickly, forcing calm into his voice. He turned, lifting his hand in a commanding wave. “This way.” he called to the others.

The group of junior disciples—some still wide-eyed from the presence of Shen Qingqiu and others already whispering among themselves—began to move.

Zhu Xiao’s gaze briefly passed over Luo Binghe, who looked no worse for wear despite the long trek on foot. The protagonist’s expression was calm, if a little curious, as he fell in step with the rest. His sleeves were dusty, his forehead lightly sheened with sweat, but his posture remained relaxed, his stride unbroken. ‘As expected of the white lotus protagonist.’ Zhu Xiao thought with a slight admiration. ‘Ten miles in boots and he still looks like a sad-eyed dreamboat waiting to be plucked off the dirt.’

The sun blazed gently overhead, casting long shadows across the elegant stone path that led toward the left wing. Plum blossoms floated on a mild breeze from somewhere behind the manor, their scent too light to mask the underlying tension curling in Zhu Xiao’s gut.

He glanced back once more at Shen Qingqiu, who was already being led toward the garden by a nervous-looking steward. Cloaked in the same effortless grace and quiet power as ever.

‘Cold Beauty Alpha, huh? Yeah. That title doesn’t even begin to cover it.’

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[Shuang Hu City
Chen Mansion
Guest Left Wing
Moment Later…]

‘I just looked away for a few minutes! A few minutes! And she vanished?!’

Panic scratched at the edge of his composure as he glanced around the open-air corridor of the guest wing. Pale paper doors slid shut along each side, the afternoon light casting soft golden rectangles across the polished floorboards. A breeze wafted through, carrying with it the gentle scent of plum blossoms and pine, almost enough to cover the sharp spike of bitter peach and wilted rose.

Almost.

Zhu Xiao stiffened. That scent. That particular blend of moody, floral, and aggressively delicate.

He didn’t need a second guess. Ning Yingying.

Sure enough, rounding the corner near the end of the corridor, he caught sight of her standing under a decorative arbor of wisteria vines. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, bottom lip jutted out in a sulky pout. She was the picture of heartbreak, framed in blooms and glowing with a faint shimmer of irritated pheromones that clung to the air like emotional smog.

The other junior disciples had clearly noticed. They lingered awkwardly near the entrance, exchanging helpless glances and subtle looks in Zhu Xiao’s direction. One even pointed at Ning Yingying, then pantomimed “you handle it” with a pleading expression.

Zhu Xiao barely suppressed a groan.

‘Do they think I’m a babysitter? Just because I’m older? Ugh—no, wait. Right. I am technically her senior.’

He rubbed at his temple and mentally cursed whatever god of melodrama had planted this encounter in his way.

‘Does she always release her pheromones every time she gets pouty?’ he wondered bitterly, grimacing as the air thickened with the increasingly sour scent. ‘I don’t remember this in the novel. I’m starting to hate her scent more than I hate plotholes.’

Just then, a familiar ding echoed in his ears.

[  ٩(๑❛ᴗ❛๑)۶ Host! This is within character. You may interact with your shimei during investigations. The original Zhu Xiao speaks when the case requires it. Outside of cases, aloofness resumes!   ]

Zhu Xiao narrowed his eyes at the glowing words, irritation blooming behind them.

‘You couldn’t have told me that earlier?!’

[  Teehee~ (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧   ]

‘Teehee my ass!’ he snarled internally.

With a long-suffering sigh, he straightened his spine, rolled his shoulders back, and walked toward the sulking omega.

She noticed him a moment before he spoke—her brows furrowed with lingering emotion, and her lower lip trembled ever so slightly. Her scent flared again, a stronger burst of bitter floral cloying around her like invisible static. Zhu Xiao inhaled through his mouth.

“Ning-shimei.” he said, his voice even but edged with the kind of gentle firmness only a senior disciple who had already run out of patience could muster.

She blinked up at him, glossy-eyed and surprised.

“…Your scent.” he continued. “Is making the others uncomfortable. You need to get it under control.”

There was a pause. The kind where Zhu Xiao braced for impact—either tears, protests, or both.

But instead, Ning Yingying gave a soft sniff and looked away, shame flickering in her eyes. “T-this one apologizes, Zhu-shixiong… I didn’t mean to.” she said, voice subdued. “I was just upset… because Shizun denied this one’s request to go to the market…”

Zhu Xiao froze.

‘That was it?!’ he thought, gaping. He stared at her in disbelief, eyes wide and expression flat with sheer exasperation. ‘You mean to tell me you’re flooding the guest wing with peach-rose upset pheromones because Shen Qingqiu didn’t let you go on a shopping trip?! Ning Yingying, I swear to the Heavens—I liked you in the novel! I defended you! But now?! Girl, this is not a vacation!’

His brow twitched. He tried—genuinely tried—not to let that internal shriek leak into his face. But his tone didn’t entirely escape the edge of disbelief.

“Ning-shimei.” he said slowly. “We are here investigating a demon that kidnaps and killed young women. This isn’t a leisure outing.”

Ning Yingying pouted harder, her arms tightening across her chest like a child denied sweets. “But it’s so boring! ” she whined. “All we’ve done is walk around and stand and… wait.”

Zhu Xiao stared at her.

The kind of deadpan stare that conveyed a single hour has not even passed, and I already regret everything.

Behind him, one of the juniors coughed awkwardly into their sleeve. Another one quietly slipped away to help Luo Binghe with the horses, clearly choosing manual labor over the emotional minefield of Ning Yingying’s mood swings.

Zhu Xiao sighed—long, deep, and hollow. He had a sinking feeling this mission was going to be a lot longer than he’d hoped.

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[Shuang Hu City
Chen Mansion
Garden Pavilion
Later…]

The garden was quiet in that specific way only cultivated silence could be—controlled, serene, and unnaturally still. Stone pathways curved through trimmed hedges and plum trees whose blooms had just begun to fade, petals scattered like pale pink snow across the moss-lined stones. The afternoon sun had dipped low, casting long shadows beneath the eaves of the tiled pavilion nestled at the garden’s heart.

Shen Qingqiu sat with effortless grace upon a carved stone bench, his pale green robes rippling slightly in the breeze, their fine embroidery catching the light like the delicate veins of a leaf. One arm draped across his knee, while the other idly flicked his green-and-white folding fan back and forth, the motion slow and precise. The breeze that passed through the open-air pavilion lifted a few stray strands of his ink-dark hair, and his expression—ever impassive—was framed in a light that softened nothing.

He didn’t need to speak. He didn’t need to move. He simply waited.

Footsteps approached, the faint thump of boots on stone betraying the arrival of disciples. The scent of burned incense and dried blood reached his keen senses before the rustle of cloth or the nervous breath of the junior who flanked the speaker. More tellingly, there was a trace of scorched cinnabar ink, faint, but unmistakable.

Shen Qingqiu’s fan paused mid-motion. His head turned slightly.

“Report.” he said, cool and curt, before Ming Fan had even opened his mouth.

Startled but recovering quickly, Ming Fan stepped forward and bowed deeply, fist pressed to palm in the traditional salute. “Shizun.” he began with practiced composure, though the adrenaline still buzzed faintly beneath his skin. “This disciple has completed his examination of the corpse, as instructed.”

Two junior disciples stood just behind him, eyes lowered, postures straightened by the weight of Shen Qingqiu’s attention. One of them—barely older than fifteen—stepped forward with reverent care, both hands cupped around a folded talisman sheet.

The yellow paper, lined with runes drawn in cinnabar ink, was charred at the edges. The center had blackened, discolored not by ordinary flame, but by something far more insidious—an unnatural rot that mimicked necrosis. The once vibrant strokes of ink had faded into brownish cracks like veins under diseased skin.

Without needing to be prompted, the disciple held it out with both hands, eyes respectfully lowered. Shen Qingqiu barely inclined his head to glance at the object.

He didn’t reach for it. He didn’t need to.

Instead, he spoke, his voice quiet but cutting through the air with all the precision of a blade.

“Demonic assessment talismans.” he said, eyes cool and unreadable. “Designed to react to residual energies and corruption. Judging from the burn pattern and discoloration…” he trailed off momentarily, his gaze flicking to the side as if triangulating lines on an invisible grid. “There are at least two active contamination points.”

Ming Fan’s eyes lit with admiration. “As expected of Shizun.” he said, with breathless awe. “Your insight sees through all. This disciple tested the talismans in two locations: the first buried in the soil near the grave of the second victim. The other… was placed beside the most recent corpse, yet unburied and still held at the coroner’s house.”

Shen Qingqiu offered only a slight nod, but the gesture was enough to stir quiet pride in Ming Fan’s chest.

“Good.” Shen Qingqiu murmured. His fan resumed its gentle rhythm, but his tone shifted ever so slightly—command layered beneath courtesy. “You’ll need to pass this information to the others. Divide the disciples into two groups. You’ll lead one.”

Ming Fan bowed again. “Yes, Shizun.”

Shen Qingqiu turned his head slightly, his gaze drifting toward the direction of the guest wing. “Have Disciple Zhu lead the second. He will accompany a group into town to continue the investigation. Coordinate your efforts—one group to examine the burial sites, the other to gather testimony and track movement patterns among the townspeople.”

“Yes, Shizun.” Ming Fan repeated, his posture sharp with resolve.

“And Disciple Ming Fan.” Shen Qingqiu added, his tone so soft it was nearly missed—but the gravity of it anchored every word. “Ensure the junior disciples do not stray or act carelessly. Whatever this creature is—it’s cautious. Intelligent. It has evaded scrutiny for too long.”

Ming Fan straightened. “Understood.”

Shen Qingqiu’s expression never changed, but for the briefest moment, the wind lifted the corner of his robes and fanned the scent of faded plum blossoms into the air.

He said nothing else, only returned his attention to the quiet garden in front of him, the falling petals, and the distance where the sun now flirted highest point in the sky.

The discussion was over.

Ming Fan saluted once more, then turned to gather the juniors, already organizing their deployment with silent gestures and brisk efficiency.

And Shen Qingqiu… sat still beneath the plum tree-shadowed roof, a scholar-poet in appearance, but with the cool poise of a sword left in its sheath only out of mercy.

‘Let’s see if they figure out that the creature was the Skinner Demon.’ Shen Qingqiu mused, calmly. He hopes this case will serve as a valuable educational lesson for his disciples. 

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[Shuang Hu City
Midday Market
En Route to Flower Bloom Pavilion
Moment Later…]

The cobbled roads of Shuang Hu bustled with the low hum of midday commerce. Sunlight glinted off polished wood stalls, and faded prayer tags fluttered in the breeze, strung up like ribbons between tiled rooftops. The scent of sesame oil, glazed pork buns, and sweet plum candies drifted from steaming baskets and open braziers. Townsfolk wandered in and out of storefronts, chatting, bargaining, or chasing after squawking chickens that had escaped their coops. A gentle chaos reigned—a tableau of provincial charm layered over a faint, lingering unease that only the cultivators in their green robes could detect.

Zhu Xiao walked ahead, the picture of calm, his hands folded neatly behind his back and his eyes half-lidded, as if unimpressed by the triviality of the mortal world around him.

But inside?

He was very much not calm.

‘What the hell am I supposed to be doing?!’

His thoughts thundered behind his stoic mask as he marched down the main street with five junior disciples following loosely behind—Luo Binghe and Ning Yingying among them. Zhu Xiao’s teeth were gritted beneath his politely closed mouth.

‘Ming Fan dumped Luo Binghe on me! Of course he did! Doesn’t want the little protagonist golden boy in his group—probably thinks he’s too unpredictable or outshines him or something. Typical.’ He grumbled mentally. ‘But Ning Yingying? Ming Fan wanted her, and still made a point to tell me—warn me, even!—to “watch over her.” What do I look like, a babysitter?’

He scowled faintly, more in thought than expression, as he recalled Ming Fan’s last words, spoken with pinched dignity.

“Be mindful of Shimei’s temperament, Zhu-shixiong. She’s… sensitive.”

Zhu Xiao had stared blankly at him for a full five seconds before giving a nod that meant absolutely nothing.

‘“Sensitive,” my ass. She’s a scent grenade waiting to go off again.’

A ding! echoed like a slap to the face, and Zhu Xiao flinched inwardly.

Bright crimson and gold flared into his vision as the obnoxious system window cheerfully popped up in front of his eyes with chirps and sparkles.

[ (๑•̀ㅂ•́)و✧ Host is doing great! Remember: Investigating is SOCIALIZING! Don't worry—you’re charming (in your own grumpy way)! ٩(｡•́‿•̀｡)۶ ]

Zhu Xiao mentally screamed. ‘I don’t socialize! The only people I ever talked to back in my world were my family, the milk tea girl in the cafe across the street, and my meimei’s cat! You can’t just—!’

[ You can do it, Host! ٩(>ヮ<)۶ ]

‘I swear, if I could punch this system in the face, I would find a way to code hands into my soul!’

But even as he fumed internally, the chaos behind him was escalating.

Ning Yingying had practically glued herself to Luo Binghe’s side, her silken sleeves fluttering excitedly as she pointed toward a vendor selling delicate hairpins carved from glassy blue jade. “Look at those! Luo-shidi, they’re so pretty! And those candied plums—don’t they smell good? Let’s go look, let’s go look!”

She tugged at his sleeve like an overeager younger sister, her peach-and-rose scent wafting again, too overly sweet, like a bouquet left too long in the sun. Zhu Xiao’s nose twitched violently. It burned like sharp incense. He had the sudden, horrifying thought that perhaps this body was not a Beta, or at least not one built with standard scent tolerance.

‘Was the original Zhu Xiao always this sensitive? I don’t remember about any beta being sensitive... Beta should not be able to scent things so easily, right?! Or was that just some ABOverse fanon? Damn it, Airplane, you hack!’

To his immense relief, Luo Binghe—calm and unflappable as ever—gave a firm, gentle reply. “We can’t, Shijie. Shizun ordered us to follow Zhu-shixiong. We shouldn’t wander off.”

Ning Yingying’s pout could have soured cream, but to her credit, she didn’t throw a tantrum. “Aww… Fine. I was just looking…”

Zhu Xiao inhaled, slow and shallow, trying to clear the scent fog from his brain. ‘Thank god for Luo Binghe.’ he thought, half in awe, half impressed. ‘Protagonist privileges are real.’

They turned a corner, the street narrowing into a lane lined with stone lanterns and weathered banners. And there, standing demurely under the shade of a cherry tree, its blossoms already half shed to the ground, was the building.

The Flower Bloom Pavilion.

The moment he saw it, Zhu Xiao knew. The structure stood with elegance too practiced, its windows veiled with sheer silks and redwood shutters carved in curling patterns of peonies and cherry blossoms. Lanterns in warm hues of amber and wine-red swayed gently in the wind, diffusing soft light even beneath the sun. Flute music trilled faintly from inside—polished, artificial, and meant to mask more human sounds.

The junior disciples stilled, shifting awkwardly as realization dawned. Their expressions ranged from confusion to awkward horror.

Luo Binghe blinked. Ning Yingying’s lips parted slightly in surprise.

Zhu Xiao turned to face them, tone flat but audible. “This is where the two deceased women worked.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

He continued without waiting for questions. “They were both entertainers at this brothel. Flower Bloom Pavilion. We’re here to question the workers and the madam in charge. Some of the senior girls may have seen or sensed something. I want all of you to remain alert. Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not wander. Understood?”

The disciples nodded mutely. Ning Yingying looked like she wanted to ask a dozen things, but was too stunned by the surroundings.

Zhu Xiao turned back toward the entrance, squaring his shoulders. “Follow me.”

They stepped inside, and were immediately enveloped in a wave of scent that hit like a physical wall: rose musk, powdered lotus, warmed amber, and something heady and sweet meant to dull awareness. It was deliberate, he realized at once—a carefully layered olfactory smokescreen designed to mask every scent: Alpha, Beta, Omega alike.

Scent-muffling. Scent-neutralizing. It was so strong it made his eyes water.

He coughed once into his sleeve, grimacing. ‘Heavens above. How do people live in this?’

A woman in a violet gown appeared at the top of the stairs, descending with the practiced steps of someone who had learned grace by necessity. Her painted lips curled into a knowing smile. “Young cultivators.” she greeted, voice low and silk-soft. “You’ve come about the girls.”

Zhu Xiao straightened his posture and nodded, gaze level. “We need to ask a few questions.”

The madam’s eyes flicked to the juniors behind him, her expression amused but polite. “Of course. Come in, young cultivators. The flowers bloom for all seasons—but sometimes… they wilt too soon.”

Zhu Xiao didn’t flinch. But his hand tightened behind his back.

This was where the investigation truly began.

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...

Chapter Text

[Shuang Hu City
Flower Bloom Pavilion]

The air inside the Flower Bloom Pavilion was heavy with the scent of perfumed incense—amber, lotus, and a faint trace of camphor. Soft music hummed in the background, the gentle plucking of a pipa echoing off polished wood columns and silk-paneled walls. Velvet lanterns cast warm, drowsy light over the crimson cushions and lacquered tables that filled the receiving parlor.

A woman draped in violet robes introduced herself as Madam Liang, the proprietress of the Pavilion. Her coiled hair was adorned with delicate silver pins shaped like blooming chrysanthemums, and her painted lips curled into a smile that did not quite reach her eyes.

“This way, young cultivators.” she said, leading the young cultivators to one of the more secluded tables nestled beneath a hanging screen embroidered with peonies.

Zhu Xiao took the seat across from her, spine straight, hands resting lightly on the table. His face remained expressionless, but his keen eyes missed nothing. “What can you tell me about the two victims?” he asked, voice level but respectful, while ignoring the heavy scents in the air.

Madam Liang folded her hands in her lap, fingers interlacing with the elegance of a practiced hostess. Her expression softened into something mournful. “My poor flowers.” she said, a wistful sigh escaping her painted lips. “Their names were Leichu and Aihan.”

“My condolences.” Zhu Xiao responded, dipping his chin with solemnity. His tone was steady, refined—neither cold nor falsely warm. The junior disciples behind him followed his lead, murmuring similar sentiments.

Madam Liang accepted the sympathy with a graceful nod and a faint smile, though her eyes glistened faintly in the dim light. “Thank you. They were beloved.”

“I would like to ask you a few questions.” Zhu Xiao said, his posture still and composed. “If you could answer what you know, it would be invaluable to our investigation.”

“I’m listening.” she replied calmly, her gaze steady on him.

Zhu Xiao inhaled subtly, steeling himself. ‘You can do this.’ he reminded himself. ‘You’ve read a hundred mystery arcs. You’ve written dozens of forum theories.’ He squared his shoulders.

[   (ง •̀_•́)ง YOU GOT THIS, HOST! This system is waving pom-poms! Go! Go! Host!  ]

Zhu Xiao didn’t even flinch. He mentally swatted the red system window away like a fly buzzing too close to his eye.

“Did you notice anything unusual in the behavior of Lady Leichu or Lady Aihan before their deaths?” he asked carefully. His words were gentle, deliberately respectful. Whatever their past professions, the women were dead, and to Madam Liang, they were clearly more than just employees.

A flicker of appreciation crossed the madam’s expression. Her shoulders relaxed slightly, her guarded exterior lowering by a fraction. She tilted her head as memories stirred behind her eyes.

“Leichu and Aihan were close.” she said, voice soft. “Closer than most sisters I’ve seen. From the day they arrived, they were like two halves of the same soul. Always together—singing, dancing, watching each other’s backs. It was... touching.”

Zhu Xiao nodded, encouraging her to go on.

“But something changed.” Madam Liang said, brows knitting together. “It started with Leichu. One morning, she became distant. She began withdrawing from Aihan... no, avoiding her, it seemed. For days at a time, they no longer dined together or shared their shift schedules.”

“And Lady Aihan?” Zhu Xiao asked. “How did she respond to this change?”

“That’s the strange part.” Madam Liang replied with a slow shake of her head. “Before, she was so confused and worried about Leichu. She went to check on her. When Aihan finally came back after checking on Leichu, she acted as if nothing was wrong. She said Leichu had taken ill and was staying elsewhere to rest. But I knew my girls. Aihan’s smile was wrong—too smooth, too polished.”

She leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice.

“Then Aihan changed, too. She was always a quiet soul—sweet, a bit shy, but charming. But after that… she was bolder. Too bold. Flirted shamelessly with clients she used to avoid. Laughed louder. Wore darker cosmetics. At first, I assumed she was trying to distract herself—maybe they had quarreled. Close friends do, once in a while. But those fights never lasted long.”

Zhu Xiao narrowed his eyes slightly, deep in thought. “And did either of them exhibit unusual symptoms? Illness, perhaps? Marks on the skin? Nightmares?”

Madam Liang considered this. “Leichu was pale toward the end. Thinner, too. She said she wasn’t sleeping well. It's why she took a long absence, and I didn’t know she died until after Aihan’s death. And about Aihan, though… she seemed stronger, but in a way that didn’t sit right with me. Like she was buzzing with something unnatural under her skin. Her scent changed, too.”

That caught Zhu Xiao’s attention. “Her scent?”

Madam Liang nodded slowly. “Faint, but yes. Not the usual artificial perfume she favored. It was… powdery.”

Zhu Xiao’s gaze sharpened, but he kept his voice composed. “Thank you, Madam Liang. You’ve been very helpful.”

“You’re welcome, Young Cultivator.” she said softly, her hands still folded in her lap. “I only want justice for my girls. They deserved better than to wilt so soon.”

Zhu Xiao offered a polite nod in response, but his mind was already racing.

‘Artificial scent. Odd behavior. Close bond disrupted. These are the signs of the Skinner Demon’s behavior?’ he mused, since the hack author never bothered to explain details about the Skinner Demon. In fact, it was only mentioned twice, and that was it. 

Zhu Xiao frowned deeply. ‘Powdery…’ Now that is a strange way to explain the fake scent. 

.

..

...

Disciple, Are You Flirting With Me?

Chapter Nine

“A Beta’s First Case: Part II”

…

..

.

[Shuang Hu City
Outdoor
Moment Later…]

The doors of the Flower Bloom Pavilion creaked softly as they opened, releasing the group of cultivators into the golden embrace of late afternoon light. Warm sunlight spilled across the cobbled street—a welcome contrast to the brothel’s perfumed interior. The heady incense still clung faintly to their robes, but the fresh air was a cleansing relief.

Zhu Xiao stepped aside, hands folded behind his back, and turned to glance at his junior disciples. The five had clustered in a loose semicircle just beyond the steps, their voices low but animated as they discussed the testimonies they’d gathered. What drew his eye—and earned his silent approval—was the sight of Luo Binghe not excluded from the conversation. Despite the lingering undercurrents of tension, the others were treating him like any peer.

Zhu Xiao’s lips barely twitched. Not quite a smile, but close enough. ‘Good. They’re learning.’ Maybe those little disciples might have a chance not to die early if Luo Binghe decided to get revenge on the Cang Qiong Mountain Sect.

With a quiet breath, he turned and began down the main thoroughfare, trusting the juniors to follow. The moment his boots met the bustling road of the market, his mind slipped back into quiet analysis.

‘So… the demon. It’s the Skinner Demon—one of the lesser-known entries Airplane Bro mentioned in those damn forum notes. Skins its victims and wears their flesh, assuming their identity like some grotesque roleplay. An identity thief with… accessories. But, of course, that hack never said who the demon actually was in this arc. Just left cryptic foreshadowing like it was clever. Thanks, Airplane. So helpful.’

He exhaled through his nose. Around him, the market teemed with life—shopkeepers hawking wares, carts clattering over uneven stone, the distant bark of dogs, the sharp tang of pepper oil and steamed buns mingling with the scent of roasted chestnuts. But Zhu Xiao registered none of it. His thoughts spun tightly around Madam Liang’s testimony.

‘Lady Leichu acting distant before disappearing. Lady Aihan suddenly became bold. A fake perfume scent. Artificial. Common among mortals who can afford it, but not used by cultivators. Why? Because cultivators can control their own pheromonal output. If I remember right, didn’t Airplane explain that synthetic perfumes are always just one scent?’

He was so deep in thought—mentally untangling the narrative threads like a web—that he failed to notice what was happening just a few steps behind him.

Ning Yingying had stopped at a colorful vendor’s stall, her eyes sparkling with delight as she caught sight of delicate glass hairpins shaped like butterflies and miniature painted fans no larger than her palm. “Oooh! A-Luo, look—how pretty!”

Luo Binghe stiffened. “Ning-shijie.” he said cautiously, glancing toward Zhu Xiao’s retreating figure. “We’re not supposed to separate from the group.”

“But we’re just right here !” she huffed, tugging his sleeve. “Come on, it’ll only take a second!”

“Ning-shijie—” he tried again, but she was already halfway to the stall, her silken sleeves fluttering behind her as she dashed toward the glittering display. Her scent, cheerful and faintly sweet like spring peach with a hint of fresh roses, lingered in the air.

Luo Binghe hesitated. His gaze flicked from her to their oblivious shixiong ahead. Zhu Xiao hadn’t turned around. No sign of noticing. The other three juniors were equally distracted, still murmuring intensely about their observations.

“…If the powdery scent came from her body and not the room—”
“—then maybe the change started before she disappeared! What if it was—?”

Luo Binghe sighed under his breath, jaw tightening. He adjusted his grip on his sword hilt out of habit, then quickly followed Ning Yingying between two fruit stalls, disappearing into the press of bodies.

Zhu Xiao, meanwhile, continued walking—three steps, four—until something tugged at the back of his mind. A quiet itch. An instinct honed from years of vigilance (the number of times that his meimei loves to sneak upon him and gave him near heart attacks…evil meimei, so evil) and gamer trauma (horror games are really scary, but his da-ge loves horror games).

He glanced back, just out of habit. A simple, practiced motion—checking that all five disciples were still behind him.

He froze mid-step.

Only three.

Zhu Xiao stopped completely. He turned around slowly, scanning the space behind them.

“…Where are Ning Yingying and Luo Binghe?” he asked, voice quiet but unmistakably sharp.

The three remaining disciples blinked, startled. One frowned and looked over their shoulder. “They were just here…”

“I didn’t see them leave.” another muttered, confused.

“They must’ve slipped away just now…?”

Zhu Xiao’s eye twitched. ‘Great. Just great.’

He understood. Truly, he did. Luo Binghe was the protagonist. Ning Yingying was his First Wife in the original novel. They were childhood sweethearts. Destined. Fated. Whatever. He actually liked their chemistry—sweet in a saccharine kind of way. Despite Ning Yingying being bratty, a bit airheaded, she was still a child. She would grow up eventually. Probably. Maybe.

Zhu Xiao dragged a hand down his face with a quiet groan. ‘Must they have their little date right now, of all times? In the middle of a Skinner Demon investigation? Seriously?’

Zhu Xiao let out a long-suffering sigh. He turned to the three remaining juniors, who were still looking around in vain for their wayward peers.

“You three.” he said, voice clipped but calm. “Return to the Chen Mansion. Report to Shizun that I’ll be arriving shortly with the two juniors who decided to take an unauthorized detour.”

The disciples straightened immediately.

“Yes!”

Zhu Xiao narrowed his eyes slightly. “Don’t get distracted on the way. Don’t wander. Don’t split up. This is still an active investigation, not a vacation. Are we clear?”

“Yes, Zhu-shixiong!” they chorused again, this time more seriously.

“Good. Go.”

With small bows and quick steps, the three departed, vanishing into the crowd with purposeful direction. Zhu Xiao watched them until they were out of sight, then exhaled again, this time with the weight of someone who really didn’t want to be babysitting protagonists in the middle of a murder mystery.

He tilted his head up and closed his eyes briefly, trying to find Ning Yingying’s distinctive scent—peach and rose, sweet and cloying in a way that was hard to miss. Unfortunately, the market air was absolutely saturated: fried oils, animal dung, incense smoke, fish, spices, perfume, and too many people. Even with his enhanced senses, it was like trying to find a single ribbon in a hurricane of fabric.

Still, at least they were outside. At least there was wind.

Zhu Xiao rubbed at his temple, then muttered under his breath. “System. Any chance you’ve got something that can help me track these two down?”

The system chimed brightly as the red window appeared in front of him. 

[ Of course, Host! You can purchase the "Tag Map"! This feature allows you to tag someone for permanent tracking on the mini-map! Never lose a junior again! ( ੭ ･ᴗ･ )੭ ]

Zhu Xiao raised a brow. ‘...How much?’

[ ‘Tag Map’ costs 150 B-Points! Each individual you wish to tag costs 5 points! ]

He winced. ‘That’s expensive.’ He folded his arms and thought hard. ‘How many B-Points do I even have?’

[ Host currently has 210 B-Points available! (ㅅ´ ˘ `) ]

Zhu Xiao grimaced. ‘Ugh. That’d be 160 points just to tag those two. And the Tag Map is permanent, right?’

[ Correct! But would you like to browse a cheaper option instead? ]

He arched an eyebrow. ‘I’m listening.’

[ (◍•ᴗ•◍) You can purchase the limited-time “Scent Sight” ability! It costs 30 B-Points and lasts ten minutes! This ability allows Host to see scent trails in the air. The brighter the aura, the stronger the source. Cultivators emit vibrant trails—mortals are more muted. ]

‘Scent Sight?’ Zhu Xiao repeated flatly. ‘That name is… dumb. But the feature is useful.’ He paused. ‘Let me guess. Can’t be used more than once?’

[ This is a special limited-use ability, but Host can unlock the permanent version: “Scent Sight: Daily Mode!” This grants you ten minutes per day of use after purchase! ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧ ]

‘Thirty points.’ Zhu Xiao muttered silently, rubbing the bridge of his nose. ‘That’s still unfair. And I don’t like that it's time-limited.’

[ It’s better than nothing, Host! And you do need to find the Protagonist before something happens. ( · ❛ ֊ ❛)  ]

Zhu Xiao groaned, already regretting everything about this arc. ‘Fine. Buy it.’

[ Purchase confirmed! ‘Scent Sight’ acquired. Ability active for ten minutes. Timer has begun—10:00… 9:59… ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ ]

A soft pulse ran through his senses. Zhu Xiao blinked, and the world shifted.

Colors bloomed before his eyes, like ephemeral ribbons drifting in the air. Dull greys, browns, and faded yellows trailed behind most of the commoners—faint, forgettable.

But there, cutting through the fog, was a streak of vivid pink and red, curling and twining like a silk streamer in the wind.

Peach and rose.

Zhu Xiao’s fox-shaped eyes sharpened.

“There you are.”

Without wasting another second, he followed the scent trail through the market. He had ten minutes—and if either of them ran into trouble, this might be the only chance he had to intervene.

‘Luo Binghe wasn’t even supposed to be involved in this arc. He’s barely involved at all.’ he thought uneasily. ‘And now he’s running around with a half-canon Ning Yingying during an active demon case. Airplane, you motherfucker hack, I swear to every celestial ancestor, when I get my hands on your outline—’

He didn’t finish the thought. He just kept moving, weaving through the crowd, following the curling pink-red thread of mischief and bad timing like a bloodhound on the scent.

.

.

.

[Shuang Hu City
Side Street
Meanwhile…]

At the vendor’s stall, Ning Yingying practically sparkled with excitement, her eyes dancing as she examined an array of hairpins and trinkets glinting in the sunlight. The elderly shopkeeper offered her a small mirror, and she leaned closer to try a fan-shaped clip against her glossy hair.

Luo Binghe hovered nearby, trying to hide the way his fingers twitched with unease. “Ning-shijie…” he said gently. “I think we should return. Zhu-shixiong’s going to notice we’re gone.”

Ning Yingying turned toward him with a bright grin. “Oh, relax, A-Luo. We’re just looking! He won’t even realize we’re missing!”

That was… not true. Luo Binghe knew from watching Zhu Xiao just enough to know that he would notice everything. But before he could argue again, Ning Yingying spun on her heel and pointed down the row of stalls.

“Hey, I saw a vendor selling sweets earlier—this way!” she chirped, grabbing his hand with warm fingers and pulling him into motion.

“Wait—Ning-shijie—” he tried, half-hearted in his protest, but she was already dragging him along like a joyful breeze with the scent of peach and rose clinging to the air.

They turned a corner, moving away from the main bustle of the market. The street thinned. The cheerful clamor of voices faded behind them, replaced by the quiet hum of wind through red banners and the occasional creak of hanging signs. There were fewer people here. Fewer vendors. Fewer sounds.

Luo Binghe frowned, glancing around warily. “Ning-shijie… are you sure you know where you’re going?”

Ning Yingying stopped and looked around with a sheepish expression, fingers still lightly wrapped around his hand. “Of course I do. I think… it should be just down this way.”

He gave her a look. “You get lost in the bamboo forest, sometimes.”

She pouted and turned her face away, but didn’t deny it.

Luo Binghe sighed. Something didn’t feel right. He could sense the silence pressing in now...

...too much silence.

“Ning-shijie.” he said, stopping in his tracks. “We need to go back. This isn’t safe. We’re in the middle of an investigation, not a sightseeing trip.”

“Just a little longer—” she started, but then the air shifted.

He felt it first: a prickling sensation across his neck. Cold. Still.

He looked up and his breath caught.

A thick, shadowy mass was oozing from the alley behind her. It didn’t move like mist. It moved like a living thing. Silent. Intent.

His eyes widened in horror. “Ning-shijie—watch out! ”

In one fluid motion, he grabbed her wrist and yanked her toward him. Ning Yingying stumbled into his side with a startled yelp, eyes turning just in time to catch a glimpse of the black smoke racing toward them like a predator.

But before it could reach—

—A silver arc flashed.

A gleam of white and crimson light sliced through the air like a falling star. The shadow recoiled with a shuddering hiss, vanishing back into the alley in a heartbeat. Gone—like it was never there at all.

A figure now stood between them and the alley. Back straight. Robes rippling in the wind.

Zhu Xiao. His spiritual sword, Ru Yi, was drawn and still glowing faintly with residual light—red veins and white shimmer chasing each other across the blade’s length like living threads of divine fire. Making the engraved plum blossoms somehow shimmer on its blade.

Luo Binghe froze, staring at the older man’s back with wide, stunned eyes.

Ning Yingying clung to Luo Binghe’s sleeve, equally still, her face a mix of awe, relief, and the barest edge of fear.

Zhu Xiao remained motionless for a breath longer, scanning the alley with razor focus. Only when he was satisfied the danger had truly passed did he lower his sword slightly and turn toward them, eyes sharp.

His garnet-amber gaze flicked over the two of them. “Are either of you hurt?”

They shook their heads quickly.

“N-No.” Ning Yingying said first, her voice trembling with the remnants of adrenaline. Then her expression broke into a relieved smile. “You saved us! That was amazing, Zhu-shixiong!”

Zhu Xiao gave a small nod, then calmly sheathed his blade. “You should not have left the group.” There was no anger in his tone, but the disappointment weighed heavier than if he had shouted.

Luo Binghe bowed his head slightly, guilt creeping over his face. “I… this one is sorry, Zhu-shixiong.”

“It wasn’t Luo-shidi’s fault.” Ning Yingying blurted, her eyes wide. “I was the one who wandered off. He just came with me to make sure I was safe!”

Zhu Xiao’s frown deepened. “This is a serious investigation.” he said, voice tight. “Not a time for playing around or exploring. You’re lucky it was me who found you and not the demon you’re all so eager to meet.”

Both juniors quieted, shame written plainly across their faces.

“We’re heading back to the Chen Mansion.” Zhu Xiao continued. “I’ll report to Shizun about this incident. It’ll be his decision whether or not to punish you.”

They nodded quietly.

Zhu Xiao turned and began walking. This time, they didn’t hesitate to follow.

As they moved down the quiet street, Luo Binghe found himself watching the older cultivator from behind. His mind spun with thoughts—not just fear or guilt, but something else. A strange, budding curiosity.

He had never seen anyone move like that before. So calm. So fast. So precise.

There was something about Zhu Xiao that he didn’t understand.

And it made him want to.

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.

.

[Shuang Hu City
Chen Mansion
Moment Later…]

Zhu Xiao couldn’t believe how close that had been.

That thing—that thick, unnatural shadow—wasn’t just some random malevolent wisp. The way it recoiled from his sword, the way it moved with eerie sentience and intent ... it wasn’t just wandering. It was hunting.

He narrowed his eyes as he walked through the stone-paved path of the Chen Mansion’s back garden, flanked closely by Ning Yingying and Luo Binghe. The sun had dipped slightly lower, casting long shadows between the garden’s pale rocks and pavilions, but none of those shadows felt wrong. Not yet.

Zhu Xiao’s fingers itched, still remembering the slight shiver in his sword when he struck the smoke. It had reacted but only retreated. Not injured. Just startled.

‘Was that the Demon Skinner’s doing?’ If it was, then that thing had nearly kidnapped two disciples of Cang Qiong. Right under his nose. He was supposed to be their Shixiong. 

He exhaled slowly through his nose, outwardly composed, but his thoughts spun with alarm.

‘Luo Binghe is the protagonist.’ he reminded himself. ‘He has a golden halo, protagonist plot armor, and insane future power scaling. He’ll be fine. He’s always fine.’

But.

But—he was still unpresented. Still not fully awakened. Still a soft-hearted white lotus, barely holding a sword properly. And Zhu Xiao had read enough of Airplane’s half-baked garbage summaries to know the early arcs were… messy.

Especially this one.

Ning Yingying was no better. Not because she was weak—no, she was talented, cheerful, brave when it mattered—but because she was shackled to the “wife plot.” That cursed, inflexible narrative thread that always put her in peril for the sake of drama. She was practically a magnet for ridiculous kidnappings, near-deaths, love triangles, misunderstandings, and tearjerker scenes.

Usually, Luo Binghe saved her.

Usually.

But what if—what if this early time, the golden halo didn’t work? What if her death became some twisted motivator for angst development? What if this version of the arc broke away from the script entirely?

Zhu Xiao clenched his jaw. ‘No. I’m not risking that.’

Not when Zhu Xiao had no concrete timeline, no antagonist name, and no clue how many bodies might drop in this arc. Not when that motherfucker Airplane hack so-called summary arcs are to be trusted. No way.

So no. No sneaking off. No unsupervised wandering. Not even if they were future spouses destined to fall in love after a hundred tragic misunderstandings.

There would be plenty of time for romantic tension and flirty glances after the creepy demon was exorcised, thank you very much.

He led the two juniors through the winding stone paths of the Chen Mansion’s back gardens. The scent of plum trees floated in the air, sweet and calming, but Zhu Xiao didn’t let his guard drop. The plum petals scattered like pale pink snow across the moss-lined stones when they reached the gardens.

Zhu Xiao heard familiar voices. 

Rounding a curve past a koi pond, Zhu Xiao saw Shen Qingqiu sitting on the stone bench beneath the plum tree-shadowed roof. Shen Qingqiu stood with his signature composure, fan raised languidly before his face, eyes half-lidded in the way that screamed disinterested, but listening.

The three disciples who had been sent back earlier stood before him, reporting obediently. One of them gestured animatedly, likely recounting Zhu Xiao’s warning.

Zhu Xiao let out a short breath. ‘Good. They made it back without getting distracted or possessed or running into some cursed teahouse scenario.’

He motioned for Luo Binghe and Ning Yingying to follow more quietly, stepping closer just as Shen Qingqiu looked up, his expression unreadable beneath the lazy flutter of his fan.

Zhu Xiao stepped forward, his boots quiet against the polished stone of the courtyard, and brought his right fist to the center of his palm in a respectful salute. “Shizun.”

Behind him, Luo Binghe and Ning Yingying followed suit, mimicking the motion with practiced precision, though Luo Binghe’s was executed with quiet humility, while Ning Yingying’s was smaller, a touch sheepish in the dip of her head.

Shen Qingqiu didn’t speak immediately. He lowered his fan slightly, sharp bamboo-green eyes flickering across all three of them. His gaze lingered on Zhu Xiao, a single dark brow lifting ever so slightly in question.

“Report.” he said, cool and crisp.

Zhu Xiao nodded. “Yes, Shizun. Luo-shidi and Ning-shimei slipped away while my attention was elsewhere. I tracked them through the market and followed their trail eastward. I found them just in time—” He paused, lips tightening. “—as a shadow entity nearly reached them. I intervened before it could make contact. My sword startled it—it fled immediately.”

A beat of silence followed his words, heavy and sharp like the edge of a blade.

Shen Qingqiu’s gaze slid toward the two juniors, and his expression sharpened into something colder. Folding his fan shut with a soft snap, he fixed both Luo Binghe and Ning Yingying with a look that managed to convey disappointment without raising his voice.

“You two.” he said, voice calm but with a warning edge. “Will be punished when we return to Qing Jing Peak. For now, you are removed from the investigation. You will remain here in the Chen Mansion until further instruction.”

Luo Binghe dipped his head low, guilt creasing his brow. “Yes, Shizun.”

Ning Yingying opened her mouth, perhaps to defend herself, but no words came. Her rose and peach pheromones, usually so delicate and sweet, soured subtly—bitter petals and overripe fruit that hung in the air like wilted perfume.

Several nearby disciples shifted awkwardly, a few glancing away as if to escape the heavy scent cloud wafting from her.

Zhu Xiao barely managed to hold back a sigh. ‘Great.’ There it was again. Her scent, cloying and dense, curled at the edge of his senses like a creeping vine of spoiled sweetness. The air felt warmer, tighter. He rubbed his temple with two fingers. ‘She really doesn’t know how to hold it back, does she?’

Shen Qingqiu narrowed his eyes at her. “Control your scent, Disciple Ning Yingying.” The gentle rebuke hit harder than if he’d shouted. “If you can’t regulate your pheromones in public—especially during an active investigation—you won’t be allowed on future missions.”

Ning Yingying’s shoulders slumped. Her lips trembled into a sulky pout, eyes wide and glossy. “Yes, Shizun…”

But Shen Qingqiu remained unmoved, his face a portrait of composed authority.

