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Chapter Text

The Cracked Courtyard

The sky above the Southern Court was a clear, endless amber, the sun already beginning its slow descent beyond the jungle canopy. Late afternoon light slanted between the towering walls of Tianlang-jun’s fortress, streaking the whole place in gold-edged shadow.

And in one forgotten courtyard, all that brilliance felt impossibly far away.

Luo Binghe lay on his side beside a broken fountain—half-sunken, cracked through its base, the stone petals of the centerpiece flower snapped off long ago. The water within was shallow and stagnant, painted in filmy green with threads of algae that curled around his fingers when he trailed them through. A family of mosquitoes hovered above, undeterred by the presence of one of the most powerful beings in the realm.

He watched them listlessly.

He hadn’t meant to come here. He’d wandered—past the armory halls, past the high towers where flags snapped in the wind, past the kitchens where roasted meat and sugar smoke once stirred up his hunger. Today, nothing did. He’d wandered until he found this—this ruined place, tucked between mossy walls and collapsed trellises. Forgotten. Untouched since—

Since something terrible had happened. An old siege? A battle long past?

He didn’t know.

He didn’t care.

What he did know was that the air here was still, and the silence wasn’t demanding.

So he laid down, cheek pressed to the sun-warmed stone, and let the weight in his chest fester.

It wasn’t pain, exactly. Not like wounds. Not like poison. But it was heavy. And quiet. And constant.

He was tired, but not sleepy. Lonely, but didn’t want to see anyone. Sad, but not sure why. His whole body ached in a way that had no source.

…He didn’t know what this feeling was.

Earlier: The Gate

“You’ll be fine,” Jin Linyun had said, gripping Binghe’s forearm. His golden hair was pulled back tightly, the blue-green shimmer of his robe glinting like scales in the morning light.

Zhaixun stood behind him, waiting by the obsidian gates. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes were sharp and unusually focused— protective in the way only dragons could be.

“You always are,” Jin added, giving Binghe a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just… don’t go doing something too heroic while I’m not looking, alright?”

Binghe had smiled. Calm. Poised. Unshakably graceful.

He didn’t hug Jin.

He didn’t ask him to stay.

He only nodded once and said, “Take care of yourself in the West.”

The moment passed.

He turned away.

He didn’t watch them disappear.

But his father had. Tianlang-jun had stood on the stairs behind him, arms folded, red eyes narrowed with unreadable thoughts. And beside him, Liu Qingge had watched Binghe’s posture the way a swordsman observes a weakened stance— knowing exactly what’s about to collapse, and how long it might hold.

Now: The Fountain

Binghe’s fingers stilled over the water’s surface.

The light was dimming.

His reflection stared back at him: pale, weary, the shape of his mouth drawn tight as if he hadn’t smiled in days. Which… might have been true.

He thought of Jin’s words again. You always are.

Always fine. Always composed. Always powerful.

But what if he wasn’t?

What if he wasn’t anything, right now?

The still water quivered, a mosquito disturbing the surface. Binghe exhaled and let his arm sink until it touched the cold stone basin.

He didn’t even flinch.

He didn’t know what he was feeling.

But it hurt.

Luo Binghe still laid beside the broken fountain, still half-curled like a discarded doll. The cracked lip of the basin pressed into his ribs. His hand had gone numb, submerged in cold algae-slick water. His white sleeve was soaked— filthy. He hadn’t moved in… he didn’t know how long.

The jungle wind rustled overhead— warm, sweet with decay. Distantly, the fortress bustled on. Servants prepared the evening meal. Guards made their rounds. Somewhere, perhaps, his father was speaking with generals. Somewhere, Liu Qingge might be sharpening a blade or pacing the ramparts.

But none of that reached Binghe. Not here.

Not in this shattered corner of the palace where even the birds didn’t sing.

All he could feel was the hole in his chest.

The one Jin Linyun left behind.

He had held it together, hadn’t he? Right up until the end. His smile had been serene. His voice steady. He even managed a quiet joke about roasted lizard tail and dry wine.

But when Jin stepped through the portal, back straight and proud, not looking back— something in Binghe had come unmoored.

Now the hole just… gaped.

He’d gotten used to Jin’s presence. The way the other half-dragon would take up space without asking. The trail of hair ties and sweets wrappers he left behind. The way he curled into Binghe’s side like he was made for it. Jin had burned so brightly— smirking at everyone, teasing everyone. But with Binghe…

He’d always been gentle.

You’ll be fine, Jin had said. You always are.

Was that why he didn’t say I’ll come back?

Because Jin wasn’t sure he would?

Because the people who had hunted Jin’s bloodline still hadn’t been found?

Binghe shut his eyes. His heart throbbed painfully, as if it had been struck.

What if he never saw Jin again?

His mind reeled backwards, seeking something safe— some memory, some anchor.

Gongyi Xiao.

His Xiao-ge.

His very first friend.

Binghe’s breath hitched as that old warmth surfaced. Steady, soft. Gongyi Xiao had never let him fall, not even when everyone else turned their backs. He had fed Binghe, clothed him, defended him, sat with him through the nights when the fever dreams came too sharp and the loneliness was unbearable.

How many times had Binghe imagined a future with Gongyi Xiao? Just the two of them, building something quiet and good.

And yet—

He hadn’t thought of him lately. Not truly.

Not even during the worst of his pain—during the captivity, during Wuyuan’s cruelty, during the fights.

He had hoped Jin would find him.

Not Xiao-ge.

That truth struck like a whip.

What is wrong with me?

Did he take Gongyi Xiao for granted because he knew Zhuzhi-lang would keep him safe? Because his heart had grown too used to safety, to faith in others?

Because he no longer needed his Xiao-ge to rescue him?

Binghe’s stomach twisted.

That was wrong. That was so wrong.

He pushed up slightly, sat back on his heels beside the fountain. His wet hand trailed water across his knee, dripping green down his leg.

It wasn’t just Jin.

Or Gongyi Xiao.

What was this life?

Liu Qingge was here, storming through the palace in mystery and silk and stoic fury, cutting down every suitor in Binghe’s path like a jealous guard dog. Zhaixun, Huaiyu, Hongyue—they vied for his favor too, each dangerous in their own way. Even Mobei-jun, in his icy indifference, had brought Binghe a champion to “test the Crown Prince’s strength.”

Why is it always men this time?

In his past life, his wives had feared and worshipped him. Dressed in silks, draped in jewels, desperate for his attention. They’d come to him with their painted smiles, hoping for favours, dreading his temper.

Now?

Now it was male generals, male dragons, male commanders who looked at him like he was fire and gravity.

He wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or punch someone.

Was this punishment? A cruel karmic joke for what he’d done to his wives in his past life? For what he was?

Is this what the heavens meant by balance?

And worse—

He relied on them.

On all of them.

He relied on Jin for laughter, for lightness. On Liu Qingge for steadiness. On Zhaixun to keep him alive in the demon court. On his father, Tianlang-jun—who, gods help him, was kind—to give him a home.

When did I become like this?

In his first life, he had trusted no one. No one.

He had taken power. Kept it. Killed for it. Ruled with it.

But this life?

This life had softened him. Made him flinch at blood, weep for strangers, cling to comfort.

“I’m weak, am I not?” He whispered to himself. 

Isn’t he?

He curled forward slightly, clutching his elbows, his forehead touching his knees.

It was too much.

And then, from nowhere, a sharp smack landed cleanly on the top of his head.

Binghe jolted upright, yelping, “What the—?!”

A familiar voice, deadpan and unimpressed:

“Enough. Get up.”

Binghe blinked up.

There, looming over him like a wrathful god in a plain dark robe, arms crossed—

“Shifu?!”

Liu Qingge’s gaze was cold steel. “You’re sulking.”

“I am reflecting on my life!”

“You’re curled up in algae, Luo Binghe.”

“I like this algae!”

Liu Qingge raised one hand again, menacingly.

Binghe scrambled up, wet sleeve clinging to his arm. “Fine! Fine!”

As he was dusting himself off and dripping moss, Liu Qingge turned, his voice softening just a little.

“…You’re not weak,” he said.

Binghe froze.

“Just loved,” Liu Qingge added. “It’s different.”

Then he turned on his heel and stalked off again like he hadn’t just stabbed Binghe through the chest with a single sentence.

Binghe stood beside the broken fountain, stunned.

Loved.

Not weak.

His knees wobbled.

Maybe… he wasn’t fine. Not yet. But maybe that was allowed too.

A Son, A Father, A Walk Between Ruins

Binghe walked slowly along the palace’s southern colonnade, kicking pebbles as he went. It is early evening now. Cicadas hissed beyond the walls. The broken courtyard and ruined fountain were behind him, but the weight in his chest hadn’t lightened.

He was mulling over everything: Jin’s departure, the uncertainty of his own purpose, the looming campaign into the southern jungles— what he had wanted to do alone, but was now forbidden to undertake without an escort.

He could survive just fine, damn it. He didn’t need Zhaixun or Huaiyu or Mobei-jun trailing after him like extra limbs.

And now Liu Qingge would be leaving soon too. Probably heading back to Bai Zhan with that infuriating grace of his, like nothing had happened.

Binghe sighed and kicked another stone, watching it skip and clatter down the cracked path.

His Shifu would leave. Jin was gone. Even Gongyi Xiao was far away.

Was it always going to be like this? Was everyone always going to go?

He didn’t hear his father until he rounded the corner—and nearly bumped into the towering figure cloaked in demon-lord regalia, thick black hair braided down one shoulder.

Tianlang-jun raised one brow.

“There you are.”

Binghe startled, then straightened. “Father.”

Tianlang-jun’s sharp eyes narrowed.

“You look miserable.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” Tianlang-jun stepped closer, sniffed once, then opened his arms. “Come here.”

Binghe groaned, backing away half a step. “I’m not a baby, Father.”

Tianlang-jun quirked a smile, not lowering his arms.

“I wasn’t there when you were a baby,” he said softly. “Let me catch up.”

The words hit Binghe harder than he expected. He froze.

Then— awkwardly, reluctantly— he let himself be pulled into a hug.

His father’s embrace was firm, warm, and strangely comforting. A circle of strength that surrounded without smothering. The smell of ancient incense and iron and something like wind through old stone clung to Tianlang-jun’s cloak.

“You didn’t even get to know your mother,” Tianlang-jun said quietly, chin resting on Binghe’s crown. “That’s the part that stings most.”

Binghe didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

“Su Xiyan was…” Tianlang-jun’s voice gentled. “A fiery woman. Excellent with the sword. Stubborn as hell. Terrifying when she was mad. And beautiful, of course.”

“I’ve seen her painting,” Binghe murmured.

“She used to beat cultivators from the sects and then lecture them for poor form.” A chuckle. “You’ve got her face. Her temper. That helps me miss her less, some days.”

A quiet beat passed.

“I didn’t mean to coddle you,” Tianlang-jun said after a moment. “But—” he pulled back enough to look Binghe in the face. “You are the only piece I have left of her. The only precious thing. I can’t—Binghe, I can’t lose you. Not to some disease, not to fate. Not to anything.”

Binghe looked down. His eyes stung.

“I understand,” he whispered. “Really.”

Tianlang-jun held his gaze. “You’re still poisoned. Until that’s resolved, I won’t let you go into danger alone. I won’t forgive myself if—”

“I’m not asking you to forgive yourself,” Binghe said, voice tight. “I just want you to let me try.”

“Not like this,” his father replied. “Not while Without-a-Cure is still inside you. You didn’t deserve that. You didn’t deserve to be toyed with by fate.”

“I…” Binghe’s voice broke. He swallowed hard. “I didn’t have anyone in my last life, you know? After my adoptive mother died, there was no one. My teacher—Shen Qingqiu—he hated me. He threw me into the Abyss to die.”

He saw Tianlang-jun’s expression darken, just slightly.

“I trusted no one,” Binghe continued. “I loved no one. And no one truly loved me. But now—”

He choked a little, his hand pressing over his chest.

“Now I have you and Shifu. I have Gongyi Xiao. I used to have my Shibo. Jin. Even people like Huaiyu and Zhaixun, for all their chaos— they care. My mother is alive and living well with the others back home. And I— I’m grateful. I’m so grateful.”

His eyes shimmered, unfallen tears clinging like glass.

“I wouldn’t trade this life for anything. I’d take the poison. I’d take the scars. I’d take everything. I’m not alone anymore.”

Silence fell.

Then Tianlang-jun slowly, gently, pulled him back into a tighter hug.

“I’ll find the cure,” he said. “We’ll all find it. You’ll be free.”

Binghe nodded against his father’s shoulder.

He knows of the cure— but that doesn’t mean he is up to the execution method. 

He stayed silent, ears burning. 

Parting Steel, Quiet Fire

Binghe found Liu Qingge in one of the eastern wings of the fortress, in a quiet chamber overlooking the training grounds. The Northern Warrior stood in front of the open window, the late afternoon sun drawing sharp gold lines across the floor and catching in the silver stitching of his traveling cloak. His lance was already slung across his back. His sword belt was coiled neatly on the side table, beside a small box of medicinal salves Binghe had left for him earlier.

It felt too quiet.

Liu Qingge didn’t look back when Binghe stepped in.

“I was going to leave without telling you,” Liu Qingge said evenly.

Binghe snorted. “Would’ve found you by scent. You always smell like snow and iron.”