Zhu Xiao couldn’t help but stare at Shen Qingqiu, who wasn’t going to let the cute little omega get away at all. ‘So unlike the scumbag character from the novel I read…’ he mused.

A sudden chime echoed in Zhu Xiao’s head. A scarlet window with gold-framed lettering blinked to life before his eyes, courtesy of the system.

[  Host, please be advised: uncontrolled omega pheromones in a mixed cultivation environment can result in elevated risk of unwanted attention, scent confusion, or even beast-level spiritual attraction! Please remind omega juniors to practice scent regulation diligently! (｀・ω・´)ゞ ]

Zhu Xiao barely suppressed the twitch at the corner of his eye. ‘No thanks, System. That was obvious.’ Still, the mention of “beast-level spiritual attraction” sounded ominous enough to plant a fresh seed of anxiety in his mind.

Shen Qingqiu turned back toward Zhu Xiao, his gaze steady.

“Did you learn anything else?”

Zhu Xiao straightened his posture. “Yes, Shizun. I investigated the Flower Bloom Pavilion, a well-regarded brothel in the southern district. I spoke with the matron, Madam Liang, and inquired about any information about the two late flowers. She was cooperative.”

Shen Qingqiu’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes sharpened—keen interest, perhaps, or measured surprise.

Zhu Xiao continued, his tone polite but clear. “She mentioned two former residents. One was Lady Leichu, who died before Lady Aihan. The other was Lady Aihan. Both were very close entertainers. Special bond, according to Madam Liang.” He paused, brows furrowing faintly. “However, Madam Liang noticed that Lady Leichu was distant and had not been attached to Lady Aihan’s hips for a while. Madam Liang mentioned Lady Leichu was… she was described as… distant, withdrawn, increasingly pale before her death.”

“And Madam Liang was perplexed when she explained how Lady Aihan was bold and daring. Unlike how Lady Aihan used to be shy and delicate. And then Lady Aihan was killed a few days later.” Zhu Xiao added, sharing the information.

As he spoke, he failed to notice the faint shift in Shen Qingqiu’s face—the slight narrowing of his eyes, the tilt of his fan, paused halfway in his hand.

There was something else. An awareness.

Shen Qingqiu was watching Zhu Xiao closely now.

Not just listening.

And it wasn’t because of the report itself. It was how Zhu Xiao said it. His voice had held no judgment. No sneering superiority toward brothels. No crudeness, no mockery. Just measured observation and respectful terminology. Lady. Entertainer. Matron. Even Madam Liang was referred to without disdain.

Most cultivators, even well-bred ones, could hardly mask their contempt for places like the Flower Bloom Pavilion. They looked down their noses, treated the workers as footnotes. But Zhu Xiao? He hadn’t flinched.

‘Interesting. Very interesting.’ Shen Qingqiu mused as his fingers tapped the edge of his folded fan.

.

.

.

[Shuang Hu City
Chen Mansion
Garden Pavilion
Dusk]

The soft amber light of the setting sun cast long shadows across the garden, filtering through the sparse, skeletal branches of the plum trees. The fading light painted the stone pathways in hues of burnt orange and crimson, the air tinged with the earthy fragrance of old moss, incense, and faint floral traces lingering from disciples’ robes.

Zhu Xiao stood among the gathered group, his arms crossed over his chest, long sleeves falling over his wrists like elegant banners. He remained a step behind Shen Qingqiu, positioned respectfully to the left. His garnet-amber eyes half-lidded in practiced calm, yet flicked sharply from speaker to speaker as the disciples began reporting their gathered intel.

Ming Fan was at the front, standing rigid and proud as always, one hand tucked neatly behind his back. His tone was clipped and factual as he recited what he and the others had discovered in the city’s western district—local whispers about young women's deaths, one body is skinned and the other body is not skinned, always targeting attractive-looking females. The demon seemed to have an appetite for the fair-faced and delicate.

Another disciple spoke next, nervously fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve as he stammered through a report about seeing “shadows that moved against the direction of the wind”.

Shen Qingqiu listened in near-total silence, not offering praise or critique. His expression remained blank, carved from pale jade, with only a subtle quirk of his brow or twitch of his fan betraying his thoughts. The slight breeze stirred the hem of his robe, the plum blossoms trembling faintly behind him like they too feared breaking the quiet tension.

Zhu Xiao remained mostly silent, standing with one boot balanced on a moss-covered stone, appearing relaxed, though his thoughts were anything but.

‘So this demon targets women. Young, attractive. Probably omegas. Do they wear the skins like clothing? Or do they… fuse with it? Does it rot eventually? Stink of decay? Damn it, Airplane never went into detail about the Skinner Demon. He could wax poetic about Luo Binghe’s pecs for three paragrapahs, but not one damn paragraph about demon anatomy logistics.’ He grumbled mentally, turning his face just slightly so his expression wouldn’t be seen. ‘Honestly, I wish Airplane wasn’t so fucking lazy when it comes to details in certain situation. Then again, Luo Binghe wasn’t supposed to be involved this much in the investigation, yet somehow that happened.’ 

[ (*≧▽≦)ゞ  Host~ You’re doing amazing!! This System is so proud! Host is analyzing the demon’s pattern like a seasoned investigator! What a milestone for your first case~!~ ]

‘Progress my ass.’ Zhu Xiao grumbled inwardly. ‘Can I cash in these points for actual answers?! Something useful for once?!’

[ (๑•̀ㅂ•́)و✧ No can do~! Spoilers are locked tight! But Host may purchase a ‘Vague Prophetic Hint’ for the low, low price of 200 B-Points! ]

‘What the hell?! That’s daylight robbery!’ 

[ Let this System know if Host changes his mind~! (੭˃ᴗ˂)੭♡ ]

Zhu Xiao exhaled through his nose in disbelief, his fingers twitching at his sleeve in suppressed irritation. Behind his sardonic silence, his ears caught every detail the disciples shared, eyes quietly noting how each clue twisted deeper into a pattern he couldn’t yet fully see.

Then—

A pounding of hurried footsteps.

A shuffle. A stumble. A thud of knees on stone.

“Master Immortal! ” cried a desperate voice, ragged with age and terror.

All heads turned.

Old Master Chen came staggering into the garden, his opulent silks disheveled and soaked in sweat. His face, wrinkled and sun-spotted, was flushed with panic. His eyes bulged slightly, darting about as though expecting monsters to spring from the hedges.

“Master Immortal! I—I beg you!” he cried, nearly collapsing to the ground in a trembling bow, but two disciples stepped forward to catch him by the arms, steadying the old man before he shattered completely.

Shen Qingqiu didn’t move from his spot. His gaze, hard and gleaming like cold emeralds, swept down upon Old Master Chen with all the warmth of an unmelted winter.

“Compose yourself.” Shen Qingqiu said, unimpressed. “Speak.”

The old man’s lips trembled. “It’s—it's my Die-er! She’s gone! Disappeared without a sound! I—I searched the entire mansion! The servants looked in every room—under the beds, behind the screens, in the closets—I can’t find her!”

Shen Qingqiu did not so much as flinch. His bamboo-green gaze descended like winter’s frost, sharp and unforgiving. Slowly, the fan in his hand clicked shut with a dry, crisp sound less a gesture and more a judgment.

“I was under the impression.” he said, voice low and cold enough to chill marrow. “That you personally vowed not to leave her side. And yet she’s gone. Explain.”

The old man blubbered pitifully, voice catching in his throat. “Yes—yes, I—I know! I only stepped away to fetch the scented oil she likes for her hair—I was gone just a few moments! She was resting in my bed—I—she was—” He broke off, wailing.

A couple of the younger disciples visibly recoiled. One coughed awkwardly. One of the younger disciples gagged softly. Another turned slightly away, as if to hide their grimace.

Zhu Xiao, meanwhile, stood frozen.

Then: Oh hell no. Absolutely not.

He stared at the pathetic man with mounting horror.

‘I get that she was an omega flower, but to be—what—in your bed?! She’s a teenager! You lecherous fossil! You rotten-toothed cradle-dwelling corruption of a man! That’s not “special oil,” that’s probably disgusting predator perfume! If this were the modern world, your saggy perverted ass would be dragged into the courtroom with police sirens and handcuffs—’

A red transparent window appeared with a ding.

[ Host! Reminder that this is a cultivation world with A/B/O dynamics. What may be criminal in your world may be culturally accepted here, especially regarding alpha-omega courtship customs! No judgment zone~! ♡ ヾ(＾∇＾)   ]

‘No judgment zone?! He’s sixty if he’s a day and she’s barely out of her peach blossom braids! I am judging!’

[ (｡♥‿♥｡) Age gaps build drama~! ]

‘You know what else creates drama? A lawsuit. And I would gladly be the one to file it.’

While Zhu Xiao was mentally building a legal case and maybe setting the man’s pillow on fire, Shen Qingqiu’s eyes swept back toward the disciples and Zhu Xiao with a glacial stillness.

“We will begin a search immediately.” Shen Qingqiu said, voice low but unwavering. “Head Disciple Ming Fan, take three juniors and interrogate the household staff. Focus on the last time Die’er was seen.” 

“Yes, Shizun!”

“Disciple Zhu.” he continued without turning. “Select five juniors and conduct a perimeter sweep. Check the garden, the pond, the perimeter wall. If she is still within the estate, she must be found.”

Zhu Xiao’s expression sharpened. He bowed, fist-to-palm together. “Understood, Shizun.”

The disciples scattered like startled cranes, their robes fluttering behind them as they split into search teams. Zhu Xiao cast a brief glance at Luo Binghe and Ning Yingying, both visibly disturbed but obediently awaiting instruction.

“You two.” Shen Qingqiu finally addressed them, gaze never softening. “Escort Old Master Chen back inside the mansion. Do not leave him unattended.”

“Yes, Shizun.” Luo Binghe replied, his expression determined as he and Ning Yingying gently herded the weeping old man away, though neither could hide the unease lingering in their eyes.

Only once the garden was emptied and silence reclaimed the air did Shen Qingqiu shift his stance. His fan opened again with a slow whisper, half-obscuring his mouth. His gaze remained on the horizon, where the last rays of sunlight died behind the mountains.

‘So…’ he mused, gaze razor-sharp and unnervingly still. ‘The Skinner Demon makes its move at twilight. How predictable.’

.

.

.

.

.

..

...

Chapter Text

[Shuang Hu City
Chen Mansion
Outer Gate
Later…]

The outer courtyard had quieted, its stones dulled by twilight, the last hints of sunlight bleeding away into the slate-colored sky. Zhu Xiao paced along the moss-rimmed boundary walls, his boots soundless on the worn stone path. Behind him, five junior disciples fanned out across the grounds in disciplined lines, combing through hedges, koi ponds, tool sheds, and decorative rock gardens. Their voices, when they did speak, were hushed and uncertain—young cultivators trying to sound more confident than they felt.

Zhu Xiao’s expression was unreadable, brows furrowed faintly as his senses remained hyper-attuned to any trace, any clue, any anomaly in the garden's chi or scent. But there was nothing. No claw marks gouged into tree trunks. No cursed talismans half-buried in dirt. No copper tang of blood nor the sickly-sweet rot of demonic energy. Just the whisper of wind stirring the trees, and the faint gurgle of a nearby stone fountain.

It was too clean. Too quiet.

"Anything?" he called to the closest disciple.

The boy shook his head. “No, Shixiong. Nothing strange. Not even a footprint.”

Zhu Xiao gave a curt nod, waving his hand at him, silently telling him to return to his duty. He wandered further, past the trellises and the orange-painted pavilion, until he stood just beyond the estate’s outer gate. The air was cooler here. Crisp. Still.

He stood alone now, just outside the towering wooden doors—closed but unbarred—and stared out toward the distant dark line where trees met the dying light. Shadows stretched long over the road, fracturing the earth like veins of ink. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. The silence pressed in close.

His eyes narrowed. ‘Something’s not right.’ He played over the facts again in his mind, each detail a puzzle piece refusing to fit. ‘All victims were omega females. Young. Attractive. At least one case showed personality changes before death—some kind of behavioral shift. One body skinned. One not. Strong powdery scent.’

Zhu Xiao’s nose wrinkled faintly. Powdery. Artificial. Overpowering.

He exhaled, low and steady. ‘Powdery scent. Not just pretty perfume. Something… floral. Artificially dense. Something that sticks in the nostrils, lingers on skin. But not all flowers are like that…’’

His thoughts shifted—abruptly, unexpectedly—to long-forgotten memories. Fluorescent hospital rooms. Pale sheets. The steady beep of machines. The scent of disinfectant and sun-warmed windowsills. He could remember, vividly, how scent became his earliest warning, his private weather vane, whenever the nurses brought in fresh bouquets to cheer up the pale, thin boy who couldn't leave his bed.

He had smelled them before seeing them.

Lavender. Violet. Heliotrope. Mimosa. Cassia. Iris.

Some flowers always reminded him of baby powder, or old-fashioned dusting puffs. Cloying. Sweet. Dry.

Then, he stilled.

Lavender.

He blinked hard, a sudden prickle dancing down his spine.

Earlier today. Die-er. That scent was clinging to her like a second skin. So much. Too thick.

‘It wasn’t natural. It wasn’t faint like a girl’s bath oil with an artificial perfume. It was sharp. Strong. Like it was… like she was soaked in lavender bath for hours.’

His heart gave a single, sharp thud.

‘That wasn’t just a perfume. That was a mask. A cover.’

His thoughts rushed ahead in rapid succession. ‘What if she wasn’t taken by the Skinner Demon? What if she is the Skinner Demon? What if she’s hiding in plain sight—mimicking, blending—using the scent to cover what she truly is? A scent too perfect. Too floral. Too... staged.’

A chill slid down his back, slow and creeping. His pupils dilated.

He needs to warn the others.

Then the world went black.

It happened in complete silence. One moment, he stood still as stone beneath the quiet gate.

The next—

A sudden weight behind him.
A flicker of cold against the back of his neck.
And then darkness, swallowing him whole.

.

..

…

Disciple, Are You Flirting With Me?

Chapter Ten

“A Beta’s First Case: Part III”

…

..

.

[Shuang Hu City
Chen Mansion
Front Courtyard
Moment Later…]

The stars slowly emerged in the cooling air. Lanterns had been lit along the curved eaves of the Chen Mansion, casting soft golden halos onto the cobbled courtyard. Their light barely touched the polished shoes of Shen Qingqiu, who stood motionless before the main gate, his silhouette immaculate in the encroaching dusk.

Ming Fan was in the middle of reporting, his voice crisp and composed despite the tension that simmered beneath his brows.

“We interrogated every servant in the mansion, Shizun.” he said, hands folded behind his back in disciplined formality. “No one reported seeing or hearing anything unusual. The girl was last seen shortly after the evening incense was lit. Several maids confirmed she had not left the building. No footprints. No open doors. It’s as if she vanished.”

The circle of disciples standing nearby remained solemn and attentive, the cool breeze rustling the hems of their robes, casting faint ripples through the quiet. Shen Qingqiu’s gaze was level, bamboo-green eyes reflecting lantern light like still water beneath ice. He gave no immediate reply, just the soft rustle of his folding fan shifting against his sleeve as he considered the information in silence.

Then shouts.

“Shizun!”

The sudden cry cracked the air like a whip.

Shen Qingqiu’s brows dipped ever so slightly as he turned his gaze toward the source of the noise. Five junior disciples came stumbling through the path leading from the garden’s far side, robes ruffled, hairpins askew, panting hard with red faces and flushed panic.

He blinked once, slowly. “You five.” he said, voice cool and flat. “Look as though you’ve been chased by wild dogs. Or perhaps you’ve taken leave of your senses and become those wild dogs yourselves—snarling, barking, and tripping over your own tails like drunk mountain monkeys.”

The courtyard went still.

The junior disciples immediately stiffened, mortified. Their cheeks flamed crimson as they bowed in a clumsy attempt to recover some dignity.

“F-forgive us, Shizun!” one stammered, voice cracking under the weight of embarrassment.

“Compose yourselves.” Shen Qingqiu commanded, voice not unkind, but edged with aristocratic frost. “Breathe. Then speak. I don’t accept nonsense yelping here.”

The five exchanged awkward glances, and one, braver than the rest, stepped forward with a clenched jaw.

“Shizun.” he said, this time with the proper decorum. “We… we cannot find Zhu-shixiong.”

The murmurs in the courtyard stilled at once.

Another disciple added. “It’s been almost a full shichen since he last responded. We assumed he might have gone ahead, or returned early, but… he’s nowhere. We searched every inch of the perimeter and even outside the outer walls. There’s no trace of him.”

A shift moved through the group like a chill gust of wind. The disciples’ expressions darkened, and their postures were rigid with unease.

Shen Qingqiu’s eyes narrowed fractionally. The lacquered fan in his hand remained closed, resting neatly against his palm, but there was a subtle shift in the atmosphere around him, like ice sliding down a silk cloth. Tension coiled beneath his grace.

He didn’t react with dramatics or outbursts. Instead, he tilted his chin slightly, his voice almost contemplative. “Missing.” he echoed. “Not a trace.”

Shen Qingqiu turned his phoenix-shaped eyes smoothly to Ming Fan, who immediately straightened further at the silent order. “You’ll remain here with the juniors. Lock the mansion down. No one is to leave. If even one hair of another disciple is misplaced under your watch, I will be most… disappointed.”

“Yes, Shizun.” Ming Fan replied, bowing crisply. His voice held no fear, only resolve. He hesitated only a fraction before asking. “Shizun… may this disciple inquire what Shizun will be doing?”

The moment hung briefly in the air.

Shen Qingqiu, ever poised, snapped his fan shut with a muted click, the sound almost like a blade being sheathed. His long sleeves caught the breeze as he turned on his heel, walking with the fluid grace of a swan gliding across still water.

“I’m going to retrieve a missing disciple.” he said, voice as calm as falling snow. “Personally.”

And with that, he stepped beyond the lantern’s warm halo, disappearing into the quiet night—his silhouette a dark, graceful streak against the path lit by stars and silence.

.

.

.

[Somewhere Unknown
Time Uncertain
Meanwhile…]

Consciousness returned slowly, crawling back like a reluctant tide.

Zhu Xiao’s lashes fluttered against his cheeks, each blink an effort as though dragging his vision through sludge. The world was swathed in haze, edges of shapes blurring like melted ink on parchment. He blinked once, then twice more, squinting as the grainy film over his eyes peeled back. A dull, persistent ache pulsed at the base of his skull—thudding in rhythm with his heartbeat—while his limbs felt leaden, waterlogged, as if he had been pulled from the depths of a winter river and left to freeze in place.

The sharp tang of damp stone and cold iron stung his nose. Dust. Mold. The faint earthy scent of mildew clung to the air like mildew on rotting fabric. Blinking hard, he tried to take in his surroundings. Crude, unpainted stone walls surrounded him, stained with time and shadow. The floor was the same rough-hewn rock, gritty and uneven beneath his bare skin. Above, set high into the wall like afterthoughts, were small rectangular windows—too narrow to climb through, far too high to reach. Moonlight streamed through in pallid shafts, slicing the gloom and pooling on the empty floor in uneven blotches.

‘Basement.’ Zhu Xiao thought, groggy but certain. ‘Definitely a basement.’

A shiver traveled down his spine. He tried to shift, to sit up, but his body betrayed him. His arms refused to move. His legs, dead weight. Panic stirred in his gut, but he tamped it down with instinctive calm. First assess. Then react.

And then he felt it.

The cold air kissed his skin.

His gaze dropped.

“…What.”

His voice cracked, dry and hoarse, barely louder than a whisper.

He was half-naked.

His upper body was bare to the chill, exposed under the ghostly light. His robes had been stripped away entirely, leaving only the white under-trousers typical of a cultivator’s inner layers. The thin linen clung to his legs, offering little in the way of modesty or warmth. His skin erupted in goosebumps, breath catching as the reality set in. Around his wrists and ankles were tightly wound cords—golden, glowing faintly, etched with ancient talismans. Immortal-binding cables.

Zhu Xiao stared at them, his stomach dropping. The bindings shimmered faintly, radiating soft pulses of suppressive energy. His spiritual core, his cultivated flow—everything felt clamped, choked, like his meridians had been filled with mud.

He gave an experimental tug.

The cords didn’t so much as flinch.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.” he muttered. “I got kidnapped. And stripped ?”

With a perky ‘ding! ’, a translucent red screen materialized in front of him, floating with obnoxious cheer.

[  ✿☆ :.｡.o(≧▽≦)o.｡.: ☆✿ Congratulations, Host! You have successfully triggered a hidden “Wife Plot Capture Scenario” route!   ]

Zhu Xiao blinked once. Then again.

“…You’re telling me I’ve been forcibly inserted into a wife plot?! Me?!”

Another string of text sparkled across the system red window like it was hosting a damn game show.

[   Yes, Host. You are currently:
✔ Nearly-naked
✔ Bound but beautiful
✔ Unaware but suspiciously flushed~ (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ  ]

Zhu Xiao twitched. “‘Bound but beautiful’? Is that supposed to be a genre tag, or did you just make that up to piss me off?”

[ This System only reports facts, Host! This is a highly refined and emotionally compelling drama route!  Perfect mood lighting! Delicious mystery! Gorgeous lighting for skin exposure! ✧٩(•́⌄•́๑)و ✧ ]

“Compelling drama my ass!” he barked, the words echoing uselessly off the stone walls. “This is like the Fifty Shades of Cultivator in someone’s damp sex dungeon Xianxia version!”

He twisted his torso, wriggling against the bindings in a flurry of awkward movements. The golden cords pulsed ominously in response, delivering a jolt of suppressive energy straight into his chest. His meridians fizzed like dying firecrackers, and his breath caught in a pained gasp.

It was freezing.

He curled forward slightly, as much as the bindings allowed, watching his breath mist faintly in the moonlight. This basement was probably never meant to hold living people. Especially not shirtless ones.

“System…” he groaned, voice muffled in the back of his throat. “Not to panic or anything, but am I actually going to be saved by the protagonist?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, the system popped another line onto the screen with a digital sparkle.

[ ✿ Nope! Host lacks the required “Wife Halo” to attract the Protagonist’s rescue instincts! But there’s still a tiny chance someone will stumble upon you by accident! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧  ]

Zhu Xiao let his head fall back with a soft thud against the stone ground, eyes squeezed shut in exasperation.

“Wonderful. Just fantastic. I’m not even a love interest. I’m a side quest with tragic lighting that is doomed to horrible death .”

[ Don’t be like that, Host! You’re doing amazing! You haven’t died yet! That’s a 100% success rate so far! ✧ ｡٩(ˊᗜˋ )و✧*｡ ]

“I hate this.”

[ Hehe~ (๑´ڡ`๑) Just hang in there, Host! You never know who might walk through that door next~  ]

.

.

.

[Shuang Hu City
Moonlit Hours
Momentarily…]

The streets were quiet—eerily so.

Shen Qingqiu walked alone beneath the silver-drenched sky, his steps soundless against the stone path. Lanterns had long since gone dim, their oils spent, leaving only the moon to cast a cold, pale sheen across the rooftops and cobbled alleys. The shadows pooled like ink between buildings, stretching out like hands reaching for his robes, but they did not touch him.

His bamboo-green eyes were narrowed, gaze cutting sharply through the dark. There was no hesitation in his movements, only cool calculation, the surety of a man who had hunted monsters long before his disciples ever picked up their first swords. His fingers twitched slightly at his sides, ready to draw his fan at a moment’s notice. But for now, he listened. Watched. Breathed.

Shen Qingqiu paused at a fork in the narrow street, tilting his head ever so slightly—barely perceptible to anyone watching. His inky black hair, tied half-up in its usual style, stirred gently in the night breeze, strands catching the moonlight as they floated behind him like trailing shadows. He closed his eyes for the briefest moment and inhaled subtly through his nose.

Cold air filled his lungs. Damp earth. Old wood. Cooking smoke from distant chimneys. And then—there it was.

A very faint, acidic trace. The fetid, sour scent of decomposing flesh hidden beneath a veil of stagnant resentful qi. It’s almost fading.

His eyes snapped open, sharp and alert.

Without a word, Shen Qingqiu flexed the spiritual qi pooled in his legs, and with a light push against the earth, he ascended—his figure soaring in a graceful arc. The sleeves of his white and jade-green robes fluttered like banners behind him, catching the wind mid-leap, billowing around his tall frame with practiced flair. Each movement was fluid, effortless, the poise of a master cultivator with decades of discipline etched into his every joint. His boots skimmed the curved eaves of the first rooftop before his figure lifted again in a second bound, then a third, traveling across the tiled cityscape like a phantom in the night.

He landed atop the third roof, perched lightly on the edge with uncanny balance, barely shifting a pebble beneath his foot.

The city spread beneath him, rows of slanted rooftops stretching out like a labyrinth of ink and slate under moonlight. In the distance, the mountains loomed in silence, and somewhere, an owl called once, then was still.

The fading trail is already gone, yet Shen Qingqiu closed his eyes again, drawing in his breath and centering his qi. With a delicate pulse, he activated a specialized internal technique—one of Qing Jing Peak’s hidden sensory arts. His spiritual energy laced through his meridians like golden threads tightening a loom, weaving together his five senses and magnifying them.

The world burst into clarity.

He could hear the scratch of a rat pawing at rice sacks three blocks away. He could feel the faintest shift in wind pressure above a moving roof tile. The fabric of the night itself unfolded before him—sound, scent, vibration, all laid bare.

Then he caught it.

A whisper of corrupted qi. The familiar taint he’d encountered in ruined villages years back when he was a disciple during one of the Night Hunt Cases. Rancid, fetid, faintly disturbing blood. It clung to the air like a thin film, barely perceptible to the untrained, but unmistakable to him.

The scent of rotting skin. This time, it’s clearer. 

His eyes opened, sharp and gleaming with cold purpose.

“As usual.” he murmured, voice low and unhurried. “Skinner Demons could never get rid of their original scent.”

There was no rage in his tone—only frost. Precision. Lethality wrapped in velvet calm.

Without hesitation, Shen Qingqiu turned and leapt from the rooftop, his figure a blur as he followed the scent trail deeper into the shadowed veins of the city. He moved without a sound, sleeves fluttering like ghost-silk, hair streaming behind him, a silent hunter on the prowl.

The Skinner Demon would not get far.

He has his missing disciple to take back. 

.

.

.

[Somewhere Unknown
Time Uncertain
Meanwhile…]

Zhu Xiao had long since lost track of time.

Bound to the cold, unforgiving stone floor, his body ached from shoulder to spine, every joint stiff from disuse. The immortal-binding cables wrapped tightly around his wrists and ankles pulsed at irregular intervals with faint golden light, suppressing his cultivation with a dull, rhythmic throb, like lazy lightning crawling down his meridians. The chill of the underground chamber had long since seeped into his bones, turning his skin clammy and making each breath a puff of mist in the stale, unmoving air. He was half-naked, humiliated, and increasingly miserable.

Worst of all?

He was bored.

“Just because there are thousands of hostage scenarios in this trashy omegaverse porn stallion novel doesn’t mean it has to happen to someone like me.” Zhu Xiao muttered bitterly, glaring up at the floating red system window still blinking with relentless cheer in the corner of his vision.

[ ✧｡٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و✧*｡ But Host! This is exciting! This could be the perfect opportunity for suffering that contributes to your character development~!  ]

Zhu Xiao rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t roll right out of his skull. “Oh yes, of course. Character development. I can feel myself evolving already—into a very cold corpse.”

[  (・`ω´・) No dying, Host! Pain builds resilience and delicious plot tension~! ♡ ]

“I swear.” he muttered. “If you kaomoji at me one more time—”

But then, he froze.

A sound.

Sharp and sudden, it cleaved through the heavy silence like a blade. The click of a latch turning. Faint, but unmistakable. Then followed the groaning creak of a door—wooden, old, upstairs —being pushed open with deliberate slowness. Zhu Xiao’s breath caught. His body tensed, every muscle drawing taut beneath the biting cold.

Footsteps.

Measured. Slow. Descending stone stairs, each tap deliberate, echoing in rhythmic beats against the walls like fingernails drumming against a ribcage. Tap. Tap. Tap.

All trace of sarcasm drained from his face.

He turned his head toward the stairwell as far as the restraints would allow, eyes narrowing. His body, though immobilized, was coiled like a spring. His breathing slowed.

Then, a chuckle.

Low and guttural, warped with malice, it slithered through the chamber like a snake through tall grass. It curdled at the edges, tainted by glee that had long since lost any connection to sanity. The laughter bounced off the stone walls, mocking and cruel, as if even the shadows were laughing at him.

Then came the stench.

His nose wrinkled instantly, a wave of revulsion tightening across his gut. The air soured, thick with the unmistakable reek of decaying flesh. But worse still, it was masked. Cloaked beneath layers of cloying, over-applied artificial lavender perfume, thick and powdery like crushed flowers ground into rot. It clung to the air, invasive and oppressive, like makeup over a corpse.

Zhu Xiao’s pupils contracted. ‘That fake perfume… No mistake. It’s her.’ he thought grimly, lips curling into a sneer. ‘So this is the Skinner Demon without a doubt.’

A shadow crept down the final steps—a silhouette draped in gauze and moonlight. Then came the voice.

“The great Cang Qiong Mountain?” the intruder mocked, voice theatrical, dripping with glee. “A disciple of Qing Jing Peak? This is what all your cultivation amounts to?” The voice sharpened with scorn. “If the so-called greatest sect in the world is full of weaklings like you, then the day the demon race conquers the Human Realm is practically guaranteed.”

More laughter is sharper now. Erratic. The brittle sort that cracked like broken glass.

Zhu Xiao said nothing, his expression unreadable. But inwardly, his thoughts spun like knives.

“To think you’re a disciple of Shen Qingqiu of Qing Jing Peak Lord, the Cold Beauty Alpha, and Xiu Ya Sword Master.” the voice continued, tinged with venomous amusement. “I expected more of a challenge. But here you are, gift-wrapped and helpless. How very disappointing.”

His frown deepened. Still, he said nothing. ‘Don’t react. Stay calm.’

Then the voice shifted to a higher, teasing, sing-song in tone.

“I bet you can’t guess who I am, can you~?”

Zhu Xiao lifted his head slowly, dragging his gaze to the source of the voice. His own was dry, unimpressed. “…You’re Die-er, aren’t you?”

A beat of silence.

Then came the shifting of fabric, the soft rustle of gauze as a figure stepped forward—half-veiled in darkness, framed by moonlight bleeding through a narrow stone window. The woman was clad in black lace, her form as delicate and alluring as ever, every movement rehearsed to perfection. She paused, fingers poised, and drew back the sheer veil with calculated flair.

The face beneath was as lovely as ever: flawless porcelain skin, painted lips the shade of crushed roses, almond-shaped eyes framed with thick lashes. A young courtesan’s masterpiece. Die-er’s face.

But her expression contorted, twisting with incredulous rage.

“Impossible.” she hissed. “How did you guess that?!”

Zhu Xiao’s stare was flat, unimpressed. “Honestly? The perfume gave you away. It smells like you lost a fight with an incense burner and rolled through an alchemy shop on your way here. No one wears that much lavender. You might as well have doused yourself in suspicion.”

Her eye twitched.

Fury, embarrassment, and disbelief all flashed across her face in rapid succession.

And then—it was gone.

In an instant, Die-er’s features softened once more, her spine curving into a graceful S as she tilted her head, smile returning to her lips like honey sliding over daggers. She exhaled a tinkling laugh, all sweetness and illusion, and slipped seamlessly back into her role.

“Not bad.” she cooed. “So there is a brain in that pretty little head of yours.” She stepped closer, hips swaying with every deliberate motion, eyes gleaming with delight. “But who would believe you, hm? A delicate little omega like me, the infamous Skinner Demon?”

Her laughter rippled again, airy and false.

“And more importantly…” She leaned in, her breath brushing against his cheek, voice as soft as silk and twice as sharp. “No one will ever find you.”

Zhu Xiao didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. He met her gaze, even bound and half-naked, with the defiant calm of someone too irritated to fear.

He smiled. Just a little. “Oh, how tragic.” he drawled. “Truly. I’m heartbroken.”

The Skinner Demon's smile widened, pleased with herself as she watched Zhu Xiao with unsettling amusement, as though she were admiring a rare butterfly pinned to velvet, struggling but beautiful.

She knelt gracefully beside him, skirts whispering against the cold stone, her presence an odd mix of predator and performer. Her fingers, long and pale with nails lacquered the color of dried blood, hovered near his face as if deciding whether to stroke or slash.

“You know.” she said idly, conversationally, as if they were sharing tea rather than this dank, forgotten prison. “Skinner Demons are genderless. They don’t present their secondary sex. And most of my kind aren’t nearly so… refined.”

Her voice dripped with a perverse sort of pride, warm with nostalgia and chilling with malice.

“They come and go like ghosts in the wind. No trace, no warning. They leave behind only hollow skins, bloodless corpses, and a scent that never quite fades. Most of them hunt for the thrill of it. Like animals. ” Her lips curled disdainfully. “But not me. I take my time. I make art. ”

She leaned closer.

“I study my prey. Their habits. Their walk. Their posture. The cadence of their laugh, the rhythm of their breath. Their scent, their moods, their manners.” A sharp, satisfied sigh escaped her lips. “And when the time is right, I peel them open like spring fruit. Delicate. Glorious. Their skin is still warm when I slip it on.”

Zhu Xiao’s jaw tightened, but his expression remained cool, unreadable.

The Skinner Demon didn’t seem to mind.

“Oh, the way people never notice.” she said, voice almost dreamy. “You can walk into a market in someone else’s skin and everyone smiles at you like nothing’s changed. They hand you sweets, silver coins, steaming rice buns—and they never realize the person they’re feeding is wearing a corpse. It’s intoxicating, really.”

Her fingertip—nail like a polished needle—dragged gently down the line of his jaw.

He didn’t flinch.

“I always preferred the skins of omegas.” she murmured. “So delicate. So smooth. Like velvet pressed over bone. There’s a softness to them, a certain yielding innocence. The way their flesh holds light—like moon on snow. ” Her eyes shimmered with twisted fondness. “But… you.”

She tilted her head, gazing down at him with new interest, like a jeweler discovering an unexpected gem among dull stones.

“You’re not an omega.” she said softly. “Not even an alpha. And yet…” Her gaze drifted over his exposed torso, his collarbones, the soft lines of his ribs beneath flawless, unmarred skin. “You have the skin of a poem.”

Zhu Xiao arched a brow. “Do go on.” he said dryly. “I love when psychopaths get poetic.”

The Skinner Demon laughed again, delighted by his sarcasm, not offended in the slightest.

“It reminds me of a verse.” she mused, ignoring him. Her tone turned lyrical, and she quoted with the cadence of a stage actor in a one-woman tragedy:

“The wind combs the reeds by moonlight still,
Pale silk flowing on a pond gone still—
Unblemished, pure, the surface sleeps,
Hiding blood where the river weeps.”

A pause. She smiled.

“It’s rare to find a beta with a skin like that. Rare enough to tempt me out of my usual tastes.”

Her fingers trailed down to rest against his chest, not forcefully, but with idle intent, her sharp nails ghosting over his heart as if listening to the beat beneath.

“It’s been a long time since I wore a young man’s skin.” she whispered. “Especially one as fine as yours. And I’ve never been a cultivator before. Can you imagine?”

Zhu Xiao exhaled through his nose, eyes narrowed. “You think you can pretend to be one of us?”

She grinned, eyes gleaming like a cat entertained by a cornered mouse. “Why not? I’ve passed for daughters, servants, widows, brides, whores, noble wives. You people believe anything with pretty lashes and polite bows.”

Zhu Xiao snorted. “That might work in a merchant’s house, Red District and other locations. Maybe even in the noble household. But in a sect like Cang Qiong?”

His voice sharpened, low and certain. “You wouldn’t last a day. Even a junior disciple would sniff you out by the first incense hour.”

Her smile faltered. Just for a second.

Zhu Xiao pressed the point. “You can wear the skin.” he said, voice calm, precise, cutting like a blade pressed under silk. “You can copy the gestures. Maybe even get the robes right. But the energy? The discipline? The pheromones scent? The spiritual signature? You can’t fake that. It’s written into our bones. You can’t imitate what you don’t have.”

The Skinner Demon stilled, her eyes narrowing slightly, not in fury, but calculation.

The air between them pulsed with tension—too quiet. The shadows around them seemed to lean in, as if the very chamber held its breath.

Then, her smile returned. Slower. Colder. Like a needle dragging through flesh.

“You’re right.” she said softly. “I can’t become you. But I can become close enough to walk among you. I wonder…”

She leaned in, exhaling a breath that smelled faintly of dried herb and rot. Her lips brushed the curve of his ear like a lover sharing a secret. “…how long would it take before someone realized you were dead?”

Zhu Xiao didn’t respond.

He didn’t blink, didn’t breathe, didn’t flinch. His stillness wasn’t surrender, it was steel coiled beneath silence. If she wanted him to scream, to shake, to beg, she would be disappointed. He’d learned early that fear was just another thing people wanted to steal. So he held tight to what couldn’t be taken—his pride, his thoughts, his name. ‘I may not be born as Zhu Xiao, but I have grown to like being Zhu Xiao.’ 

But even so, he could feel her smile widen beside him. As though she tasted the tension rippling beneath his skin like a predator savoring the twitch of prey just before the bite.

The Skinner Demon’s voice dropped lower, silk woven with iron.

“I wonder what your Shizun would say.” she mused, trailing her finger lightly along the underside of his jaw. “If I turned up at Qing Jing Peak with your face and your voice. Would he smile? Would he scowl? Would he speak gently to me? Would he speak so coldly? Would he ignore me? Would he touch me? His hand on my shoulder. His sword in my hand. His trust in my eyes. ”

Her fingernail shifted. Slid.

One long, razor-tipped nail ghosted down his cheek. Not deep enough to draw blood, but close. So close it sang like pressure before pain, a wicked caress that left a line of phantom fire in its wake.

Zhu Xiao’s jaw tightened. He refused to give her even a twitch.

She saw it anyway.

“Oh?” she murmured, eyes alight with vicious amusement. “That bothers you.” Her fingertip lifted, idly drawing circles over his skin, now trailing along his clavicle like a needle dancing above a stretched canvas. “Is it loyalty that makes you bristle? Or is it something else?”

Zhu Xiao narrowed his eyes. “You think this is clever.” he said coldly. “But you’re fumbling in the dark. You have no idea what it means to be one of us.” ‘Like hell I’m going to die by your hands! I just got a second chance to be alive!’ 

“Ah?” she breathed, drawing out the word as if savoring its shape. “Then teach me.” Her tone sharpened, gleaming with sudden intent. “Tell me the entry rites. The incantations. The patrol routes. What sword forms does your sect teach first? What offerings do you make for your Peak Lord?”

He didn’t speak.

The Skinner Demon’s smile deepened, grotesque in its amusement. “I can study your voice, your handwriting, even the way you put on your robes. But there are things I can’t fake. Things etched into the spine of discipline and dogma, into the marrow of cultivator life.”

Her fingernail stilled beneath his eye now, and for a terrible moment, it lingered. Pressed. Not quite enough to break the skin, but enough to make his breath hitch without permission.

“Just one little slip.” she whispered. “One wrong bow. One ill-timed mantra. One hesitation in front of that cold, beautiful Master of yours—and it all crumbles.” She chuckled lowly, a purr turned grotesque. “You see, I have to get it right. I can’t wear your skin and fail. Because if I do, I won’t just die—I’ll be purged. Torn apart by celestial fire. I’ve seen it. I watched a cousin of mine melt like wax under a cultivator’s array. The smell lasted for days.”

The Skinner Demon paused, then leaned in until her forehead pressed lightly against his, mock-affectionate, mock-intimate. “So.” she breathed. “What do you say, sweet little disciple? Help me… and I might make your end quick. A single slit, warm and clean. Painless, even. Just a sigh, and you’ll be nothing but a memory.”

Zhu Xiao stared back at her, eyes like glinting stone, unyielding, cold, unflinching despite the prickling pressure of a claw near his cheek. His breathing was measured, steady, as if her proximity was no more threatening than the passing of wind. “You talk too much.” he said flatly, voice low and dry like sand through a sieve. “If you were smart, you’d already know the answer.”

For a split second, her face spasmed—lips curling in irritation, yellowed eyes narrowing with a twitch of muscle at the jaw. Her lips parted again, mouth forming around a hiss or perhaps some grotesque final threat, something cruel and drawn out—

But she never got the chance to speak.

Because a new voice slipped into the room. Soft.

Silken.

And utterly still, like the surface of a deep, frozen lake.

“Are you quite finished?”

.

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.

.

..

...

Chapter Text

[Shuang Hu City
Moonlit Hours
Meanwhile…]

The air was thick with moisture and decay.

Shen Qingqiu stood in the moonlight’s silver haze, his bamboo-jade eyes narrowed as he surveyed the structure before him. The building loomed like a forgotten relic, its wood-framed panels warped and discolored by time. The old, slatted walls sagged beneath decades of neglect, and brittle ivy crawled up its side like skeletal fingers, clutching for life. The scent hit him first—foul, earthy, pungent with rot. A heavy, rancid musk lingered on the wind, curling in through the cracks and crevices, unholy and unmistakable.

A demonic stench.

The kind that sunk into bone.

He let his gaze sweep over the building once more. Every weather-beaten plank radiated a residue of malevolent qi, soaked into the structure like old blood into cloth. It was subtle—just enough to deter the average cultivator, but for someone of his caliber, it was laughably thin. Still, it was clever in its own way. Like bait left in plain view.

Shen Qingqiu stepped forward, his white robes stirring softly around his ankles. He approached the sealed front doors, both of which were braced shut by heavy panels fitted haphazardly, almost as though the building had once been forcibly quarantined, or sealed away for good.