That earned a small flicker of amusement. Liu Qingge turned, facing him fully now. The cloth mask was off, folded with care beside his travel pack. His face, as ever, was expressionless— calm, self-contained.

But Binghe could see the slight furrow at his brow.

“You’ve decided?” Liu Qingge asked.

“I have.”

Binghe stepped closer, clasping his hands behind his back like the Crown Prince he was trying to be.

“I’ll go with Mobei-jun.”

Liu Qingge gave a small nod of approval, as if he had expected this all along.

“His teleportation ability will help,” Binghe added. “And… I know his character. Better than anyone else.”

He met Liu Qingge’s eyes squarely, something soft and open in his voice.

“In my past life, he walked beside me for centuries. Through hell and ice and worse. He never once turned on me. Never once asked anything of me that I couldn’t give.”

A pause.

“I trust him.”

There was silence for a beat.

Then Liu Qingge stepped forward, and— without any ceremony— reached out and patted Binghe’s head.

It was brief, and dry, and characteristically Liu Qingge.

But the warmth spread like wildfire through Binghe’s chest all the same.

“Good choice,” Liu Qingge said. “At least that one doesn’t have… other intentions.”

Binghe choked. “Shifu—”

“Dry as a board,” Liu Qingge continued mercilessly. “Could probably meditate through an avalanche. If someone tried to seduce him, I imagine he’d freeze them solid out of irritation.”

“Shifu, please.”

“You’re the one with ten admirers and a matchmaking father. Don’t come crying to me when your personal guard turns into a public courtship arena again.”

Binghe laughed despite himself. A real laugh. The kind that pushed tension from his shoulders and let him breathe again.

Then he sobered, glancing toward the window.

“I’ll miss you.”

Liu Qingge’s expression flickered— barely.

“I’ll come by,” he said simply. “If the chance permits. You still have martial arts to refine, and your posture is starting to resemble Tianlang-jun’s. It’s insufferable.”

Binghe grinned. “I’m royalty now.”

“You’re Bai Zhan. Royalty can wait.”

They stood there for a moment— just disciple and master, warrior and warrior— letting the stillness settle between them.

Then Binghe stepped back and bowed low, deep from the waist.

“Thank you, Shifu. For everything.”

Liu Qingge looked away.

“Don’t make me regret coming.”

“You won’t,” Binghe said quietly. “I promise.”

And by the look on his face, Liu Qingge believed him.

The Departure of Two Sons

It was still dark when they gathered near the gates of the Southern Fortress. Not the front gates— those were watched by curious courtiers and overeager suitors—but a smaller one, carved into the eastern wall, half-hidden behind draping vines and carved obsidian.

A crescent of guards waited in silence, wards shimmering faintly over their blades.

Binghe was ready, his sabre slung over his back, his long hair bound and gathered high. He stood straight and steady— his expression a mask of focus and control.

Mobei-jun, in full black lined with icy blue, stood beside him with his usual impassive calm.

And in front of them, brooding and pacing like an animal who’d lost a cub, was Tianlang-jun.

“You know I could still revoke this,” the Heavenly Demon muttered, eyes flicking between them like a worried hen. “You could stay another week. Or two. Or a season.”

“Father,” Binghe said tiredly.

“It’s not you I don’t trust,” Tianlang-jun cut in, glaring— not at Binghe, but squarely at Mobei-jun. “It’s him. He has all the warmth of a brick and the same talent for social subtlety. He’ll frighten everyone into surrender before they talk.”

“That’s the point,” Binghe said, deadpan.

But Mobei-jun… surprised them both.

Without a word, he sank to one knee.

The frost-edged earth didn’t crunch beneath him— his movement was silent, purposeful.

“Junshang,” Mobei-jun said quietly, with no pride in his voice, only weight. “You were the first to see this servant as useful. You guided him when he had nothing. Guided this one to secure his birthright. Showed him how to rule not just with might, but with judgment. You gave him reason.”

He lifted his eyes— not icy, but deeply calm.

“You were more of a father to me than my sire ever managed to be.”

Binghe blinked.

And Tianlang-jun, struck dumb for perhaps the first time in several centuries, blinked back at Mobei-jun.

Then:

“Ah,” Tianlang-jun said, voice gone oddly soft. “Why do you do this now? Your father was my only friend. If you’d just accepted back then, you could’ve been my son-in-law.”

Binghe’s spine straightened like someone drove a rod through it. “…What?”

Mobei-jun gave a small, restrained exhale. It might’ve been a sigh. Binghe immediately connected the dots.

That conversation happened before. He really did propose. And Mobei said no. Good job, Mobei.

Tianlang-jun turned to Binghe, who was glaring at the heavens in betrayed silence, and promptly misread the entire situation.

“Oh— don’t be jealous, little one,” he cooed, dragging Binghe into a suffocating hug. “You’re my son. We all can be a family.”

“Father,” Binghe wheezed, trying to escape.

Before he could break free, Mobei-jun— very stiffly— was dragged halfway into the huddle too.

His expression was one of pure panic.

Three demons. One paternal nightmare. All tangled in silk, weapons, and the awkward press of overwhelming affection.

Somewhere in the shadows above, Liu Qingge— watching from a rooftop— closed his eyes in suffering.

Finally, Tianlang-jun let them go.

“You’ll send word to me,” he said sternly. “Daily.”

“Weekly,” Binghe bargained.

“Every three days. And if I don’t hear from you, I’m coming to wherever you are and dragging you both home by the ears.”

Binghe sighed.

Mobei-jun nodded, and raised his hand.

A tear opened in the air, rimmed with frost and humming with ancient magic. The shadowy portal stretched, glowing faintly blue at the edges. A slow gust of cold mist poured through it— followed by the scent of ferns, mud, and the thick humidity of the southern jungle.

“No need for the court to know where you’re headed,” Tianlang-jun muttered, brushing imaginary dust off Binghe’s shoulder. “Go covertly. Find this cult, these bandits, and break them like twigs.”

“Yes, Father.”

“I mean it. If I see even a bruise on your face when you get back—”

“I’ll be careful.”

Tianlang-jun sighed, then patted Mobei-jun’s shoulder, hard. “Take care of him, you overgrown snowflake.”

“…Understood.”

With that, the two vanished into the rift, swallowed by frost and shadow and the sharp green light of dawn breaking beyond the trees.

The gate sealed behind them.

And far in the distance, the jungle began to awaken.

The Third Day: The Burrowing Hunger

The jungles of the demon realm’s southern reaches were not merely wild— they were ancient. Primordial. Trees towered with red-veined bark, twisted upward in spires that vanished into fog. Roots clawed through earth like skeletal hands, and vines as thick as arms hung from branches like execution ropes. The air stank of rot, copper, and the thick musk of beasts.

And they were everywhere.

Binghe spun, black sabre cleaving through the fetid air as another one lunged at him. The thing was barely the size of a goat— gaunt, grey, its limbs thin as bone spears, and its face a mess of jagged cartilage and vertical eye-slits that blinked wrong. But it moved faster than lightning and struck like a needle storm.

They were called Bristled Whelps—low-level ambush predators with elastic spines and venomous glands in their mouths and claws. Not even intelligent, but vicious in packs. The locals called them Si Cheng, or “Burrowing Hunger.” You never saw one. Only the dirt boil. Then the scream.

Now there were two dozen of them.

Binghe’s body twisted, his black sabre—Xiǎo Jié Yīn—leaving gashes of dark qi across the clearing. The blade drank in the heat, the kill, even the stink. One of the beasts tried to flank him from behind. Binghe spun and struck downward, cutting through its back mid-air. The halves hit the ground twitching.

“Still breathing?” came a flat voice from a mossy rock ten meters away.

Mobei-jun.

Lounging like he had all the time in the world, arms crossed, a faint shimmer of icy mist radiating from his boots—cold qi settling into the soil to deter sneak attacks.

Binghe gritted his teeth. “Don’t interfere!”

He whirled to the side, narrowly avoiding a leap to his throat.

Mobei-jun hadn’t moved a step since the start.

He hadn’t needed to.

The Si Cheng had taken one sniff and immediately swarmed Binghe instead. They knew prey. And between them, only one was leaking exhaustion and sweat.

Binghe scowled, breath heavy.

It had been three days since they slipped into the jungle through Mobei-jun’s portal. Three days since they left the warm halls of Tianlang-jun’s fortress behind. Since they passed through whispering thickets, overgrown ruins, winding rivers that smelled like rust, and one forgotten village where a dead-eyed child sat alone with a dried-up soul-sapping ward burned into his back.

The cult was real. The disappearances were real.

And it was Binghe’s idea to draw them out by drawing attention.

So now, he fought.

For hours on end. For the pain. For the edge.

Mobei-jun watched him with the gaze of a statue: silent, immutable.

Every beast Binghe took down, every maneuver forced him to rely on instinct and logic. He couldn’t use mortal cultivation arts. No talismans. No flashy sect techniques. Just his blade, his body, and the deep, resonating power of his blood.

He was refining his body and demonic qi the old way. The brutal way.

One beast darted under his guard— its claws raked across his ribs.

Blood bloomed.

Binghe growled, stabbed backward without turning. The sabre sank into sinew, pierced the thing’s gullet, then flicked clean again.

Three more down. Ten remained.

His arms ached. Sweat matted his hair to his neck.

And then— three leapt at once. From left, right, and center.

Too fast.

He exhaled, and let go.

His qi pulsed— Heavenly Demon blood surging like black fire through his limbs. His eyes flashed red. He ducked low, flipped up the flat of his blade— and broke the spine of the one from the left mid-leap. Used its corpse as a shield. Threw it into the jaws of the one from the right. Slashed up through the third in a neat bisecting arc that sent ichor into the canopy.

The last four hesitated.

Binghe bared his teeth and surged forward— no technique, just speed.

The beasts dropped.

Silence.

Mobei-jun uncrossed his arms and stepped into the clearing.

The air instantly chilled.

Binghe knelt over one of the corpses, panting, qi humming low under his skin.

“You let too many get behind you,” Mobei-jun observed.

“I was correcting my pivoting range,” Binghe snapped. “You were watching.”

Mobei nodded.

“I improved.”

A pause.

“…Slightly.”

Binghe exhaled sharply. He sheathed his sabre.

“…Thanks.”

Mobei-jun blinked. “For what.”

“For not helping.”

“You asked me not to.”

Still panting, Binghe smiled faintly.

“Yes. But you held your end. Even if I bled.”

“You didn’t die.”

Mobei crouched beside one of the beasts and pried something sharp from its eye socket— a small black needle embedded deep within the skull.

He held it up.

“They’re being driven,” he said. “Not natural aggression. Someone’s directing them.”

Binghe’s expression darkened.

So the enemies were close. Or worse, watching.

He looked down at his hands. Red. Bruised. Steady.

Good.

He’d need them both clean and unshaking by the time they reached the heart of the jungle.

Because something far worse than beasts was waiting.

The fire crackled low in their makeshift camp, a ring of bluish flame fed by wood Mobei had frozen and cracked to preserve its burn. The jungle breathed around them— nocturnal insects thrumming in time with distant screeches, the odd ripple of water from the stream beyond.

Luo Binghe sat bare chested on a smooth log, his outer robe draped beside him, binding a roll of gauze around his own ribs. Blood had already stained one half of it, his fingers slightly clumsy with effort. He hissed softly as the cloth tugged too tight across the gash. The wound was healing— he’d purged the poison— but it was still raw.

“Too slow,” Mobei-jun said from behind.

Before Binghe could snap a retort, Mobei moved. With the quiet, calculated ease of someone who’d long ago memorised how to move without wasting energy, he stepped over the log and lowered himself next to Binghe.

Too close.

Binghe tensed.

Then— cold fingers gathered the length of his damp hair, twisting it up and out of the way. Mobei slid the roll of gauze from his grip, not unkindly.

“I’ll do it,” the ice demon said. “You’re bleeding too much for pride.”

Binghe sat still, biting back his instinct to object. The closeness was prickling his nerves— but not from fear. He just… wasn’t used to this kind of quiet attention. And Mobei-jun, taller than him by more than a head and wrapped in immaculate dark robes, was too cool, too composed, too deliberate.

The black ribbon at Mobei’s collar fluttered against Binghe’s bare arm as he worked. He was efficient. His fingers careful. Cool nails brushed warm skin.

“You feel warm,” Mobei said after a moment, voice impassive.

Binghe tried to scoff, but it came out a little breathless.

“Because I’m alive.”

Mobei made a noncommittal hum.

Binghe regretted the flippancy. A deep, hot blush crawled up his chest and neck. Had he cleaned off well enough in the stream? There was still blood crusted into the edge of his collarbone and dried dirt in the bends of his elbows. He wasn’t— presentable. Especially not to someone like Mobei-jun, who always looked like he’d been sculpted from ice and dignity.

“It’s not just that,” Mobei added, wrapping the last turn of gauze low and firm. “You may be feverish. Purge your blood again.”

“I already did.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Binghe said. “I’m red because you’re too close.”

The honesty made Mobei pause.

Then, slowly, he lifted the end of the bandage to his mouth and bit through it, teeth sharp and clean. He tied it off in one elegant twist and handed Binghe the rest of the roll.

Their fingers brushed.

“You’re red because of that?” Mobei asked, blue eyes glinting under the low light. There was no smirk, but there didn’t need to be.

Binghe stared at him, wide-eyed. You absolute menace.