He lifted two fingers with practiced elegance, spiritual energy coiling around them like ribbons of moonlight. With a faint hum, he brushed them against the panel’s surface.

The response was instant.

A flickering array flared to life—concentric circles and jagged sigils etched in blood-like script, pulsing faintly red from within the wood’s grain. Shen Qingqiu tilted his head with mild interest as the glyphs danced before his eyes.

“A minor teleportation array.” he murmured under his breath, the corners of his mouth tugging downward in faint disapproval. “Not very subtle.”

He traced the lines of the formation with a quick, analytical eye. The magic was low-grade but expertly woven—a patchwork of spatial redirection and illusion. His brow creased ever so slightly in thought.

‘So… this isn’t the Skinner Demon’s actual nest. It’s a decoy. A threshold, not a den.’

He hummed quietly. ‘Clever enough. But still juvenile in its ambition.’

Without hesitation, he stepped forward, letting the array swallow him whole. A faint lurch twisted in his gut as space bent sharply, then snapped back into place.

In a blink, the world changed.

The old door, the warped panels, the moonlight—all vanished.

He now stood within a dark, narrow corridor choked in silence. The air was dense and unmoving, and dust hung suspended like mist, glimmering faintly in the gloom. Shadows clung to the wooden beams above like living things, and every creak beneath his boot was muffled as if the floor itself were swallowing sound.

Ahead of him loomed a closed sliding door, its lacquer faded and streaked with age. He took a step forward, fingertips brushing the handle. With a near-silent motion, he slid the door open just wide enough to slip through. His footfalls made no sound as he stepped into the stairwell beyond.

The corridor descended in a wooden staircase, and Shen Qingqiu followed it without fear, his robes trailing behind him like flowing ink. The railing, barely intact, was coated in a thick film of dust, cobwebs draped between the posts like funeral veils. But amid the decay, something new stirred.

He caught it.

A scent.

No—two scents.

Faint. Complex.

Petrichor, fresh and rich, like rain on dry stone. And mint—clean, sharp, almost cold. His lashes lowered slightly, and he inhaled again, just to confirm.

‘Petrichor and mint? ’ he mused, brows furrowing just a fraction. ‘How strange…’

It was an unusual combination. Scent signatures were often distinct among secondary genders: the grounding presence of petrichor was more commonly seen among alphas, while mint’s clarity was often associated with omegas. Betas rarely exhibited any strong signature, let alone one this evocative.

‘That scent… is it coming from Disciple Zhu Xiao?’ How had he not noticed it before?

He continued down the stairs, now more alert, curiosity piqued. The dust thickened with each step, muffling the world around him, but the aura below was impossible to mistake.

He arrived just above the final landing and paused in the shadows, gaze sharp as a blade.

The Skinner Demon stood in the center of the room, her form tall and willowy, draped in robes stained with old blood. Her skin shimmered faintly, as if the surface of her flesh didn’t quite belong to her. Her long limbs moved with unsettling grace, like a marionette dancing on broken strings.

She laughed—a tinkling, high-pitched sound that clanged falsely against the ears.

Zhu Xiao knelt before her, half-naked, bound by shimmering immortal-binding cables. His shoulders were straight, his head lifted, even though bruises darkened the curve of his ribs.

Shen Qingqiu narrowed his eyes, but did not reveal himself. Not yet. He folded his arms into the sleeves of his robe and remained hidden behind the veil of shadows, watching.

“Not bad.” the Skinner Demon purred, her voice thick with amusement. She slinked closer, hips swaying like a serpent. “So there is a brain in that pretty little head of yours after all.”

Her fingers brushed against Zhu Xiao’s chin, tilting his face upward. “But who would believe you, hmm? A delicate little omega like me, the infamous Skinner Demon?”

Her laugh rang again—thin, brittle, false. “And more importantly…”

She leaned in, almost chest-to-chest with her captive.

“No one will ever find you.”

Shen Qingqiu’s gaze sharpened.

‘Confident. Arrogant. Typical of a demon who’s grown used to playing with prey.’ He shifted his weight subtly. His qi pulsed faintly beneath his skin, but he made no move to draw his sword. Not yet.

He watched instead, curious how Zhu Xiao would respond.

The young beta met the demon’s gaze head-on. There was no fear in his garnet-amber eyes—only a cool defiance, sharp as frost.

“Oh, how tragic.” he drawled with dry sarcasm. “Truly. I’m heartbroken.”

A flicker of amusement tugged at Shen Qingqiu’s lips.

‘Brave. Or stupid.’ he mused. ‘Possibly both.’

He studied Zhu Xiao in silence. The beta disciple was an oddity—a peculiar blend of sharp wit, quiet resilience, and something deeper… something unresolved. That scent again—petrichor and mint—lingered in the room like a memory. It clung to Zhu Xiao like an ancestral echo.

‘No normal beta carries a scent that potent.’ Shen Qingqiu thought. ‘Could his bloodline carry latent alpha or omega traits? Perhaps a diluted inheritance? That would explain the scent. And the face…’

He frowned slightly, scrutinizing Zhu Xiao’s delicate features. His bone structure was refined—high cheekbones, long lashes, lips soft but stubborn and the left corner of his mouth is a beauty mark. Almost too pretty.

‘If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was Liu Qingge’s kin. That brute’s entire bloodline is riddled with omega ancestors… Even presented with alpha traits, that brute’s pheromone reeks of almonds and caramel. Peculiar, how bloodlines twist.’

His thoughts broke as the Skinner Demon leaned forward, her forehead pressing against Zhu Xiao’s. Her voice dropped into a near-whisper.

“So, what do you say, sweet little disciple? Help me… and I might make your end quick. A single slit. Warm and clean. Painless. Just a sigh, and you’ll be nothing but a memory.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Then, Zhu Xiao exhaled lightly, eyes locked with hers. His voice, when it came, was flat as slate.

“You talk too much.” he said. “If you were smart, you’d already know the answer.”

Shen Qingqiu’s brow arched, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. Dryly amused, he decided that was enough waiting.

His voice cut through the air, crisp and cold:

“Are you quite finished?” 

.

..

…

Disciple, Are You Flirting With Me?

Chapter Eleven

“The End of Beta’s First Case”

…

..

.

The words glided through the air like threads of cold silk drawn across the edge of a blade. Though spoken gently, there was something in the cadence—measured and balanced—that made the shadows in the room still. The sound carried with it an undercurrent of iron patience, the kind one only heard in the breath before a guillotine fell.

The Skinner Demon froze mid-syllable.

Her head snapped toward the source, muscles coiling as if struck by ice water. Instinct took over—predatory, sharp. She yanked Zhu Xiao upright with a harsh, jerking motion, his body colliding hard against her as though he were nothing more than a shield. Her claws locked around his chest with a bruising grip, and her free hand; one of the sinuous, curved fingernails, poised delicately beneath his right eye. Her other fingernails are trailed along the edge of his cheekbone, not piercing—no, not yet—but pressing down with enough pressure to sting, to promise.

Her breathing came quicker, lips drawing back in a snarl.

From the shadowed archway beyond the dust-covered stairwell, Shen Qingqiu emerged.

He descended like the moon slipping through a cloud, robed in white and green, untouched by filth, the folds of his outer robe flowing like clean river silk over polished boots. His sleeves stirred with his slow movements, catching the faintest threads of light that filtered through the cracks in the dungeon ceiling. His jade hair crown glinted faintly beneath the dim glow of spiritual energy that shimmered at his shoulders—a presence so clean, so refined, it repelled the rot in the air like wind clearing smoke.

In one hand, he flicked open a folding fan—black lacquer with delicate silver plum blossoms etched into the bones—and gave it a single languid wave, as if the stench of demonic decay offended his senses. His expression was coolly unreadable: a faint downturn at the corners of his lips, the serene lift of his brows giving him the look of a scholar disinterested in the subject before him.

“Stay back!” the Skinner Demon barked, panic blooming through her mask of confidence. She jerked Zhu Xiao tighter against her, pressing claws deeper, just enough not to break his skin. Her voice cracked. “I’ll carve this little beta into pieces. Don’t think I won’t—!”

“Mm.” Shen Qingqiu murmured, his gaze sliding to Zhu Xiao with an air of mild appraisal, like one inspecting the quality of a porcelain vase. “I believe you. You certainly look the type. Desperate. Unrefined. Predictably dramatic.”

The Skinner Demon sucked in a breath between clenched teeth. Her eyes darted in every direction, feral and twitching, calculating a way out. Every plan she thought of crumbled in the stillness that surrounded Shen Qingqiu.

He took a single step forward.

She flinched.

A ding! rang, soft and almost musical.

[  ✧(>o<)/✧ Host, look! Look! Handsome Rescuer Has Arrived~!!   ]

Zhu Xiao’s vision twitched as a garish red window bloomed in the upper corner of his sight, fluttering into existence with animated sparkles, bouncing hearts, and gold glitter trailing across the frame. A tiny chibi version of Shen Qingqiu appeared onscreen, flipping his fan open in a flourish with stars bursting at his heels.

[  Host should remain a helpless little damsel and get saved while looking pretty! Host’s dignity is optional—but survival is not!   ♪(´▽｀)  ]

Zhu Xiao blinked once.

Then twice.

Internally, his soul folded into itself in tired exasperation. ‘Really?’ he thought, flat and unimpressed. ‘There’s a claw under my eyeball and a demon trying to wear my skin like a festival robe, and this is what you interrupt with?’

[  (⁄ ⁄>⁄ ▽ ⁄<⁄ ⁄) You’re blushing, aren’t you~?  ]

‘I swear.’ Zhu Xiao thought dryly. ‘If I survive this, I will commission a talisman specifically to erase you from existence. I’ll make it out of anti-romantic intent and old taxes.’

“You’re bluffing.” the Skinner Demon snapped suddenly, her voice tight with unease. The smugness was fading fast, replaced by tension, sweat beading at her temple. She shoved Zhu Xiao backward again, her claw inching closer to his eye, a silent warning etched in crimson. “You won’t help him in time. I’ll kill him. I’ll make it hurt. ”

Shen Qingqiu raised a single brow.

Not a flicker of alarm crossed his features. He did not move to draw his sword, nor did he raise his spiritual pressure. He simply lowered his fan, revealing bamboo-jade eyes sharpened to a blade’s edge—cold, dispassionate, utterly unimpressed.

“Then do it.” he said.

The words rang like falling steel. Not loud. Not commanding. But final.

The Skinner Demon froze.

Shen Qingqiu took another step forward, and the stillness around him cracked like ice underfoot.

“Go ahead.” he said, voice soft as falling ash. “If you think killing him will save you. If you think that wearing his skin will make you more convincing than what I’ll carve out of you after.”

A single heartbeat passed.

Then another.

Zhu Xiao felt it—just barely—a tremor through the fingers curled around his bound arms. While the Skinner Demon’s other hand, one of her claw-like fingers is so close to his eye. The beginning of unraveling. The first flinch of real fear.

“You think yourself clever.” Shen Qingqiu continued, fanning himself slowly, his gaze never once leaving hers. “But all I see is a child playing with a mask that is too big for their face. You came here to mimic, to steal, to want to play by dressing yourself in silk robes and call it cultivation. But you’ve wandered into the wrong story, Skinner Demon.”

He took another step.

And this time, the very shadows pulled back.

The demon’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Her claw quivered where it hovered over Zhu Xiao’s eye.

Still, he did not move. His heart pounded like a war drum, his blood burned with the knowledge of how close death loomed, but he did not move. His pride held him in place.

The System, however, continued cheerfully, unaware—or more likely, willfully indifferent—to the tension threatening to cleave the room in two.

[  (｡♥‿♥｡) Shen Qingqiu is soooo dreamy when he’s terrifying! Maybe this counts as a Dom moment~?  ]

‘Shut up.’ Zhu Xiao thought savagely, his mental tone straining like a monk reciting mantras in the eye of a hurricane. His jaw clenched instinctively, heart hammering with something that wasn’t quite fear, but wasn’t safety either. He was still alive. Somehow. His cheek stung, his legs trembled faintly from the sudden lack of tension in his limbs, and yet, it was the presence beside him that consumed every corner of his attention.

The silence thickened around them like a velvet curtain, suffocating in its weight. It was not the silence of peace, but of calculation. Of a sword held at the throat but not yet drawn. Every second stretched long, taut, trembling, as though reality itself was reluctant to breathe.

The Skinner Demon’s body had gone stiff, trembling ever so slightly. Her breath dragged through her throat like rusted chains through water, hitching in sharp, uneven gulps. Her monstrous eyes—slick, yellow-ringed, and too large for a human face—darted between Shen Qingqiu and the nearest exit as though considering the impossible: escape. Her claws, gnarled and crusted with dried ichor, twitched erratically. Her animal instinct warred with the knowledge dawning too late: the moment had shifted. The predator’s scent had curdled. And she—she was no longer the hunter.

She could feel it. Not intellectually, but in the marrow of her stolen bones. The axis of the encounter had tilted, slow and seismic, and now it was Shen Qingqiu who stood at its very center—motionless, but brimming with a power so cold, so measured, it might as well have been divine.

Zhu Xiao didn’t dare inhale.

Then—subtle as a ripple across still water—the demon’s claw twitched.

The pressure came before the pain. Just a breath’s worth of weight pressing inward at the corner of his eye—just enough for the razor-thin claw to slip beneath the skin’s topmost layer.

And then came the sting.

A line of fire bloomed across his cheek, fine and deep. It opened not with fanfare, but with surgical precision. Blood welled at once, slow and deliberate, a single crimson bead gathering at the wound’s edge before sliding downward. It traced the curve of his face with solemn grace, so narrow it looked more like a tear than an injury. A weeping cut. Beautiful in its cruelty.

Zhu Xiao did not move. His breath caught in his throat, but he refused to flinch. And yet, beneath his skin, something rebelled—a sharp jolt in his chest, a visceral snap of humiliation and astonishment tangled together like wire.

And then, he moved.

Shen Qingqiu moved.

It was not a step. Not a dash. Not even a teleportation, as flashy cultivators might favor. No, it was subtler. Stranger. The air shifted around him like silk being pulled taut, and suddenly, Shen Qingqiu was no longer where he had stood. He was simply there, inserted into space like a character who had always been part of the scene. No wind. No sound. Only presence.

His robes, rich with dark embroidery that caught faint glints of light, whispered as he passed. The movement was fluid—dangerously so. As if motion itself yielded to him, admiring the grace of his violence.

The fan in his hand closed in a single, smooth gesture—no sharp snap, no theatrical flare. It folded like a petal at dusk, then struck.

Crack.

The sound was not explosive, but piercingly precise—like bamboo breaking beneath deliberate hands. The fan struck the demon’s wrist exactly at the nerve cluster just above the joint. The response was instant: her hand spasmed violently, claws jerking open. She shrieked—a raw, unearthly sound that curdled the air—and stumbled back, cradling her arm as if her bones had betrayed her.

Zhu Xiao collapsed forward, momentum no longer countered by her grip. He didn’t brace for the fall—there wasn’t time. But he didn’t hit the ground either.

A hand—elegant, long-fingered, impossibly steady—caught him at the elbow. The hold was exacting, neither possessive nor dismissive. Shen Qingqiu’s fingers curved just enough to steady his frame, as though guiding a fragile teacup away from a spill. There was no flourish. No drama. Just precision. Restraint. Intention.

Zhu Xiao’s heart stuttered in his chest.

Behind them, the demon reeled. Her ruined wrist hung at an awkward angle, blood oozing sluggishly through the torn fabric of her stolen robes. Her chest heaved. Her breath came in gasps, thick with panic. Her gaze landed on Shen Qingqiu, and she saw him.

Truly saw him.

Not the face. Not the soft robes. But the quiet in his stance. The self-possession in his limbs. The silence in his eyes that did not ask permission—it demanded surrender.

“You—” she rasped. But the word failed her tongue.

She licked the air—reflexive, desperate. But no trick of mimicry would save her now. The spiritual pressure she had ignored—the tight coil of qi hidden beneath refined sleeves—had finally bared its teeth.

Shen Qingqiu did not advance. He did not need to.

He tilted his head a fraction. “You should listen to my warning.” he said, his voice low and placid, like snowfall on tombstones. “That you are wearing a mask too large for your face.”

The demon staggered back. Her injured hand trembled violently. Blood dripped in rhythmic beads, pattering against the stone like an unwelcome metronome.

“You thought the skin of a disciple would be enough to fool the senses.” he continued. His tone had not risen—but somehow, it had hardened. “You never learned how to walk with a sword. You didn’t know the scent of incense from the bell tower. The way the wind moves through the cloud peaks during drills. You knew nothing. And you want to wear their skin like a child draping silk over bone.”

Each word struck like a sword not drawn, but simply named.

“Cultivator business is not a costume.” he said. “It’s a lineage carved in blood and breath and devotion. And you, Skinner Demon, have wandered into a script far above your comprehension.”

The demon’s body sagged with a shudder. No retort came. Her intelligence, meager as it had been, had finally caught up to her fear.

“You made three mistakes.” Shen Qingqiu said quietly.

He stepped forward once, barely. And the demon twitched violently.

“First. A demon can mimic voice, memory, posture. But not pheromones. You can not carry the scent of a cultivator. You carry the stench of decay and hubris.”

Another step.

“Second. You laid a claw on my disciple.”

His voice dropped like a guillotine.

“And third…” He did not say the final offense. He did not have to.

Because he was still here. The Skinner Demon dared to make Shen Qingqiu come out here, right in front of her. Making him into her personal enemy. 

Fortunately, she hadn’t killed Zhu Xiao yet.

Zhu Xiao, still bound by immortal-thread ropes, stared at Shen Qingqiu’s back with wide eyes that struggled to reconcile what they were witnessing. This wasn’t the scumbag villain whispered about in sect courtyards. This wasn’t the cold-blooded, selfish man in the novel he had read.

This was a sword in human form. Silent. Impeccable. Terrifying in his elegance.

This was someone who chose to stand between him and death.

And Zhu Xiao… didn’t know how to breathe.

The System, as always, shattered the moment’s gravity with reckless enthusiasm.

[  (╥﹏╥) Host! Your FACE! Your beautiful face!! But also… that was SO HOT!! (≧◡≦) Shen Qingqiu just fan-fu’d her bones into DUST!!~  ]

Zhu Xiao closed his eyes briefly. Not from pain. From resignation.

‘Fan-fu?’ he thought, dry as scorched tea leaves. ‘That’s really the term you’re going with?’

[  ( ˘ ³˘)♥ Just saying~ You look very dashing when bleeding artistically! Like a tragic romance lead! chef’s kiss  ]

He refused—adamantly—to dignify that with a response.

The Skinner Demon stumbled backward—once, then again—feet slapping against the stone floor in a rhythm that reeked of desperation. Her injured wrist dangled limply, blood still dripping in irregular patterns, leaving dark splotches on the ground. But it was not pain that moved her now. It was survival—pure, animal instinct surging to the surface. Her limbs convulsed as something within her shifted grotesquely.

Then—crunch.

The sound was unnatural. Not one, but a chorus of snaps and pops like knuckles forcibly bent the wrong way. Her spine visibly lurched beneath her stolen skin, vertebrae contorting as her frame convulsed. Her back arched like a bow, ribs expanding unnaturally. Something—many things—shifted inside her all at once.

She did not scream. She howled. A wretched, furious, grating noise as she turned and bolted toward the staircase—her body jerking with each step, a ghastly marionette pulled by strings of muscle torn from logic and order. The skin she had peeled from a once-living omega concubine no longer fit her properly. Her host’s flesh sagged, splitting along seams that hadn’t existed before. Her shoulder twisted sharply backward, jaw distending unnaturally, and her neck swiveled with a crunching pop that nearly folded it in half.

But she did not stop.

She fled—madly, blindly—toward the narrow stairwell that curled upward into the shadows like a promise of escape.

Shen Qingqiu raised two fingers.

“Xiu Ya.”

The words were as soft as falling petals.

But the effect was immediate.

With a resonant hum, the sword at his side answered. It leapt from its sheath like a bird released from a golden cage, spiraling into the air in a swift arc of cold light. Xiu Ya gleamed—its spiritual edge catching the glint of torchlight and moonlight in turn—as it sliced through the air with the precision of a drawn breath.

Zhu Xiao could only watch, eyes wide as saucers, as the sword streaked forward.

In a blink, it struck.

There was no dramatic explosion. No theatrical flash. Only the brutal, efficient sound of steel sinking into flesh, followed by a strangled, gurgling shriek.

The Skinner Demon staggered mid-step, her body lurching violently as Xiu Ya embedded itself between her shoulder blades and drove forward through her chest, straight through the heart. Her scream cracked the night air, high and unearthly, a sound that dragged nails across the spine of the world.

“你這狗東西——!” she howled, voice shaking with rage and agony, cursing Shen Qingqiu in a dialect long forgotten by men.

But Shen Qingqiu did not flinch. He didn’t even blink. His expression remained impassive, his gaze level and unyielding as the demon twisted in place, clawing at her chest with her remaining hand in a futile effort to wrench the blade free.

Her skin began to peel.

Not literally—not yet—but like old paper, curling inward from the heat of his qi. Black veins spiderwebbed out from the point of impact, creeping across her limbs. Her face contorted, sagging as the false flesh she wore began to degrade. Her final moments were not noble.

They were pathetic.

With a breathless gasp, her body crumpled to her knees. Ash fanned from her skin like dust from a rotted book page. One final twitch—and then she disintegrated. Her ruined form collapsed into a mound of blackened ash that scattered like powdered coal. Faint curls of smoke hissed up from the remains, spiraling toward the ceiling, and then—gone. Nothing left. No bone. No blood. No soul.

Just silence.

Xiu Ya hovered for a moment, gleaming with faint spiritual resonance, before slowly turning on its axis in the air. It glided across the room, ghostlike, and paused before Zhu Xiao.

He stiffened instinctively. The sword was beautiful, but its aura was not gentle. It was not made for mercy.

But the blade did not touch him.

Instead, with a clean, silent motion, it sliced cleanly through the Immortal Binding Cable coiled around his limbs. The spiritual threads snapped apart and fizzled into pale wisps, falling away like frayed silk threads cut at the seam.

Zhu Xiao staggered slightly, unprepared for the sudden freedom, but before he could fall, Shen Qingqiu stepped forward.

Xiu Ya, having completed its task, sailed gracefully back to its master’s side. With a subtle pull of qi, Shen Qingqiu guided it into its sheath once more. The blade nestled into place with a soft click.

Peace settled. Not the absence of sound, but the aftermath of thunder, where even the echoes dared not linger.

Zhu Xiao, half-naked, shoulders rising and falling with each uneven breath, opened his mouth to speak—but Shen Qingqiu’s eyes flicked toward him first.

“How improper.” he remarked, his voice smooth as lacquer, though faintly disapproving.

Zhu Xiao twitched. His jaw moved—but no sound came out.

‘Well, excuse me for being almost murdered.’ he thought, internally deadpanning with a sharpness borne of mortification. ‘Next time I’ll die fully clothed for your aesthetic standards, Shizun.’

But before the retort could reach his tongue, Shen Qingqiu reached for the hem of his outer robe. In one fluid motion, he shrugged it from his shoulders and extended it toward him.

The silk was warm.

Zhu Xiao blinked, stunned as Shen Qingqiu slipped it around him without comment. It smelled faintly of mountain wind—cool, elegant, distinctly him. (But it's not really the right scent? Because it’s not pheromone scents.) The warmth of it felt more disarming than the sword had been.

Then Shen Qingqiu’s gaze dropped. His bamboo-jade eyes settled on the small cut just beneath Zhu Xiao’s right eye. A single bead of blood clung there still, painting the corner of his vision like a tear never wept.

Without a word, Shen Qingqiu lifted his fingers.

Zhu Xiao froze.

The pad of a single finger brushed the edge of the wound, light as a whisper. His breath caught.

A subtle thread of spiritual energy pulsed through the touch, cool and refined. It surged through his skin like a trickle of spring water down frost-kissed stone. It didn’t sting. It soothed. Shen Qingqiu’s qi was not invasive—it was meticulous, quiet, self-contained. But Zhu Xiao felt it all the same, and the sensation made his skin ripple in gooseflesh.

He shivered.

Then blinked in astonishment.

The pain was gone.

Completely.

Not even the faintest sting of a scab remained.

The cut had vanished—healed as if it had never existed.

Zhu Xiao’s lips parted, but before he could speak, the System chirped brightly in his head like a giddy child who’d just watched their favorite ship become canon.

[  (〃∀〃)ゞ Host!! Did you see that?! Shen Qingqiu healed you~! With his finger! That was so romantic!  ]

Zhu Xiao stared forward, face blank.

‘He stabbed a demon through the heart and then touched my face.’

[ Tenderly! ]

‘…Shut up.’ he thought dryly.

A moment passed in stillness, thick with unspoken thoughts. Zhu Xiao shifted, adjusting the sleeves of the robe now wrapped around his shoulders, warm with lingering body heat and the faint scent of mountain wind.

He cleared his throat softly, breaking the quiet.

“...Shizun.” he began, his eyes flicking around the dim room, scanning the shadows. “Have you… seen my sword, Ru Yi, anywhere?”

Shen Qingqiu raised one elegantly arched brow rose with slow, deliberate grace. His expression, as always, was unreadable—cool and composed, like water on still stone. When he did speak, his voice carried the effortless poise of someone who never needed to raise it to be heard. “You have spiritual energy, don’t you?” he said mildly, the question rhetorical, edged with a trace of dry amusement. “Call it back.”

Zhu Xiao blinked. His lips parted to respond, then shut again. A beat passed. Oh. Right. Of course.

His ears burned with the creeping flush of embarrassment. In the chaos—the Skinner Demon, the pain, the fear, the humiliating proximity to death—he had completely forgotten. His sword… he could summon it. With his own qi.

He coughed once, low in his throat, trying to reassemble what remained of his dignity. “…Mn.” The sound came out softer than he intended, roughened at the edges.

He drew a breath and closed his eyes. Inward. Deeper. He had to quiet the clamor that still echoed in his bones: adrenaline tapering off like storm winds, leaving the sky clear but shaken. He reached inward, past the tremble of lingering panic, down into the core of himself—into the wellspring of silver-blue qi that waited there, patient and steady beneath the surface.

It unfurled beneath his will like a silk ribbon cast into water, rippling outward in slow, graceful motion. The thread of his energy reached, searched—quiet, seeking.

Ru Yi. Come.

There was no hesitation. A hum, faint but immediate, brushed the edge of his consciousness like a whisper at his ear.

A breath later, the wind shifted. From beyond the shadowed doorframe, a glimmer of moonlight caught on polished steel. The sword streaked through the air with effortless precision, its motion elegant, like a falling star cutting across the heavens. Ru Yi halted before him midair, blade gleaming faintly in the low light, suspended in perfect stillness, as if it had never once been lost.

Zhu Xiao exhaled, something inside his chest loosening. Relief, warm and full, surged through him.

He reached out and grasped the hilt. It slid into his hand with familiar weight and subtle vibration—alive with the echo of their bond. His fingers tightened around it instinctively. Safe. Whole. Responsive. The qi between them hummed faintly in his palm, a soft recognition, almost like a greeting.

“Good.” he murmured, the word escaping with the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He could feel the faintest echo of affection in Ru Yi’s presence, a flicker of warmth in the soul-deep connection they shared. It was subtle, but undeniable—his sword was glad to be back in his grasp. So was he.

Shen Qingqiu remained nearby, motionless, though his gaze had lingered just long enough to confirm the retrieval. He offered no further commentary, only turned on his heel with practiced grace and began walking away, his footsteps nearly silent against the cool stone floor. His robe, white and green, trailed behind him like a brushstroke drawn in ink, precise, fluid, and effortlessly composed.

Zhu Xiao stared after him, blinking slowly. For a moment, he didn’t move. Something about the scene struck him as… off. He hadn’t expected his shizun to simply walk away, so abruptly, without another word. Not that Shen Qingqiu was a man of indulgent conversation, but still… After everything, he had hoped for—what, exactly? Reassurance? Recognition?

At the base of the staircase, Shen Qingqiu paused. His back remained turned, but his head tilted just slightly—just enough to glance back over his shoulder. His gaze met Zhu Xiao’s from across the room, distant but sharp as a blade. One brow lifted again, imperceptibly, a gesture both silent and expectant.

Zhu Xiao’s spine straightened reflexively.

[ (≧◡≦) ✧ Oooh!! Host!! Did you see that?! He looked back!! That means he wants you to follow him!! KYAA~ It’s just like in a cultivation drama—the aloof love interest walking ahead but secretly hoping the MC will follow~~!! ]

Zhu Xiao nearly groaned aloud. He didn’t, of course. Instead, he inhaled sharply through his nose, his expression flat.

‘This isn’t a drama.’ he thought with practiced cynicism. ‘He’s probably just making sure I don’t get kidnapped by another demon. Again. Once is enough for me.’

[  (*≧ω≦) That’s what they all say!! But who was it that healed your cheek? Wrapped you in a robe? LOOKED BACK AT YOU LIKE THAT?? That’s right~~ (๑˃́ꇴ˂̀)♡  ]

His fingers twitched. Zhu Xiao very nearly made a face. But no—he wasn’t about to give the system the satisfaction of seeing him flustered.

With a sigh that bordered on a suppressed huff, he adjusted the robe more securely across his chest, tugging the collar higher to conceal the bruising left behind by the Skinner Demon’s immortal-binding cables. His fingers brushed the skin above his collarbone, where faint, angry welts still lingered. He schooled his features into composure and moved forward, his steps steady and unhurried.

He had barely made it to the doorway when a bright red notification window blinked into existence before his eyes, bold golden letters emblazoned across it.

[ ✧･ﾟ:* Host, Congratulations!! *:･ﾟ✧

You have achieved your First Task: ❖ Get Shen Qingqiu to Acknowledge You!! °˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖° ]

Zhu Xiao stumbled slightly, caught off guard by the loud ding! and abrupt materialization. His brows shot up, and his mind reeled.

‘What?! ’ he barked internally, resisting the urge to swat at the window like a fly.

[ OOC feature is now unfrozen! However—this System must advise Host to be extremely cautious not to get too out of character. ]

Zhu Xiao exhaled, his shoulders relaxing for the first time in hours. Free. He was finally free. He could breathe, move, act—be himself. He could finally start making real changes. Maybe now he could protect the poor white lotus protagonist from suffering.

[ Reminder: Host. Your primary concern is Shen Qingqiu. (・_・ヾ ]

The system’s writing took on a chiding tone.

Zhu Xiao rolled his eyes. ‘I know. But if you want me to prevent a death flag, I need to make sure Luo Binghe doesn’t turn into a walking trauma nuke. Keeping Shen Qingqiu alive is just the start.’

There was a long pause. Almost… too long.

[ … ]

Somehow, Zhu Xiao could feel the system’s skepticism, like judgmental silence pressed between two thin lines of text.

He didn’t bother responding. Instead, he followed Shen Qingqiu’s retreating figure up the stairs, the sword at his side, the robe still carrying the warmth of faint mountain wind and the faint, confusing weight of someone else's concern.

.

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.

..

...

Chapter Text

[Shuang Hu City
Chen Mansion
Moment Later…]

Zhu Xiao stood in the courtyard, frozen mid-step, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and open-mouthed offense.

His eyes were wide, jaw slack, lips parted just enough for the pale evening air to slip in unnoticed. Brows arched high on his forehead, he stared unblinking at what lay before him, illuminated in soft strokes of moonlight and the warm flicker of red lanterns swinging gently overhead.

The Skinner Demon’s so-called base—the den of horrors, the lair of a creature infamous for flaying victims alive—was, in fact… a woodshed.

A fancy, well-maintained, almost smugly well-decorated woodshed.

Its lacquered walls gleamed under the moon’s gentle eye, polished enough to reflect a distorted image of the night sky. Delicate lattice windows adorned the upper panels, the kind artisans carved with love and scholars admired for their poetic symmetry. The roof, tiled in neat layers of obsidian glaze, shimmered with dew, crowning the structure like the headdress of a well-kept noblewoman. Dragon motifs curled along the support beams—imperial, elegant, and absurdly out of place.

Nestled beside the outer wall of the Chen Mansion’s garden—just past a line of ornamental plum trees and a stack of neat firewood—it sat in silence. Innocuous. Proud. Sanctimoniously innocent.

Zhu Xiao slowly dragged a hand down his face.

“You are fucking kidding me,” he muttered aloud, his voice low and incredulous as he gawked. “All that—dungeon terror, immortal binding ropes, skin-collector monologues—and it was under someone’s gardening shed?!”

He turned his head stiffly toward Shen Qingqiu, like a broken compass trying to recalibrate. “This was it?” he asked, gesturing in disbelief. “This is where the Skinner Demon dragged me? The—shed?”

Shen Qingqiu didn’t flinch. He didn’t even bother looking at the building again. He merely raised his fan to his lips and gave a low, nonchalant hum, the kind of sound scholars made when correcting a student’s poorly phrased essay.

“The entrance was cloaked.” he said, in that maddeningly composed tone of his. “A minor teleportation array, anchored through an abandoned structure on the far end of the northern quarter. She must have been using it to redirect her presence. The array leads here—beneath this shed. It connects directly to the basement level. Likely a repurposed cellar.”

He gestured idly toward the foundation, as if discussing a weather stain on a scroll.

Zhu Xiao blinked. “She seriously set up her murder nest next to a family courtyard?” he asked, voice pitched with rising exasperation. “What’s next—dismembered limbs in the koi pond? Pickled skin in the condiment cellar?”

“There’s no residual demonic pressure at ground level.” Shen Qingqiu replied calmly. “Nothing you’d notice without a trained spiritual sense. No scent of rot or corruption—just cedar, lacquer, and camellias. She masked her presence well enough that fools juniors, and low to mid-ranked cultivators.”

Zhu Xiao exhaled sharply through his nose and glanced back at the shed, now looking far too smug for an inanimate structure.

“She must’ve been laughing the entire time.” he muttered bitterly. “Sitting down there peeling faces while someone’s auntie hung up laundry.”

“Skinner Demons prefer proximity to life.” Shen Qingqiu said as he began walking, his pace unhurried, robes flowing behind him like ink through water. “It softens the flesh. Ease extraction. They’re parasitic creatures by nature, drawn to density, noise, and distraction. Urban chaos makes perfect camouflage.”

Zhu Xiao frowned and followed, still muttering under his breath. “...So they do nest in towns. Like White Hooves Demons.”

“Similar technique.” Shen Qingqiu agreed, his voice fainter now as they passed under the curved eaves of a moon gate, shadows sliding across his face. “Though Skinner Demons are far more methodical. Most now use minor teleportation circles to spread their scent across multiple locations—towns, markets, even courtyards. They discard traditional forest dens in favor of convenience.”

Zhu Xiao made a noise somewhere between a scoff and a groan.

‘And where, exactly, was that lore in the original novel?!’ he grumbled inwardly. ‘Airplane Bro, you absolute hack! I could’ve used this information before being bound and almost skinned alive in someone’s damn woodshed!’

“As for the White Hooves Demons…” Shen Qingqiu continued, his fan flicking lazily against his cheek. “What do you know of them?”

Zhu Xiao blinked, surprised by the question. ‘Is… is this a pop quiz now?’

Still, he answered reflexively, falling back on the half-remembered scraps of demonic bestiary lore he'd picked up.

“They’re entertainers.” he said, keeping pace. “They hang around red districts. Usually wear oversized robes to hide their hooves. Use sickly-sweet pheromones to lure their victims. Then trap them and… harvest their kidneys.”

A beat.

“...And sometimes their eyes. For jewelry.”

Shen Qingqiu hummed softly, almost approving.

Zhu Xiao couldn’t help the flicker of pride that fluttered in his chest, absurdly pleased to have impressed the notoriously critical peak lord, even in something so grim.

He adjusted the outer robe again, tugging it securely across his chest. The loose fabric still carried warmth—Shen Qingqiu’s warmth—and the faintest trace of wind mountain. It settled oddly on his frame, not quite his size, but not unpleasant either.

Ahead, Shen Qingqiu moved like he was born to the quiet—unbothered, unhurried, his footsteps barely audible against the stone path.

Zhu Xiao glanced around the quiet courtyard, then tilted his head slightly. “So, uh… are we going to tell the Chens they’ve been living next to a Skinner Demon’s secret lair or…?”

Shen Qingqiu raised his fan again, eyes focused ahead, voice light with dry indifference.

“Yes. That old man needs to be informed that he had sexual intercourse with a Skinner Demon.”

Zhu Xiao choked.

“...Of course.” he wheezed. “Because that’s a conversation you just casually bring up over tea.”

.

..

…

Disciple, Are You Flirting With Me?

Chapter Twelve

“On a Road”

…

..

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[Shuang Hu City
Chen Mansion
Outer Courtyard
Shortly Thereafter…]

The grand outer courtyard of the Chen Mansion was still half-lit with lanterns by the time Shen Qingqiu and Zhu Xiao stepped through the gate and crossed beneath the curved arch of the entrance path. The distant chatter of night insects mingled with the soft clink of porcelain and rustle of silk as servants moved discreetly along the periphery. The polished stone underfoot gleamed with residual heat from the day, but the atmosphere now buzzed with a different kind of tension.

They hadn’t even made it to the second decorative pillar when the waiting party spotted them.

Several junior disciples—still in their pale robes, some with their swords resting across their backs, others clutching theirs with nerves barely disguised—turned as one. Their eyes widened in a perfectly synchronized wave of surprise. One of them let out an audible. “Huh?!” before quickly slapping a hand over their mouth. Another leaned toward their companion, whispering rapidly behind a sleeve. Their gazes flickered—not toward Shen Qingqiu, who walked ahead in his usual serene gait—but toward the person trailing a few steps behind him.

Zhu Xiao.

The beta disciple was still adjusting the borrowed outer robe draped over his shoulders, cinching it tightly over his chest like a scandalized noblewoman exiting a bathhouse in the middle of a fire drill. His hair was tousled from earlier struggles, cheeks still tinged with color, and there were faint marks on his collarbone that the robe didn’t quite hide. He looked like he’d stepped out of an entirely different story arc.

And every single junior disciple noticed.

Zhu Xiao felt the stares hit him like darts.

One look of confusion.
Two expressions of dawning horror.
Three awkwardly wide-eyed faces that screamed. “I have questions, but am too afraid to ask.”

And then there was Ming Fan.

The senior-most among them leaned against the courtyard column with his arms folded and an eyebrow raised so high it practically challenged the moon. His eyes narrowed—first at Zhu Xiao’s robe, then at the messy ponytail, and finally, to the very expensive, unmistakably Shen Qingqiu outer robe swaddled around his fellow disciple’s shoulders.

Ming Fan stared at Zhu Xiao with a semi-rude smirk. 

“Rough night?” he said casually, voice just loud enough to be heard by everyone present.

Zhu Xiao did not flinch.

Did not blink.

He stared forward with the unwavering, blank-eyed expression of a man who had walked through Hell and returned to a gossip circle full of hyenas. His back was straight, chin slightly raised, and in his head, he repeated: I will not give the peanut gallery anything to work with.

He marched onward with absolute dignity.

‘Don’t engage.’ he silently muttered under his breath. ‘Just… walk. With honor…’

Thankfully, Shen Qingqiu showed no indication he’d even heard any of it. His expression was the same cool, unbothered mask he always wore—a serene lake beneath which unspoken knowledge stirred. With the grace of a man entirely untouched by mortal inconvenience, he approached the open veranda where Old Master Chen waited, flanked by two aging retainers and a pair of younger attendants nervously wringing their hands.

“Immortal Master.” the old man greeted, rising from his seat and bowing respectfully. “Is everything… settled?”

Shen Qingqiu inclined his head with impeccable courtesy, folding his fan closed with a soft snap.

“Yes.” he said, tone calm and composed as ever. “The creature masquerading as your concubine, Die-er, was in fact a Skinner Demon. The situation has been resolved.”

For a moment, there was silence.

Then Old Master Chen paled with such intensity it seemed as though all color had been stripped from his blood. His eyes widened, lips parting as if to form a protest, but no sound came. Instead, he staggered back a step, hand fluttering weakly toward his chest as his mouth moved without shape or sound.

And then—with the grace of a falling dumpling—his eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he collapsed like a felled ox.

“Master Chen—!” the servants yelped, rushing to catch him just in time. One gripped his shoulders while the other fumbled to loosen his collar. There was a cacophony of scrambling limbs, gasps, and one shrill voice that wailed. “Get the vinegar jar!”

Shen Qingqiu did not react.

Not a single flicker of sympathy passed over his face. No raised brow, no exasperated sigh. Just quiet, serene acceptance that this, too, was part of a cultivator’s evening routine.

He turned his head toward the disciples still lingering at the edge of the courtyard, watching the scene with wide eyes and muffled horror.

“You’ll be staying in the left-wing guest quarters tonight.” Shen Qingqiu instructed, his tone clipped and final. “Rest well. We leave for Cang Qiong Mountain at first light.”

“Yes, Shizun!” they chorused, some of them bowing too fast, others tripping over their own feet in their hurry to appear composed.

Zhu Xiao stood at the side, watching this circus unfold, shoulders slumped in exhausted resignation.

He had survived being abducted, cursed, and nearly flayed. He’d fought a demon, been patched up by his Peak Lord, wrapped in his robe, and paraded back into polite society looking like the aftermath of an erotic cultivator novel. And now? Now he had to sleep in the same guest wing as Ming Fan, who was undoubtedly sharpening his sarcasm like a blade.

He let out a long, slow sigh, dragging a hand down his face.

“…I need a drink.” Zhu Xiao muttered to himself.

A chime rang inside his mind like a tiny bell of doom.

[  (❁´◡`❁) Host~! Congratulations! It seems that your reputation with the “Junior Disciples” faction has gone from [NEUTRAL] to [INFAMOUSLY INTRIGUING]! ]

Zhu Xiao inhaled through his nose, closed his eyes, and resisted the very primal urge to throw himself into the nearest koi pond.

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[Shuang Hu City
Chen Mansion
Guest Left Wing
Later…]

The room was steeped in a hush that clung like gauze to the walls. The only sound was the slow ticking of a nearby bronze incense clock and the faint whisper of wind brushing the paper-paneled windows. Moonlight streamed through the carved latticework, painting shifting patterns of silver across the polished floorboards, soft and spectral in their elegance.

Zhu Xiao sat slouched in a high-backed rosewood chair, legs stretched out and arms slack over the curved rests. The chair creaked quietly beneath him, a tired groan of old joints mirroring his own. His sword, Ru Yi, rested against the wall nearby, its presence familiar and grounding, like a faithful hound curled beside its master.

For once, the air wasn’t filled with distant screams, rushing footsteps, or the gnashing teeth of a demon eager to peel his skin like a grape. No sharp danger prickled at his spine. No cursed cables bound his limbs. And—thank every merciful deity on the celestial board—no Ming Fan snored in the bunk beside him. (He nearly wept when he learned that there are plenty of rooms that he doesn’t need to share with that bastard.)

Just silence.

And solitude.

Zhu Xiao let out a deep, heartfelt sigh, tilting his head back to rest against the wall with an almost comical thunk.

“Not having to share a room with Ming Fan.” he muttered aloud, half to himself and half to the gods. “That alone makes surviving today worth it. I would’ve stabbed him with a teacup by sunrise if he made any remarks about my unfortunate situation.”

His eyes drifted toward the low guest bed. There, folded with almost absurd precision, lay Shen Qingqiu’s outer robe. The fabric shimmered faintly in the moonlight, soft and opulent, exuding an understated kind of luxury that practically hissed hand-stitched by immortal tailors. Even now, it held traces of the Peak Lord’s qi—a quiet pulse of power, like a heartbeat buried under snow.

Zhu Xiao stared at it.

Then narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

Then tilted his head like a curious cat, gaze sharp and perplexed.

“What are you?” he asked the robe flatly.

Crossing the wooden floor barefoot, he crouched beside the bed, reaching out to brush his fingers over the hem. It was soft. So soft. So infuriatingly clean. Like a snowfall preserved in silk. It was maddening. Shen Qingqiu had flung it over his shoulders without so much as blinking. Not a single smug word. Not even a lecture about decorum or dignity. Just… compassion. Quiet, efficient, maddening compassion.

‘I don’t get him.’ Zhu Xiao thought, brows knitting in frustration.

He truly didn’t. One moment, Shen Qingqiu was the picture of frigid detachment, folding his fan with the crisp authority of a man born to judge others from atop a pedestal. Next, he pressed fingers against a cheek wound and healed it with the gentleness of falling petals. Lending a robe. Looking back at him like—

‘No. Absolutely not. We are not going there.’

Zhu Xiao shook his head, as if physically dislodging the thought.

And then—

Ding!

A chime like a sugar-glazed bell cut through the silence, followed by a dazzling red window that burst into the air in front of him, trailing sparkles and obnoxiously cheerful energy. Gold filigree shimmered at the edges, and somewhere, he could swear he heard the digital equivalent of a flute trill.

[ (๑˃̵ᴗ˂̵) Host~! If you’re so confused about your beautiful, brooding Peak Lord Shen Qingqiu, have you considered… actually talking to him~? ]

Zhu Xiao recoiled slightly. His entire face wrinkled with instinctive revulsion, as if someone had just suggested eating soup with a boot.

“Excuse me?” he deadpanned. “Absolutely not. Next idea. Anything but that.”

[ (⁀ᗢ⁀) Oh, come on~! You could ask him meaningful things like, ‘What’s your dream, Shizun?’ or ‘Do you believe in second chances?’ Or even: ‘What flavor of mooncake do you cry into at night?’ ]

Zhu Xiao gave the system a long, exhausted stare. “Yes, because nothing says ‘trust me with your heart’ like ambushing your emotionally repressed superior with philosophical therapy questions.”

[ Host, please remember: You must not be biased! ╭(╯^╰)╮ Even Peak Lords are people with feelings! Probably. Maybe. Somewhere in there. ]

“Biased? I’m not biased. I’m realistic .” He crossed his arms and gave the system a look so flat it could’ve ironed robes. “Shen Qingqiu doesn’t talk about things. He gives vague, cryptic answers wrapped in fan snaps and judgmental silence. You want me to open my heart to that?”

[ (｡•́︿•̀｡) How can you truly understand someone if you don’t even try? You must approach him with a clean heart and a fresh start, Host~! Clean your spiritual lens and polish your empathy mirror! ✨🧼 ]

“Okay first of all, what does that even mean?” Zhu Xiao demanded, exasperated. “Second of all—don’t quote Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky’s commentary scrolls at me. That man wrote demon anatomy like a fifth grader describing their sleep paralysis monster.”

There was a pause.

Then—

Ding~!

[ (★ω★)/ Well, regardless~ Host has now agreed to give Shen Qingqiu a chance! Your quest, however, is not yet complete~! ✧ ]

“…Wait. What?”

A second crimson window popped into existence, gilded in shimmering gold script like a heavenly decree on overpriced stationery.

[ Quest Reminder!
Title: Gift of Sincerity, Veiled in Grace
Objective: Present Shen Qingqiu with a heartfelt offering—one that resonates with his noble character and emotional depth.
Reward: +500 B-Points.
Status: ❌ Incomplete. ]

Zhu Xiao stared at the notification. “Incomplete? Are you joking?! He acknowledged me, but my quest wasn’t successful?! Seriously?!”

[ (＾▽＾) It’s very important that the Host must complete this quest because it's under Task One. To finish this quest before this System tells the Host what Task Two is next. ]

“...how many tasks are there?” Zhu Xiao asked, warily at the System. 

[ …Enough for the main mission to complete, Host! (￣▽￣)ゞ ]

Zhu Xiao groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Great. And I suppose if I carve his name into a gourd and sing a ballad under the moon, that’ll work?”

[ ( ≧ω≦) Hmm~ Maybe! But Host should write another poetry~! ]  

“Why are you like this?” Zhu Xiao muttered into his hand.

[ (◕‿◕✿) Because I believe in you, Host~! Now go warm up that brush and pour your heart into some seasonal metaphors! ✨✒️🍂 ]

Zhu Xiao slumped back into the chair, glaring up at the ceiling like he was begging the heavens to smite the System with lightning.

“…I swear, if I write him another poem and he doesn’t like it, I will self-combust.”

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[Shuang Hu City
Chen Mansion Courtyard
Morning Light…]

The dawn mist had not yet fully lifted from the cobblestone paths of the Chen estate. Wisps of morning fog coiled around the base of the trees like silken ribbons, dissolving slowly beneath the rising warmth of the sun. Sparrows chirped from the eaves, fluttering from one tiled rooftop to another, and the clatter of hooves echoed softly through the outer courtyard.

Junior disciples stood clustered in small groups around the waiting horses, adjusting their saddlebags and murmuring half-sleepy greetings. A modest covered carriage waited near the front, lacquered in soft jade tones with the emblem of Cang Qiong Mountain etched discreetly in silver on its side. The curtains were drawn, but the faint shadow of a seated figure inside was unmistakable.

Shen Qingqiu.

Zhu Xiao stood at the edge of the courtyard, one hand resting against the shoulder of his pale gray horse. The beast snorted once and flicked its ears, calm and obedient under his touch. He was just about to mount when a flicker of movement caught his eye—quiet, hesitant, and distinctly alone.

Luo Binghe.

He stood a short distance away from the others, shoulders hunched ever so slightly, clutching the strap of his travel pack with both hands. His robes were neatly arranged but lacked the polished crispness of the others’. The boy's dark eyes flitted toward the horses, then back down to the ground, clearly uncertain.

Zhu Xiao frowned faintly.

It struck him all at once—Luo Binghe didn’t have a horse.

He almost forgot about that. Ming Fan had lied that there wasn’t any horses available which he knew that was bullshit. That bastard had always enjoyed pushing the protagonist down at every opportunity, carving out every petty moment to remind Luo Binghe that he was unwanted.

But Zhu Xiao…

He wasn't bound anymore.

The OOC constraints had dissolved after that last quest. His hands were free. His tongue, unshackled. His actions, entirely his own.

So he made a choice.

Without hesitation, Zhu Xiao turned from his horse and strode across the courtyard. The morning light glinted off his green and white disciple uniform, slightly ruffled but elegant nonetheless. 

Luo Binghe noticed him too late.

“Take it.” Zhu Xiao said simply, extending the reins forward with one hand.

Luo Binghe’s eyes widened. “Shixiong?” He blinked rapidly and took a small step back. “No, no… Shixiong should ride. This shidi can walk—it’s really not far—”

Zhu Xiao rolled his eyes and stepped forward. With one swift motion, he took the younger disciple’s hand and curled the reins into it, fingers firm and final.

“It’s a shixiong’s job to take care of his shidi.” he said, his tone steady but quiet enough not to draw attention. “And I should’ve done that sooner. Especially before this mission.”

There was a flicker of wariness in Luo Binghe’s face—hesitation, confusion, a kind of weary expectation that kindness always came with a cost. But beneath that was something softer. Hope, small and trembling like a flame behind a cracked lantern.

“Are… you sure?” he asked tentatively. “It’s really alright if I take it?”

Zhu Xiao offered a crooked smile and stepped back. “Of course. I’ve got legs. They still work.”

Then he turned and started walking toward the others, raising his voice over his shoulder with practiced ease. “Hurry up and mount already, Luo-shidi. Ning-shimei’s waiting—she’ll be happy to have someone keep her company during the ride.”

A faint flush touched Luo Binghe’s cheeks as his gaze flickered toward the waiting girl—Ning Yingying was indeed looking at him on top of the horse with bright eyes and a hopeful smile. For a moment, Luo Binghe didn’t move.

Then—slowly, hesitantly—he placed a hand on the saddle, swung his leg over, and mounted the horse with the careful grace of someone who hadn’t done it often but remembered how.

Zhu Xiao didn’t turn back.

He simply walked to the back of the procession with hands tucked behind his back, expression unreadable. His heart, though… it felt lighter than it had all week.

“Thank you, Shixiong.” came Luo Binghe’s voice behind him, quiet but full of something fragile and grateful.

Zhu Xiao lifted a hand and waved lazily, not looking back.

“…Don’t mention it.” he said.

And for the first time since entering this absurd novel, he meant it.

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[On the Road
A Few Hours Later…]

The sun had climbed leisurely into its throne at the zenith of the sky, lounging there like an arrogant emperor with no regard for the mortals below. Its golden rays poured mercilessly over the landscape, baking the dirt road until it shimmered like a mirage stretched between open fields and sparse forest groves. Dry wind passed through in lazy, sporadic gusts—too warm to be refreshing—carrying with it the scent of sun-bleached grass, worn leather, and the not-so-subtle musk of sweating horses.

The procession moved steadily along: the jade-green carriage with Cang Qiong’s silver crest leading the way, followed by the mounted disciples in loose, uneven formation. Some were half-dozing in their saddles; others chatted in low voices, their conversation swallowed by the rhythmic crunch of hooves on gravel.

And then, a full several paces behind them all—trailing like the tragic ghost of poor life choices—walked Zhu Xiao.

From a distance, he was still the embodiment of elegance. His long-sleeved robe rustled faintly as he moved, pale silk kissed by dust but still graceful. His high ponytail swayed in time with his steps, not a strand out of place. If one were to paint him now, the title would no doubt be something romantic like Wandering Immortal Beneath a Merciless Sun.

But inwardly?

‘This is an actual nightmare.’ he thought with venomous exhaustion, flicking a pebble off the road with the toe of his boot. ‘My thighs feel like I’ve been personally punished by the Jade Emperor. My boots are begging for mercy. My spine has filed for emancipation.’

He walked with practiced poise, hands clasped behind his back, every motion composed and deliberate, but his thoughts were about as refined as a junior disciple’s dorm room after a firework duel.

‘All for what?’ he lamented theatrically to himself. ‘Because I—benevolent fool that I am—gave away my horse like some itinerant do-gooder on a redemption arc. To the protagonist, no less. The future protagonist. The literal main character. Do you hear me, narrative deities? I gave my ride to the boy destined to ascend through carnage and trauma. I should be sainted. Or at least carried home in a palanquin.’

His gaze flicked ahead toward the mounted form of Luo Binghe, who was seated somewhat stiffly in the saddle but otherwise appeared composed. The younger disciple had exchanged a nervous smile with Ning Yingying earlier and now rode beside her with that wide-eyed wariness unique to poor kids being offered kindness and not knowing if they were about to get poisoned or hugged.

Zhu Xiao sighed again, louder this time, his breath rattling out like the last dying notes of a broken flute. ‘I’m out here playing supportive senior brother while my calves are filing complaints with the Sect Council. This had better earn me major Protagonist Points. Preferably with interest.’

Ding~!

A chime erupted in the air with the energy of a manic wind chime during a typhoon, followed by the all-too-familiar red window bursting into existence in front of his face. Gold trim sparkled like a fireworks display at a cultivation festival, and several animated sparkles drifted down as if confetti had been thrown in his honor.

[ (๑˃̵ᴗ˂̵) Host is so kind~! But a cheerful reminder: The Protagonist is not your main priority! Please align your affections appropriately with the Main Target: Shen Qingqiu ✧٩(ˊωˋ*)و✧ ]

Zhu Xiao stopped walking for half a step, deadpanned at the obnoxious window, and wiped a hand dramatically down his face like a man who had just received news that he would be forever haunted by a cheerful spreadsheet.

“Oh no.” he muttered, voice bone-dry. “Caught in the act of unlicensed compassion. Someone arrest me before I start... caring.”

[ ( •̀ .̫ •́ )✧ Host is deviating from the Correct Emotional Trajectory™! Please recalibrate heartstrings and narrative attention accordingly! ]

“Recalibrate?! I’m walking thirty li in antique silk boots for the sake of moral integrity and you want me to recalibrate ?!” he hissed. “I just gave my horse to the destined demon emperor like some wandering charity cultivator and you’re lecturing me on priorities?!”

[ Host~! Kindly note: Shen Qingqiu is your Destined Partner, Narrative Anchor, and Emotional Endgame™. Protagonist favoritism may result in misrouted affection metrics! o(>< )o ]

Zhu Xiao groaned with the long-suffering weariness of a man who had chosen martyrdom and now regretted everything. “Yes, I know. Shen Qingqiu. The emotionally repressed swan was carved from glacial jade. Trust me, he's at the top of my mental to-do list.” He winced. “…That came out wrong.”

The red window pulsed cheerfully, like a smug little heartbeat. Zhu Xiao glared at it the way one might glare at a spider above their bed: not enough to destroy it, but definitely enough to wish for divine intervention.

“I’m just trying to make sure the protagonist doesn’t become a vengeful black lotus who decides Shen Qingqiu deserves to be flayed for existing.” he snapped. “That’s called damage control. You know, like responsible emotional management? Ever heard of it?”

[ (≧◡≦) It’s sweet that Host cares~! But please don’t forget that Shen Qingqiu’s path must bloom first! 🌸 ]

Zhu Xiao stopped walking entirely this time, took a deep breath, and whispered toward the sky:

“Buddha, if you’re listening, please give me the strength to survive this System’s kaomojis without throwing myself into a pond.”

The window winked once, sparkled cheerfully, and zipped off into the ether with a sound like a harp being tickled by a toddler.

Zhu Xiao dragged a hand down his face again, muttering curses in three dialects and two levels of poetic refinement before trudging on behind the procession—dust swirling around his ankles, sweat tickling the nape of his neck, and sarcasm simmering under his tongue like boiling tea in a cracked pot.

“…the things I do for that Cold Beauty.” he grumbled.

.

.

.

[On the Road
Inside the Carriage…]

The carriage rocked gently with each rotation of the wheels, its lacquered frame creaking softly beneath the shifting weight of movement and time. Within the shaded interior, the world outside was reduced to a blur of sunlight-filtered leaves and dancing shadows cast against the gauzy silk curtains. It was neither stifling nor cold—the air within was mild, perfumed faintly with lotus root incense and the lingering fragrance of mountain wind that clung to Shen Qingqiu’s robes.

He sat with his usual elegance, half-reclined against the plush cushion bolsters of the rear bench, one arm draped lazily over the armrest while the other moved with idle grace, slow, precise flicks of a lacquered folding fan across his face. The soft fsh, fsh of paper slicing air marked each breath like punctuation to his silence.

His eyes, half-lidded and deceptively relaxed, were trained not on the embroidered tapestry hanging across from him, but on the veil of light spilling through the parted curtains beside him. A little while ago, he had watched—without comment, without outward expression—as Zhu Xiao, his somewhat sharp-tongued beta disciple, had walked across the courtyard and handed over the reins of his horse to the unremarkably quiet and persistently mistreated Luo Binghe.

The curtain fluttered faintly with a passing breeze.

Shen Qingqiu’s fan paused mid-stroke.

He sighed once through his nose and gave a slow shake of his head, expression unreadable.

Why was it always like this?

Why did his disciples—particularly the younger ones—insist on dancing around him like frightened rabbits before a hawk? He was their Peak Lord, not a wrathful deity that struck down errant cultivators on sight. Could none of them simply… ask?

Was it truly so difficult?

Shen Qingqiu’s gaze narrowed slightly as he resumed fanning himself, this time slower, more contemplative. He didn’t believe in mollycoddling. Strength was forged through effort, and a disciple’s willpower mattered just as much as their swordplay. But that didn’t mean he was indifferent. He was strict, yes. Aloof, certainly. But if one of them truly needed something—if they asked, directly, plainly—he would provide.

The problem was they never did.

Not Disciple Luo Binghe, who clearly could’ve benefited from assistance weeks ago.

Not Head Disciple Ming Fan, who used his seniority like a cudgel.

Not even Disciple Zhu Xiao, who had more spine than most, but still handled the situation like it was beneath Shen Qingqiu’s notice.

And yet…

He glanced again at the fluttering curtain, lips pressed in a tight line.

Zhu Xiao hadn’t needed to give up his mount. He had made that choice entirely of his own accord. Shen Qingqiu hadn’t interfered—hadn’t called out or corrected it—but he had seen. He had noted. And because he had noted, he had made a quiet adjustment of his own.

The carriage was moving just slightly slower than usual.

Deliberately.

Carefully.

Just enough that Zhu Xiao, walking behind on foot, wouldn’t fall too far behind or get swallowed by dust.

Shen Qingqiu didn’t intend to announce it. He certainly wouldn’t slow it further. But it was there. A subtle concession. A solution offered without fanfare.

He shook his head again, quietly.

If they would only speak to him plainly, he could do more. Could offer actual guidance. Could ensure the weaker among them were not left behind or ground down beneath others’ arrogance. But if they refused—even the bold ones, like Zhu Xiao—then what could he do?

He would not hand out charity where it was not sought. He would not indulge students who lacked the courage to look him in the eye. But nor would he turn away those who came with sincerity in their hands.

If his disciples wanted to handle things themselves, fine. So be it. That was their decision. But it was not because he was unwilling.

He fanned himself once more, slower this time. His gaze returned to the blurred curtain. The image of Zhu Xiao walking on foot behind the carriage—stoic, silent, determined—lingered in his thoughts a moment longer.

So troublesome, these disciples of his. So proud. So stubborn.

Still, he would keep the pace steady.

And he would keep the curtain slightly parted.

Just in case one of them ever decided to ask.

.

.

.

.

.

..

...

Chapter Text

[Cang Qiong  Mountain
Qing Jing Peak
Bamboo House]

The quiet that blanketed Qing Jing Peak was not the kind of silence born from stillness, but rather one composed of harmony, gentle, deliberate, and cultivated through years of solitude. Wind swept lazily through the densely grown bamboo grove outside, their tall emerald stalks swaying and creaking faintly, like wind chimes made of earth and leaf. Each rustle hummed through the open paneled windows of the bamboo house, carrying with it the scent of dew-kissed foliage and the faint trace of cooling tea. 

Inside, Shen Qingqiu sat cross-legged upon a woven mat, poised yet languid, a study in controlled repose. A low table of dark, polished wood lay before him, its surface impeccably clean save for two sheets of rice paper laid out with deliberate spacing. The edges of the pages curled slightly in the warm air, the ink still faintly fragrant, soft strokes of calligraphy dancing across the parchment in an elegant, fluid hand.

His bamboo-jade eyes, sharp and contemplative, narrowed as he studied the lines once again.

Poems.

Not anonymous in tone, but unsigned in form. Devoid of name, unmarked by any scent of pheromones, and carrying no crest or seal. He’d reviewed them several times now—each word parsed, each character examined with the same scrutiny he reserved for battle formations or obscure cultivation manuals.

And still, they stirred something in him. Something subtle. A quiet ripple across the surface of his otherwise unbothered mind.

Shen Qingqiu reached to the side, plucking another sheet from a neatly stacked bundle. It was a training assignment from one of his senior disciples, a practice essay written in proper script. He held it beside the poem, comparing strokes, pressure, and structure.

A match.

His slender fingers tapped once against the page, thoughtful. Then he murmured aloud to the room. “Zhu Xiao.”

He rolled the name on his tongue like tasting a peculiar tea blend—unexpected, not unpleasant. His brows furrowed faintly, not in anger, but in a contemplative sort of disapproval.

Why would a young Beta disciple go through the trouble of writing him poetry?

Certainly not to curry favor. Shen Qingqiu could smell flattery when it was draped in brocade and doused in wine—and this was nothing of the sort. There were no names. No personal notes. No scent offerings or signature strokes are designed to suggest any benefit.

Still… two poems.

And neither accidental.

He leaned back slightly, folding his sleeves over his lap with measured grace, the fabric whispering as it moved. His gaze dropped again to the first poem—soft praise wound in metaphor, and subtle, the kind that described nature and the sincerity of his appearance. Not overtly romantic, no, but… admiring. Personal. Beautiful.

The second poem was a bit daring. The language was refined. Intimate, in a distant sort of way. It stirred something fragile in his chest. Something unspoken. Something buried.

‘…Is this courting?’ Shen Qingqiu wondered, eyes narrowing faintly. The thought perched on the edge of disbelief, half scoff, half curiosity.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been pursued, of course. He was a Peak Lord. An unmarried cultivator. Handsome, well-mannered, and accomplished. Over the years, his postbox had suffered under the weight of letters and gifts sent by overeager suitors—mostly hopeful omegas or ambitious sect daughters. He dismissed them all. With grace, where possible. With blunt refusal, where necessary.

Then, there was him—Zhangmen-Shixiong.

Shen Qingqiu’s jaw tightened.

Those “gifts” had not been aesthetic. They had been an apology poorly veiled in romantic pretension, and he had made his displeasure abundantly clear. He had no interest in that particular stubborn Alpha’s affections—had rejected them without remorse. The cabinet where those offerings were stored remained sealed, its contents gathering dust and scorn in equal measure.

He was grateful—deeply—that Yue Qingyuan did not know the truth of his secondary gender.

If that man ever found out…

A bitter grimace flickered across Shen Qingqiu’s face.

No. Better to remain aloof. Untouched. Free.

He would live as he always had—mateless, focused, and uninterested.

And yet…

His eyes drifted back to the poems.

Zhu Xiao.

The boy was bold. Fearless. Too quick with his mouth, sometimes. But not foolish. His cultivation was steady. His judgment, sharp. He did not seek attention. Did not beg for praise. His writing was clean. Purposeful. Elegant. Even his scent—bare as it was—was not unpleasant. There was a sharpness to it, a cool clarity… like fresh mint crushed beneath rain-soaked stone. Crisp. Refreshing.

Shen Qingqiu’s fingers stilled over the paper.

Would his own scent… blend well with that?

He blinked.

Then, almost comically fast, shook his head. Hard. His ponytail shifted with the force of it.

No. No, no, absolutely not. That line of thought was utterly inappropriate. Improper. Scandalous. He was a Peak Lord. That boy was his disciple.

And not even a graduated one!

‘If that Beta is… truly courting me.’ Shen Qingqiu mused darkly. ‘Then he must be told to stop. This cannot be allowed to continue. It’s not right.’

But.

If he stopped…

Would the poems stop as well?

A moment’s hesitation lingered.

He didn’t want them to stop.

They were… lovely. Strange. Comforting. They made him feel something he had not felt in a long time—appreciated, not for his position, or his power, or his control—but for the simple, fleeting aesthetic of who he was. For his quietness. His reserve. His stillness.

Just once would have been fine.

But twice?

That felt deliberate.

He could be wrong, of course. Maybe it was just poetic practice. An idle fancy. A disciple dabbling in verse with no meaning behind it.

But if it was…

Shen Qingqiu exhaled slowly and let his gaze wander toward the window once more. Outside, the bamboo swayed with gentle persistence, their green silhouettes etched against the sky. Sunlight filtered between the leaves, catching the edges of the paper in a glow that made the black ink shimmer faintly gold.

He stared.

And thought.

And did not quite reach for the poems again.

But he did not push them away either.

.

..

…

Disciple, Are You Flirting With Me?

Chapter Thirteen

“A Song of Poem”

…

..

.

[Cang Qiong  Mountain
Qing Jing Peak
Evening — Bamboo Path]

The sky was soaked in the deep violet of early dusk, where sun-warm gold had faded to ember-pink before giving way to blue shadow. Fireflies began blinking in and out of existence like shy stars, and the soft rustle of bamboo leaves created a gentle susurration through the trees—an ever-present song of Qing Jing Peak.

Zhu Xiao trudged along the stone path, kicking a loose pebble with the tip of his boot as he muttered under his breath, loud only in his mind.

‘This poem better be the best thing he’s read all week.’ he grouched internally, one hand tucking the folded parchment more securely into his sleeve. ‘I lost two full hours of sleep over this. And for what? Pretty metaphors and trying to make “jade-green” rhyme with “serene”? Do you know how hard that is?!’

He sighed sharply, scowling at nothing in particular.

A familiar ding~ broke through the ambient peace like an overly enthusiastic chime from a spirit market stall. A crimson window bloomed before his eyes, trimmed in gold and brimming with artificial excitement.

[ (๑˃̵ᴗ˂̵) Host~! I just know Shen Qingqiu will love this poem! You’ve captured his bamboo aesthetic perfectly! It's giving ✨elegant longing~✨! ]

‘It’s giving carpal tunnel.’ Zhu Xiao snapped mentally. ‘And chronic embarrassment. I nearly used the phrase “jade dewdrop gaze” and had to physically slap myself back to reality.’

[ (⁀ᗢ⁀) You’re just nervous~! It’s okay to feel butterflies before you emotionally devastate someone with well-crafted beauty and subtle yearning~! ]

‘I’m going to emotionally devastate you if you don’t quiet down.’ he thought, grinding his teeth. ‘This isn’t a drama. I’m not some lovestruck side character serenading a stoic male lead on a moonlit stage—!’

He halted abruptly.

A sound.

Subtle. Melodic.

Soft notes, each plucked with precision, drifted through the trees like threads of mist, curling in the air like incense. It was a guqin, if Zhu Xiao had to guess, from the timbre of the strings. The tune wasn’t familiar, but the mood it evoked was unmistakable: quiet, contemplative, cool as moonlight reflected on still water.

His breath caught in his throat.

‘That’s… Shen Qingqiu.’ he realized, blinking.

The music was coming from the bamboo house up ahead. From within. And it was undeniably live—not a recording, not a disciple practicing, but the master himself playing.

Zhu Xiao stood there for a moment, caught between awe and dread, his mind scrambling through a dozen responses.

[ (≧◡≦) KYAAAA~! He’s playing the guqin!! He’s so ethereal!!! (｡♥‿♥｡) ]

The system all but squealed directly into his mind like a fawning fangirl backstage at a cultivation idol concert.

Zhu Xiao rolled his eyes so hard he nearly saw his past lives. ‘Control yourself, you unholy glowing rectangle.’

Still… he couldn’t walk away just yet.

He crept up the path with practiced care, each footfall silent as breath, until he reached the stairs that led to the bamboo platform. The guqin’s song was stronger here, more textured—every brush of fingertip over string resonating down to the stone beneath his feet. He could just make out the outline of Shen Qingqiu through the sheer curtain of the front room: a straight-backed figure seated before the instrument, sleeves falling like water over the edge of the table, his face half-lit by lantern glow and half-obscured in shadow.

It was... beautiful.

Without a word, Zhu Xiao carefully reached into his sleeve and withdrew the folded parchment. He bent down and placed it at the edge of the wooden patio, just above the stone steps. A precise delivery. Quiet. Respectful. No interruption. Just an offering left in the evening ight.

For a breath or two, he lingered. The melody curled around his ears like silk thread. Not sad, but solemn. Distant. Private.

Then—

[ (*≧ω≦) Host! Host! HE’S SO COOL WHEN HE PLAYS LIKE THAT I COULD DIE!!! This is so poetic! So romantic! ]

Zhu Xiao scowled, tore his eyes away from the curtain, and turned sharply on his heel.

‘I’m leaving before you start writing fanfiction in my brain.’

And so, he left—disappearing into the evening mist like an embarrassed ghost fleeing the scene of his own feelings.

.

.

.

[Cang Qiong  Mountain
Qing Jing Peak
Bamboo House
Moments Later…] 

The final note trembled on the strings, then faded, leaving only a soft resonance suspended in the evening air. The guqin’s lacquered surface shimmered faintly in the twilight, its delicate hum lingering like the last breath of a lullaby unwilling to end.

Shen Qingqiu lifted his hands from the instrument with deliberate grace, his fingers pausing midair for the span of a single, silent heartbeat before retreating slowly to his lap. He sat motionless, back straight, shoulders relaxed, the trailing ends of his sleeve pooling against the woven mat beneath him. For a time, he did nothing—simply gazed at the instrument, his expression unreadable, as though still lost in the shape of the melody or the emotions it had drawn from somewhere far beneath the surface.

Then a subtle stir in the protective wards tugged at his senses.

It was no threat—light, almost hesitant. A spiritual tremor brushed against the seal he’d laid across the outer stairs. It rang with the distinct impression of someone familiar… someone who knew better than to knock.

He rose with the faintest rustle of silk robes, every movement fluid and unhurried. Crossing the bamboo floor in near silence, extended his hand to the door and slid it open. He stepped past the open door and into the evening air. The forest was bathed in the melancholy glow of dusk, bamboo stalks swaying gently, their leaves catching shades of blue and violet beneath the fading sun. The air was cool and fragrant, laced with the crisp scent of moss and the faint sweetness of drying plum blossoms.

At the top of the steps, resting as if purposefully placed, lay a folded parchment—its edges with slight wrinkles, its folds in plain and unmarked. Shen Qingqiu's brow furrowed with restrained curiosity as he bent to retrieve it, lifting it delicately between two fingers. No name. No signature. No attached scent to reveal its sender. Just like his other two poems. 

But his eyes—sharp and discerning—turned toward the sloped pathway beyond the courtyard.

There, half-shadowed by the trees and already disappearing beyond the bend, was a lone figure retreating with brisk, purposeful steps.

He did not need to look twice.

“…It’s really you.” Shen Qingqiu murmured, the words barely louder than a breath, spoken to no one but the wind. He finally has a visual confirmation. Zhu Xiao. The Beta Disciple of his was the one who wrote him poems. 

Returning his gaze to the parchment, he unfolded it with care, his thumbs smoothing the page as familiar handwriting began to reveal itself. But this time, it was not just words that greeted him—there were subtle notations along the margins: small guqin annotations, light brushstrokes denoting tempo, pauses, delicate rises and falls in melody. It wasn’t merely a poem.

It was a song.

His eyes moved over each verse slowly, as though to absorb not just the words, but the intent that shaped them:

“Verses on Green Stillness”
To the One Who Sits Within Bamboo Light

➤ (Largo – soft, contemplative)
Beneath the hush of jade-tipped rain,
A stillness walks where words refrain.
One fan, one glance—a storm held tight,
In silence dressed with folded light.

➤ (Brief trill on second line)
Your eyes are not of sky nor sea,
But green of mountain memory.
Unbending stalk, and sharp as wind—
Yet mercy lingers, veiled and thinned.

➤ (Slower now, minor key flourish)
You speak as winter bends the reed,
With quiet wrath and tempered need.
But even frost, on careful skin,
May cradle warmth it keeps within.

➤ (Sustained final note)
If song could take on quiet form,
And rest where bitter roots grow warm—
Then let this verse be set to string,
And in your name, its silence sing.

By the time his eyes lifted from the final line, Shen Qingqiu had not moved an inch.

His hands remained poised at the edges of the parchment, but his gaze had turned distant, thoughtful, faintly uncertain, softened by something unspoken. This was not an empty flattery nor the fumbling praise of a disciple trying to impress. The words were crafted with intention, restraint, and unsettling insight.

Zhu Xiao had seen him. 

Truly seen him—not just the Peak Lord of Qing Jing, not the aloof disciplinarian who stood apart with fan in hand and words sharp as jade—but the man within, the quiet weight behind each silence, the contradictions that shaped him. And he had turned that glimpse into something graceful. Intimate, even.

The annotations stirred something deeper.

A quiet invitation. Not a demand, nor an expectation. Merely a wish whispered into melody.

Shen Qingqiu lingered there for another long moment, watching the now-vanished bend of the path, as if expecting the sender to reappear or perhaps hoping he wouldn’t. Then, with a breath that released only half the weight in his chest, he turned and stepped back inside.

The doors closed behind him with a soft thud.

He returned to the guqin and sat once more, the instrument gleaming in the fading twilight.

This time, he didn’t play the earlier melody. Instead, he gently set the folded poem beside him, laid his fingers against the strings, and began to pluck out a new tune. It was slow. Searching. Gentle in its rhythm and echoing faintly with every stanza he had just read.

A melody born not of loneliness—

—but of being seen.

.

.

.

[Cang Qiong Mountain
Qing Jing Peak
Disciple Male Dorm
Late Evening…]

The soft rustle of fabric echoed in the modest room as Zhu Xiao tugged his outer robes off with a practiced sweep and tossed them across the wooden bench near the screen divider. His sleeves fluttered as he moved—more from exhaustion than grace—and he let out a sigh that was far too dramatic for how little actual movement he’d done.

The moonlight seeped through the latticed windows, draping the room in gentle hues of pale silver and shadowed blue. The air smelled faintly of old sandalwood and the sharper bite of ink, courtesy of the open scrolls still scattered across his writing desk. His candle had long since guttered low, leaving only a tiny, flickering flame that bent and swayed with every passing breath.

He rubbed a hand over his face with a groan, eyelids heavy. The day had been long. His feet ached. His back protested. His brain had probably turned into steamed lotus paste somewhere around the fourth stanza of that damn poem.

And now, finally—finally —he was about to collapse into his bed, burrow into his blanket, and sleep for a thousand years.

Then—

Ding~!

A familiar, painfully cheerful chime split the silence like a gong wrapped in glitter.

A scarlet window exploded into view over his head, bursting into being with golden sparkles and far too much enthusiasm for this hour.

[ (づ｡◕‿‿◕｡)づ Congratulations, Host~! You’ve finally succeeded in your quest! ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ]

A line of glowing text began to roll upward like a heavenly scroll in a bad stage play:

[ Quest Reminder!
Title: Gift of Sincerity, Veiled in Grace
Objective: Present Shen Qingqiu with a heartfelt offering—one that resonates with his noble character and emotional depth.
Reward: +500 B-Points
Status: ✅ COMPLETE! ]

Zhu Xiao blinked at it. Then flopped backward onto his bed like a man who had just survived war.

“Fucking finally,” he muttered into the pillow. “If I had to write one more line of poetry, I was going to start rhyming out of spite.”

He sat up slightly and squinted at the window as it did a happy spin in the air, showering the room with unnecessary fireworks.

“Do you know how much sleep I lost over that stupid parchment?” he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I hand-fed my pride to the dirt, swallowed embarrassment, and practically courted my own master through interpretive fanfiction, and only now do I get the points?”

[ (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ Host has gained +500 B-Points! You’re amazing~! And now… time for Task Two! ]

He froze mid-groan.

“…No.” Zhu Xiao said flatly. “Absolutely not. No Task Two. I just finished Task One. I deserve a rest. A vacation. A back massage. Some cake. What do you mean ‘Task Two’?”

The window sparkled ominously.

[ ( •̀ᴗ•́ )و TASK TWO: Make Shen Qingqiu Fond of You! ]

Zhu Xiao sat up, aghast. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again like a stunned fish trying to remember how words worked. “That—that’s harder than Task One!” he exclaimed. “How the hell do I make Shen ‘Ice-Glare Judgmental Jade Wall’ Qingqiu fond of me?! I had a better chance surviving a haunted cave full of resentful ghosts with nothing but a rice cracker and blind faith!”

[  (＾▽＾)ゞ Host, don’t be dramatic~ You already made a wonderful impression! Keep it up and he’ll be head-over-heels in no time~! ]

Zhu Xiao flopped dramatically back onto his bed again and covered his face with both hands.

“Oh my gods. I hate this. I hate you. I hate your sparkles. I hate how your windows look like cringy sparky marriage and trauma.”

[ (｡♥‿♥｡) Host is so funny when you’re flustered~! You can do it! Believe in the power of fluttering hearts and slow-burn mutual affection~! ]

“I will slow-burn your code if you keep talking like that.”

[ (≧◡≦)/ Host is the best! Jiayou~! ]

Zhu Xiao let out a long, slow groan and buried himself under the blanket, as if enough cotton layers could shield him from his fate.

But beneath the muttered threats and dramatic groaning, a traitorous flicker of something warm nestled behind his ribs.

‘Fond of me, huh…?’ 

He turned his head toward the window, eyes half-lidded in thought. “…Well...he did like it.” he muttered, voice muffled. “Wonder if he liked the poem enough to set it to string.”

Silence fell once more, save for the rustle of leaves outside and the faint, glimmering pulse of the notification window slowly fading into the darkness.

.

.

.

[Cang Qiong Mountain
Qing Jing Peak
Bamboo House
Early Morning…]

A hush blanketed Qing Jing Peak in the early hours before sunrise, save for the soft rustle of wind threading through towering stalks of bamboo. The foliage stirred like a sea of jade, casting shifting patterns of shadow across the polished wood of the secluded bamboo house nestled against the mountainside. Pale threads of golden light filtered through the leaves, dappling the roof in quiet warmth, gentle, reverent, and unhurried, like a polite knock on nature’s door.

Inside the house, stillness reigned. The incense burner on the far wall had long since burned out, yet the faint aroma of sandalwood clung to the air like a memory, subtle and grounding, absorbed into the bamboo beams and woven mats.

At the center of the chamber, a luohan bed rested beneath a high, gauzy canopy—its wooden frame low and elegant, carved with strong bamboo motifs. Upon it, Shen Qingqiu lay in a light doze, reclined beneath a cloud-pale quilt that shimmered faintly with fine thread. His long hair spilled over the pillow like black silk, loose and glossy, cascading in dark rivers across the embroidered bedding.

His inner robe—crafted from rare cloud-silk—clung to his body with weightless grace, nearly translucent in the early light. The fabric was known for its luxurious softness and breathability, tailored for his hypersensitive skin and immune to irritation. It clung to his lean form like mist, shifting ever so slightly with each breath he took.

But peace was short-lived.

A shiver stirred along the edges of his consciousness, threading through the spiritual wards anchored to his home like the tug of a spider’s web. The Presence-Detection Seal, carefully etched across the front steps days ago, pulsed with the faintest warning—delicate, harmless, but unmistakable.

Someone was approaching. And Shen Qingqiu already knew who.

His brow twitched, lips pressing into a thin line.

Yue Qingyuan. Predictable. Insistent. 

Thoroughly unwelcome.

With a quiet sigh, he opened his eyes. Cool and clear as bamboo in moonlight, they blinked once, sharp and already fully alert, despite the lingering warmth of sleep. He rose with practiced elegance, the silk quilt slipping off his body like water from polished jade. His bare feet touched the floor without a sound.

Crossing the room with unhurried grace, he retrieved a long-sleeved sleeping robe from a lacquered stand—pale celadon in color, soft and finely woven. He draped it over his shoulders and fastened the sash loosely at the waist, the layers falling gracefully over his translucent inner robe. It was a garment meant for the indoors: refined, elegant, and modestly layered yet unmistakably intimate.

Shen Qingqiu paused at the sliding door of his bedroom. With a final adjustment to the collar, he stepped out and slid the door shut behind him with a sharp thunk. Each motion was exacting and deliberate, as if he could restore order through precision alone.

He moved toward the front of the house, his expression glacial.

The moment he opened the bamboo sliding door, his face cooled by another few degrees.

There stood Yue Qingyuan, one hand raised mid-knock, frozen in polite surprise. His face bore the gentle smile he always wore when speaking to Shen Qingqiu—warm, practiced, tinged with wistful familiarity. But to Shen Qingqiu’s annoyance, his Alpha pheromones came trailing in behind him like an unwelcome breeze—strong, earthy, laced with the scent of pine bark and cinnamon, far too intrusive for this early hour.

Shen Qingqiu’s nose twitched in distaste. He wrinkled it faintly, concealing the reaction behind narrowed eyes.

“Ah—Xiao-Jiu.” Yue Qingyuan began softly, as if the name still held a place in his heart.

Shen Qingqiu's tone sliced through the morning stillness like a blade. “Don’t call me that.” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. His words were cold, clipped, and brittle as a frostbitten leaf.

“What does Zhangmen-Shixiong want—” he continued. “—and why is he at my doorstep at such an ungodly hour?”

To his credit, Yue Qingyuan merely blinked and let his hand fall to his side. The smile remained, but it frayed slightly at the edges. “I saw your request scroll.” he said, adopting a more formal tone. “You’ve requested permission to enter secluded cultivation in Ling Xi Caves.”