The blue huadian on Mobei’s forehead glowed faintly— like starlight trapped in a drop of cold water. Binghe could feel the tension between them rise and fall in waves, like the deep sea tugging at his spine.

Without a word, Mobei reached forward and tugged Binghe’s upper robe back into place, moving slowly so the cloth didn’t scrape the wound. He adjusted the collar. Secured the front ties.

Binghe protested. 

“I’ll do it,” Mobei said again. “You’re the injured one.”

The final knot was drawn tight— not harsh, not loose. Just enough to hold everything together.

Binghe sat there, robe half-pulled around him, looking up at this young demon king who just stole his bandages and dignity in the same breath.

Mobei had long, straight black hair still braided with a silver cord near the temple. It swayed as he stood.

Binghe didn’t know what irritated him more— the smug serenity or the fact that he’d let him do it.

“…Thanks,” he muttered, scowling.

Mobei tilted his head, mildly.

“You’re welcome. Try not to reopen the wound tomorrow.”

“I’ll manage,” Binghe snapped.

Mobei gave him one of those unreadable looks, then turned away toward the edge of the firelight. “We’ll move at dawn. If the cult’s using beasts like the Si Cheng, they’re watching the rivers. We take the cliffs.”

“You really believe the pests are here?”

“I believe they’ll be drawn to you,” Mobei said evenly. “So yes.”

Binghe exhaled.

He watched Mobei’s back— broad, steady, half-shadowed.

Maybe it was the firelight. Maybe it was the chill in the air. But suddenly, Binghe didn’t feel so alone out here anymore.

And that was dangerous in itself. It reminded him of his closeness with his most trusted ally in that life he lived and lost. 

The cliffs cut like old bone across the southern edge of the jungle— cracked sandstone veins arched over deep gorges and river valleys still choked with mist. Sunlight hadn’t yet reached the floor of the ravine when Luo Binghe stepped past the tree line, his boots crunching softly on gravel. The air was damp and sharp, laced with the smell of salt and copper moss.

Mobei-jun followed behind, a quiet shadow wrapped in black. The wind swept his cloak back as he scanned the terrain with ice-blue eyes.

They were halfway across a narrow stone span when the birds fell silent.

Binghe caught the shift first—an echo too crisp, a leaf that didn’t fall with the wind’s pattern.

“Left flank,” he whispered.

Mobei nodded once. His fingers twitched— an arc of cold shimmered briefly across his knuckles.

Then the cliffs exploded with movement.

A pulse of fire magic struck the path behind them, shattering the ledge in a boom of red-gold flame. The shockwave sent a rain of gravel skittering off the side. Binghe spun, sabre already drawn, just as a figure in a bone-white robe launched from the cliffs above, blade gleaming with sickly green qi.

They didn’t go for Mobei.

They dove straight for Binghe.

He twisted, parried upward— clang— and sparks flew. His blade howled with demonic resonance as it met the other’s.

“Capture him alive!” a voice barked in the jungle tongue. “Leave the Ice Lord bleeding, but we need him!”

So that’s what this was.

Binghe’s lips curled. Another abduction attempt. How quaint.

He ducked low under the cultist’s next swing, dropped to one knee and kicked out, sweeping the attacker’s legs out from under him. The figure hit the ground hard— but two more took his place. Ribbons of razor-like wind flew through the air— aimed precisely at Binghe’s ribs.

Mobei-jun moved.

A slab of ice erupted upward with a stomp of his boot, cracking the spell mid-flight. He didn’t say a word— didn’t need to. His expression was thunderous, calm, lethal. When a spell wrapped in chains of black lightning arced toward them, Mobei caught it with one palm, crushed it, and sent it back.

It detonated in the cliffside.

More cultists emerged from hidden slits in the rocks— tattooed faces half-covered, bone charms clinking on their belts. Their leader wore red lacquered armor and a crown of teeth strung together by sinew.

“Luo Binghe!” the leader called, and his voice echoed across the chasm. “Your power belongs to us!”

Binghe snarled. “You don’t even know what I am.”

They circled him now— seven in total. The way they moved, they’d trained together. Coordinated spellwork. Focused blades.

Mobei tried to push forward, but three broke off to keep him occupied— magic seals blooming across the earth with every step.

“Don’t kill him!” the red-armored leader snapped. “Bind him, block his qi. We’ll feast on him after the ritual!”

That was the last straw.

Binghe blurred forward, sabre swinging in an arc wide enough to scatter the nearest two. His red qi crackled through the air, warping the cliff’s heat. But he wasn’t just angry.

He was focused.

A whip of thorned blood lashed out from his palm and wrapped around one cultist’s leg, yanking him mid-step— then another burst of pressure flattened the third before he could chant another binding.

“They never learn,” Binghe muttered, voice low.

His blade struck. Not to kill— he was still holding back— but the blows knocked one opponent flat, disarmed another. He swept in a half-curve, let his elbow drive into a ribcage, and dropped the sabre just enough to nick the red-armored leader’s thigh.

“You want this?” Binghe asked, baring his teeth just a little. “Then take it.”

The moment of bravado was interrupted by a cultist flanking from the rear— but Mobei appeared behind him, almost leisurely, and drove a frost-covered fist through the man’s ribs.

He flicked blood off his wrist like it offended him.

The remaining three faltered.

Too late.

Binghe surged forward again, eyes red with the rush of battle, sabre flashing—

—and the leader screamed as Mobei’s ice magic exploded beneath his feet.

The last cultist fell to his knees, clutching the smoking stump of a severed arm. He tried to flee.

Mobei let him run two steps before sending a frozen spear through the back of his leg.

The silence that followed was sharp. The cliffs now littered with unconscious or groaning bodies, the red-armored leader pinned beneath a net of barbed ice.

Panting, Binghe wiped blood from his cheek.

His face was flushed— not just with effort, but the chill of near-death frustration.

“My name,” he said bitterly. “Not many should know.”

Mobei didn’t look smug, but his silence was pointed.

After a beat, Binghe sighed.

“Let’s tie the survivors and question them. I want to know how far this cult’s reach goes.”

“And how many know your true name,” Mobei said.

Binghe nodded grimly.

They tied the cultists in a loose half-circle beneath the twisted roots of a giant canopy tree. The seven remaining attackers— bound by Mobei’s ice shackles— sat in varying stages of pain and defiance.

None of them talked.

Even the one with a shattered leg kept his head bowed, jaw clenched against the blood pooling under him.

Binghe stood with arms crossed, quiet, backlit by jungle gloom. His sabre still dripped red at his side. Mobei-jun stood beside him, a wall of ice-bound fury, his long hair catching the moonlight like silvered ink.

No one said a word.

Then Mobei moved.