Shen Qingqiu’s eyes narrowed further. “And this required a personal visit? Is Zhangmen-Shixiong unable to write anymore? Or do you now take pleasure in scaling Qing Jing Peak just to state the obvious?”

“I simply thought…” Yue Qingyuan’s voice softened, colored with quiet ache. “…that I would rather speak to you face-to-face.”

Shen Qingqiu rolled his eyes—not a subtle, polite twitch, but a full-bodied, exasperated arc meant to be seen and judged. He shifted, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossing beneath his wide sleeves like a closed gate. “Well? Is my request approved or not?”

Yue Qingyuan hesitated, visibly debating whether to press further. “How long do you intend to remain?”

“As long as necessary.” Shen Qingqiu replied coolly. “Weeks. Months. Perhaps years. That depends on how quiet the world is willing to be.”

A long pause. Then Yue Qingyuan nodded.

“…Very well. You have my permission.”

“Good.” Shen Qingqiu’s response was as frigid as ever. “Then we have nothing more to discuss.”

And without another word, he slid the door shut in Yue Qingyuan’s face with a practiced, final snap of wood on wood—sharp, absolute, and unapologetically deliberate.

The echo of it rang through the bamboo house like a closing verdict.

Shen Qingqiu stood there a moment longer, his fingers still resting lightly on the door’s handle.

Then, under his breath, he hissed. “Obnoxious Alpha.”

His nostrils flared faintly. Yue Qingyuan’s scent still lingered in the air, clinging like smoke in silk. He could feel the faintest stirring of his own omega pheromones, rising in instinctive protest against the overwhelming presence that had just departed.

He turned swiftly on his heel and made his way back to his bedchamber, opening and shutting the sliding door behind him with a muted thud.

Crossing the room, he sat down at his lacquered vanity table and opened a small jade box tucked into one of the inner drawers. Within lay a pouch—delicately embroidered, pale green with tiny cloud motifs. Shen Qingqiu untied the silk cord and peeked inside.

He frowned.

“…Running low.”

Inside were only a few remaining suppressants and scentless pills—specially crafted to neutralize both his own scent and any unwanted hormonal reactions. He tapped the side of the pouch thoughtfully.

‘I'll need to visit the Red Warm Pavilion soon.’ he mused. ‘Hopefully Madam Tai still has a good batch ready.’

With a sigh of resignation, he selected two pills and swallowed them with the ease of habit, already planning the rest of his morning.

First, he would write official notices for the Hallmasters, informing them of his extended absence.

Then, he would make his way to Ling Xi Caves, and seal himself away for as long as he pleased.

.

.

.

[Cang Qiong Mountain
Qing Jing Peak
Training Grounds – Midday Light]

The clang of wooden swords echoed across the open-air training courtyard, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional barked instruction. Morning drills had ended, but several junior disciples lingered beneath the shade of nearby peach trees, swapping gossip with the casual ease of those who didn’t yet realize how heavy the world could become.

Zhu Xiao, half-draped over a low wooden railing with his sleeves pushed up to the elbows, wasn’t listening—at first. His mind had been elsewhere, lost in musings over a recent poem he’d been meaning to revise or perhaps a new excuse to avoid sparring practice.

But one name caught his ear. Shizun. 

He blinked and straightened subtly, eyes narrowing as he tuned into the conversation a few feet away.

“Did you hear?” one disciple whispered, voice pitched low but eager. “Shizun has already descended into Ling Xi Caves for seclusion cultivation. The bamboo house is empty.”

“Seriously?” said another, wide-eyed. “He didn’t tell anyone? Not even his Head Disciple?”

“They say he left a message with the Hallmasters and vanished this morning. No one knows when he’ll return.”

“Or if he will.” a third said ominously, voice tinged with dramatic flair. “You’ve heard the rumors, haven’t you? That place is practically cursed. Some say cultivators who enter never come out.”

Zhu Xiao’s hand paused mid-movement, still resting on the railing.

Ling Xi Caves.

The name scraped across his memory like a jagged edge, pulling up an echo from the novel. His expression darkened. ‘Ling Xi Caves… this is where Shen Qingqiu kills Liu Qingge.’

He straightened fully now, his body tense despite the warm breeze that stirred the peach blossoms above. The sky was bright, too bright. The air smelled faintly of grass and dust and something else—something uneasy.

Ding~!

[ ✨ Host is correct! This is the canonical event where Villain Shen Qingqiu eliminates Liu Qingge in Ling Xi Caves was mention in during the Trial Court scene—Chapter 446: "Scum Villain’s Trial" ╰( ´︶` )╯ ]

Zhu Xiao scowled internally. “Gee. Thanks for the cheerful summary.”

[ (๑˃̵ᴗ˂̵)♡ Host is so clever for remembering! ]

He rubbed a hand along the back of his neck, suddenly restless. The knowledge sat heavy on his shoulders. Before—when he first arrived in this world—it had all seemed so straightforward. Villains were villains. The story had rules. He could memorize plot points like landmarks on a map.

But now…?

He’d seen Shen Qingqiu. Not just the icy persona he wore before others, but the quietness, the restraint, even he healed him and gave him the robe! And if it wasn’t for the system, he wouldn’t know that Cold Beauty Alpha likes his poem!

Zhu Xiao exhaled sharply through his nose.

‘That man... He’s not just a villain. Not just a stepping stone in Luo Binghe’s character arc. He’s complicated. Bitter. Sharp-edged. But human.’

He fell silent for a moment, then asked slowly. ‘System… is there a way to—’ He hesitated. The words were hard to admit, even in thought. ‘—to stop Liu Qingge’s death? Or change the circumstances?’

[ (๑•̀ㅂ•́)و✧ What a noble Host! Request acknowledged!
Please note: this plot point is a MAJOR branch event. Deviating from it may cause a large ripple in the story timeline. Host must be extremely careful. However—yes, it may be possible to influence the outcome if done with sufficient preparation, timing, and favorability conditions. ]

Zhu Xiao's brows furrowed further.

Ripple in the timeline. Right. Of course.

But even knowing the risks… he couldn’t shake the possible image of that cold cavern, the blood-soaked sword, and Shen Qingqiu—so often misjudged—standing framed in the narrative like a traitor.

Zhu Xiao exhaled slowly, the weight of his new resolve beginning to settle into place like armor on his shoulders. 

‘Then I’ll prepare. If there's a way to change that scene… I'm going to find it.’

The sun continued to rise, bright and indifferent overhead.

But Zhu Xiao's gaze remained shadowed, pointed toward the distant peaks—toward the sealed cave, and the ghost of a tragedy yet to unfold.

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Chapter Text

[Cang Qiong Mountain
Qiong Ding Peak
Ling Xi Caves]

The entrance to the Ling Xi Caves yawned open like the mouth of an ancient beast, veiled in pale mist and the earthy scent of lichen-coated stone. The air grew noticeably cooler the moment Shen Qingqiu passed beyond the threshold, the sunlit world outside falling away as dim jade light filtered down through cracks in the high cavern walls. Inside, the ancient pathways coiled like a serpent’s spine—narrow corridors that gave way to vast chambers, carved by centuries of underground rivers and cooled by the breath of sleeping mountains. 

But Shen Qingqiu walked with purpose. He did not need a light. He had been here before—multiple times, in fact—whenever the weight of his thoughts or the stagnation of his cultivation required the profound quietude that only this sacred space could offer. His steps were measured, his robes trailing behind him like clouds as he passed mossy walls and natural formations of quartz and crystal that glittered like stars embedded in the earth.

Eventually, after a long series of turns, he arrived at his chamber. A naturally formed sanctuary tucked deeper within the mountain’s bones. The cavern opened wide into a domed grotto with high ceilings, lost in shadow. Stalactites glittered like chandeliers above, and beneath them lay a stretch of smooth white stone that shone with the muted translucence of moonlight. Verdant green veins ran through the floor, resembling frozen jade mist caught beneath the surface. At the very heart of the chamber rested a mirror-like pool, its water impossibly still, reflecting the chamber’s stony ceiling as though it held a second sky.

Shen Qingqiu stepped forward slowly, his footsteps making no sound on the cool stone. He lowered himself into a lotus position before the pool, robes pooling around him like fallen silk. His bamboo-jade eyes stared into the surface of the water, at first seeing only the flickering outline of his reflection: pale skin, elegantly composed features, loose hair draped down his back like black silk ribbon. A portrait of aloof serenity.

Yet the stillness did not hold.

His thoughts betrayed him.

Unbidden, the verses returned to his mind—the soft brush of ink on parchment, the delicate guqin notations in the margin, the quiet reverence in every line. Zhu Xiao’s poetry. Beautiful, bold, and interestingly insightful.

Shen Qingqiu’s expression flickered ever so slightly. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, attempting to chase away the lingering impression of the young man’s words. He needed clarity. Stillness. He had come here to meditate, to sharpen his qi and push his cultivation to the next plateau—not to dwell on... frivolous things.

He inhaled deeply, letting the cool spiritual energy of the cave pass through him like fog over still water.

Then—

A sound.

A sharp, ragged gasp.

Shen Qingqiu’s eyes flew open.

At first, he thought it an echo, a trick of sound bouncing off the stone, but then he felt it: a wild, chaotic surge of spiritual energy flooding one of the lower tunnels, uncontrolled and thrashing like a beast in a cage. His senses prickled, his qi rising defensively in response.

Someone was experiencing a qi deviation.

Fast. Violent. Dangerous.

A scowl twisted Shen Qingqiu’s lips as he rose to his feet in a single, fluid motion. His robes flared around him, the hem whispering like waves against stone. “Of course.” he muttered to no one, voice clipped. “Someone had to be foolish enough to attempt cultivation without proper grounding.”

He did not linger. Swift as shadow, he moved through the cavern’s twisting paths, following the sharp bursts of unstable qi like a bloodhound trailing smoke. The further he went, the worse the disturbance became, the air thick with spiritual static, the walls pulsing faintly with reflected power. It was not just any deviation—it was a violent one, an internal storm threatening to rip its cultivator apart from the inside.

Then, he reached it.

A larger chamber, barely lit by bioluminescent moss along the edges. The moment he stepped inside, the bitter scent hit him.

Alpha pheromones. Strong. Burnt. Like caramel boiled too long over a fire, bitter with the acrid tang of iron and stress.

Shen Qingqiu’s nose wrinkled in immediate distaste.

Standing in the center, back to him, was a tall figure clad in white, his body trembling as sweat soaked through his robes. Long hair clung to his back, and his qi swirled around him like a hurricane barely kept in check. The glow of it bathed the walls in violent, flickering light.

Shen Qingqiu didn’t need to see his face to know who it was.

“Liu Qingge.” he said flatly, disgust and dismay leaking into his tone. “What in all seven hells did you do to yourself, you idiotic moron?”

The figure jerked slightly at the sound of his voice but didn’t answer.

Shen Qingqiu’s jaw tightened as he stepped forward, fingers twitching subtly, already preparing to suppress the storm of qi that threatened to break loose. “You better not die on my watch.” he muttered. “Because I will find your ghost and yell at it until it reincarnates as a dung beetle.”

And with that, Shen Qingqiu advanced.

.

..

…

Disciple, Are You Flirting With Me?

Chapter Fourteen

“A Shocking Secret”

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..

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[Cang Qiong Mountain
Qian Cao Peak
Meanwhile…]

The morning air on Qian Cao Peak was crisp, sweetened by the scent of dew-washed herbs and wildflowers blooming in scattered profusion across the emerald slopes. Zhu Xiao stood at the edge of the stone path, momentarily distracted by the view. The landscape stretched before him like an untouched painting—tall blades of grass swaying like waves, clusters of flowering bushes heavy with petals, and medicinal herbs growing freely along the edges of shaded trees. The sheer vitality of the land was startling. It was nothing like the cultivated beauty of Qing Jing Peak—it was alive, lush with chaotic abundance.

He breathed in deeply, the scent of wormwood, mint, and wild mugwort tingling his senses. He recognized nearly everything within sight—from ginseng tucked beneath the shadow of a mossy rock to the tiny red star-petals of fireleaf near the roots of a wind-swept pine. His mind whirred with familiar knowledge, fragments of data dredged up from the Proud Immortal Demon Way: A/B/O Dynamics Version. In his previous life, he might have only daydreamed about walking such land. Now? He was here. Touching it. Breathing it.

He very nearly stepped off the path to examine a patch of red-veined moon lotus but stopped himself just in time. ' Focus. Flora cataloging later.' he told himself firmly. He had a goal and a dangerous (not really, more like stupid) one at that. It wasn’t just about botany or beastaries today. His plan needed to work. He had to get through to Mu Qingfang... and more importantly, get him to Ling Xi Caves before something irreversible happened.

A familiar melodic ding! chirped in the air beside him like a cheerful bell spirit.

A vibrant red window opened with the enthusiasm of an overeager child, gold letters sparkling with praise:

[ (≧◡≦) ✧ Host is so clever~! This system has absolute confidence that Host’s plan will help both Shen Qingqiu and Liu Qingge! ✧＼(≧▽≦)／✧ ]

‘Yeah, I fucking hope so.’ Zhu Xiao grumbled internally, his expression unreadable. He picked up his pace down the gently curving stone path, eyes scanning the sprawling compound ahead for any sign of its elusive Peak Lord. ‘I just need to get Mu Qingfang to go to Ling Xi. With any luck, he’ll do it immediately.’

The moment Zhu Xiao reached the medicinal halls, he had to swerve to avoid colliding with a rushing disciple carrying a tray of steaming herbs. The halls of Qian Cao were alive with activity—disciples bustling back and forth with scrolls, dried roots, gauze, and pots of herbal ointments. Everyone looked busy. Efficient. Intent on saving lives. The sheer energy of the place was different from the quiet study halls of Qing Jing Peak.

He kept his head low and stepped carefully around the traffic, until a senior disciple who was tall, poised, and dressed in cream and beige robes caught sight of him from the corridor. She walked toward him with the kind of quiet authority that demanded attention.

“May I assist you?” she asked, her voice firm yet not unkind. A thin pair of glasses framed intelligent eyes, and her features were sharp with Beta neutrality, her faint scent calm and woodsy—cedar and lime.

Zhu Xiao stopped and bowed politely. “This one was hoping to speak with Mu-shibo.” he said, keeping his tone deferential.

She assessed him quickly—eyes narrowing, then softening slightly. “If it’s a minor injury or prescription, I or one of my peers may be able to help you.” she offered with brisk efficiency.

Zhu Xiao shook his head, maintaining his polite smile. “I’m not injured. This disciple needs to speak to Mu-shibo directly. It’s an urgent matter, and one that cannot be delayed.”

The Beta disciple studied him for another breath, then gave a curt nod. “Follow me, then. This one will take you to Shizun.”

“Many thanks.” Zhu Xiao replied, bowing again before trailing her through the corridor.

The hallway dimmed toward its end, eventually stopping at a wooden door marked with Mu Qingfang’s seal. The senior disciple knocked once, brisk and firm.

A weary, familiar voice called out from within. “Come in.”

Zhu Xiao dipped his head in gratitude toward the young Beta woman, then slid the door open and stepped inside.

The room was tastefully sparse. Lined with shelves of scrolls, medical texts, bundles of dried herbs, and gleaming jars filled with tinctures. At the desk sat Mu Qingfang, clad in light cream and beige robes, his long dark hair tied back in a half-knot bun. His face bore a neatly groomed mustache which, to Zhu Xiao’s inner amusement, looked slightly out of place on someone otherwise so refined.

‘Honestly, he’d look way better without that thing.’ Zhu Xiao thought judgmentally, but kept the expression buried beneath his most respectful smile.

Mu Qingfang rose from behind the desk with a calm, professional air. His keen eyes swept over Zhu Xiao with a physician’s instinctive once-over, checking posture, pallor, and gait. “Greetings. How can this Master assist his shizhi today?” he asked, voice even, welcoming but watchful.

Zhu Xiao inhaled once, then slipped into his performance, expression shifting into sincere concern.

“Mu-shibo, this disciple has a… concern.”

[ (๑>◡<๑) The System is cheering for Host~!! ]

He ignored the glowing red window flickering just out of sight, keeping his gaze fixed on Mu Qingfang, who now looked visibly more attentive.

“What kind of concern?” Mu Qingfang asked, his brow furrowing slightly.

Zhu Xiao wrung his hands behind his back, face lined with false worry. “It’s about… Shizun.” he said quietly. “I fear something may be wrong.”

Mu Qingfang blinked, visibly caught off guard. “Please explain.” he prompted, his tone cautious.

Zhu Xiao glanced down, affecting the air of a dutiful but conflicted disciple. “This one noticed odd behaviors. Small things at first… fatigue, long silences, distracted gazes. I thought it was temporary. I believed he was simply tired and would recover with rest in his home. But then I heard he went into seclusion at Ling Xi Caves…”

He looked up slowly, his garnet-amber eyes carrying just the right amount of staged worry. “What if it’s something more serious? What if his health is declining? And none of us noticed until it was too late?”

Mu Qingfang frowned, clearly mulling it over. His expression shifted, but he didn’t speak yet.

Zhu Xiao swallowed and leaned in a little closer. “Mu-shibo… this disciple doesn’t want to overstep. But I have a bad feeling. I’m really, truly worried.”

That sealed it.

Mu Qingfang exhaled slowly, a flicker of empathy shining in his eyes. “I see…” he murmured. He seemed to weigh the concern for another moment, then finally nodded. “This Master will go to check on your Shizun.”

Zhu Xiao’s shoulders, which had been stiff with tension, finally sagged in relief. ‘Yes! Thank you, fictional world logic!’

Mu Qingfang noticed and gave him a rare, softer smile. “Would you like to accompany me to Ling Xi Caves?” he offered. “You seem genuinely concerned.”

Zhu Xiao blinked, then perked up with polite enthusiasm. “This one would be honored to do so. Many thanks, Mu-shibo!”

And if he happened to find out whether Liu Qingge was alive or dying at the hands of Shen Qingqiu… well, he would get his answers soon. 

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[Cang Qiong Mountain
Qiong Ding Peak
Entrance of Ling Xi Caves
Moment Later…]

The path to Ling Xi Caves wound upward through jagged crags and sharp, ancient stones etched with weather and time, until finally it plateaued at a cliffside hollow wreathed in thin mist. The mountain winds had softened by the time Zhu Xiao and Mu Qingfang arrived, but the chill still lingered in the air, curling around their robes and threading through the trees like ghostly silk.

Zhu Xiao stood just outside the cave mouth, looking up at its towering arch of natural stone. Ling Xi was not a place for the faint-hearted. It exuded a strange, heavy stillness, like time flowed more slowly here, pulled inward by the press of old energies sleeping beneath the earth.

The inner darkness of the cave loomed before him, untouched by daylight. Wards shimmered faintly on the entrance—delicate, thread-thin arrays drawn in spiritual ink, meant to suppress noise and interference. Only someone with high cultivation, or permission, could walk through them unscathed.

Mu Qingfang turned to him at the threshold, his cream and beige robes catching a flicker of light from the sun overhead. “Wait here.” he said gently. “These caves are tightly woven with spiritual energy. If anything… unusual happens, stay back and do not approach. Understood?”

Zhu Xiao bowed respectfully. “Yes, Mu-shibo.”

Without another word, Mu Qingfang stepped forward, passing through the warded threshold. The array rippled like disturbed water before settling back into stillness, swallowing the healer’s figure whole.

Zhu Xiao exhaled slowly and folded his arms. The air outside was cold enough to bite, but his thoughts were more restless than the wind around him.

A cheerful ding! burst into his awareness, followed by the familiar sparkle of a red window blooming beside him like an unwanted flower.

[ ✧٩(•́⌄•́๑)و Host did great! Operation: Lure the Medic has succeeded! Now begins Phase Two: Wait and Hope You Didn’t Mess This Up! ✧ ]

‘Thanks, System. That’s so comforting.’ Zhu Xiao muttered dryly, eyes still fixed on the cave’s shadowy depths. His breath fogged lightly in the air. ‘You better be right about this. Shen Qingqiu might not be the easiest person to read, but if something does happen to Liu Qingge, and I didn’t even try…’

[ But Host did try! You’re doing your best, and this System believes in you! (づ｡◕‿‿◕｡)づ ]

Zhu Xiao groaned under his breath, tilting his head back toward the blue sky above. “You’re like emotional caffeine. Sweet and exhausting.”

He rocked on the balls of his feet for a moment before turning and slowly pacing along the narrow ledge that skirted the entrance, mindful not to wander too far from the wards. Below the cliff, mist rolled over the forest like a soft sea, brushing against the trees and rising with ghostlike fingers. He could see the edge of Qing Jing Peak in the far distance—a familiar silhouette now slightly blurred by mountain haze.

The wind pulled at his robes and hair as he stood still again, silent.

‘Please work. Please let my plan work. Please let him be okay…’

He didn’t know if he was thinking about Shen Qingqiu or Liu Qingge anymore. Maybe both.

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[Cang Qiong Mountain
Qing Ding Peak
Ling Xi Caves – Inside
Meanwhile…]

The moment Mu Qingfang stepped across the threshold into the shadowed interior of the Ling Xi Caves, a wave of suffocating energy slammed into him, as though he’d plunged headfirst into a spiritual maelstrom. The air—normally cool and meditative within the ancient sanctum—was heavy with an unnatural pressure that clung to his skin and constricted his lungs. A violent shiver coursed down his spine, his body instinctively reacting to the charged turbulence that hung like static in the atmosphere. It was not merely the presence of uncontrolled qi. No...this was something far more volatile. Something feral.

He inhaled slowly, refining his senses, and immediately recoiled.

The scent hit him next, distinct and jarring. Caramel and almonds, once warm and nutty, now twisted by bitterness and scorch. Burnt sugar. Smoke tangled with spiritual decay. Pheromones went rancid beneath the suffocating weight of imbalance. His eyes narrowed, recognition striking with the cold certainty of a blade drawn at his throat.

“Liu-shixiong…” Mu Qingfang murmured, voice strained and taut with dread.

He moved forward swiftly, his robes brushing silently against the stone walls as he followed the path deeper into the twisting heart of the cavern system. Each step sharpened the disturbance. The natural stillness of the caves, a place long known for its tranquility and nurturing resonance, had been warped into something hostile. The spiraling tunnels pulsed like arteries choking with errant qi. This was no ordinary fluctuation. This was a cultivator unraveling. Devouring themselves from within.

Then, as he rounded the final bend, the scene unfolded before him, and Mu Qingfang stopped in his tracks, his breath punched from his lungs.

A wrecked storm.

In the center of the cavern, amid the glowing pulse of jagged spiritual dissonance, Liu Qingge knelt—no, loomed—his body a barely restrained tempest of raw power. His blade, Cheng Luan, had been discarded several paces away, embedded upright in the ground like a forgotten relic, its hilt vibrating as though trembling with the chaos it had failed to suppress. But the sword was irrelevant. Liu Qingge had descended past the point of discipline.

Pinned beneath him is Shen Qingqiu.

The proud Peak Lord of Qing Jing lay sprawled across the stone floor, his elegant composure in ruin. His robes were shredded, the outer layers ripped open to expose the pale folds of inner silks barely clinging to his frame. Long obsidian hair, once gathered into an immaculate crown adorned with jade and silver, now spilled in tangled sheets across the floor, its ornaments shattered into glittering debris. The glimmer of broken jade fragments scattered near his head looked like fallen stars, a mockery of a man who once held himself with celestial poise.

Liu Qingge hovered over him, eyes wild with a fevered gold that gleamed like twin moons behind stormclouds. His mouth curled into a low, animalistic snarl, the sound vibrating from his throat in guttural pulses that barely resembled speech. He trembled—not from fear, but from exertion, his instincts battling the last shreds of reason as his Alpha urges overwhelmed every rational thought. His fingers dug into the stone, muscles taut, the stench of spiritual collapse entwined with the acrid toxicity of over-saturated Alpha pheromones.

Mu Qingfang didn’t wait.

In one fluid movement, he reached into his sleeve and withdrew a slim lacquered case. Flicking it open, he revealed a set of engraved silver needles, their tips fine as hair and inscribed with ancient runes meant for disrupting qi flow. His fingers moved with the surgeon’s speed and precision.

Thwip. Thwip.

The first needle embedded into Liu Qingge’s wrist, paralyzing the tendons with a numbing jolt that froze his dominant hand mid-motion. The second struck true at the base of his neck, piercing a pressure point key to disrupting spiritual overflow.

Liu Qingge spasmed, a choked breath hissing past his lips as his entire body seized. With a final shudder, he collapsed sideways in a graceless sprawl, his limbs twitching once before going still.

Shen Qingqiu bolted away with a strangled breath, panic writ across every muscle. His hands scraped against the stone as he dragged himself backward until his spine struck the cave wall with a thud. He stayed there, pressed tight against it like a creature caught in a trap. His chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid pants. His eyes—those sharp bamboo-jade eyes—were wide with alarm, glassy with residual fear, and tracking every movement as if expecting another strike.

But they weren’t angry. They weren’t cold.

They were afraid.

Mu Qingfang dropped to one knee beside Liu Qingge, ignoring the ache in his joints, and placed two fingers on his neck. A surge of pale, golden, and fluid light flowed from his hand into Liu Qingge’s body as he read the state of his meridians.

Broken. Cracked in dozens of places. His spiritual flow was like a lake riddled with fractures, barely containing the torrent within.

Frowning, Mu Qingfang exhaled and closed his eyes, guiding a thread of stabilizing qi into the most damaged channels. He wove it gently, carefully sealing the most dangerous breaches to prevent internal collapse. After a long, tense minute, Liu Qingge’s breathing began to slow, the furious tremble of his qi finally ebbing to a whisper.

Only then did Mu Qingfang dare to look back. “Shen-shixiong.” he said, voice lowered and deliberately calm. “Liu-shixiong’s condition is stable for now. I’ll need to move him to Qian Cao Peak for further treatment. But before I do, allow me to examine you—”

He stood.

And then immediately halted.

Shen Qingqiu had curled into himself, spine hunched and legs drawn close beneath the remains of his robes. His lips peeled back in a silent snarl, revealing the faint, glinting edge of Omega fangs. His shoulders trembled, not from injury, but from pure instinct. Defensive mode.

A single breath brought the answer. The air had changed. The faint but unmistakable scent of Omega pheromones was rising—fragile, sweet, tinged with sharpness, like crushed petals under frost. It wasn’t strong—Shen Qingqiu was trying to suppress it. But his body was betraying him.

His pupils were slits. His gaze was fixed, unblinking. There was no recognition in his eyes.

Only survival.

Mu Qingfang froze, then slowly raised both hands, palms up, the universal gesture of peace. “It’s alright.” he said in a soft tone, laced with his most neutral qi. “You’re safe, Shixiong. Liu Qingge is unconscious. No one will touch you.”

He even softened his spiritual signature, reining in the edges of his Alpha qi and folding away the rosemary-and-sage scent of his natural pheromones. But it wasn’t enough.

Shen Qingqiu didn’t relax. His eyes were still wide, nostrils flaring. His heart thundered in his chest, his body coiled like a bowstring drawn to the limit.

Mu Qingfang understood then—words would not reach him.

He had gone too deep into Omega-mode. Trauma had forced a complete shift. There was no space for language. No space for trust.

Mu Qingfang’s shoulders sank, heart aching at the sight. He had treated hundreds of patients. Countless cultivators were driven to madness by pain or qi deviation. But never had he seen Shen Qingqiu, proud and immaculate, brought this low—disheveled, vulnerable, frightened out of his mind.

He hesitated. Then, an idea.

Zhu Xiao.

That Beta disciple—clever, observant, and strangely seemed to have a very strong instinct. Perhaps…

Mu Qingfang turned, his mind made up. As he stepped into the darkened corridor again, he cast a final glance over his shoulder. His voice was steady, but gentle. “I’m going to fetch someone who can help. You are not alone. Just wait a little longer.”

And with that, he vanished down the corridor, his footsteps echoing softly as he ran back to the mouth of the cave, carrying not just the weight of a fallen cultivator, but the fragile hope of calming a storm with nothing but kindness.

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[Cang Qiong Mountain
Qiong Ding Peak
Ling Xi Caves – Outer Entrance
Shortly After…]

Zhu Xiao paced like a man possessed.

His boots scraped against the ancient flagstones that guarded the mouth of the Ling Xi Caves, each step a sharp punctuation against the otherwise tranquil stillness of the peak. Though morning sunlight gilded the high ridges in warmth, here, at the lip of the sacred cavern, the shadows clung heavy and cold, untouched by warmth, as though the cave refused to acknowledge the sun’s presence.

He crossed his arms. Uncrossed them. Spun on his heel. Muttered a curse.

And again.

And again.

And again.

The nerves were clawing up his throat.

“I hate waiting.” he muttered, grinding his teeth. The words were hissed through clenched molars, but the frustration behind them throbbed louder than thunder in his chest.

He hated the silence.

Hated being left out.

Hated the helplessness of standing there like an accessory, a background character in a story he didn’t know how to steer anymore.

The Ling Xi Caves were no simple cluster of rocks and fog. They were old—older than the sect’s formal doctrine, older than half the mountains in this fantasy world. They breathed with the resonance of sacred meditation, ancestral energies, and deep secrets that should never have been disturbed. And now? They were thrumming like a broken spiritual core about to rupture.

And Shen Qingqiu… was inside.

So was Liu Qingge.

And he, Zhu Xiao, was stuck out here with nothing but worry gnawing at his bones.

Suddenly—

Ding!

A bright red window popped open at the top of his vision, the golden text glowing like a tacky festival lantern.

[ Host’s concern level has risen! Don’t worry, Host! You’ll be very helpful to Shen Qingqiu soon! Keep your spirits up~!  ⸜(*ˊᗜˋ*)⸝ ]

Zhu Xiao rolled his eyes so hard his brain rattled. “Helpful?” he hissed under his breath. “I’m standing here like a damn bonsai tree!”

But before he could pace another step, the cave’s mist stirred. A rustle of cloth—movement in the gloom.

Zhu Xiao immediately straightened.

Mu Qingfang emerged from the shadows, his figure cutting a sharp silhouette against the swirling haze. But gone was his usual doctor's calmness aura. His expression was taut with urgency, the corners of his mouth drawn tight, eyes darkened with a severity that made Zhu Xiao’s heart stop cold.

“Mu-shibo—?” 

He stepped forward, but the doctor spoke first, brisk and cold as a knife. “I need you. Now. Before your Shizun gets seriously hurt.”

The words hit Zhu Xiao like a slap to the face. He froze, heart stammering, mouth falling open.

‘Hurt?’ he echoed inwardly. ‘Shen Qingqiu’s hurt?! What?! What happened?! Was it Liu Qingge? Did they really fight?! Did the War God fight him?! Was it because Shen Qingqiu tried to kill him and—’

His thoughts spiraled into chaos. But Mu Qingfang was already turning, vanishing into the mist. Zhu Xiao sprinted after him, lungs tight, limbs burning with urgency.

The moment he stepped past the mouth of the cave, it hit him.

Like drowning in molasses. The air turned thick and electric, choked with spiritual residue—wild and untempered, like a beast pacing inside its cage. His breath caught. His knees dipped slightly, almost buckling under the invisible weight pressing against his chest and shoulders.

‘Holy shit.’ His eyes widened, mouth dry. ‘It’s like walking into a hurricane made of qi.’

Every hair on his body stood on end. The pressure was suffocating. The air itself seemed to resist his presence. But he gritted his teeth and shoved forward, one step at a time. His determination burned hotter than fear.

Mu Qingfang glanced back, eyebrows lifting ever so slightly in surprise at Zhu Xiao’s resilience. But he said nothing—just nodded and let the younger man keep pace.

“This way.” the doctor said, voice clipped but steady. “We’re almost there.”

Zhu Xiao sucked in a shallow breath. “Mu-shibo… you said Shizun is in danger, but—why do you need me? Shouldn’t we get the Sect Leader or something?”

Mu Qingfang’s answer came swift and sharp. “That would only worsen things. Especially since Zhangmen-Shixiong is an Alpha.”

Zhu Xiao blinked, stumbling slightly. “And… that’s bad because… Shizun’s an Alpha too? So he’ll fight back? I don’t get it…”

Mu Qingfang’s steps slowed. For a moment, he didn’t answer. Then, his mouth set in a fine, conflicted line. “You’ll understand when we arrive. I believe you may be the only one he’ll allow near him right now.”

Zhu Xiao wanted to argue. He wanted to demand answers. But something in the older man’s voice, a tremble of subtle urgency, kept him silent.

And then they arrived.

The cavern opened before them like a wound carved into the mountain.

Mu Qingfang moved immediately to Liu Qingge’s unconscious form, kneeling beside him and checking his stabilized meridians and pulse with practiced ease.

But Zhu Xiao stopped short.

Everything in him froze.

His breath left his lungs.

Against the far wall of the cave, slumped like a creature braced for death, was Shen Qingqiu.

His normally pristine robes were in shreds, the inner layers hanging in disarray, baring the pale angles of collarbone and shoulder. His ink-dark hair, always bound in elegant crowns and jade pins, was a mess of sweat-drenched strands that clung to his face and throat. Beside him lay the broken remnants of his jade hair crown, shattered into dozens of tiny, glinting pieces. His body trembled ever so slightly, muscles coiled tight, ready to spring or flee.

And his eyes—

His eyes.

Bamboo-jade irises had narrowed into sharp slits, pupils contracted, flashing like twin knives. They were locked on Mu Qingfang and Zhu Xiao with unblinking intensity.

Not cold.

Not arrogant.

Terrified.

“…Shizun?” Zhu Xiao whispered, stunned.

It didn’t make sense. Shen Qingqiu was proud. Controlled. Regal. A steel blade in silk robes. He wasn’t—he couldn’t be—this.

This wasn't the stance of a peak lord.

This was the posture of the prey.

“Mu-shibo…” Zhu Xiao asked, his voice breaking slightly, caught between confusion and astounded. “What’s going on?”

Mu Qingfang turned, and for the first time, Zhu Xiao saw something like regret on the man’s face. “Shen-shixiong is in his Omega-mode.” the doctor said quietly. “He doesn’t trust any Alphas—unless they are his mate. And he doesn’t have one. He’s in defensive override… and if we don’t reach him soon, he’ll hurt himself from strain and risk of serious qi deviation.”

Zhu Xiao stared at him like his brain had just blue-screened.

Omega.

Did… did Mu Qingfang just say… Omega?

As in—submissive? Nurturing? The gentle, delicate type who was usually the spiritual heart of a pack?

That kind of Omega?

His thoughts collapsed in a cacophony of static.

Ding!

A red window with golden text blinked in front of him like a cheerful slap to the face.

[ Host is correct! Shen Qingqiu is indeed an Omega~! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ Surprise~! ]

Zhu Xiao stood there.

Blank. Blinking. Mind flatlined.

‘…That motherfucking dumbass author…’ His eye twitched. ‘Airplane, you lazy hack, if I ever find you, and give me a shitty explanation from your own mouth about this. I’ll make you suffer.’

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...

Chapter Text

[Cang Qiong Mountain
Qiong Ding Peak
Ling Xi Caves – Inner Cavern]

Zhu Xiao didn’t move.

His body remained suspended in a posture of utter disbelief—one foot awkwardly mid-step, an arm half-lifted like he couldn’t decide whether to draw a blade or offer tea at a formal banquet. Every part of him had locked up. His throat had gone dry, paralyzed by the sheer absurdity of what he was being asked to do. His gaze darted between Mu Qingfang’s unflinching, grave expression and the huddled, trembling figure of Shen Qingqiu, barely recognizable as the unshakable Peak Lord of Qing Jing Peak.

Then he looked down at himself. At his not-exactly-imposing frame. His Beta-neutral scents (ignore the fact that it’s not exactly normal Beta scents). His distinct lack of medical training (he does NOT have any training when to comes to dealing with secondary genders whatsoever!), combat prowess (sure, this body is a genius but does it even have an experience to handle scary feral omega?), or spiritual finesse (again, he wasn’t sure he can handle the kind of spiritual skill that deals with omega-mode!).

And with the same energy of someone realizing they'd just been volunteered to disarm a spiritual landmine with a chopstick, Zhu Xiao slowly pointed to his own chest.

“…Wait. Me?” he croaked.

He jabbed a finger more insistently this time, voice tightening with incredulous panic. “You mean me me?”

Mu Qingfang, as calm as a pond in winter, gave a single composed nod. “Yes. You. As a Beta, you pose the least perceived threat. Your presence should not trigger further distress in his current Omega-mode.”

Zhu Xiao latched onto one word with the speed of a dying man clutching a life rope.

“Should?” he echoed, voice going up a full octave. “Did you just say should?”

The word echoed through the cavern like a curse written in cold iron.

His mouth twisted into a grimace as panic began to take root beneath his skin. His eyes widened, lips twitching between laughter and a scream. “You know—when someone says ‘should be safe’ in this kind of situation, what they really mean is ‘it probably won’t explode, but we’ll find out together.’ ”

Any sense of decorum or disciple etiquette had long fled his mind like rats escaping a burning boat.

Mu Qingfang merely offered a faint, noncommittal shrug. “I’ll be close. If anything happens, I’ll intervene immediately. But this Master believes… you’re the only one who has a chance to reach him.”

Zhu Xiao inhaled sharply through flared nostrils, dragging his fingers down his face in visible dread. “Brilliant. Just brilliant. I came here to make sure the whole death duel thing didn’t go off the rails, and now I’m being thrown into a spiritual hellscape because my Peak Lord’s secret Omega identity decided today was the perfect time to unravel like a cursed ball of silk.” he muttered under his breath so quietly to himself.

He groaned. Loudly. For effect.

Then, as if summoned by the worst part of his memory, a flashback rose unbidden to his inner eye—a scene he had long tried to scrub from his brain with metaphorical soap and bleach. That horrendous side chapter in the original novel. The one where Luo Binghe had to "calm down" his three-hundred-and-forty-second omega wife during a heat-fueled breakdown.

There had been wailing. Furniture was thrown with superhuman strength. Biting. Blood. Moaning. An entire wall was destroyed. Then the whole thing had somehow swan-dived into a grotesque bloodplay papapa scene that would haunt his mind forever.

‘NOPE!’ Zhu Xiao thought, nearly gagging aloud. ‘Absolutely not. No way. Not doing that. Ever.’

He physically shook his head, as if trying to dislodge the cursed memory like water in his ears. Focus. Focus. This wasn’t a scene from a terrible smut novel. This was Shen Qingqiu. His Peak Lord. His Shizun.

He dared a glance at Shen Qingqiu again.

And something inside him twisted—tight and painful.

The sight of Shen Qingqiu, once the very image of scholarly poise and aloof discipline, now crumpled against the stone wall, was a blow to the heart. His long white robes were torn and stained, the delicate inner layers bared to the cold air and hanging in disarray. His dark hair—normally wound with such care into its signature crown—was disheveled, loose, and matted with sweat. Broken shards of jade from his shattered hairpiece glittered faintly on the cavern floor like pieces of splintered honor.

Shen Qingqiu’s body trembled, his eyes—those luminous bamboo-jade irises—were slitted, primal, feral. His nostrils flared as if trying to scent threat or escape. He was no longer a man.

He was a creature cornered.

Zhu Xiao’s breath caught in his throat.

Not out of fear.

Out of empathy.

The weight of the moment settled over him like a thick, leaden cloak. He’d seen people broken in books. He’d watched characters unravel from pride and pain and grief. But it was different to see it happen in real time. To see Shen Qingqiu—dignified, distant, untouchable—reduced to trembling silence by something beyond logic, beyond cultivation, beyond reason.

Something vulnerable.

Zhu Xiao sighed deeply, his voice a soft wheeze of resignation. “Okay… Alright. I’ll try.”

Mu Qingfang gave a small nod and took a silent step back, allowing space while keeping a close eye on both parties. He radiated steady readiness, but held himself like a shadow—there if needed, but offering no pressure.

Zhu Xiao exhaled once more, squared his shoulders, and took his first cautious step forward.

The instant his foot scuffed the ground, Shen Qingqiu’s head snapped up, his pupils dilating in a flash of sharp animal instinct.

Zhu Xiao froze, hands rising immediately in exaggerated surrender, palms facing outward.

“Hey, hey—Shizun. It’s me. It’s just me.”

The air in the cave seemed to tighten. The spiritual pressure had quieted, yes—but the tension had not. It hummed like a drawn bowstring between them.

Zhu Xiao gulped. ‘Okay. Gentle tone. Soothing words. Move like a calm woodland animal and not like a startled goat. Do NOT provoke the feral Omega. I repeat—do NOT provoke the feral Omega.’

He took another tentative step.

“Just Zhu Xiao here.” he offered, voice pitched low and soothing. “You know… the awkward Beta disciple with no scary Alpha scent and zero danger levels. I’m basically a walking rice cake. No flavor, no threat.”

Still, Shen Qingqiu did not move.

He remained pressed into the wall, knees drawn tight, breathing fast and shallow. His fingers were curled against the ground, digging into the stone like a last line of defense. But his eyes flickered—briefly—and there, for just a moment, Zhu Xiao thought he saw it.

Recognition.

Something softened.

Zhu Xiao didn’t dare let the hope show on his face, but he slowly, very slowly, lowered himself to one knee, his movements smooth and without suddenness. He kept his head lowered, gaze gentle, posture unthreatening.

A smile crept onto his face, small and strained, but honest.

“You’re not alone, Shizun.” he murmured, voice as soft as falling petals. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

.

..

…

Disciple, Are You Flirting With Me?

Chapter Fifteen

“A Beta’s Scents”

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[Cang Qiong Mountain Sect
Qiong Ding Peak – Ling Xi Caves, Inner Cavern
From Shen Qingqiu’s Point of View]

There was no sound. 