He stepped forward, silent as a wraith, and crouched beside a demoness with braided horns and soot-colored skin. His blue eyes glinted faintly. Without ceremony, he grabbed her by the collar and hauled her upright with one hand. She strained against her bindings, kicked and spat something vulgar in the old tongue.

The male three prisoners down flinched.

Mobei-jun noticed.

Binghe opened his mouth to intercede— but the ice demon was already raising his other hand, forming a dagger-thin shard of frost.

He pressed the blade to the base of the demoness’s throat.

It hissed— crystals blooming across her skin.

“Wait—!” The male prisoner barked, eyes wide.

Binghe sighed, voice dry. “Speak now, or her head rolls.”

“She’s got nothing to do with this,” the man snarled, panic starting to break through his stoicism.

“Then you do,” Binghe said, tone sharp with command. “Talk. Why attack us?”

The man hesitated— then spat on the ground. “Because you’re wrong and he is by your side.”

Binghe’s eyes narrowed.

“You don’t belong on the throne. You’re not pure. You’re an accident— your dam is mortal. We won’t allow filthy bloodlines to be smeared across the Heavenly Demon’s legacy.”

“Ah,” Binghe said quietly. “One of those.”

Mobei’s grip tightened.

“Let her go,” the prisoner hissed, “I’ll tell you— just let her go.”

Binghe raised a hand, but didn’t move.

“Go on.”

“We’re not just a band,” the prisoner growled. “We’re a movement. A safeguard. We exist to keep the Heavenly Demon bloodline strong— intact. The great Tianlang-jun was born of power, his ancestors were true-born. But you—” his eyes flicked to Binghe’s face with contempt—“you’re a mistake. And if you die, the Emperor will have no choice but to produce another heir.”

Binghe’s brows furrowed. “You think my father can be ordered to do anything?”

“We don’t want to order him,” the man sneered. “We want to force his hand. One way or another, he’ll abandon you. We’ll make sure of it.”

Binghe’s jaw ticked.

“And what about Zhuzhi-lang?” he asked coolly. “He has our forefather’s blood too.”

“Corrupted by serpent rot,” another cultist muttered, voice thick with disgust. “At least he knows his place.”

“So it’s not about purity,” Binghe said. “You just want someone you can use. Control.”

That was when Mobei spoke.

“Of course,” he said, voice ice-calm. “They’re not afraid of your impurities. They’re afraid of your strength.”

Binghe glanced at him, but Mobei’s attention was on the cultists now.

“Let this lord guess— you lot were going to use him,” the ice demon said slowly. “As a cauldron.”

The prisoners stilled.

“Fire-forged qi, demonic vitality, fallen-celestial blood. You wanted to hollow him out— make a shell of him. A vessel for your rituals.”

Binghe’s eyes widened slightly in understanding— and dawning horror.

The third cultist, a woman with silver eyes and blood between her teeth, laughed lowly. “Why waste such a divine vessel on one creature’s arrogance? He’s pretty. He’s pliable. He’d serve better stripped, bound to the altar.”

Mobei-jun moved in a blur.

There was a flash of frost— a spike of jagged ice buried an inch deep in the dirt beside her face.

She froze mid-laugh, the point glimmering against her cheek.

“Mobei—” Binghe stepped forward, tone warning.

But Mobei’s voice was razor-sharp. “You would defile the heir of the Heavenly Demon Court for your rituals? You would consume him, body and soul?”

“He’s not yours to protect,” the woman hissed.

Mobei stood. Cold rolled off him in waves. “But he is mine to destroy, if he ever falls to scum like you. So what do you think I’d do to you?”

Silence.

None of the cultists spoke again.

Even the mouthy ones dropped their eyes.

Binghe exhaled, then turned to the trembling demon who’d cracked first.

“You helped us. You’ll live,” he said. “The rest… we’ll decide later.”

Mobei didn’t look away from the bound woman. The frost on the air deepened— his hand was still raised.

Binghe stepped beside him and lightly touched his shoulder.

“Enough.”

There was a long beat.

Then Mobei let out a cold breath and lowered his hand.

Binghe turned to the cultists once more. His tone was soft— but beneath it was steel.

“You don’t have to believe in me. But I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. And the next time you try to make me a tool—” his red eyes flashed—“I won’t be so merciful.”

The ice crackled louder.

None of them dared answer.

The clearing stank of sweat, old blood, and frostbite.

Mobei-jun opened the portal with a crack of ice— his arm lifting, palm slicing the air. A ring of frost bloomed outward like a frozen flower, and within it spun a shadow-rimmed rift pulsing with stabilised magic.

Through the portal came the pounding of boots. A dozen palace soldiers in black-and-red demon armor rushed out, weapons sheathed but eyes sharp. Their formation was flawless— Tianlang-jun’s best, no doubt.

“The prisoners,” Mobei said coolly, pointing toward the tied cultists with a flick of his fingers.

The soldiers bowed swiftly and got to work. There was no resistance now. Shackles clamped. Ropes tightened. The last protesting gasp died beneath the weight of steel and silence.

Binghe stood off to the side, arms crossed, brows drawn.

He didn’t speak until the portal closed again, swallowing the last struggling cultist and flickering out with a hiss of frost.

Then he let out a long, slow breath.

“They knew my real name,” he said, frowning. “Luo Binghe. Not even the bandits used it.”

Mobei stood beside him, arms folded, face unreadable. “It wasn’t chance. Someone told them.”

Binghe’s lips tightened.

He looked up at the canopy, brows furrowed.

“Someone in the court,” Mobei said flatly. “Someone who knew you were leaving the fortress. And knew the direction.”

“Father and Liu Qingge wouldn’t—”

“I know,” Mobei cut in. “Neither would Jin Linyun. Nor Zhaixun. Huaiyu. Hongyue.”

Binghe’s hands curled at his sides.

The jungle was quiet now. Even the insects had gone still. The tension between them hung in the air like a trap ready to snap.

“You think it’s deliberate?” Binghe asked. “A coordinated attempt to use those cultists as cover? To extract me?”

Mobei didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he reached into his sleeve, pulled out a piece of cloth. A shredded scrap from one of the cultists’ robes. The stitching was ornate, the thread slightly gold.

He tossed it to Binghe.

Binghe caught it, turning it over in his hands.

Recognition crept across his face.

“This… this came from one of the court uniform weavers. The royal tailors.”

“Meaning someone with access to the fortress wardrobe departments,” Mobei said, tone like ice on steel. “Someone inside.”

They stood in silence for a few beats longer.

Finally, Binghe sat down on a felled log, exhaling shakily.

“I don’t get it,” he said, voice lower now. “What do they want? If they hate me, fine. If they think I’m weak, fine. But what does turning me into a ritual vessel achieve?”

Mobei turned to face him.