No sound except the thunder of his own heartbeat pounding mercilessly in his ears.

No light except the shimmer of spiritual distortion that burned behind his closed lids, like the afterimage of lightning.

No world except the cold, damp stone at his back, and the pressing weight of phantom hands.

Shen Qingqiu’s breath came in harsh, animal gasps. Shallow. Stuttered. Each inhale tore at his throat like splinters, each exhale trembled on the edge of a sob. His body was locked, curled defensively against the cavern wall, every muscle taut and trembling. His fingers, normally graceful and steady, clutched at the rough stone beneath him like claws, fingernails cracked and bloodied. He didn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel anything except panic, coiling tight and suffocating inside his chest.

His robes hung from him in tatters. The remnants of silk and dignity clung in useless folds to a frame that shook like a bird in a storm. The cool air licked at his skin—exposed, shamed, vulnerable.

The taste of blood still coated the inside of his mouth.

He’d bitten his own tongue. Somewhere in the haze. Somewhere in the struggle. Somewhere between the moment Liu Qingge’s qi had exploded outward in that frenzied spiral and the moment Shen Qingqiu had realized too late that there was no pulling him back.

He hadn’t been strong enough.

He wasn’t fast enough.

He didn’t—

He couldn’t—

His thoughts fractured. Shattered against the inside of his skull like porcelain against stone.

All he could see were ghosts. The past, rising like fog.

There had been another room. Another place. Cold, damp. The scent of incense and blood. The weight of someone’s hand at his throat. The silk of the sheets hadn’t softened the humiliation. The bruises had bloomed like flowers down his ribs and between his thighs. And he hadn’t been able to scream—because what was the point? No one would’ve heard. No one would’ve cared.

He was supposed to be the elegant one. The powerful one. The Peak Lord. The man who had all the answers.

But here, like this, he was nothing.

No name. No sect. No honor. Just scent. Just fear. Just instinct.

His qi was a ragged thing, barely held together, fraying at the edges like a broken web. One more push—one wrong word—and it would collapse. He would collapse.

Threat. Threat. Alpha. Alpha. Alpha.

His thoughts didn’t have language anymore. Just flashing instinctual pulses. The scent of rosemary—Alpha. The coppery tang of blood—danger. The tremble of approaching footsteps—predator.

No. No. Stay away.

He couldn’t scream it. His voice didn’t work. His throat was choked with terror.

He bared his fangs.

Get away. I’ll fight. I’ll die fighting if I have to. Don’t touch me. Don’t look at me. Don’t see me like this—

And then.

A shift.

A breeze.

So faint—barely there.

Petrichor.
Soft rain on stone.
Cool, clean, familiar.

Mint.
Fresh-cut. Calming. Bitter at the edges but strangely grounding.

The scent didn’t trigger him.

It didn’t attack his senses—it whispered. Stirred something buried in the rubble of his mind.

He blinked—once, twice—vision bleary, shapes indistinct. He still couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. But something in him paused.

A different set of footsteps. Slower. Lighter. Measured. The sound didn’t press into him. It… waited. It gave him space. It didn’t flood the air with Alpha heat or the sharpened pressure of dominance. No challenge. No threat. No hunger.

Just rain.

And mint.

And… a voice.

Soft. Gentle. Hesitant. Not commanding. Not laced with spiritual pressure.

“You’re not alone, Shizun. I’m right here.”

Not alone?

He didn’t understand the words—not fully. But they curled around him like warm cloth. They didn’t shatter the dark, but they stitched a thread through it. A single line of light, thin as breath, but warm.

Shen Qingqiu’s body remained locked—but his breathing shifted. Slower. Less sharp. The bite behind his fangs softened.

There was a flicker—just the faintest flicker—of something beneath the fear.

Recognition.

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[Cang Qiong Mountain Sect
Qiong Ding Peak – Ling Xi Caves, Inner Cavern
Zhu Xiao’s Perspective]

Zhu Xiao remained exactly where he was—crouched low to the uneven stone floor, his knees aching with an insistent burn and his shoulders tensed from holding himself still for so long. Yet he dared not shift. Not even to blink too quickly. The cavern felt suspended in time, its very air threadbare and taut, stretched so thin with tension that one loud breath could snap it like brittle glass. Silence ruled the space, except for the slow, rhythmic drip of water echoing from the cave walls and the faint, almost imperceptible tremor in the qi-laced air.

Even Mu Qingfang—ever composed, ever clinical—remained motionless across the chamber, seated near Liu Qingge’s unconscious form like a sentry carved from stone. His gaze stayed trained on Zhu Xiao and Shen Qingqiu, watchful but distant, granting them the sacred space to breathe, to exist, to survive this strange and terrible threshold between collapse and restoration.

Zhu Xiao waited.

And then—he saw it.

Movement. The smallest ripple of motion. So slow, so delicate, it might have been mistaken for a trick of the flickering lantern-light or a shiver from the cave’s qi-saturated mist. But no, it was real. His eyes zeroed in on Shen Qingqiu.

The once-proud peak lord’s trembling hand was reaching toward him. Slowly. So agonizingly slow it was like watching a dying blossom unfurl in the middle of winter. His fingers hovered inches from Zhu Xiao’s own hand—half-curled, hesitant, as though unsure whether they sought contact or retreat. Every subtle twitch of his joints seemed to cost him more than just strength; it cost him fragments of will. The agony laced in that motion… was nearly unbearable to witness.

Zhu Xiao’s heart stuttered. Something ached inside him, an ache that felt unfamiliar, sharp, human.

He didn’t think. He just responded—instinctively, reverently.

With excruciating care, he raised his own hand, palm open, fingers relaxed and spread in peace. Inch by inch, like coaxing a frightened spirit, he extended his hand to meet Shen Qingqiu’s halfway. His own limbs trembled slightly; not from fear, but from the sheer gravity of the moment. The tension between them was its own living entity. He could feel it in his blood. A line of contact that hadn’t yet closed, a breath that hadn’t yet been drawn.

And then—it did.

The barest touch.

The ghost of contact.

Their fingertips met like a whisper in stillness, like a prayer passed between worlds.

Shen Qingqiu jolted. His entire frame stiffened with the suddenness of a startled beast, the terror of a creature that had known too many snares. Zhu Xiao froze instantly. He didn’t breathe. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t so much as blink.

‘Please don’t pull away.’ he thought. ‘Please don’t let go.’

But after a long, charged pause—Shen Qingqiu didn’t.

Instead—slowly, achingly slow—his fingers slid further, tracing down from Zhu Xiao’s calloused fingertips to the center of his palm. The contact was light, trembling, as delicate as a gossamer thread, but it was real. It was voluntary. And it was enough.

Zhu Xiao nearly collapsed from the relief, but he held his ground, jaw clenched against the flood of emotion that welled up behind his eyes. He swallowed thickly and inched forward, just enough to support Shen Qingqiu’s awkward lean without crowding him. Still kneeling, still low to the earth, he gently allowed their hands to fold together. He didn’t grasp tightly; just enough pressure to remind Shen Qingqiu he wasn’t alone. That someone was here. That someone saw him.

He could feel every tremor in Shen Qingqiu’s wrist. The shallow pulse. The way his fingers fluttered like the wings of a dying moth. Cold. So cold. As if his body had forgotten warmth entirely.

Zhu Xiao leaned in slightly, voice quiet, tender. “It’s okay. I’m here, Shizun. Just me. You’re not alone. No one’s going to hurt you again.”

He lowered himself until their eyes were level; open, vulnerable. His face was unguarded, not smiling, but soft with sincerity. But Shen Qingqiu’s eyes—those ethereal bamboo-jade eyes—were still clouded. Still lost in that omega-mode fugue. The pupils were too sharp, too narrow, flickering faintly as if caught between memory and panic, like a creature only half-aware it was still alive.

Still, he didn’t pull away.

And that… that mattered.

Zhu Xiao exhaled softly, trying not to let the trembling in his arms betray him. But then it hit him—

‘What now?’

His mind spun like a pinwheel in a thunderstorm. His gaze flicked toward Mu Qingfang with a helpless look only one step removed from sheer existential dread.

‘What the hell do I do next?!’

Mu Qingfang’s gaze met his—serene as a mountain lake—and didn’t even flinch. Like this was all perfectly normal. Zhu Xiao resisted the urge to throw a rock at him. Or himself.

‘Why are you just standing there like a passive background NPC in a dating sim?! I’m not trained for this! I wasn’t raised for this! I was a terminally ill college dropout — although I had only been in college online for like a month, technically — who transmigrated into a body that came with emotional baggage and spiritual pressure! I read yaoi for meimei’s plot research, not actual omega-care instructions!!’

Of course, right on cue, the red window blinked into his peripheral vision with an annoyingly cheerful chime:

[ Host is doing amazing! Shen Qingqiu’s emotional tension has dropped by 20%! You’re building trust! Keep holding his hand! Maybe say something soothing again~ (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧ ]

Zhu Xiao screamed internally.

‘Building trust?! What am I, a Pokémon trainer trying to calm a traumatized liepard in heat?! How is this my life now?!’

But despite the panic and sarcasm clawing at his insides, he didn’t let go.

No matter how overwhelmed he felt, he held on. Because for all the madness, for all the ridiculous transmigration nonsense, for all the novels and databanks and plot twists—

This wasn’t fiction anymore.

This was real.

And this man—this broken, brilliant, haunted man—was holding onto him.

He turned again toward Mu Qingfang and murmured, barely audible. “Mu-shibo… what else can I do?”

The healer’s eyes narrowed slightly, watching Shen Qingqiu’s posture with the scrutiny of a battlefield surgeon. “He’s still locked in omega-mode. Deep defensive trance. His body is no longer rejecting contact—but his mind hasn’t returned yet.”

Zhu Xiao shifted slightly, offering better support without increasing pressure on their joined hands. “So… what? I just sit here holding his hand and hope for a miracle?”

Mu Qingfang’s expression grew more serious, his arms crossing over his chest. “You need to coax him. Slowly. Gently. Draw him back to something familiar. A place. A memory. A feeling of safety.” His gaze softened just a hair. “You’re from Qing Jing Peak. You hold a piece of his peace. Use that.”

Zhu Xiao blinked. “Coax him…?”

“With your presence. Your voice. Your touch. Reconnect him to something he’s lost. But don’t rush. If the memory returns too fast, or if his distress spikes again—he will break. And if he qi-deviates now…”

The implication didn’t need words.

Zhu Xiao went pale. His chest constricted with the weight of a thousand bricks.

‘Don’t let him break. No pressure. Just casually walk him back from spiritual death, great. Wonderful. Fantastic.’

He nodded once. Slowly. Deliberately.

Then, he turned back toward Shen Qingqiu.

The man’s lashes fluttered faintly. His skin was bloodless, his lips drawn tight, but the tremble in his shoulders had quieted. The grip in Zhu Xiao’s hand remained.

It wasn’t a rejection.

It was trust.

So Zhu Xiao leaned in, lowered his voice to something gentle and rhythmic. Like a wind stirring in the leaves.

“Shizun.” he murmured. “It’s quiet now. Just you and me. No danger. No alphas. No pain.”

He swallowed, then let his mind drift to something real, something true.

“I was thinking about Qing Jing Peak.” he said quietly. “A few weeks ago. I was walking the path after dusk… and I heard music. Guqin. So soft I thought it was the wind.”

His voice lowered again, reverent. “I followed the sound. And I saw you. Sitting in the pavilion, eyes closed, playing alone. No audience. No command. Just you and the strings.”

Zhu Xiao smiled faintly. “I’ve never heard anything so beautiful. Not even the birds dared interrupt. The koi jumped once in the pond, and even that seemed like part of your rhythm. The bamboo rustled like they were harmonizing.”

He drew a slow breath, thumb brushing Shen Qingqiu’s wrist.

“That’s what Qing Jing Peak sounded like to me, Shizun. And I’d… I’d like to hear that music again.”

He dared to lean just a fraction closer.

“If I may be so bold… I’d like to be your audience. From beginning to end.”

He felt it then—a tremor in the hand he held. The slightest shift of breath. A flutter in Shen Qingqiu’s lashes.

Zhu Xiao didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

He waited.

Because sometimes… coaxing someone back wasn’t about saying the right words.

Sometimes, it was simply refusing to let go.

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[Cang Qiong Mountain Sect
Qiong Ding Peak – Ling Xi Caves, Inner Cavern
Shen Qingqiu’s Perspective]

He was drifting away again.

Not in water. Not in air. But in something deeper, thicker—like fog, heavy and suffocating. A place where thought didn’t fully form. Where everything was shadows and echoes. Where fear was a soundless scream in his bones.

His limbs were weightless, but every muscle ached. His skin burned cold. His throat felt raw, though he hadn’t spoken. His heartbeat thundered in his ears—loud, panicked, and irregular—like a drum warning of danger, danger, danger.

He didn’t know where he was.

He couldn’t remember when it started.

The last thing— the last real thing —was pain. A voice yelling. A threat. A scent of blood and violence and—

He whimpered. In the stillness, it sounded too loud. He curled in tighter against the stone, spine brushing rough rock, chest hollow with dread.

The cave pressed in on him. Every sound, every vibration, was a potential strike. Alpha qi lingered in the air, even though the source had long been subdued. It clung to his spiritual sea like soot, like poison.

Don’t trust. Don’t move. Don’t breathe.

Instinct kept him frozen.

But then—

A shift.

A scent.

It curled through the fog like spring rain falling gently over scorched earth. Crisp. Cool. Clean. Like after. Like the moment a storm passed and the world exhaled.

Petrichor. That scent again.

And beneath it—mint. Subtle, green, and steady. Not sharp. Not possessive. Not a predator’s scent. Not Alpha.

Beta.

Safe.

The scent grew closer.

It pressed gently into the air around him, never invasive. Never demanding. Just there. Patient. Warm.

He blinked.

The fog didn’t lift, but it rippled. Softened at the edges.

The scent touched his senses again, and something low and soft in his throat vibrated—an instinctive response he hadn’t made in years.

A purr.

Warm. Good. Familiar.

The hand he held—yes, he was holding something—felt steady. Broad and cool and callused in a way that felt real. Grounding. There were no claws hidden in it. No strength poised to strike.

He tugged it. Slowly. Not forceful. Just enough.

The hand didn’t resist.

It came to him.

He turned his face toward the wrist, his nose twitching faintly as he inhaled again.

The gland was exposed. Just beneath the skin. He could feel the Beta’s pulse there—slow and even.

Shen Qingqiu breathed in deeply.

The scent bloomed inside his chest like warmth unfurling over ice. It filled the cracks in his qi. Not healing. Not fixing. But soothing.

He made another soft sound.

And then, gently, almost reverently, he brushed his cheek against the gland.

Once. Twice. A slow drag of skin on skin, scent to scent, the way his instincts craved.

His purr deepened.

Mine, something in him whispered.

Not loud. Not possessive.

Just… known.

Safe. Good. Stay. Mine.

He nestled closer—not quite leaning on the Beta, but shifting minutely forward, guided by the gravity of scent and warmth.

The fog didn’t clear.

But the shadows receded.

He could rest, just a little.

Because something here, in this moment, in this quiet palm and steady scent, felt right.

Felt… his.

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[Cang Qiong Mountain Sect
Qiong Ding Peak – Ling Xi Caves, Inner Cavern
Zhu Xiao’s Perspective]

Zhu Xiao had thought—naively—that the worst was over.

The hardest part should’ve been getting Shen Qingqiu to acknowledge his presence, right? That was what all those tear-jerking dog-blood webnovels said: Make first contact, calm the distressed omega, slowly guide them back to clarity, cue the dramatic return of lucidity, maybe insert a few poetic tears and soft dialogue—done!

But this?

This was not part of the (his made-up) script.

This was Shen Qingqiu—the cool, untouchable, elegant-as-an-immortal Peak Lord of Qing Jing Peak—sniffing him.

And not just sniffing. No, no. Shen Qingqiu had buried his face into Zhu Xiao’s wrist like a cat claiming its territory, nuzzling the side of his scent gland with all the delicate reverence of a man discovering warm tea in a snowstorm.

Zhu Xiao sat frozen, back straight, eyes wide as the full moon, brain caught somewhere between a system error and a full spiritual shutdown.

Was he purring?!

Yes.

Yes, he absolutely was.

A soft, low purr rumbled from Shen Qingqiu’s chest—muffled against Zhu Xiao’s wrist—and that was the final straw.

Zhu Xiao’s entire internal monologue turned into one long scream:

‘WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW?!’

His fingers twitched but he didn’t dare move. He didn't breathe. He didn’t blink. Shen Qingqiu had shifted even closer now, practically curled toward him, face pressed right where Zhu Xiao’s scent was strongest, like he wanted to memorize it, soak in it, roll in it .

And then—

And then he rubbed his cheek along Zhu Xiao’s skin. Slowly. Gently. Like he was marking him.

A new panic window opened in Zhu Xiao’s brain.

‘What is this?! Why does this look like imprinting?! Is this what imprinting looks like?! Did he just imprint on me?! I didn’t sign up for spiritual imprinting! I don’t even have romantic experience—hell, I’ve never even kissed anyone unless it was in a dream!’

He dared a glance upward.

Mu Qingfang was still standing nearby, ever-calm and composed like a Confucian sage admiring a particularly complex alchemical puzzle. His gaze flicked from Shen Qingqiu to Zhu Xiao with the air of someone filing away each reaction for a future lecture. His brows were slightly raised in curiosity, but not alarm.

Not alarm.

Which meant this wasn’t dangerous per se—but it was still entirely, horrifically, confusing.

Zhu Xiao’s mouth worked soundlessly for a second before he managed to croak. “Uhh… Mu-shibo?”

His voice was cracked and a little strangled.

Mu Qingfang blinked once, slowly, like a content cat. “Yes?”

Zhu Xiao jerked his head slightly in Shen Qingqiu’s direction—the Peak Lord currently nuzzling his wrist like it was the only warm object in a blizzard—and gave a panicked smile that said ‘please help before I combust into spiritual ash.’

“I-Is this… uh… normal?” he whispered hoarsely. “This whole…purring-and-rubbing-and-declaring-me-his-human-heated-blanket situation?”

Mu Qingfang did not answer right away.

Instead, he stepped forward a fraction, gaze sharpening with clinical focus. “Interesting…” he murmured.

Zhu Xiao immediately regretted asking.

‘Oh no.’ he groaned internally. ‘He’s doing the scholar face. He’s gonna write a research scroll about this later. I’m gonna end up in some cultivator medical journal under ‘rare omega imprinting behavior: unexpected Beta bonding during defensive trance.’ I’m going to be footnoted—footnoted!’

Mu Qingfang gave the tiniest smile, hands calmly behind his back. “He’s identifying your scent as safe. Familiar. Likely bonding as a means of anchoring himself to his present environment. It’s instinctive—driven by the omega’s subconscious need to find safety in a trusted presence.”

“Okay, great, wonderful—” Zhu Xiao whispered, trying not to let his breath quiver as Shen Qingqiu rubbed even closer, face now nestled comfortably into the curve of his forearm, the purring low and steady, like it belonged there. “—But what do I do ?”

Mu Qingfang tilted his head, as though genuinely considering it.

“…Nothing.”

Zhu Xiao blinked.

“Nothing?” he repeated, voice cracking.

“Don’t move. Don’t disrupt him. Let the instinct run its course.” Mu Qingfang replied serenely. “The more comfortable he becomes, the closer he will return to lucidity on his own. You’re doing fine.”

‘Fine.’ Zhu Xiao thought, sweat running down his back. ‘I’m a human pillow to a Peak Lord who just decided I smell like comfort tea. I’m fine. Everything’s great.’ he mused, sarcastically as he forced himself to relax just slightly, muscles still tense but posture softening.

Shen Qingqiu shifted again, drawing even closer, and murmured something barely audible under his breath.

Zhu Xiao leaned down carefully, not wanting to jostle him—and heard the softest word whispered into his skin, low and breathy, spoken like a secret.

“…Mine.”

Zhu Xiao’s soul left his body.

His mind exploded.

A red system notification popped up cheerfully:

[ Congratulations, Host! Shen Qingqiu’s emotional tension has dropped by 36%! Keep going! (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧ ]

‘OKAY! YOU ARE CLEARLY NOT HELPING ME WITH THIS! UNLESS YOU HAVE AN IDEA HOW TO HELP ME, YOU SHUT UP!’

[ (ಥ﹏ಥ) ]

Zhu Xiao ignored the system. He said nothing. Did nothing.

Because even in his flailing inner chaos, even while every instinct screamed get out while you still can, Zhu Xiao didn’t pull away.

Because Shen Qingqiu was still trembling.

Still buried in fear.

Still… trusting him.

And that was something he couldn’t betray.

So he stayed. Let the warmth of his scent cradle the man clinging to it. Let the moment stretch.

Even if his brain was spinning, his soul was imploding, and his dignity was rapidly packing its bags.

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..

...

Chapter Text

[Cang Qiong Mountain Sect
Qiong Ding Peak – Ling Xi Caves, Inner Cavern]

To Zhu Xiao, time stretched into an agonizing eternity. Each second dragged its claws down his nerves, lengthening into what felt like hours, though in truth only minutes had passed. His legs had gone stiff from remaining in the same kneeling posture, and yet he dared not move, for fear of disturbing the man slumped against him. Garnet-amber eyes flicked downward, landing on Shen Qingqiu’s face—refined, delicate, the kind of cold beauty that seemed sculpted by immortal hands. Except at present, that aloof mask was nowhere to be found. 

The once-impeccable Immortal Master of Qing Jing Peak had folded inward, pressing his cheek into the crook of Zhu Xiao’s wrist with startling intimacy, as though seeking solace from some unseen nightmare. The sight was both absurd and disarming, sending an odd shiver racing through Zhu Xiao’s spine.

This… this couldn’t be real. The Cold Beauty Alpha, reduced to this state? No—no, that was wrong. He had to remind himself. Shen Qingqiu wasn’t an Alpha at all. He was—Zhu Xiao’s thoughts snagged and stumbled, even as he muttered inwardly—an Omega. An Omega. Every time he repeated it, the word tasted stranger, like oil coating his tongue. 

His heart gave a jolt of irrational irritation as he remembered who was responsible for this absurdity. Airplane Shooting Toward the Sky. That hack, that cheap word-monger! Zhu Xiao clenched his jaw, mentally cursing with fervor. ‘If I ever meet you, I swear I’ll throttle you until your eyes roll back. Then I’ll drag your miserable hide to the filthiest pit of hell and bury you alive in a dung heap!’

Because none of this made sense. Not a single thread of it. Six thousand, six hundred and sixty-six chapters. He had devoured every one of them, even the long-winded filler arcs and smut scenes that dragged on for volumes. Not once—not once—had there been even a sliver of foreshadowing that Shen Qingqiu was secretly an Omega. No slip of the tongue. No stray detail in narration. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was as if this truth had been conjured out of thin air.

Zhu Xiao’s mind raced, unspooling tangled knots of contradictions. Luo Binghe—the Pure Alpha of All Alphas™—shouldn’t he have sensed it? Wasn’t he supposed to be an unstoppable protagonist, endowed with instincts sharper than any blade? Yet in the original novel, Luo Binghe had never once betrayed knowledge of Shen Qingqiu’s secondary gender. Unless… unless his blind revenge had smothered his senses? But no—that didn’t hold up. 

Zhu Xiao’s memory yanked up another example, crisp and unwelcome. Wife number four hundred and two; an enemy, drenched in blood feud, who had once nearly killed Luo Binghe’s beloved First Wife, Yingying. He had nearly slaughtered her in a fit of unrelenting rage. But the moment her concealed Omega identity was revealed, Luo Binghe had known. Known instantly, as though his Alpha senses had cut through every false layer she’d hidden behind. He had stopped mid-killing blow, unable to ignore the truth humming from her very marrow. Because he was the protagonist. Because that was how the world bent around him.

So then, why Shen Qingqiu? Why had the great Pure Alpha never once sniffed it out? Why was Shen Qingqiu the only exception?

Or worse—had Airplane simply… forgotten?

The thought made Zhu Xiao’s chest tighten with helpless fury. He dragged a hand down his face, muffling the groan that wanted to claw free. His brain was a churn of questions, all pounding against his skull with no answers in sight. If only—if only he could haul that hack writer here and demand explanations at sword-point.

Before his mind could spiral further, a low murmur cut through the haze of his thoughts. Zhu Xiao’s ears pricked, his attention snapping toward the tall, composed figure standing nearby. Mu Qingfang was speaking—his voice calm, deliberate—but so quiet that the words slipped away like mist.

Zhu Xiao blinked, startled, and quickly bowed his head in apology. “Pardon? This disciple apologizes, Mu-Shibo. Will Mu-Shibo please repeat that?” His voice cracked faintly at the edges, betraying his unease.

Mu Qingfang’s sharp, assessing gaze swept over both him and the figure in his arms. His expression was unreadable for a long moment, though his brow creased ever so slightly, as if weighing some private calculation. Finally, he spoke again, this time with clearer resonance, though his tone remained soft, careful not to stir Shen Qingqiu’s fragile state. “I believe he may be subconsciously choosing you as a stabilizing scent-anchor… unusual for a beta, but not impossible.”

For one suspended heartbeat, Zhu Xiao’s mind blanked. Then the words crashed down on him like thunder. “...Me??” His voice nearly squeaked in disbelief, though the word never left his lips. His entire body went rigid, a pulse of panic rippling through his chest. A scent-anchor? Him? 

How—why—what cosmic joke was this supposed to be? His breath quickened, his inner voice shrieking with the force of it. ‘WHY ME?!’

As if sealing the decision in stone, Mu Qingfang gave a single firm nod, expression set with clinical certainty. He moved then, striding over to the prone figure of Liu Qingge. The man was still utterly unconscious, chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of deep oblivion. With practiced care, Mu Qingfang bent down, slipped Liu Qingge’s limp arm across his shoulders, and hoisted him up with the controlled strength of one accustomed to supporting injured cultivators.

The shift of weight and fabric sounded too loud in the cavern’s stillness.

Zhu Xiao’s eyes widened until the garnet gleam seemed to blaze. His mouth opened, stumbling around broken syllables. “W–wait, what—?” His voice cracked with incredulity, his chest rising with ragged, anxious breaths.

“Do not worry. I will return.” Mu Qingfang’s reply was calm, resolute, as though that simple assurance could soothe away the storm brewing in Zhu Xiao’s chest.

But it did not soothe. Not in the slightest.

As Mu Qingfang began to move, Liu Qingge slumped heavily against him, the distance between them widening with each step. Zhu Xiao’s stomach dropped into a pit of dread. His pulse roared in his ears. 

‘YOU’RE LEAVING ME HERE—ALONE—WITH HIM?!’ His thoughts erupted into a wordless scream, panic clawing at every nerve. He could almost taste his own doom in the cavern air.

.

..

…

Disciple, Are You Flirting With Me?

Chapter Sixteen

“An Omega’s Scent Anchor”

…

..

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[Cang Qiong Mountain Sect
Qiong Ding Peak – Ling Xi Caves, Inner Cavern
Moment Later…]

Zhu Xiao sat as stiff as a board, his shoulders drawn taut as if he were about to be punished for a crime he hadn’t even committed. The Ling Xi Caves were quiet around them, their stone walls humming faintly with the low pulse of spiritual energy buried deep within the mountain. The air smelled faintly of damp moss and mineral water, cool and sharp against his nose. None of it mattered, though, because every nerve in his body was screaming at the fact that Shen Qingqiu, the aloof and terrifying Shen Qingqiu, currently had a death grip on his wrist.

“I can’t believe he actually left me.” Zhu Xiao muttered under his breath, shooting the dark tunnel where Mu Qingfang had disappeared a betrayed glare. “Just—just walked away and left me to the wolves.” Or in this case, a secret Omega wolf. This omega’s scent anchor. He tried to shift his wrist, but Shen Qingqiu’s grip was deceptively strong, delicate fingers locked around him like iron shackles. 

His sigh came out in a pitiful puff, shoulders sagging as he gave in and adjusted his position on the cold stone floor. Fine. If he was going to be dragged into this, at least he could sit without cramping his legs.

Careful not to jostle too much, he leaned back slightly, speaking in a low, coaxing tone as though addressing a wild animal he didn’t want to spook. “Shizun… are you, uh, coming back anytime soon?” His words hung awkwardly in the cave, swallowed by the silence. Of course, there was no answer. Shen Qingqiu was still submerged in that overwhelming Omega haze, no trace of his sharp tongue or cutting glares to be found.

Zhu Xiao had barely settled in when the warmth against his hand shifted. His spine went rigid, and his eyes widened in alarm as Shen Qingqiu moved closer—too close. “A-ah, Shizun, wait! Don’t—don’t do that—” The protest strangled in his throat when Shen Qingqiu ignored him completely and pressed forward, half draping across Zhu Xiao’s chest with the kind of casual intimacy that had his ears burning. Shen Qingqiu’s face burrowed into the fabric of his robes, the warmth of his breath seeping through to his skin.

Zhu Xiao froze, arms instinctively raising into the air like a man held at swordpoint. His entire body screamed do not touch, do not move, do not even breathe too loudly. This was beyond dangerous territory—this was the kind of situation that could get him killed ten times over if Shen Qingqiu remembered it later.

Of course, that was when the obnoxious glow of a red screen flickered before his eyes, golden letters cheerfully announcing:

[ Host! Shen Qingqiu’s emotional tension has dropped by 42%! ✧(>o<)ﾉ✧ ]

Zhu Xiao’s soul nearly left his body. ‘Forty-two percent?’ His mind shrieked in disbelief. ‘Wait! What did I JUST say about not interfering?!’

[  (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ But Host, isn’t this wonderful?! You’re helping him feel safe and relaxed! ]

‘WONDERFUL? Relaxed? He’s practically using me as a pillow!’ Zhu Xiao’s inward voice was a mix of panic and despair. ‘I’m not a human comfort object! If he finds out later, my head will be rolling down Qing Jing Peak before sunset!’

[ ( •̀ ω •́ )✧ Correction: You are currently his favorite comfort object! Congratulations, Host! ]

‘Favorite?! That’s not an achievement!’ Zhu Xiao internally howled, his face heating as Shen Qingqiu shifted even closer, his cheek brushing against Zhu Xiao’s chest. The low, rumbling purr vibrating against him nearly stopped his heart.

Not daring to so much as twitch, Zhu Xiao lowered his hands slowly, inch by inch, until they rested uselessly at his sides. He didn’t dare touch Shen Qingqiu—not the hem of his robes, not the strands of his dark hair, nothing. It felt like standing at the edge of a cliff, one wrong move away from plummeting to certain death. He could only sit there, back stiff, eyes darting toward the inner cave mouth with the most helpless expression known to man, silently begging for Mu Qingfang to return and rescue him.

‘If Shizun ever remembers this.’ Zhu Xiao thought, throat dry. ‘I’m not just dead—I’ll be buried, dug up, and killed again.’

Meanwhile, the system’s glittering window bounced happily in front of him, as if mocking his suffering.

[ (≧▽≦)ゞ Don’t worry, Host! You’re doing amazing! Keep being soft and safe! ]

‘AMAZING?!’ Zhu Xiao wanted to scream. ‘I’m living my last moments, that’s what I’m doing! And you really are not helping right now!’

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[Cang Qiong Mountain
Qian Cao Peak
Meanwhile…]

The soft lamplight of Qian Cao Peak’s infirmary chamber spilled in gentle circles across the polished wooden floorboards, bathing the room in a warm, subdued glow. A faint fragrance of medicinal herbs—dried astragalus, powdered lingzhi, and simmered ginseng roots—hung in the air, lingering like smoke after a fire. Upon the central bed lay Liu Qingge, the martial god of Bai Zhan Peak, his once blood-streaked body now cleansed, dressed in fresh white inner robes, and resting beneath a neatly tucked quilt. The harsh lines of tension carved into his features earlier had smoothed; though his sharp brows still gave him an air of severity, unconsciousness lent him an unfamiliar quietness, almost vulnerable in its unguarded state.

Mu Qingfang stood beside him, fingers steady and precise as he pressed along Liu Qingge’s meridians. His brow was furrowed in concentration, lips moving in a low murmur as he measured the flow of spiritual energy coursing within his shixiong’s body. 

“Hm… qi deviation stabilized, meridians still slightly scorched from backlash… spiritual sea strained but intact. Circulatory channels may need several weeks of nourishment.” His voice was matter-of-fact, clinical, as he adjusted the jade diagnostic plate on the bedside table, the thin talisman papers fluttering faintly with residual spiritual glow. He jotted a quick note in his physician’s record before pausing, fingertips brushing lightly against the back of Liu Qingge’s hand to check pulse.

The quiet, however, fractured abruptly as the sliding door rattled open. A gust of night air swept in, carrying with it the unmistakable, heavy scent of pinecones warmed by resinous sap and the sharp bite of cinnamon bark. It pressed into the infirmary like a weight, subtle yet undeniably potent—an alpha’s pheromones rolling unchecked.

Mu Qingfang’s frown deepened at once. His hand withdrew from Liu Qingge’s wrist, and he turned sharply toward the door, robes whispering around his legs. “Sect Leader.” he said, voice cutting but controlled. “Must you barge in releasing your pheromones as though this were Bai Zhan Peak’s training field? This is an infirmary—your presence alone is oppressive enough. Rein in your scent.”

In the doorway stood Yue Qingyuan, tall and striking in pale-blue sect robes edged with silver thread. His expression, usually composed with warmth, carried a tension tonight; his amber eyes darted at once to the figure lying on the bed. He inhaled slowly, visibly reigning in the flood of pheromones, his shoulders drawing taut with restraint until the sharp cinnamon faded, mellowing into a quieter trace. 

An apologetic flicker crossed his features as his gaze returned to Mu Qingfang. “My apologies, Mu-shidi. I… lost control for a moment. I heard that someone was injured in the Ling Xi caves and hurried here without thinking.”

Mu Qingfang exhaled, irritation folding into weary resignation. He pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered half under his breath. “Heavens, if only my disciples’ tongues weren’t faster than wildfire. A single word in the infirmary and within the hour it reaches the Sect Leader himself.” He dropped his hand and gestured toward the bed. “In any case, Liu-shixiong is stable. He suffered qi deviation, yes, but we intervened before the damage grew irreversible. With rest and medicinal support, he will recover.”

Yue Qingyuan’s eyes softened briefly as he stepped closer, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the bedside. He studied Liu Qingge’s sleeping figure, the faint rise and fall of his chest, and some of the tension in his jaw slackened. Yet as his gaze lingered, a sharper glint cut through his calm demeanor. He turned his head toward Mu Qingfang, voice firm but edged with suspicion. “You said ‘we,’ Mu-shidi. Who else was with you?”

Mu Qingfang hesitated, then folded his hands into his sleeves, answering with deliberate composure. “A disciple from Qing Jing Peak sought me out—Zhu Xiao, a beta. He was concerned for Shen-shixiong’s well-being. At his request, I accompanied him to investigate. The situation in the caves proved volatile, but… everything was contained.”

At once, Yue Qingyuan’s expression shifted—calm veneer cracking under a flicker of urgency. “Shen-shidi?” His voice was low, almost a growl, the weight of an alpha’s protectiveness threading through the syllables. He shook his head quickly, lips pressing into a thin line. “No… I cannot leave this to hearsay. I’ll check on him myself.”

With that, the Sect Leader turned, robes flaring as he strode toward the door.

For a heartbeat, Mu Qingfang only blinked, caught off guard. Then his eyes widened and he quickly moved after him, the quiet decorum of a physician slipping into exasperated panic. “Sect Leader, wait! You cannot go into the Ling Xi caves—it is unsafe!” His voice carried down the hall, sharper than usual, his steps quick as he tried to keep pace.

Yue Qingyuan did not falter, the steady rhythm of his boots echoing against the polished wood. His back was straight, shoulders squared, radiating the unshakable determination of one accustomed to bearing the weight of the entire sect. Without looking back, he replied, his tone calm yet resolute. “If it is unsafe, then all the more reason I must go. I cannot rest knowing Shen-shidi is within. I am… worried for him, Mu-shidi.”

Mu Qingfang’s sigh spilled out heavy with frustration, his expression caught between helplessness and reluctant understanding. He lengthened his stride to match the Sect Leader’s, continuing to protest even as the echo of their footsteps faded deeper into Qian Cao Peak’s corridors.

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[Cang Qiong Mountain Sect
Qiong Ding Peak – Ling Xi Caves, Inner Cavern
Some Time Later…]

Zhu Xiao truly had no sense of how much time had slipped away. Minutes? Hours? The cavern swallowed sound and light alike, making the passing of time feel distorted, sluggish. He sat there, back stiff against the rough-hewn stone wall, every so often adjusting his posture as though the very act of breathing too loudly would be a transgression. Awkwardness sat upon him like an oversized cloak, pressing down on his shoulders until he could scarcely tell where nervous tension ended and suffocation began. The air in the Ling Xi Caves was damp and heavy, tinged faintly with the metallic tang of spiritual residue, and every inhale made his lungs ache with unease.

At least his panic had ebbed, for the most part. Earlier, his heart had battered against his ribs with a frantic rhythm, like a bird trapped in a cage. Now it beat slower, though a thin wire of nervous energy still strung him taut. The reason for his fragile calm was draped across him: Shen Qingqiu, quiet and resting, his delicate frame curved almost protectively against Zhu Xiao’s chest. 

His long lashes cast shadows over pale cheeks, his breath ghosting warmly through the thin fabric of Zhu Xiao’s robe. More startling still, the older omega purred faintly in his relaxation like a lazy cat, the low vibration thrumming against Zhu Xiao’s sternum. 

Zhu Xiao had no idea what to do with such a phenomenon. So, with the rigid politeness of a man terrified of overstepping, he tilted his head away, gaze fixed anywhere else but the sect lord secret omega nestled against him.

It was then—when he thought perhaps he could endure the strangeness in silence—that his nose twitched. A thread of something unexpected brushed against his senses, subtle yet undeniable. 

He froze, drawing a shallow breath to confirm what he thought he’d caught. Yes—there it was again. A fragrance, faint but distinct, was weaving into the stagnant air.

Fresh. Crisp. Sweet.

His brows knit together as his chest expanded with another quiet inhale. The scent reminded him of something familiar, but it clung to no clear memory. Fruit, perhaps? Yes, the brightness of fruit at its ripest, sun-warmed and tender to the bite. But before he could puzzle it apart fully, another note unfurled within that sweetness. It was richer, more decadent, interlacing like a harmony woven beneath the melody. The second scent was smooth and golden, with a sweetness that lingered, warm on the tongue even without tasting it.

Zhu Xiao shut his eyes, trying to isolate the strands, forcing his mind into precision. ‘First, the light sweetness. Then, beneath it, something fuller… thicker… what is it?’ His thoughts spun, grasping at the sensations the way a scholar teases apart the brushstrokes of ancient calligraphy.

“…sweet, yes, but with weight. Rich, almost creamy… caramel? No, not quite…” His nose wrinkled as he drew in another breath, willing clarity to come. Then, all at once, the answer struck him, sharp and undeniable. His eyes snapped open, pupils widening with recognition.

“Apple and honey.” he whispered into the dim cavern air, his voice hushed as if naming the scents aloud gave them power. His chest swelled with certainty; there could be no mistake. Those were the scents wrapping faintly around him, curling in delicate strands he had somehow overlooked until now.

But realization came hand-in-hand with bewilderment. His mind stuttered, stumbling over the next question: Where did they come from?

The truth revealed itself almost cruelly quickly. He did not even need to stretch his senses outward to confirm it; the answer lay against him, warm and fragile. Slowly, almost unwillingly, Zhu Xiao lowered his gaze, his garnet-amber eyes flickering down to the man nestled against his chest. His breath caught, and for a heartbeat, the cavern seemed to hold its silence in tandem with him.

The scents were faint but undeniable, soft tendrils of pheromones slipping unbidden into the stagnant air. They clung to Shen Qingqiu himself, rising from his unconscious body like whispers of secrets too carefully buried. The crisp, fresh sweetness of apples interwoven with the golden richness of honey—it was him.

Zhu Xiao’s expression broke into open shock, his thoughts scattering. ‘Shen Qingqiu?’ His mouth fell slightly ajar, words stuck behind his teeth.

“Oh.”

The single syllable fell from his lips in stunned disbelief. Of all the revelations he might have expected within these caves—dangers, ambushes, the presence of lingering malevolent qi—this had not even grazed the edge of his imagination. Yet there it was, clinging to him, delicate yet inescapable.

He stared down at Shen Qingqiu, dumbfounded. Never—not in his most improbable considerations—would Zhu Xiao have thought such a fragrance, such a tender and unguarded scent, could come from him.

“You…” The words slipped past his lips before he could stop them, unthinking, helpless. “Your scent smells… amazing.”

The moment the statement left him, Zhu Xiao felt heat flare across his cheeks. He did not just say that aloud. His mortification was immediate, his heart thudding hard enough that he was half certain Shen Qingqiu could feel it through his chest. 

Quickly, he glanced aside as if he could snatch the words back out of the air, praying to every celestial immortal and forgotten deity that Shen Qingqiu was still too deeply buried in his omega-instincts to have registered what he’d just blurted out.

Because if the man had been lucid? Zhu Xiao had no doubt that Qing Jing Peak would soon be one disciple shorter.

He cleared his throat in a flustered attempt to regain some semblance of composure, though his ears still burned. He had just about managed to avert his gaze again—out of respect, out of sheer survival instinct—when the shift happened.

Shen Qingqiu’s body tensed against him, every line going rigid, and then his eyes snapped open. Wide, startled, sharp. They were no longer soft with relaxation but bright with a sudden, almost panicked clarity.

Zhu Xiao immediately stilled, garnet-amber eyes dropping back to the older omega’s face. “Shizun?” he ventured carefully, voice pitched low so as not to startle him further.