“Your blood,” he said. “Your body. Your lineage. You’re rare, Binghe. You’re dangerous. To both enemies and allies. That makes you useful to the wrong hands.”

“And you,” Binghe said dryly, “saw all this and decided to drag me into the jungle anyway.”

Mobei blinked once. “You wanted to go.”

“That doesn’t mean I should have gone.”

“No,” Mobei admitted. “But you’re not the type to stay in a palace and be protected.”

Binghe glanced at him. “And you’re not the type to give speeches.”

“I’m not,” Mobei agreed. “But you needed to hear it.”

They sat quietly for a moment.

Then, unexpectedly, Mobei offered: “Next time, I’ll kill faster.”

Binghe looked at him sidelong. “…Was that your version of a comforting promise?”

Mobei shrugged. “Take it as you will.”

Binghe sighed and tilted his head back, watching the first flicker of stars between the trees.

“I’ll tell my father,” he said after a long silence. “About the cloth. And the leak.”

Mobei said nothing, but his shoulder brushed Binghe’s— just briefly, just enough to remind him he wasn’t alone.

Then: “You sleep first. I’ll keep watch.”

Binghe closed his eyes for a beat.

“Thanks.”

And for the first time since the ambush, the knot in his chest loosened— just slightly.

The jungle bled red.

It was the day after and night had fallen, but the sky gave no relief— only a bruise-coloured haze behind tangled canopy. Somewhere deep among the trees, blood smoked over damp leaves, and shattered talismans lay strewn across charred undergrowth.

Binghe pressed his palm hard to Mobei-jun’s chest, trying to stem the bleeding.

The ice demon didn’t flinch. His expression remained stoic, pale under the violet moonlight— but the wound just beneath his collarbone still hissed from the heat of the cursed spell that had torn through the air barely an hour ago.

“We can’t stay here,” Binghe said through gritted teeth. “They’ll circle back. We need to move.”

Mobei’s breath was shallow but steady. “You first. I’ll—”

“No. You’re not fighting like this.” Binghe reached for his qiankun pouch, fingers slick. “You protected me.”

“You would’ve done the same.”

“Exactly. That’s the problem.”

He took a breath and glanced around. Through the vine-thick haze, he spotted something: a slant in the terrain, a ridgeline dipping into shadow. Binghe helped Mobei up, slinging the taller demon’s arm across his shoulders. “We’re heading there. Come on.”

They moved through the brush slowly, dodging low-hanging thorns and cragged roots. A detour, not a retreat. Binghe’s senses were on fire— his sabre strapped tight to his back, blood parasites bristling beneath his skin.

Mobei was heavy, but not deadweight. Even wounded, his presence was solid, a steady force beside Binghe. They didn’t speak.

At last, they crept over a rise and down a narrow slope— and stopped.

Below them was a hollow carved into the cliff’s base.

An underground dwelling. Faint torchlight flickered from beneath twisted tree roots and loose stone. Smoke curled upward from hidden vents. Voices murmured. Shadows moved.

Binghe dropped into a crouch beside Mobei. “Cultists?”

Mobei peered through the dark, expression unreadable. “No. Different cadence. Bandits.”

Demons. Dirty armor, mismatched weapons. Binghe’s eyes narrowed. Easily fifty of them, maybe more— some drinking, some gambling. Others manning a rickety-looking lift system to bring goods up from somewhere deeper.

Mobei muttered, “Underground network.”

Binghe nodded slowly. “We can’t fight them. Not like this.”

“Agreed.”

They slipped back behind the ridge, sheltered by moss-coated stone. Binghe laid Mobei down against a boulder and pulled out a clean wrap of gauze. The gash was worse now— crusted with dark ice. Binghe worked quickly, cleaning it with water from his flask, lips tight with worry.

Mobei watched him, silent.

“You should have dodged,” Binghe said under his breath. “You’re faster than me.”

“You’re more important.”

“Don’t say that,” Binghe snapped. “Don’t—”

His voice caught. He clenched the gauze tighter. “You didn’t see the spell. That kind of binding charm—it was aimed at me. Not to kill. To capture.”

Mobei closed his eyes for a moment. “Then it’s good I stepped in.”

Binghe didn’t reply.

Instead, he quietly finished dressing the wound, knotted the gauze, and sat back. His hands trembled slightly.

They waited. The torches below flickered. The bandits laughed.

Mobei opened one eye. “We wait until they sleep. Then we sneak through.”

“And what if they don’t sleep?”

“We’ll find a way.”

Binghe exhaled slowly. The pain in his chest wasn’t from injury.

This time, he caused Mobei’s injury.

But it wouldn’t happen again.

The bandit den was carved into the belly of the cliff, the tunnel mouth nothing more than a split beneath tangled roots.

Binghe crouched beside Mobei-jun, cloaked in damp shadows. The stink of sweat, ash, and blood thickened as they crept forward. Somewhere below, voices hissed and cracked around a fire.

Binghe’s sabre remained sheathed, though his fingers itched around the hilt. He had been fighting for days now— using each skirmish to hone his reflexes, sharpen his instincts. Mobei had kept his distance, letting him grow, but now the older demon’s aura was coiled, tight as a bowstring.

This was not just a bandit den. Something else was brewing.

They pressed up against a natural ledge overlooking the stone hall below. Binghe slowly peeked over the edge.

Three factions.

The bandit king, a stocky demon with one tusk snapped off and a jagged pike leaned against his knee. Greedy eyes, greedy voice.

The cult hexmistress, tattoos of inverted runes trailing up her throat. She twitched each time someone mentioned the Crown Prince.

And the third—

A female cloaked in blue.

Her veil was ice silk, unmistakable to Binghe and Mobei. The veil shimmered like frost in moonlight. Her eyes were glacier-pale and sharp.

Mobei froze beside Binghe. He inhaled once, sharply. “Northern Court,” he murmured. “My uncle’s colors.”

Binghe’s expression darkened.

The cultist was speaking. “We should move now. If the prince is already bleeding from battle, he’s ripe for extraction.”

“Capture, not kill,” the bandit growled. “That was the agreement. You drain him, and we get the trade routes. The south belongs to Tianlang-jun now, but the jungle roads are still mine to reclaim.”

“And when the Crown Prince is gone?” the veiled woman asked calmly, her voice sharp as broken glass. “Will you hold against Tianlang-jun’s wrath? Or are you planning to hide behind our cloaks, like cowards?”

The bandit snarled. “You’re the ones claiming you can pin it all on the ice brat.”

That’s when Binghe’s heart seized.

The veiled woman rose slowly from her seat by the fire. Elegant. Deadly. Coiled with something dangerous.

“I will bear the Mobei insignia,” she said. “When the Crown Prince is captured, I will proclaim that I served Mobei-jun directly— on orders from his palace.”

“You what?” Binghe whispered.