He got no verbal reply. Instead, Shen Qingqiu’s elegant, pale fingers suddenly curled, clutching at the front of Zhu Xiao’s robes with enough force that the fabric bit against his collarbone. The terror glinting in those bamboo-jade eyes was like a dagger, and it pierced Zhu Xiao to his core.

“Shizun? What is wron—”

The question died on his tongue. His head jerked up as a faint sound reached him—soft but distinct. Footsteps. Slow, measured, echoing faintly against the stone until they reverberated through the inner cavern like the heartbeat of something unseen.

Every muscle in Zhu Xiao’s body locked as his head turned sharply toward the source, gaze narrowing toward the mouth of the inner cavern passageway.

‘Is that Mu-Shibo?’ he wondered, tension coiling through his frame. His mind scrambled between relief and fresh worry. If it wasn’t Mu Qingfang—if it was something else—

His grip around Shen Qingqiu’s hand instinctively tightened.

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[Cang Qiong Mountain Sect
Qiong Ding Peak – Ling Xi Caves, Outer Cavern
Meanwhile…]

The air outside the Ling Xi Caves was still, heavy with the faint mineral tang of damp stone and the lingering chill that seeped from the cavern’s depths. The late-afternoon light was dimming, casting long shadows across the forested slope that hugged the peak. Cicadas droned faintly in the distance, their rhythmic trill the only sign that time was still passing.

Mu Qingfang stalked across the clearing with a scowl tugging at the edges of his otherwise composed expression, his physician’s robes whispering against the ground with each brisk stride. His jaw was tight, his brows drawn together in a rare display of frustration. Just ahead of him, Sect Leader Yue Qingyuan walked with a measured but unmistakably determined pace, the tails of his white and blue sect robes trailing behind him like banners of quiet authority.

“Zhangmen-shixiong.” Mu Qingfang said sharply, his tone edged with irritation as he lengthened his stride to catch up. “I must insist that you reconsider this course of action. The Ling Xi Caves are not a place one should enter lightly—least of all right now.”

Yue Qingyuan did not slow. His dark hair, caught by the wind, shifted around his shoulders, but his steps remained steady, purposeful. “Mu-shidi.” he said, voice calm but with an undercurrent of steel. “I only wish to check on Shen-shidi. If there is no danger, I will simply confirm his well-being and leave. I cannot in good conscience ignore this.”

Mu Qingfang exhaled through his nose, the sound sharp with exasperation. His patience, carefully cultivated over years of healing the most stubborn of sword cultivators, was beginning to fray. With a decisive motion, he moved ahead and planted himself firmly in front of the cave mouth, barring the Sect Leader’s path.

The entrance loomed behind him, a dark yawning maw of rock framed by moss and trailing vines, the faint breath of cool air sighing from its depths. It felt as though the cave itself was holding its breath.

“Zhangmen-shixiong.” Mu Qingfang’s voice was quiet but heavy with authority, his expression grave. “You must listen to me. You cannot enter the Ling Xi Caves right now. It is imperative that you leave them undisturbed. Shen Qingqiu’s condition is… delicate. The best thing you can do for him at this moment is wait until he emerges on his own.”

For a brief moment, Yue Qingyuan actually paused. His sharp dark eyes fixed on Mu Qingfang’s face, his expression unreadable as though weighing the words. Mu Qingfang felt a fleeting surge of relief, only for it to vanish when Yue Qingyuan’s mouth tightened with renewed resolve.

He shook his head, a lock of gold hair slipping free to brush against his cheek. “Mu-shidi.” he said, voice softer now but no less resolute. “You know as well as I do that Xiao-Jiu…” The words faltered, and Yue Qingyuan corrected himself with a small shake of his head. “Shen-shidi has a habit of burying his troubles in silence. If something is wrong, if he is unwell, I cannot simply stand by and do nothing. I need to see him with my own eyes.”

Mu Qingfang’s lips pressed into a thin line. He could see the stubborn glint in Yue Qingyuan’s eyes, the kind that would not be swayed by reason alone. The Sect Leader’s protective instinct toward Shen Qingqiu was as fierce as it was dangerous right now.

Straightening to his full height, Mu Qingfang set his shoulders and met Yue Qingyuan’s gaze unflinchingly. “Then allow me to be perfectly clear, Sect Leader.” he said, tone taking on the clipped, professional weight of a physician’s final verdict. “As a healer, I cannot permit an alpha—any alpha—to set foot in that cave right now. Your presence would agitate Shen Qingqiu’s qi flow, disrupt the fragile equilibrium we have managed to restore, and very likely trigger another episode. At his current state of depletion, the resulting backlash could cause catastrophic qi deviation.”

Yue Qingyuan went still. His expression flickered concern deepening into something far sharper, almost alarmed as the weight of those words sank in. He glanced past Mu Qingfang toward the shadowed cavern mouth, as if he could see through stone and reach the man beyond it. His hand tightened briefly at his side.

“…Is it that severe?” His voice was quiet now, almost pained.

“Yes.” Mu Qingfang’s answer was firm, unwavering. “Severe enough that a single disruption could cost him his life.”

For a long moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the wind rustling through the nearby bamboo. At last, Yue Qingyuan stepped back half a pace, his shoulders tense, his expression conflicted.

“What exactly is wrong with Shen-shidi?” he asked, his voice tight.

Mu Qingfang shook his head once, a precise, definitive motion. “I am unable to say.”

Yue Qingyuan’s brows furrowed. “Unable—or unwilling?”

“This matter is confidential.” Mu Qingfang replied evenly, unflinching. “It falls under the healer–patient privilege. I will not betray Shen Qingqiu’s trust or expose his private circumstances without his consent. Not even for the Sect Leader.”

Yue Qingyuan’s jaw worked as though he wanted to argue further, but he stopped himself. Instead, he let out a slow breath and shifted the topic slightly, his gaze narrowing. “You said before that someone was with him. A disciple—Qing Jing Peak’s beta disciple, if I recall. Shouldn’t Shen-shidi be alone at a time like this? Why allow a disciple to remain with him in such a vulnerable state?”

There was something in his tone—a flicker of dissatisfaction, a faint trace of jealousy or protectiveness—that Mu Qingfang did not miss.

“It is necessary.” Mu Qingfang said simply, his expression calm but unyielding. “Disciple Zhu’s presence is not arbitrary. He serves an important function for Shen Qingqiu’s recovery. Removing him now would be detrimental.”

“What function?” Yue Qingyuan pressed, the question sharp.

Mu Qingfang’s eyes hardened just slightly, a glint of steel behind the usually mild composure. “That, too, I cannot disclose. Respectfully, Sect Leader, this is not a matter for public inquiry.”

Yue Qingyuan exhaled slowly, frustration evident in the set of his shoulders. For a moment, he looked as though he might protest again, but then his expression softened, disappointment flickering in his eyes. He finally inclined his head in reluctant concession.

“…Very well. I will trust your judgment, Mu-shidi.”

Mu Qingfang allowed himself the faintest sigh of relief, though he remained vigilant, keeping his stance firm between the Sect Leader and the cave. “Thank you. I will inform you the moment it is safe to approach.”

Yue Qingyuan nodded, but his gaze lingered on the dark cavern mouth for a long moment, worry etched into every line of his face, before he finally turned away.

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[Cang Qiong Mountain Sect
Qiong Ding Peak – Ling Xi Caves, Inner Cavern
A Moment Later…]

The inner cavern was cool and dim, lit only by the faint glow of luminescent moss clinging to the walls like pale ghostly fire. The air carried a damp, mineral scent, mingled faintly with the earthy aroma of soil and the subtle, frayed edge of Shen Qingqiu’s unsettled pheromones. The stillness was so complete that every small sound seemed amplified; the drip of water into a shallow pool, the faint whisper of fabric as Zhu Xiao shifted his stance.

Zhu Xiao had been on high alert, his entire body coiled like a drawn bow, every muscle tensed for the faintest sign of threat. His arm remained curled protectively around Shen Qingqiu, whose head was still pressed firmly against his chest, refusing to so much as glance toward the inner cave entrance. Only when the familiar silhouette of Mu Qingfang appeared in the cavern mouth did the tight knot of tension in Zhu Xiao’s chest begin to unravel.

“Mu-shibo!” Zhu Xiao’s voice was heavy with relief, a mixture of gratitude and exhaustion all at once.

Mu Qingfang stopped just beyond the range of Shen Qingqiu’s comfort zone, his healer’s instincts warring with the necessity of maintaining distance. His dark eyes softened slightly at the sight of Zhu Xiao but immediately sharpened again as they slid to Shen Qingqiu, who remained curled against the disciple like a wary animal seeking shelter. Mu Qingfang’s brows drew together, his voice low but tinged with concern as he asked. “Disciple Zhu, what happened?”

The question was gentle, but its weight was palpable. Mu Qingfang’s fingers twitched at his side, betraying his desire to step forward and examine Shen Qingqiu, but he held himself back, knowing full well that an alpha scent or sudden approach could shatter what fragile calm Zhu Xiao had managed to maintain.

Zhu Xiao’s mouth opened, then closed again. He frowned, gaze dropping to the man in his arms. Shen Qingqiu clung tighter, his slender fingers bunching in Zhu Xiao’s robe as if even the thought of letting go was unbearable. His face remained pressed firmly against Zhu Xiao’s chest, his body language screaming of resistance to any intrusion.

“Mu-shibo, I—” Zhu Xiao began, but the words cut short as a shadow shifted behind Mu Qingfang, the faintest rustle of robes betraying the presence of another.

Zhu Xiao stiffened. His instincts flared violently, and before his mind could catch up, his body had already moved—turning his back to the entrance, curling his frame protectively around Shen Qingqiu, one arm braced around his shoulders, the other coming up as if to shield him from an unseen strike.

“Behind you, Mu-shibo!” Zhu Xiao barked, his voice sharp with warning.

Mu Qingfang reacted instantly, pivoting on his heel with the smooth efficiency of someone who had spent years in the sect’s training fields. His eyes narrowed dangerously as they landed on Yue Qingyuan, who stood a short distance away. The Sect Leader’s presence, even muted as it was, filled the cave like a sudden gust of wind—powerful, commanding, and entirely unwelcome.

“Zhangmen-shixiong.” Mu Qingfang’s voice dropped to a glacial register as he moved to block the man’s path with a precision that left no room for negotiation. “I warned you not to enter. Your presence here is a direct threat to Shen Qingqiu’s current state. Leave. Now.”

Yue Qingyuan’s expression tightened with something between guilt and helplessness. His hands curled into loose fists at his sides, as though he were restraining himself from stepping closer.

“Mu-shidi, I…” He hesitated, visibly wrestling with himself before continuing. “I only wanted to see him. Just a glance. I swear I will not disturb him—”

“Your very presence is a disturbance.” Mu Qingfang’s words cracked like a whip. The sharp herbal tang of his pheromones flared suddenly, rosemary and sage turning bitter and astringent, filling the cavern with a cutting edge that stung the nose.

Yue Qingyuan flinched subtly at the scent, the tension in his shoulders increasing. His alpha instincts prickled in response, a deep-seated urge to release his own pheromones to reassert calm and dominance. But he did not. He clenched his jaw and forced himself still.

“I couldn’t stay outside.” His voice was quiet now, weighted with sincerity. “Shen-shidi—he means too much to me to ignore. Please. Let me—”

“Enough.” Mu Qingfang’s voice was cutting, his hand raised slightly in a gesture that was both commanding and dismissive. “If you truly care for Shen-shixiong, you will leave him in peace. If you approach him now, you risk destabilizing him and disrupting his qi. Do you wish to be the one responsible for his death?”

The words struck like a slap. Yue Qingyuan paled, his mouth opening then closing without sound.

While the two alphas clashed in tense silence in the hall of the caves, Zhu Xiao’s heart thundered against his ribs. His breathing had gone shallow with adrenaline, but his hands moved of their own accord—one resting against the back of Shen Qingqiu’s head, fingers splayed protectively in his hair, the other firm against the man’s back, grounding him. He didn’t even notice the way Shen Qingqiu melted minutely into the touch, a quiet tremor running through him before his body relaxed, his inner omega instincts purring at the show of protection.

Then, without warning, a crimson-gold screen burst into view before Zhu Xiao’s eyes, glowing with obnoxious cheer.

[ 🎉✨ Congratulations, Host! ✨🎉 Shen Qingqiu’s emotional tension has dropped by 91%! ]

Zhu Xiao nearly choked on his own breath, jerking slightly in shock and staring at the floating window as though it had personally insulted him.

‘Ninety—what?!’ he shouted mentally, his thoughts practically crackling with disbelief. ‘How the hell did it jump to ninety?! Last time it was barely at forty! What are you—some kind of broken calculator?!’

[ (ﾉ≧▽≦)ﾉ This System is not broken! ] the window chirped cheerfully, little sparkles twinkling along its border. [ Host said this System wasn’t helping, so this System waited quietly~ But look! Look! Host has been doing amazing! Petting, hugging, protecting—Shen Qingqiu’s omega brain is very, very happy right now! 💖 ]

‘I wasn’t trying to make his omega brain happy, I was just—!’ Zhu Xiao spluttered mentally, his face heating despite himself.

[ (≧ω≦)ゞ Well, accidental comfort is still comfort! ] the System replied brightly. [ This System recommends Host continue current actions! Perhaps add soothing words? Soft pats? Head rubs? You’re basically at max effectiveness! (๑•̀ㅂ•́)و✧ ]

‘Shut up! Shut up shut up shut up—’ Zhu Xiao mentally growled, trying to glare the screen into nonexistence.

Unaware of Zhu Xiao’s silent battle with the overly cheerful system, Shen Qingqiu stirred faintly, the tension in his frame loosening further. His lashes fluttered, and a faint flicker of lucidity passed across his expression—like cracks forming in the shell of his omega state.

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Chapter Text

[Cang Qiong Mountain Sect
Qiong Ding Peak - Ling Xi Caves, Inner Cavern
Shen Qingqiu’s Perspective]

Shen Qingqiu’s world was soft and muffled, a haze where reason had no foothold and instinct ruled with gentle, unrelenting weight. His omega instincts curled around him like a thick blanket, warm and heavy, urging him to stay, to hold, to cling. The steady thrum of the beta’s heartbeat beneath his ear was an anchor in a world that felt far too large, too loud, too dangerous.

Petrichor and mint. 

That scent—his scent—coated the air around him, sharp yet clean, earthy yet refreshing, grounding him with every slow inhale. His omega preened at the smell, crooning silently in satisfaction. 

This was his. This beta, this scent, this heartbeat—it belonged to him. A possessive warmth bloomed in his chest, and his fingers curled tighter into the fabric of a beta’s robe, pulling him closer as if to stake a claim.

The faint sweetness of his own pheromones laced the air—apple and honey, gentle and coaxing—as he instinctively tried to push it into the space between them, to rub the delicate fragrance across this beta, to mark him, to let the entire world know: mine.

Somewhere, through the haze, a voice—familiar, warm—murmured something. Shen Qingqiu’s ears caught the words, and though they were soft, they sent a ripple of pleased shivers through him. “Your scents smell amazing.”

His omega crooned, practically glowing with joy. His scent was amazing—his beta liked it. A pleased hum vibrated in his throat, a faint, low purr he could not have stopped if he tried.

But then—

The air shifted. A new scent seeped into the cavern, faint but unmistakable. Pinecones. Cinnamon. The sharp, resinous weight of an alpha’s pheromones, even muted, cut through the delicate cocoon he had built around himself. His omega instincts flared in alarm, fear spiking cold in his veins.

No. Not safe.

Shen Qingqiu buried his face harder against the beta’s chest, seeking shelter. His hands fisted desperately in the fabric, trembling as his heart pounded faster. He could feel the tension in his body rising again, a tight coil of unease winding through him as if to warn: danger, danger, danger.

The alpha scent was growing closer. Too close. His omega keened silently, begging—pleading—for the beta to protect him.

And then, the world shifted.

Without hesitation, the beta’s body turned, his arms wrapping around Shen Qingqiu’s frame, shielding him from whatever loomed behind. The movement was instinctive, firm, and right.

Relief crashed over Shen Qingqiu like a tide.

Safe.

His omega purred in delight, thrilled at the protective embrace. He pressed closer, inhaling the rich scent of mint and petrichor until it filled his lungs, pushing back the intrusive alpha-scented threat that lingered beyond. 

This was his shelter. His safety. His beta was protecting him—protecting what was his.

The sharp edges of fear slowly dulled. His trembling eased, the frantic hammering of his heart settling into something softer, steadier. The fog in his head thinned by degrees, his thoughts beginning to sharpen. 

He was still heavy with omega instinct, but now, piece by piece, lucidity was returning to him—drawn back to himself by the quiet, solid certainty of the beta’s arms and the scent of rain-washed earth and cool mint that had become his anchor.

Yes. Here, like this, he could breathe.

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Disciple, Are You Flirting With Me?

Chapter Seventeen

“An Omega’s Acknowledgment”

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[Cang Qiong Mountain Sect
Qiong Ding Peak - Ling Xi Caves, Inner Cavern]

Lucidity returned slowly, like sunlight breaking through mist after a storm. Shen Qingqiu’s breathing had steadied without him noticing, and the frantic beat of his heart no longer pounded in his ears. It was the scent that he became aware of first—sharp, fresh, and clean, tinged with cool mint and the faint musk of damp earth after rain. His nose was full of it, pressed so close that he could almost taste the air with every inhale.

He froze.

His thoughts sharpened all at once. Wait—mint? Petrichor?

Only then did Shen Qingqiu register that his face was pressed against someone’s chest, his body half-curled into a solid, warm frame. There was a large, steady hand cupped protectively at the back of his head, fingers buried gently in his hair, while another rested with careful weight against his back as though holding him together.

…What.

Slowly, very slowly, he tilted his head back, movement stiff and cautious as though he might turn to stone if he moved too fast. His bamboo-jade eyes blinked owlishly, still adjusting to the cavern’s dim light, until they found themselves staring into a pair of garnet-amber eyes wide with concern.

Zhu Xiao swallowed visibly, his expression caught somewhere between relief and anxious hesitation. “…Shizun?” he whispered softly, voice careful as if speaking too loud might shatter the moment.

Shen Qingqiu blinked again, once, twice, as the reality of their position sank in like a rock into water. He was—he was clinging to his disciple. Tightly. Practically plastered against him like some lovestruck maiden in a bad romance novel.

The realization hit like lightning.

In an instant, Shen Qingqiu jolted back with a sharp, jerking motion, his sleeves and hair rustling as he scrambled to put at least a handspan of distance between them. His ears burned red-hot, and he was absolutely sure that his face was faintly pink under the dim glow of the cavern. “W-what—?! D-disciple, what do you think you’re—?!” he stammered, voice pitching a little too high before he forced it back into his usual dignified register.

Only then did he catch sight of himself—robes wrinkled, hair disheveled, a far cry from the picture-perfect, jade-like elegance he was known for. The sight only made the mortification worse.

Meanwhile, Zhu Xiao flinched back with both hands raised in frantic surrender, as if he had been caught with his hand in a cookie jar. His ears were practically glowing red now.

‘Oh fuck, he’s back. I’m so dead.’

[ (´▽`ʃ♡ƪ) Congratulations, Host! Shen Qingqiu’s emotional tension has now reached a remarkable 100% decrease, stabilizing his mood and returning him to full lucidity! ♪(＾∀＾●)ﾉ ]

Zhu Xiao’s eye twitched so hard it almost hurt.

‘THANKS FOR THE ANNOUNCEMENT, SYSTEM, BUT YOU COULDN’T HAVE WARNED ME HE’D SNAP OUT OF IT THIS FAST?!’

[ (ﾉ≧ڡ≦) Teehee~ System wanted to surprise Host! Look! You made Shen Qingqiu all better~ Ｏ(≧▽≦)Ｏ ]

‘"Better"?! He looks like he’s about to cut my head off and hang it on the sect gates!’

[ (¬‿¬ )b Host should be proud! ٩(｡•́‿•̀｡)۶ Host successfully comforted Omega-Shizun until full recovery! This System is happily giving Host a Good Job stickers! ]

‘What the hell am I going to do with the fucking digital stickers that don’t exist in real life?!’

[ …Host can use his imagination~! ✧٩(•́⌄•́๑)و ✧ ]

‘SYSTEM I SWEAR—’

Meanwhile, Shen Qingqiu’s bamboo-green eyes narrowed dangerously as he adjusted his rumpled robes with quick, precise movements, attempting to restore at least a shred of dignity. His glare slid back to Zhu Xiao, sharp enough to pin him to the cavern wall without moving a muscle.

“Disciple Zhu.” Shen Qingqiu said in that low, silky voice of his—the one that was somehow polite but promised retribution. “Kindly explain what on earth you were doing.”

Zhu Xiao gulped audibly, straightening his spine and throwing a panicked glance toward the cave entrance as though silently pleading for Mu Qingfang to reappear and save him.

‘…I’m so, so dead.’

[ (≧▽≦)ゞ Good luck, Host! System will be cheering you on~ ٩(｡•ω•｡)و ]

‘Shut. UP.’

The silence between them stretched, heavy enough to be almost palpable. Shen Qingqiu’s sleeves rustled softly as he folded his arms, head tilting just enough for his long hair to slip forward over one shoulder. His bamboo-green eyes sharpened like twin blades as they locked onto Zhu Xiao.

“Well?” Shen Qingqiu’s voice was smooth, quiet, and absolutely frigid. “Are you planning to just sit there gawking, or do you have an explanation?”

Zhu Xiao straightened instinctively, nearly snapping to military attention before remembering that would look even guiltier. His brain scrambled for words, anything that wouldn’t get him verbally eviscerated.

“Shizun, I—I was just—uh…” His hands flailed once before he hastily forced them down at his sides. “You were… not well. And there were alphas, and I just—well, you seemed—uh—”

Shen Qingqiu’s brow arched, his expression unreadable but far from forgiving. The cold mask he wore was pristine, unyielding, the kind of look that could make grown men confess to crimes they hadn’t committed just to get him to stop glaring at them.

And then he froze.

For the briefest moment, Shen Qingqiu’s carefully crafted façade cracked—not visibly, not quite—but inwardly he went completely still. His nose caught the faintest thread of sweetness in the air, unmistakable and utterly damning: apple and honey. His own scent.

His face did not so much as twitch, but the temperature in the cave seemed to plummet several degrees.

“Disciple Zhu Xiao.” His voice was quieter now, silk over steel, and far, far more dangerous. “Exactly how much do you know?”

Zhu Xiao swore he felt goosebumps erupt across his arms. The way Shen Qingqiu was looking at him—calm, controlled, but with an edge that could flay skin—made him want to sink into the stone floor and never be seen again.

Hands flying up in immediate surrender, Zhu Xiao blurted the first thing that came to mind: “Shizun is Shizun!”

That earned him a blink. A very slow, very suspicious blink. Shen Qingqiu’s cold green eyes flickered, something unreadable passing through them, but the killing intent seemed to soften just enough to let Zhu Xiao breathe again.

‘Okay, okay, don’t die. Keep talking before he changes his mind and murders you.’

“Shizun is… intelligent, strong, and—uh—talented.” Zhu Xiao barreled on, each word chosen like someone throwing darts blindfolded. “Your guqin playing is… amazing! And the way you fight, it’s like—like a sword dance! And your eyes—uh—your eyes are like emeralds, shining in the sunlight! Sometimes they look like jade, when it’s dark. Or—or bamboo, in the morning! They’re… very, um, very dignified eyes!”

He was aware he was bullshitting so hard his soul might actually leave his body, but Shen Qingqiu was still listening, still watching him with that terrifyingly blank expression, so he kept going.

Unbeknownst to Zhu Xiao, Shen Qingqiu’s cold mask was beginning to falter—not enough to be visible, but enough that he felt the traitorous stir of warmth in his chest. His omega was purring again, smug and faintly pleased, and to his horror, the air filled just slightly more with the faint sweetness of apple and honey.

Absolutely not.

Shen Qingqiu reached forward, quick and precise, and pressed two long, elegant fingers against Zhu Xiao’s lips.

“That’s enough, disciple.” he said, voice low and just a touch strained.

Zhu Xiao’s words cut off with a muffled sound, his wide garnet-amber eyes blinking as he nodded vigorously, too relieved to argue. Slowly, Shen Qingqiu withdrew his hand, his expression smooth once again, though his gaze lingered on Zhu Xiao for a long, thoughtful moment.

The tension eased just a fraction. Shen Qingqiu sighed quietly through his nose and looked down at his ruined robes, his fingers deftly trying to pull the disheveled fabric back into something resembling order. His face was once again schooled into an expression of chilly composure, though the faint pink on his cheeks betrayed him.

Zhu Xiao, awkward and not sure if he was allowed to speak yet, hesitated—then quickly slipped off his own outer robe. He shifted forward carefully, as though approaching a wild animal that might claw him if startled, and held it out with both hands.

“Shizun… here.” His voice was quiet, sincere.

Shen Qingqiu eyed him warily, suspicion flickering in those bamboo-green eyes. For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then, with a slow, measured motion, he reached out and accepted the robe, draping it over his shoulders. The heavy fabric fell around him, covering the worst of his disarray.

“…Thank you.” Shen Qingqiu said at last, almost grudgingly.

Zhu Xiao nearly sagged in relief, though he kept his face carefully neutral. He is sitting stiff as a spear, but inside? Inside, he was screaming. Absolutely losing it. His heart pounded loud enough that he was sure Shen Qingqiu could hear it with those terrifyingly sharp ears of his.

‘Okay, okay, you survived. You survived. You didn’t get stabbed or thrown into a lake. You’re still breathing. Good job, Zhu Xiao. That was definitely the scariest five minutes of your life—’

Shen Qingqiu was still staring at him.

The younger beta’s thoughts derailed immediately. His gaze flicked toward the bamboo-jade eyes now leveled at him with unnerving calm, and he nearly swallowed his tongue. ‘Why is he still staring? He’s planning something. Oh no. He’s planning something, and it’s about me.’

Before Zhu Xiao could mentally dig his own grave, the soft sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the cavern. Both of them turned at the same moment, Shen Qingqiu’s sleeves whispering as he moved.

Mu Qingfang appeared from the stone mouth of the cavern, the lingering air around him carrying the faintest sharp thread of rosemary and sage. It was controlled, disciplined, but Zhu Xiao could taste the frustrated edge underneath. The alpha doctor paused at the sight of them, his eyes flickering quickly over Shen Qingqiu. His shoulders eased as though in quiet relief, and his scent smoothed out, no longer as sharp.

He inclined his head slightly and spoke in his usual composed tone. “Shen-shixiong.” he said, careful and respectful. “This one is glad to see shixiong has returned from his locked mode.”

Zhu Xiao’s ears perked immediately at that phrasing, mentally latching onto it. ‘Locked mode.’ he repeated to himself, committing it to memory. Formal. Polite. Exactly what you’d say when you wanted to acknowledge what happened without saying the O-word out loud.

Shen Qingqiu’s bamboo-green eyes glinted faintly, a brief flash of understanding or perhaps acknowledgment. His voice was quiet, but perfectly even as he replied. “It would seem this master is no longer locked.”

There was an underlying warning in the way he said it, but it was subtle—more for himself than the others. Then his cool gaze shifted to Zhu Xiao, pinning him in place.

“Why is Disciple Zhu here?”

It wasn’t said cruelly. It wasn’t even sharp, but Zhu Xiao still felt sweat prickle the back of his neck.

Mu Qingfang’s glance slid to him, lingering for a heartbeat before returning to Shen Qingqiu. “Shixiong, he came to me and expressed his concern about you.” he said, his tone measured and careful. “I arrived and saw what had happened. I took control of the situation, but then, you were in feral omega mode. I assume that a disciple beta from your peak would at least give you some comfort. So, during the locked state, your instincts sought out Disciple Zhu and chose him as… scent-anchor.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Shen Qingqiu slowly turned his head back toward Zhu Xiao, his expression a perfect blank mask. Zhu Xiao fought the urge to squirm under the weight of that stare, his awkward smile twitching at the corners as if trying to save his own life.

‘Oh, great. Fantastic. Exactly what I needed, a death sentence delivered with his scary bamboo green eyes.’

When Shen Qingqiu didn’t say anything right away, Zhu Xiao cleared his throat softly, fighting not to fill the silence with nervous babble.

Then Shen Qingqiu turned back to Mu Qingfang, the movement smooth, almost lazy, but his voice was quiet steel when he said. “Liu-shidi?”

Mu Qingfang’s expression softened into something gentler, even kind. “Liu-shixiong is stable and resting.” he said with a small smile. “Your disciple reached me just in time. Thanks to him, I was able to ensure both your safety and Liu-shixiong’s.”

Shen Qingqiu absorbed that information silently, giving a small, almost imperceptible nod.

Mu Qingfang took a careful step forward, just close enough to show intent but not close enough to crowd him. “Will Shen-shixiong allow this one to examine his condition?”

The question was polite, deferential, but Zhu Xiao didn’t miss the way Shen Qingqiu’s lips pressed together faintly. His face remained calm, but the faint downturn of his mouth was as telling as a full scowl.

Shen Qingqiu’s gaze slid to Zhu Xiao once more. “You may leave, Disciple Zhu.”

Zhu Xiao almost cheered aloud. Instead, he bowed so fast he nearly smacked his forehead on the cave floor. “Yes, Shizun!”

He had turned halfway toward the exit when Shen Qingqiu’s voice, smooth and cold as the cave walls, cut through the air.

“And—”

Zhu Xiao froze.

“—you will not speak of this to anyone.” Shen Qingqiu’s bamboo-jade eyes narrowed, sharp enough to cut glass.

A shiver ran down Zhu Xiao’s spine, his survival instincts kicking in at full force. “What secret? I don’t know Shizun’s secret.” The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them.

For a long moment, Shen Qingqiu just looked at him, as though gauging whether or not he believed that. Then he gave the smallest of nods.

Zhu Xiao didn’t need to be told twice. He bolted—gracefully, respectfully, of course—straight out of the inner cavern, letting out a breath of sheer relief the moment he was out of sight.

The moment Zhu Xiao’s retreating footsteps faded down the cavern passage, silence settled like mist. Shen Qingqiu’s shoulders, though perfectly squared, were tense enough that the soft fabric of his ruined robes strained faintly with each shallow breath. The apple-and-honey scent of his own pheromones still clung faintly in the air, though he did not outwardly acknowledge it, his nostrils flared once, sharply, as if confirming its dissipation.

Mu Qingfang waited a moment longer, giving him that thin slice of space before he moved. The physician stepped closer, each footstep measured so as not to startle. Then he lowered himself gracefully to one knee in front of Shen Qingqiu, the motion unhurried, respectful.

“Shen-shixiong.” Mu Qingfang said evenly, voice low enough not to echo too harshly against the cave walls. “Will you allow this one to examine your condition?”

Shen Qingqiu’s bamboo-green eyes slanted toward him. A faint scowl tugged at the corners of his mouth—the only outward sign of irritation. “...Hn.” It was halfway between an agreement and a warning.

Still, after a beat, he extended his wrist.

Mu Qingfang’s expression softened into something serene and professional. He reached forward and set two fingers against the delicate skin of Shen Qingqiu’s inner wrist, just below the pulse point. His touch was steady, warm but clinical, and he closed his eyes for a breath, feeling the subtle thrum of spiritual energy flowing beneath the surface.

Shen Qingqiu looked away deliberately, his gaze fixed on some far shadow dancing on the cavern wall, the folds of his sleeve pooling elegantly over his lap.

“Who else knows?” His voice was quiet, but there was steel threaded through it.

Mu Qingfang opened his eyes and met his gaze evenly. “Disciple Zhu.” he replied. “Beyond him—” He hesitated, brows drawing together faintly as he considered. “This one is not certain about Liu-shixiong. He was under severe qi deviation when we arrived and likely not lucid enough to recognize your condition.”

Shen Qingqiu gave a short, clipped nod, as though that much was satisfactory.

Mu Qingfang, however, continued carefully. “Sect Leader Yue was here earlier—”

The words barely left his lips before Shen Qingqiu’s eyes snapped toward him, sharp as drawn blades.

Mu Qingfang did not flinch under the sudden, icy weight of that stare, though he felt the faint ripple of Shen Qingqiu’s qi spike like a taut string. “—but this one believes Disciple Zhu’s pheromones shielded your scent well enough that Sect Leader Yue would not have recognized anything amiss. You are safe, shixiong.”

Shen Qingqiu was very still for a long moment, bamboo-green eyes locked on Mu Qingfang’s face as if searching for even a hint of doubt. When he found none, his shoulders eased fractionally, and the faint tension around his mouth softened.

He glanced down briefly at the outer robe draped over his shoulders, fingers brushing over the fabric. The faint traces of petrichor and mint clung to it—soft and earthy, fresh as rainfall. He hated how warm it made his chest feel, hated how a strange flutter of comfort sparked deep in his belly at the memory of strong beta arms around him.

“Hn.” He smoothed the edge of the robe over his lap, as though that could quiet the memory.

Mu Qingfang waited, still kneeling, before Shen Qingqiu spoke again.

“Why was Sect Leader Yue here?” His tone was cool, nearly casual, but Mu Qingfang caught the faint, dangerous undertone beneath it.

The doctor straightened his spine. “He heard there was an incident with you and Liu-shixiong.” he said, choosing his words with care. “He wished to see you. To ensure your safety.”

Shen Qingqiu’s lips pressed together into a faint, unreadable line.

Mu Qingfang allowed himself a quiet exhale. “This one stopped him.” he continued. “Before it could become worse. Had he gone closer, it might have disturbed your equilibrium. Potentially worsened your condition.”

Shen Qingqiu’s gaze lowered, his expression unreadable, but his tone faintly softer. “You did well.”

The praise was curt, but Mu Qingfang inclined his head with quiet satisfaction. He knew that Shen Qingqiu didn’t want Yue Qingyuan anywhere near him, especially when Shen Qingqiu wasn’t lucid. 

For a moment, the cavern was quiet again, save for the faint drip of water somewhere in the depths. Shen Qingqiu’s long fingers brushed his sleeves together, folding them neatly over his lap, while Mu Qingfang’s fingers were still checking his other wrist.

“Tell me.” he said at last, bamboo-green eyes lifting, sharp and intent. “How long before this... will fade completely?”

Mu Qingfang took his time in answering, still feeling the pulse beneath his fingertips. “You are already stabilizing. The presence of a chosen scent-anchor expedited the process. With a few days of proper meditation and rest, your spiritual flow should fully smooth again.”

Shen Qingqiu made a soft sound—approval, or perhaps dismissal—before withdrawing his wrist. He did not thank him aloud, but his posture had lost a fraction of its earlier stiffness, enough that Mu Qingfang recognized his silent acknowledgment.

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[Cang Qiong Mountain Sect
Qiong Ding Peak - Ling Xi Caves, Outer Cavern
Moment Later…]

Zhu Xiao stepped out into the cool mountain air, rolling his shoulders as if to shake off the lingering tension from the cave. His lungs were ready to gulp down a breath of clean, pine-scented freedom—only to freeze mid-inhale when he spotted the tall, black, and grey with silver accents-robed figure standing a few paces away.

Sect Leader Yue Qingyuan.

“Ah—Zhangmen-shibo.” Zhu Xiao quickly cupped his hands and bowed low, heart skipping a beat at the sight of the man whose name practically radiated strong character glow in the original book. “This disciple greets Sect Leader.”

Yue Qingyuan turned, his expression as warm and composed as a spring morning. The late-afternoon light caught on his golden hairpiece, the faint shimmer of his robes turning him into an almost untouchable figure of authority.

“Ah.” Yue Qingyuan said gently, his lips curving into a polite smile. “You must be… Disciple Zhu Xiao, are you not? Shen-shidi’s disciple?” His tone was soft, almost curious, but his eyes held something sharper behind them, something that made the fine hairs on the back of Zhu Xiao’s neck rise.

“Yes.” Zhu Xiao nodded, straightening with a faint frown he quickly smoothed away. His instincts—those sharp, prickling beta instincts—were suddenly screaming at him to tread carefully. Which was ridiculous, right? This was Yue Qingyuan, the famously benevolent, kindhearted Sect Leader. The man who, in the original novel, practically worshipped the ground Shen Qingqiu walked on.

So why did it feel like standing near a lion that had just noticed him?

“How is Shen-shidi?” Yue Qingyuan asked, voice still perfectly polite, but there was a thread of intent that felt just a little too pointed. “Will Disciple Zhu tell this one what happened inside the Ling Xi Caves?”

Zhu Xiao blinked. “S-sorry, what?” he blurted, caught off-guard by the directness.

Yue Qingyuan’s smile didn’t waver, but his eyes seemed to sharpen. “This one wishes to know how Shen-shidi fares.” he repeated, each word carefully measured.

Zhu Xiao’s mouth went dry. ‘Oh no. Nope. Not doing this.’ His brain whirred, running through every line of meta knowledge he had about Yue Qingyuan and Shen Qingqiu’s so-called relationship.

In the original book, Yue Qingyuan had always been so infuriatingly attentive to Shen Qingqiu. Always making excuses for him, covering for him, forgiving the unforgivable. He even tried to save Shen Qingqiu’s life at the end—and was ambushed and killed by ten thousand arrows courtesy of Luo Binghe for his troubles.

But now there was this whole omega business. Shen Qingqiu, secretly an omega? Yue Qingyuan an alpha? ‘Oh…’ Zhu Xiao thought grimly. ‘...could that be it? If so, that would explain a lot.’

Except—and here was the problem—Shen Qingqiu hated Yue Qingyuan. Loathed him, in fact, with a level of cold venom that practically bled off the page back when Zhu Xiao was just Shen Yuan reading the novel. And that was one of the biggest unsolved mysteries, one that had driven Shen Yuan absolutely insane because the author never explained it.

‘Damn you, Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky.’ Zhu Xiao grumbled silently, teeth grinding. ‘Hack author! Plot-hole bastard!’

But then he remembered Shen Qingqiu’s very clear, very sharp warning not to tell anyone what had happened to him in the caves.

Yue Qingyuan or Shen Qingqiu?

Yeah. No contest. Zhu Xiao could practically feel Shen Qingqiu’s metaphorical claws ready to rake across his face if he betrayed his trust. And knowing Shen Qingqiu, metaphorical claws could very quickly become literal.

‘Sorry, Yue Qingyuan.’ Zhu Xiao thought grimly, bowing his head with his most apologetic expression. ‘But I prefer not to die by Shen Qingqiu’s hand, thanks.’

“This disciple apologizes, Sect Leader.” Zhu Xiao said aloud, voice even but respectful. “But this one cannot answer your question. It is none of this one’s business. Shizun’s business is Shizun’s own business.”

The polite mask on Yue Qingyuan’s face did not falter, but his gaze seemed to grow heavier. Zhu Xiao felt it like a weight pressing against his ribs. Something in the air shifted, and then his nose twitched.

A sharp, biting scent rolled into the space between them, thick and acrid. Cinnamon, sharp enough to sting, with an undernote of crushed pinecones that somehow smelled singed, charred almost. The smell made his nose wrinkle involuntarily.

‘Ugh. What the hell is that?’ he thought, nose crinkling.

A bright chime rang in his mind, and a translucent red-gold system window popped up in front of him.

[ That would be Yue Qingyuan’s alpha pheromone, Host! ♡ His scent profile is pinecones and cinnamon! Isn’t that so dignified and spicy? (๑>◡<๑) ]

Zhu Xiao stared at the text flatly.

‘Pinecones and cinnamon?’ His eye twitched. ‘That’s horrible!’

And then a memory clicked—a scene from the original novel where a young Luo Binghe had offered Shen Qingqiu a cinnamon pastry, and Shen Qingqiu had verbally flayed him alive for it. Back then, Shen Yuan had thought it was hilariously over the top.

Now? Now he was seeing it in a whole new light.

Of course, Shen Qingqiu hated cinnamon. If this was what he had to smell every time Yue Qingyuan was near, Zhu Xiao didn’t blame him one bit.

His thoughts flickered back, unbidden, to how Shen Qingqiu had clung to him in the cave earlier, trembling, and how his own petrichor-and-mint scent had seemed to calm him. The memory made something warm spark in Zhu Xiao’s chest—an uncomfortable, protective sort of warmth.

[ Awww! Host is getting all smitten over Shen Qingqiu! (ﾉ´ヮ´)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ ]

‘No, I’m not!’ Zhu Xiao snapped internally. ‘Be quiet, you shitty kaomoji infestation!’

[ (≧▽≦) Sure, sure, keep denying it~ ]

Zhu Xiao’s eye twitched harder. If the system had a physical form, he would have punted it down Qiong Ding Peak without hesitation.

He mentally shook his head and glanced up at Yue Qingyuan. He could feel every nerve on edge. The longer he stood there, the more suffocating the cinnamon-and-pine scent became, clinging like smoke in his lungs. His beta instincts were practically howling at him to retreat— now—before something went terribly wrong.

Keeping his face neutral, he bowed low again. “Sect Leader Yue.” he said, voice carefully polite. “This disciple… must return to Qing Jing Peak. So, if Sect Leader will excuse this one…”

For a fleeting moment, Yue Qingyuan’s serene smile faltered—just the smallest crack, almost imperceptible—before sliding neatly back into place. His dark eyes softened, but something about the look was not entirely comforting.

“Very well.” Yue Qingyuan said at last, tone still courteous, though there was an undercurrent of something unreadable beneath it. “Disciple Zhu, do take care of youself.”

Zhu Xiao bowed again, every muscle in his back tight. “Yes, Sect Leader.”

He straightened, turned on his heel, and walked away with what he hoped was a dignified pace. Definitely not running. Nope. Not at all. He absolutely was not speed-walking like a guilty teenager fleeing the scene of a crime.

Only when he was putting a large distance between himself and the Sect Leader Yue, clearing did he dare let out a long, quiet breath, scrubbing a hand down his face.

‘Oh my god, that was terrifying.’ Zhu Xiao thought, heart still hammering.

[  (≧▽≦) You survived! Host did great! You even stood your ground against the Sect Leader! So cool~!  ]

‘Cool? COOL?!’ Zhu Xiao shouted at the system in his head. ‘I almost pissed myself back there! That cinnamon death-cloud was not cool!’

[  (｡>ω<｡) But Host resisted like a pro! (ง •̀_•́)ง  ]

Zhu Xiao rolled his eyes skyward, muttering. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I’m alive, that’s what matters.”

Still, as he put more distance between himself and Yue Qingyuan, he couldn’t shake the faint shiver that crawled down his spine nor the stubborn little ember of protectiveness that had flared to life in his chest at the thought of anyone, even the Sect Leader, prying too close to Shen Qingqiu’s secret.

.

.

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[Cang Qiong Mountain Sect
Qiong Ding Peak - Ling Xi Caves, Inner Cavern
Meanwhile…]

The inner cavern was quiet now, save for the faint dripping of water echoing from the deeper tunnels. The cold, damp air clung to Shen Qingqiu’s skin, making the ruined silk of his robe feel heavier than it was. The apple-and-honey tang of his own pheromones still lingered faintly around him, though he kept his expression schooled into a perfect mask of indifference.

Mu Qingfang knelt on one knee a respectful distance away, his gaze steady but gentle. “Shen-shixiong…” he began quietly. “...this one believes it would be wise for you to come to Qian Cao Peak. Rest and seclusion there would be safer and more comfortable.”

Shen Qingqiu’s bamboo-jade eyes snapped toward him, sharp enough to cut. “No.”

The single word was flat, like ice cracking.

Mu Qingfang’s brows knit together, but he didn’t flinch. “Ling Xi Caves may be sacred ground, but it is isolated, and your condition—”

“My condition—” Shen Qingqiu interrupted with a low scowl. “—is under control. I wish to remain here and finish my cultivation.” His tone left no room for argument.

Mu Qingfang exhaled through his nose, long and slow, the rosemary-and-sage bite of his alpha pheromones restrained but not entirely absent. “If that is Shen-shixiong’s will.” he said finally, bowing his head slightly in reluctant acknowledgment.

A beat of silence passed before Mu Qingfang added, almost conversationally. “Your disciple… he is spiritually strong.”

Shen Qingqiu tilted his head, one brow arching.

Mu Qingfang elaborated, his voice calm but faintly impressed. “Few can step into Ling Xi Caves without staggering. Yet Disciple Zhu walked through the barrier with steady feet. His spiritual pressure is well-honed—surprisingly so for a beta.”

Shen Qingqiu’s fingers tightened imperceptibly on the outer robe draped around his shoulders. He drew it closer to his chest, burying himself in the faint, persistent scent of petrichor and mint clinging to the fabric. “Is that so.” he said, his voice cool, but his pheromones betrayed a subtle shift; the soft note of honey sweetening, interested despite himself.

Mu Qingfang politely ignored it, continuing evenly. “Is he one of your inner disciples?”

“No.” Shen Qingqiu’s reply was curt, almost clipped.

Mu Qingfang’s brows rose slightly in surprise. “Truly? His conduct and bearing suggest otherwise. I had assumed he was an inner disciple, perhaps even one personally chosen by you.”

Shen Qingqiu merely hummed, low in his throat, a sound that could have meant agreement or dismissal. His expression gave nothing away.

Mu Qingfang studied him for another long moment before sighing quietly. “Very well. If you will not come to Qian Cao Peak, this one will not press the matter. However…” His gaze softened slightly. “Will Shen-shixiong permit me to examine him again when his seclusion is complete?”

Shen Qingqiu huffed, turning his face slightly away, but after a pause, he gave a single short nod.

“This one thanks Shen-shixiong.” Mu Qingfang bowed, his movements precise and formal, though his expression betrayed genuine relief. “I will also arrange for a fresh set of robes to be sent to you.”

Shen Qingqiu said nothing, but his bamboo-jade eyes softened, just barely, a glint of something warmer flashing behind the frosty mask.

Mu Qingfang caught it and allowed himself a faint, knowing smile before standing and bowing once more. “Then this one will take his leave.”

He turned and walked toward the cave mouth, his footsteps quiet but unhurried, until the sound faded into silence.

Shen Qingqiu remained where he was, shoulders tense until he could no longer hear Mu Qingfang’s steps. Only then did his posture sag, just slightly, the proud line of his back loosening.

With a faint sigh, he tilted his head down, letting the outer robe slip forward enough for him to bring the fabric closer to his face. The cool, rain-scented petrichor and sharp mint were still there, clinging stubbornly to the weave. The smell coiled around him like a quiet anchor, and he could feel his omega instinct purr, preening under the memory of that steady, grounding presence.

His lips pressed into a thin line as he reluctantly acknowledged what he had been denying since the moment he had been pulled back from the edge. Scent-anchored. Truly.

“Zhu Xiao…” Shen Qingqiu murmured under his breath, voice low and almost irritable. “…why do you suddenly appear everywhere lately?”

His mind, despite himself, strayed to the boy’s poems, to a guqin poem song, to the way Zhu Xiao’s touched with that infuriatingly earnest expression as he calmed his feral instincts.

And yet, a lingering thought tightened his chest:

‘How did he know I was in trouble?’

The question echoed in the quiet cavern, unanswered.

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..

...

Chapter Text

[Cang Qiong Mountain Sect
Qing Jing Peak – Blue Pond
Three Months Later…]

The sky stretched overhead, a soft expanse of pale blue brushed with lazy strands of white clouds. Cicadas droned in the distance, their buzzing a steady hum that matched the warm weight of the afternoon sun. The air smelled faintly of fresh grass and damp earth from the morning dew, and the tranquil gurgle of the Blue Pond nearby broke the silence in a soothing rhythm.

Zhu Xiao lay sprawled on his back on the grass, one leg bent, arms folded behind his head as if he had not a care in the world. His eyes were half-lidded, watching sunlight filter through the leaves above, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across his face. Despite his deceptively relaxed posture, his mind was far from quiet.

It had been three months since Shen Qingqiu had shut himself away in Ling Xi Caves for secluded cultivation. Three months since Zhu Xiao had accidentally discovered his Shizun’s secret, the fearsome, aloof Shen Qingqiu was an omega beneath that cold, untouchable facade. And three months since Zhu Xiao had taken it upon himself to keep an eye on Luo Binghe, making sure the protagonist’s life didn’t descend into bullying, scorn, or tragedy any earlier than it needed to.

Who would have thought Luo Binghe, future protagonist of a melodramatic novel, would turn out to be such a sweet, well-mannered kid? Always so polite, so eager to please, always ready with a bright grin and an earnest bow. Zhu Xiao still wasn’t sure if that made him want to ruffle the boy’s hair or wrap him in bubble wrap before anyone else could traumatize him.

He even found himself silently cheering when Luo Binghe and Yingying had their innocent little moments together. As much as Zhu Xiao swore he wasn’t a gossip, he might have been secretly shipping them just a tiny bit.

Well. Mostly.

The only thing that drove him crazy was Yingying’s constant use of her rose-and-peach omega pheromones around Luo Binghe. “Children! Both of you are still children!” Zhu Xiao had shouted more than once inside his head, though never out loud—he wasn’t suicidal enough to make a young omega cry and have her entire peak descend on him with pitchforks.

He sighed, rolling onto his side and propping his cheek on his hand. His own pheromone—crisp petrichor and cooling mint—drifted faintly in the air, carrying with it a quiet sort of calmness. His mind, however, was anything but calm.

Just as he was starting to drift toward a nap, a cheery chime sounded in his mind, followed by a familiar too-energetic voice:

[ (≧▽≦)ﾉﾞ Host~! You look so relaxed! Are we finally taking a break from your dramatic arc~? ]

Zhu Xiao groaned aloud, covering his face with one hand. “Oh great. Just what I need. Why must you always pop up and annoy me when I’m just trying to nap?!”

[ (✿◕‿◕) Host! I’m your System! Here to guide you, motivate you, and give you maximum entertainment value~ ]

“Maximum entertainment value, my ass.” Zhu Xiao swatted lazily at the air as if that could shoo the system away. “Do you mind? I was relaxing.”

[ (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧ Exactly! Relaxation arc after dramatic arc! Character development must have balance! ]

Zhu Xiao sat up, raking a hand through his hair, and gave the transparent red window a flat look. “I am not being dramatic, you little shit.” 

[ (〃＾▽＾〃) But Host has gone dramatically ever since Shen Qingqiu’s incident— ]

“Shut up!” Zhu Xiao hissed, heat rushing to his ears. “We don’t talk about that!”

[ (๑˃̵ᴗ˂̵)و Gotcha~! But you’re the one thinking about him right now, aren’t you? Lying here, daydreaming, wondering how he’s doing deep in that mysterious cave, if his robes are all in order— ]

“I said shut up!” Zhu Xiao flopped back onto the grass, groaning loudly. “Why did I get stuck with such an annoying system?”

[ Because fate is fun~! ╰(°▽°)╯ ]

Zhu Xiao gritted his teeth, but despite himself, a reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He’d never admit it out loud, but he had grown somewhat used to this incessant voice over the past few months. It was like having a very cheerful, very nosy companion who refused to leave—irritating, yes, but not completely unwelcome anymore.

He sighed and let his eyes close, feeling the sun warm his skin. “Three months.” he muttered softly to himself. Thinking back on how the past three months went by so fast…

.

..

…

Disciple, Are You Flirting With Me?

Chapter Eighteen

“A Beta’s Life of Three Months”

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..

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[Cang Qiong Mountain Sect
Qing Jing Peak
FLASHBACK - One Month]

The late afternoon sun slanted across Qing Jing Peak, casting long shadows across the stone-paved training yard. The distant chatter of other disciples had faded; most had already gone off to evening meals or returned to their dormitories. The quiet should have been peaceful, but Zhu Xiao found himself scowling slightly as he leaned casually against a nearby tree, arms crossed over his chest.

He’d been keeping an eye on Luo Binghe for days now, more out of habit than conscious decision. He noticed how the boy was almost always running somewhere—to finish chores, to catch up on missed classes, to slip into the library before the night bell. And when he wasn’t being run ragged, he was here, in the yard, training alone until sweat plastered his thin robes to his back.

Today was no different.

Luo Binghe was seated cross-legged on the ground, a worn cultivation manual open in his lap, brows knitted as if the text might make more sense if he just stared hard enough. His lips moved soundlessly, reciting lines to himself.

Zhu Xiao let out a breath, running a hand down his face. He could already feel the beginnings of a headache. ‘I’m really starting to get very frustrated just looking at him like that.’ he thought grimly before pushing himself off the tree and strolling forward, deliberately making just enough noise that he wouldn’t startle the boy too badly.

“What is Luo-shidi doing here all alone?” Zhu Xiao asked, voice deliberately calm, as though he had simply happened by.

Luo Binghe jumped like a startled rabbit and scrambled to his feet, bowing so quickly his hair fell into his face. “Z–Zhu-shixiong! This lowly one greets his shixiong!”

Zhu Xiao winced inwardly. ‘Lowly one?’ He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or sigh. Shen Yuan had read those lines in the original novel before, but hearing them directed at him in real life felt…uncomfortable. Still, he kept his expression smooth and neutral; being too friendly would only draw suspicion for Lup Binghe

“I asked what you were doing here.” Zhu Xiao repeated, tilting his head slightly.

Luo Binghe’s grip tightened on the cultivation manual, knuckles white, as he answered shyly. “This disciple is trying his best to study cultivation, Zhu-shixiong.”

“Is that so?” Zhu Xiao said mildly, though his sharp gaze slid to the manual in the boy’s hands. “Does Luo-shidi need help with that?”

At the offer, Luo Binghe looked momentarily stunned, then flustered. His lips parted, closed, then opened again. “I—if it would not trouble Zhu-shixiong…”

Zhu Xiao crouched down in front of him, holding out a hand. “May I see the manual?”

There was a brief moment of hesitation, but finally Luo Binghe handed it over with both hands, respectful and careful. Zhu Xiao accepted it and flipped through the pages. The faintly musty scent of old ink and paper filled his nose as he skimmed the first few lines.

It took less than a minute for his brows to furrow.

‘What kind of absolute trash is this?’

The breathing techniques were deliberately convoluted, qi circulation routes that would only exhaust a cultivator instead of strengthening them. The footnotes were contradictory—some outright dangerous. As Shen Yuan, he’d always assumed Shen Qingqiu gave this manual to Luo Binghe intentionally, part of his “Villainous Peak Lord” act. But now…

Zhu Xiao hesitated, thumb idly smoothing the corner of a page. Shen Qingqiu had been many things these past months—stern, sharp-tongued, terrifying when angry—but careless? Deliberately sabotaging? No. Something about this didn’t sit right.

[ (≧▽≦)ﾉﾞ Host~! Plot twist incoming~! There’s more to this than you think~! ]

Zhu Xiao’s eyebrow twitched. ‘You’re telling me this now?’ he shot back mentally.

[ (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ:･ﾟ✧ Suspense, Host! Suspense is everything~! ]

‘You’re insufferable.’

He snapped the book shut and looked back at Luo Binghe, who was standing stiffly, clearly nervous about what Zhu Xiao might say. “Luo-shidi.” Zhu Xiao asked slowly. “Did Shizun give this manual to you?”

Luo Binghe blinked and nodded immediately. “Yes, Zhu-shixiong.”

Zhu Xiao’s frown deepened. His gaze sharpened, and after a pause, he asked a different question. “Did Shizun personally give this to you?”

That made Luo Binghe falter. His brows furrowed as he searched his memory before slowly shaking his head. “No… it was Ming-shixiong who gave it to me.”

Zhu Xiao froze.

And then it clicked.

‘Of course.’ he thought with a sharp flare of irritation. ‘Of fucking course. Ming Fan. That bastard.’

His fingers tightened slightly around the manual, but he forced himself to keep his expression calm. No need to scare Luo Binghe—not when the boy was already standing there looking like he might get scolded.

“…I see.” Zhu Xiao said at last, his voice carefully even. “Thank you for telling me, Luo-shidi.”

[ ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) Ahhh, Host is getting protective~ But Host, Luo Binghe is not Host’s main priority though. Host can not forget Shen Qingqiu. ]

‘I am not.’ Zhu Xiao shot back mentally, even as he very carefully handed the manual back. ‘I just hate bullies. That’s all.’

[ (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧ Whatever you say, Host~ ]

Luo Binghe carefully took the manual back with both hands, bowing slightly in thanks even though his gaze stayed on the ground. His posture was so small, so self-contained, as if he expected Zhu Xiao to reprimand him at any moment.

Zhu Xiao rubbed the back of his neck, looking at the boy for a moment longer. Then he sighed and crouched down until he was at eye-level.

“Luo-shidi.” he said, tone light but firm. “If you really want to get stronger, you shouldn’t rely too much on manuals.”

That made Luo Binghe blink and finally look up, confusion flashing in his dark eyes. “You mean… I should not study this?” he asked cautiously, clutching the book a little tighter.

“Not that one.” Zhu Xiao’s lips twitched faintly in something close to a smile. “That one is garbage.”

Luo Binghe’s mouth fell open slightly; whether in shock that someone would say such a thing or in relief at being told what he already suspected, Zhu Xiao wasn’t sure.

“Come on.” Zhu Xiao said, straightening and brushing grass off his trousers. He gestured for Luo Binghe to stand. “Show me how you’re circulating your qi.”

Luo Binghe hesitated, biting his lower lip, but obediently got to his feet. His movements were hesitant, his breathing shallow as he attempted to demonstrate. Zhu Xiao watched in silence for a moment, then sighed.

“No wonder you’re tired all the time.” He stepped closer and, with two fingers, tapped lightly at a point on Luo Binghe’s chest. “You’re overstraining your lower dantian and your breathing is too shallow. Here—”

He gently adjusted Luo Binghe’s stance, nudging his shoulders back, guiding his hands until they were correctly aligned.

“Breathe from here.” Zhu Xiao instructed, tapping the boy’s diaphragm. “Slowly. Imagine drawing the air down, like water filling a jar. Don’t rush it. Cultivation isn’t a race.”

Luo Binghe nodded, focusing intently. When he exhaled this time, his shoulders relaxed noticeably, and the tension in his face eased.

[ (ﾉ≧ڡ≦) Ahhh, Host is teaching! Host is TEACHING~! Maybe this could be something Host can share in common with Shen Qingqiu~! (๑˃̵ᴗ˂̵)و ]

‘I am not teaching.’ Zhu Xiao grumbled mentally, watching Luo Binghe’s form. ‘I’m… preventing an early qi deviation. Totally different thing.’

[ (¬‿¬ ) Sure, Host. Definitely not trying to impress a certain beauty omega~ ]

Zhu Xiao ignored the system’s singsong tone, though his ears felt suspiciously warm. ‘Fucking delusional system.’

Over the next several weeks, this became a quiet, unspoken ritual. Whenever Zhu Xiao spotted Luo Binghe struggling—with chores, with sword drills, with meditation—he would casually step in, offering a word of advice here, a correction there. Always calm, always matter-of-fact, never overly indulgent.

“Your footwork is sloppy.” he remarked one evening, dropping into the training yard after class. He picked up a fallen twig and drew lines on the ground. “Step here, then pivot. Don’t cross your ankles unless you want to eat dirt.”

Another day, he tossed Luo Binghe a water gourd mid-practice and said. “Hydrate. Passing out on the training field isn’t impressive, no matter what those hotheaded alphas think.”

And when he caught Luo Binghe late at night, still trying to practice sword swings under the moonlight, Zhu Xiao didn’t scold him—he simply walked up, adjusted his grip on the hilt, and demonstrated the form once.

“Like this. Feel the weight of the blade, not just the motion. Control comes first. Power comes after.”

Bit by bit, Luo Binghe’s movements grew steadier, his breathing more even, his posture more confident. And bit by bit, Zhu Xiao found himself… invested.

He still made sure to keep a neutral expression whenever Luo Binghe beamed at him with grateful eyes—the kid really did have a dangerous smile—but inwardly he grumbled at himself every time.

‘This wasn’t supposed to happen.’ he thought one quiet evening as Luo Binghe bowed respectfully before leaving the yard, sweaty but visibly pleased with himself. ‘I was just supposed to keep him from blackening early. Not… whatever this is.’

[ (≧ω≦) Host has officially unlocked the “Accidental Mentor” achievement! Shen Qingqiu would probably like that~ Kekeke~ ]

‘Oh, shut up.’ Zhu Xiao snapped at the system, but there was no real heat in it. His lips curved despite himself, just slightly.

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[Cang Qiong Mountain Sect
Qing Jing Peak
FLASHBACK – Two Months]

The first sign was subtle: Ming Fan’s narrowed gaze whenever Zhu Xiao happened to cross paths with Luo Binghe.

Zhu Xiao noticed, of course. He just didn’t care.

The second sign was less subtle: the way Ming Fan’s “accidental” bumps into Luo Binghe during drills became sharper, harder, timed just so to make the boy stumble.

“Keep your feet under you, Luo-shidi!” Ming Fan barked one afternoon when Luo Binghe lost his footing during sword forms. “You’re not some country bumpkin in a rice paddy—try acting like a disciple.”

Zhu Xiao, lounging at the edge of the field with a bamboo book in hand, lazily raised his eyes.

“Funny.” he drawled. “I thought proper sword work meant controlling your own stance, not knocking into others.”

Ming Fan froze mid-step, cheeks heating. “Shixiong, I—he wasn’t paying attention—”

“Then maybe you should set a better example.” Zhu Xiao’s voice was mild, but his eyes were cold as polished jade. He turned a page in his book and added, almost lazily. “Or is your balance so bad you can’t avoid a beginner?”

A couple of junior disciples snickered. Ming Fan’s jaw clenched. Luo Binghe, standing behind him, tried to keep his face carefully blank but the tips of his ears were pink.

.

.

.

After that, Ming Fan stopped being subtle.

Whenever Zhu Xiao appeared, Ming Fan’s words to Luo Binghe grew sharper, his criticism harsher. But somehow, every attempt to humiliate Luo Binghe ended with Zhu Xiao’s calm interference:

When Ming Fan “forgot” to include Luo Binghe during sparring pair assignments, Zhu Xiao casually strolled by, pointed at Luo Binghe, and said. “He’s with me.”

When Ming Fan tried to assign Luo Binghe the dirtiest chores, Zhu Xiao made a show of rotating the tasks. “Balance is good training.” he said blandly. “Wouldn’t want to overwork one person and let the rest of you get soft.”

When Ming Fan “accidentally” spilled tea on Luo Binghe’s robes, Zhu Xiao happened to be passing by, stopped, and simply said. “Apologize. Now.”

Ming Fan grit his teeth but obeyed—because Zhu Xiao wasn’t just anyone. He was one of the older disciples in Qing Jing Peak. A year older than Ming Fan. Despite the fact that Ming Fan may be a Head Disciple, he doesn’t have the right to disrespect his senior disciple. Ming Fan can get in serious trouble if the older disciples report to the Lord Peak about the Head Disciple’s behavior. 

Normally, no one bothers, but Ming Fan just knew Zhu Xiao wouldn’t hesitate to report his unacceptable behaviors to their Peak Lord. 

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By the third week of this, the tension between them was thick enough to slice with a sword.

One evening, after class, Ming Fan finally confronted him.

“Shixiong.” Ming Fan said stiffly, catching Zhu Xiao near the foot of the steps leading to the library. “Why do you keep interfering? If Luo-shidi keeps getting special treatment, he’ll never improve.”

Zhu Xiao turned to look at him, one brow raised.

“Special treatment?” he repeated. “You call basic human decency special treatment?”

Ming Fan flushed. “He’s lazy. He needs to be pushed—”

“Funny.” Zhu Xiao folded his arms. “I’ve seen him working harder than half the class combined. Maybe what he needs is less pushing, and more space to actually learn.”

Ming Fan opened his mouth, but Zhu Xiao had already turned away, clearly done with the conversation.

“I don’t care how you feel about him, Ming Fan.” Zhu Xiao said over his shoulder as he walked away. “But if you’re going to pick fights with someone weaker than you, don’t do it where I can see.”

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That night, Luo Binghe found a quiet corner of the training yard and sat there long after everyone else had gone. He didn’t smile often—not when people could see—but this time, he allowed himself the smallest of smiles.

Zhu Xiao hadn’t even looked at him when he’d said those words. Hadn’t asked for thanks, hadn’t demanded loyalty.

But for Luo Binghe, who had spent most of his life bracing for cruelty, the quiet, unspoken protection meant more than any overt kindness could have.

.

.

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[Cang Qiong Mountain Sect
Qing Jing Peak
FLASHBACK – Three Months]

By the third month, the training field felt… different.

It wasn’t just Luo Binghe’s sword arm, which had grown steadier under Zhu Xiao’s casual guidance. It wasn’t even that Luo Binghe no longer flinched every time someone raised their voice. No—the real change was Ming Fan.

He had stopped trying to bait Luo Binghe directly. Instead, he had turned his barbed tongue toward Zhu Xiao.

“Of course Zhu-shixiong would say that.” Ming Fan said loudly one morning when Zhu Xiao corrected a sloppy stance during drills. “He’s been so busy looking after Luo-shidi lately—maybe he’s forgotten how real training works.”

A few disciples snickered. Yingying shot Ming Fan a sharp look, but said nothing.

Zhu Xiao just raised a brow, completely unbothered. “If ‘real training’ means letting your sword hand flop like a dead fish, then yes, I’ve clearly forgotten.” he said coolly. “Want to say that again to me?”

That shut them up.

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The whispers didn’t stop, though.

“Zhu-shixiong coddles him too much.”

“No wonder Disciple Luo never toughens up.”

“Do you think Shizun knows?”

The comments rolled off Zhu Xiao’s back like rain off lacquered wood.

‘Let them talk.’ he thought. ‘Words were cheap.’

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.

.

Yingying, to her credit, was harder to ignore.

She had taken to spending more time around Luo Binghe as well, offering him sweet pastries and practicing spiritual seals near him with suspicious enthusiasm.

Zhu Xiao was ninety percent sure it wasn’t because she cared about spiritual seals.

‘Stop dousing yourself in peach-rose pheromones, you tiny menace.’ Zhu Xiao screamed internally one afternoon when he caught her leaving a faint, sweet scent trail down the path. ‘You’re both still kids! You have decades before you need to be worrying about this!’

Outwardly, he only sighed and adjusted the scroll he was carrying under his arm. “Yingying.” he said mildly as he passed her. “Your control over your pheromone release needs work. You’re wasting energy.”

Her cheeks went bright red. “I—I wasn’t—!”

Zhu Xiao didn’t stop walking. “Practice restraint.” he called over his shoulder, lips twitching. ‘YOU TWO ARE FOURTEEN! CHILDREN! TOO YOUNG! YINGYING, YOU ARE TOO YOUNG! POOR LUO BINGHE! GOOD THING HE IS STILL UNPRESENTED!’

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Despite himself, Zhu Xiao found he’d grown oddly fond of watching the two of them. Luo Binghe, who still approached every kindness with careful hesitation. Yingying, who was entirely too fearless for someone her age.

He kept his distance—too much warmth might invite suspicion—but he was always nearby. Offering small corrections when Luo Binghe’s forms faltered. Pretending not to notice when Luo Binghe lingered after drills as if hoping Zhu Xiao would speak to him.

It wasn’t friendship, exactly. Not yet.

But something was quietly, steadily shifting.

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[ ( ＾▽＾)っ Host is totally raising the Protagonist and his heroine together~!! This is practically a cultivation daycare!! ]

‘Shut. Up.’ Zhu Xiao didn’t even look at the system’s floating red text.

[ (≧▽≦)ノ Luo Binghe and Yingying are surely seeing you as their favorite older brother~! ]

‘Stop. Talking.’

[ (ゝω・)~☆ Can’t stop, won’t stop! Fufufu~! ]

‘Arg!’

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[Cang Qiong Mountain Sect
Qing Jing Peak, Training Yard
Late Night
FLASHBACK – Three Months]

The moon hung high and pale above Qing Jing Peak, its silver light spilling across the empty training yard. The grass glistened faintly with dew, and the air was still; almost sacred in its quiet.

Zhu Xiao had been on his way back from the library pavilion when the soft swish, swish of a blade slicing through the night air caught his attention.

He stopped, frowning.

That sound was too precise to be the wind.

Moving silently, Zhu Xiao followed the noise around the edge of the courtyard and there he found him.

Luo Binghe stood alone in the moonlight, drenched in sweat, his outer robe discarded in a heap nearby. His form was shaky, but his grip on the wooden practice sword was ironclad, his brows furrowed in stubborn determination.

Each swing of the blade was just slightly off, shoulders too tense, footing slipping in the damp grass. And still, he refused to stop.

Zhu Xiao leaned against a tree, watching for a long moment in silence. He could see the tremor in Luo Binghe’s arms, the near-collapse of his stance every time he reset. Zhu Xiao knew that sometimes Luo Binghe stayed out all night just to keep practicing his sword form. Even with his help, Luo Binghe never stops training on his own. As much as Luo Binghe is grateful and happy to have help, he also likes to train on his own when he wants to be alone. 

Finally, Zhu Xiao spoke.

“You’re going to tear your muscles if you keep swinging like that.” he said casually.

Luo Binghe startled violently, nearly dropping the sword. He whirled toward the voice, wide-eyed. “Z–Zhu-shixiong!”

“Mm.” Zhu Xiao strolled forward, unhurried, the picture of calm. “What are you doing out here this late?”

“I…” Luo Binghe swallowed, looking down, shame coloring his face. “This lowly one just… wanted to practice more. To improve faster.”

“By ruining your body?” Zhu Xiao arched a brow. “Not the most brilliant plan.”

Luo Binghe’s shoulders hunched. “I just… I can’t fall behind anymore.” His voice was quiet but desperate, and the words hung in the night like a confession.

For a moment, Zhu Xiao didn’t reply. He recognized that tone as the voice of someone who’d been left behind one too many times.

He sighed and stepped closer, plucking the wooden sword from Luo Binghe’s hands. “You keep forgetting this part, Luo-shidi. You’re locking your shoulders again.” he said matter-of-factly. “You’re wasting energy with every strike.”

Before Luo Binghe could protest, Zhu Xiao shifted his stance, demonstrating. Smooth, precise, effortless—his form was a thing of beauty even with a practice sword.

“Your strength doesn’t come from brute force.” Zhu Xiao explained as he handed the sword back. “It comes from flow. From the entire body moving as one. Watch.”

He adjusted Luo Binghe’s grip, nudged his elbow into place, and shifted his feet until they were properly aligned.

“Now—breathe. Remember to relax your shoulders.”

Luo Binghe obeyed, hesitant at first. Then he swung.

This time, the blade cut through the air with a cleaner sound, and his footing held.

Luo Binghe’s eyes widened slightly.

Zhu Xiao nodded, satisfied. “Better. Do it again.”

They repeated the motion several times, Zhu Xiao occasionally reaching out to correct him—a light tap on the wrist here, a push to the knee there. Each time, Luo Binghe’s movements grew more controlled, more confident.

Finally, Zhu Xiao stepped back, folding his arms. “That’s enough for tonight.”

“But—”

“No buts.” Zhu Xiao’s tone was firm, but not unkind. “Rest is part of training too. You’ll make more progress tomorrow with a clear head.”

Luo Binghe hesitated, then slowly nodded.

As Zhu Xiao turned to leave, he paused and glanced back over his shoulder. “Luo-shidi.”

Luo Binghe blinked, startled to be addressed so directly. “Yes, Zhu-shixiong?”

“You’re improving.” Zhu Xiao said simply. “Don’t burn yourself out. You’re stronger than you think.”

For a moment, Luo Binghe just stared, as if unsure he’d heard correctly.

Then his expression softened—a shy, tentative smile tugged at his lips. “...Thank you.”

Zhu Xiao grunted noncommittally and walked off, but there was the faintest curve of amusement at the corner of his mouth.

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.

.

[Cang Qiong Mountain Sect
Qing Jing Peak – Blue Pond
PRESENT…]

Zhu Xiao snapped his eyes open at the thunderous BOOM! that shook the very air. The ground trembled beneath him, pebbles skittering into the shimmering surface of the pond.

“The hell—? What the fuck was that?!” he blurted, his voice ricocheting across the clearing.

Then came the sound that froze his blood for half a heartbeat—the sharp, metallic clang of alarm bells. Their rhythmic ringing cut through the air, echoing up the mountain like a heartbeat of dread.

“…Oh, shit.”

Memory clicked into place like tumblers in a lock. His stomach dropped. ‘Wait, wait, WAIT— don’t tell me this is that part of the story?! The Demon Invasion arc?! The one where Luo Binghe meets that sadistic Saintess Demon—Sha Hualing?!’

Ding!~

[ Host is correct! (ﾉ≧▽≦)ﾉ♪ This is the Demon Invasion Event! Estimated casualties: high! Estimated chaos: maximum! (๑>◡<๑)ゞ ]

Zhu Xiao groaned aloud. “You’re way too cheerful about mass destruction, you know that?”

[ (≧◡≦) But Host loves drama, doesn’t he~? ]

“I like fictional drama, not live-action carnage!” he hissed, already springing to his feet.

He unsheathed his spiritual sword, Ru Yi, and its polished silver gleamed under the morning sun. The air vibrated faintly as his qi surged through it. The blade responded instantly, rising into the air like a loyal hawk. With a smooth leap, Zhu Xiao landed atop it, his coat and hair whipping in the rushing wind.

The sword tilted—and soared. Wind slammed against his face, cool and sharp, carrying the smell of pine, smoke, and faint traces of iron. Below him, Qing Jing Peak blurred into streaks of green and stone as he sped toward the source of the explosion—Qiong Ding Peak.

‘All right, think! If this really is the same sequence, then right now the outer disciples should be fighting—no, struggling—against low-level demons near the Rainbow Bridge. Luo Binghe is probably there too. Damn, this is happening faster than I thought!’

[ ヾ(☆▽☆) Host remembers well! At this point in the canon timeline, Sha Hualing makes her grand entrance— ]

“Yeah, yeah, I know! Save your trivia hour!” Zhu Xiao snapped, narrowing his eyes as the horizon shifted.

Smoke coiled into the sky ahead, thick and black, clawing its way up from Qiong Ding Peak. The wind carried the acrid sting of burning wood and the coppery tang of blood. As he drew closer, the sound of chaos reached his ears: the clash of steel, the crackle of flames, the guttural roars of demons.

Zhu Xiao’s excitement—the old thrill of being inside one of his favorite chaotic novel arcs—rose unbidden in his chest. His heart raced. His eyes glinted with anticipation.

To think he was about to witness one of the protagonist’s infamous wives, Sha Hualing! One of the few female Alphas compatible with Luo Binghe—though their scenes were soaked in blood, violence, and far too much gore.

There were moments Shen Yuan had seriously questioned that crazy hack author’s sanity. “Why the hell is there so much blood in sex scenes?!” he’d once ranted, almost dropping the novel entirely. But no—he’d braved through it, clinging to the hope that the story might eventually redeem itself. (Spoiler alert: it didn’t. Damn that lazy motherfucker author.)

Zhu Xiao silently shook his head, forcing himself to focus. ‘So this is it… the real deal. The moment when the Demon Realm breaches the sect barrier. Damn, it looks even cooler in person!’

He dove lower, the landscape unfolding beneath him. The once-beautiful Rainbow Bridge—arched elegantly over the misty gorge between peaks—now lay shattered. Shards of multicolored light drifted through the air like dying stars, scattering as the bridge’s qi disintegrated. The atmosphere crackled with unstable spiritual energy.

Below, disciples fought for their lives. Blades flashed, cries rang out, and monstrous silhouettes moved among the smoke. The demons were grotesque—horns, fangs, and talons glinting like obsidian. Their snarls cut through the chaos.

Zhu Xiao was about to mutter something about how this was like reading the battle chapter in 4D when movement caught his eye. A young disciple—no older than fourteen—screamed as a demon lunged. The boy barely raised his sword before the creature’s claw tore across his chest.

The sound was wet.

The body hit the ground with a dull, final thud.

Zhu Xiao froze.

The thrill drained from him instantly, replaced by a hollow stillness. His breath caught; his pulse faltered. Ru Yi wavered beneath his feet, pausing midair as if sensing his shock. “…That—” His voice cracked. “—that wasn’t supposed to—”

Then the smell hit him. Metallic. Raw. Blood. Real blood. Not ink. Not a paragraph on a page. The demon bent low, tearing into the fallen disciple’s body, and Zhu Xiao’s stomach lurched violently.

He couldn’t look away. His garnet-amber eyes reflected the flickering fires below, the horror painted across the battlefield.

[ Σ(°ロ°)！！ Host? Host! You’ve stopped moving! Warning! Qi flow is decreasing! Stabilize flight or risk falling! (⊙﹏⊙✿) ]

Zhu Xiao didn’t even register the system’s frantic tone. His mind reeled, caught between disbelief and nausea. He knew this world was real. He’d told himself that a thousand times. But knowing it was one thing—feeling it was another. Seeing someone die like that was something else entirely.

‘This isn’t… just a story anymore.’ he realized, throat tight. ‘These aren’t characters. They’re people.’

His hand trembled as he tightened his grip on Ru Yi’s hilt. The excitement that once danced in his eyes was gone, replaced by something colder. Sharper.

Resolve.

He took a deep, steadying breath. The air was heavy with ash and fear. Then, with a quiet exhale, Zhu Xiao focused his qi.

Ru Yi hummed beneath his feet—ready to dive once more.

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..

...

Chapter Text

[Cang Qiong Mountain Sect
Qiong Ding Peak — The Battlefield]

Zhu Xiao’s breath steadied, his eyes narrowing on the demon below; the one that had ripped apart the fourteen-year-old boy. The creature was still crouched over the corpse, blood dripping from its claws, too intoxicated by the scent of death to sense what was coming.

Zhu Xiao’s grip on Ru Yi tightened.

Then, he dove.

The wind screamed past him as he and his sword plummeted like a falling star. Ru Yi glowed faintly, its silver surface pulsing with condensed spiritual light. The demon never even looked up.

By the time it did—

—Its slit-pupiled eyes twitched upward; it was already too late.

Zhu Xiao leaped from Ru Yi at the last heartbeat, twisting in midair. His qi snapped outward, tethering his will to the blade. Ru Yi spun—once, twice, three times—an elegant spiral of light and steel.

The sword sliced through the air with a whisper, severing the demon’s head in a single stroke.

Zhu Xiao flipped forward over the collapsing body, landing softly several paces away, his boots kissing the earth with barely a sound. He didn’t look back. Not even a glance.

Behind him, the demon’s body stood frozen for a moment, as if its mind hadn’t yet realized it was dead. Then the head slid cleanly from its neck and hit the ground with a dull, wet thunk.

Ru Yi twirled once more in the air, graceful as a dancer returning from her last bow, before flying back to its master’s waiting hand. Zhu Xiao caught the hilt without breaking stride.

A flick of his wrist; qi hummed along the blade’s edge, and the blood flung off in a fine crimson arc that vanished into mist.

His garnet-amber eyes darkened, the thrill gone; what remained was cold resolve, sharp as the sword in his grip.

The system materialized beside him an iridescent red window flickering faintly, but it did not speak. It didn’t dare. Even the code seemed to understand: this was not the moment for words or humor.

All around him, the battlefield burned. Smoke thickened the air, demons howled, disciples screamed and clashed, their fear-soaked scents bleeding into one another—iron, sweat, ozone, fire.

Zhu Xiao exhaled slowly. His voice, when he spoke, was low and absolute. “System. Activate Scent Sight. Now.”

The command wasn’t a request—it was an order.

For a heartbeat, silence. Then the familiar chime.
[ Scent Sight activated! Timer has begun—10:00… 09:59… 09:58… ]

The world shifted.

Color flooded his vision—not bright, but alive. The smoke and flame dulled to a muted grey, while luminous ribbons unfurled all around him like drifting silk in the wind.

Each disciple’s scent burned a different hue—cool blues, pale greens, golden ambers, many different shades of colors—threads of vitality twining through the chaos. Between them, however, writhed the other colors: jagged streaks of black, oil-slick violet, and rotting green. Demon scents—heavy, corrupted, clinging like tar to the air.

Zhu Xiao’s pupils contracted slightly. He could see them all now—every movement, every kill, every demon lurking in the smoke.

‘Perfect.’ he thought, his expression hardening.

He leaped back onto Ru Yi, the sword rising beneath his feet in a shimmer of qi.

The blade cut through the smoky air, faster than sound, carving deadly arcs as Zhu Xiao moved. Each time he descended, another demon fell—cleaved, pierced, or sent crashing into the rocks.

He didn’t waste movement. Every strike was precise, measured, silent. A flash of steel, a burst of red, and he was gone again, his silhouette vanishing into ribbons of scent-light.

Through the haze, he tracked the disciples’ signatures—their fear-bright hues flickering, fading—and followed them, striking down the monsters that threatened to snuff them out.

He couldn’t save everyone. But he could keep some of them alive.

His qi pulsed stronger with each swing, each kill. Smoke swirled around him, torn apart by the wind of his passing. From a distance, he looked almost spectral; an ethereal shadow cutting through a world of dissolving color.

Still, he said nothing. The system remained silent. Because this time, Zhu Xiao wasn’t fighting for plot.

He was fighting because the blood on the ground was real.

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..

…

Disciple, Are You Flirting With Me?

Chapter Nineteen

“The Demon Invasion”

…

..

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[Cang Qiong Mountain Sect
Qiong Ding Peak - Ling Xi Caves, Inner Cavern
Meanwhile…]

A low hum of spiritual energy rippled through the stone chamber as Shen Qingqiu slowly opened his eyes. The luminous threads of qi circling his body dimmed, then dissolved into the air like mist evaporating at dawn. His lashes lifted—calm, deliberate—revealing the pale gleam of bamboo-jade eyes that caught the cavern’s faint light.

He had been seated cross-legged on the stone dais for hours, perhaps days, waiting for the final wisp of energy to complete its circuit through his meridians. The process, for once, had been seamless—fluid as water flowing through a pristine channel. No turbulence, no strain.

And, though he would never say it aloud, he knew why.

Petrichor and mint.

That scent. That beta scent.

Ever since he had changed out of his ruined robes and into the fresh set Mu Qingfang had left behind, the faint trace of Zhu Xiao’s outer robe still lingered within reach; folded neatly beside the platform. His omega instincts, damn them, refused to let it go. Each time he tried to store it away in his qiankun sleeve, the restless whisper of his inner nature stirred, clawing for its anchor.

Shen Qingqiu’s mouth tightened. His mind—ever the fortress of reason—refused to admit weakness, but his body betrayed him. The young beta’s scent had soothed his volatile pheromones in a way no suppressant or pill ever had.

‘Infuriating.’ he thought, a quiet sigh escaping him. ‘And… effective.’

He rose smoothly from the platform, robes cascading around him in gentle folds of snow-white silk edged in green. The faint echo of his boots on stone was the only sound in the cavern. He flexed his fingers once, feeling the coursing strength of his newly tempered qi—the next level achieved, his cultivation sharper, cleaner. Satisfaction flickered across his features for the briefest second before he schooled them back into composure.

With a flick of his wrist, he summoned his fan from the depths of his sleeve, snapping it open with a crisp pa! The delicate paper shimmered faintly in the dim light as he brushed a stray lock of inky hair behind one ear.

His thoughts drifted—not to his breakthrough, but to him.

Zhu Xiao.

The name alone brought a minute tightening to his chest. He remembered the steady strength of those arms when he had been too weakened to stand, the quiet steadiness in the beta’s gaze, the strange gentleness that made his instincts curl protectively, absurdly.