Mobei’s face was thunderclouds. Rage, slow and seething.

The cultist grinned, teeth blackened with curses. “Then the blame falls on your court. The Northerners will fall from favour. Linguang-jun, your true lord rises to impeach his nephew.”

“Your own family,” Binghe muttered in disbelief. “They’d frame you for treason?”

Mobei didn’t blink. “They’ve tried before.”

Down below, the blue-veiled woman continued, “Tianlang-jun already worries for his son’s safety. He’ll be desperate for someone to punish. What’s more natural than to turn his fury on the young king of the North?”

“Bold,” said the bandit. “But what if the boy doesn’t fall?”

“He will.” Her eyes gleamed cold fire. “I’ve seen him fight. He’s strong— but naive. Trusts too easily. Bleeds for people he shouldn’t. Someone that soft will never survive three ambushes in one day.”

At that moment, Binghe clenched his jaw. He felt the old pressure in his chest, the old clawing need to prove himself— not for his enemies, but for himself.

Beside him, Mobei was absolutely still.

The woman turned and walked toward the back of the hall. “Prepare the net. Send word to the ambush teams. When the Crown Prince sleeps tonight— he’ll never wake in his own bed again.”

Binghe’s fist tightened around his sabre hilt.

We’ll see.

Before the Trap, Beneath the Earth

The damp stone corridor smelled of moss, smoke, and rusted blood.

They crouched in silence beneath a broken lattice of roots, deep inside the narrow underground tunnel system they’d traced the bandits through. Overhead, soft footfalls of their enemies echoed through old rock— demon cultists in prayer-worn sandals and bandits in looted boots. The reek of sweat and rage stained the air.

Mobei-jun was sharpening a frost-edged dagger, slow and even, the sound of metal scraping stone like a heartbeat’s countdown.

Binghe knelt a little distance from him, sitting on his heels with his arms looped loosely around his knees. He’d wiped the blood off his sabre, but not from his sleeves. A few red rivulets had dried near his knuckles— proof of last night’s ambush.

A single glowing moth, pale and fat with jungle light, fluttered past. Binghe tracked it absently.

“How’s your chest?” he asked without looking.

Mobei stopped sharpening. “Better. Cold helps.”

“You’re ice incarnate, it should.” Binghe tried to keep it light, but the worry pressed through anyway.

Mobei didn’t reply. He just set the blade down and reached into the pouch at his side, pulling out a folded square of cloth. Carefully, methodically, he began to tend to his other injury— wrapping his arm again.

Binghe watched for a beat. “You could let me—”

“I heal faster than you,” Mobei interrupted. “If anyone needs to be wrapped up, it’s the Crown Prince.”

Binghe huffed, smiling faintly, then dropped his chin to his knees. His eyes flicked to the tunnel wall, tracing old claw marks.

“They’ll act tomorrow the soonest,” he murmured.

“Yes.”

“The veiled one… She’ll say she was acting under your orders.”

“I know.”

“Won’t that be troublesome?”

Mobei glanced at him, the ice-blue huadian between his brows catching the faint glow of a rune stone wedged into the wall.

“I’m used to being seen as dangerous,” he said flatly. “Let them speak. Junshang will hear the truth.”

“He’s not the only one who needs to,” Binghe muttered.

Silence stretched between them for a long moment. Then—

“You’re thinking too much again,” Mobei said.

“Can’t help it.” Binghe let his head tip back against the wall. “We’ll need the tunnels collapsed. The inner gate sealed. Then hit the commander level once the panic starts.”

“You’ll lure them?”

“I’m their goal.” Binghe’s voice was low, edged with steel. “They’ll come for me.”

Mobei was quiet again. Then he shifted, standing slowly, shoulders rolling into readiness.

“We’ll finish this.”

Binghe stood too, sabre drawn and resting against his shoulder. He caught Mobei’s gaze in the flickering green rune light. “And if I get grabbed again?”

“I’ll kill every last one of them,” Mobei said simply.

There was no exaggeration in his tone.

It began with cold.

A bloom of frost whispered across the ceiling of the main cavern— delicate, glittering veins crawling over stone like spiderwebs spun in moonlight. The temperature dropped in a heartbeat.

By the time the bandits and cultists looked up, it was too late.

BOOM.

The ceiling shattered.

Ice spears rained down from above as the ground beneath the cavern’s center cracked open. Screams tore through the dark as shards tore into exposed arms, faces, throats. The torch flames guttered and died all at once.

From the opened shaft above, Luo Binghe dropped like a shadow unsheathed.

His sabre gleamed black in the half-light, carving a perfect arc through the nearest cultist’s neck. Before the body hit the floor, Binghe was already on the next.

The stone floor trembled underfoot— Mobei-jun was descending the other way, along the curved spine of the interior cavern wall, his boots leaving rime trails in his wake. He landed without a sound, lips drawn in a cold, lethal line. Ice bloomed from his palms, freezing a cluster of bandits in place.

They moved like twin storms on a collision path— one wildfire-red, the other abyssal-blue.

Binghe slashed low, cutting tendons. Mobei froze blades mid-air, redirected arrows into their owners. Every time one faltered, the other closed the gap. Binghe took the front lines, baiting the cultists with his known face— Prince Jieyin, the impure half-blood heir.

He caught their attention easily.

“Seize him!” someone roared— one of the commanders, robed in indigo and bone.

“Try,” Binghe growled— and vanished.

He reappeared behind the speaker, sabre flashing. The man’s staff cracked in two, then his legs gave out. Binghe didn’t kill him. Not yet. This one he would save for questioning.

A shriek tore through the air. Behind him, the veiled demoness— the one Mobei had seen whispering in the cult’s shadow meetings— leapt into the fray, whip unfurling in a coil of bladed crimson light.

“You dare raise arms against your own kin, Your Highness?” she spat, striking at Mobei.

Mobei caught the whip around his arm, let it bite into his skin— and gripped it. Ice surged from his hand up the weapon’s length, spreading like wildfire in reverse.

“You are no kin of mine,” he said coldly.

With a twist of his wrist, he yanked her forward. She crashed against a pillar, ice pinning her limbs instantly.

The underground stronghold was descending into chaos. Half the bandits had scattered; the rest were caught in illusions spun from Binghe’s demonic qi. Shadows leapt out where there were none. Weapons turned to ash in hands. The sabre Binghe wielded drank the room’s heat and gave none back.

And still, they came for him.

He welcomed them.

Searing pain lanced through Binghe’s side— one of the cultists had landed a grazing strike with a soul-stealing talisman. He grabbed the male’s arm, crushed the bone in one hand, and whispered something in the demon tongue.

The cultist’s scream curdled.

“Binghe!” Mobei’s voice barked across the din.

“I’m fine,” he snarled back. “Circle’s almost sealed!”

Indeed— the blood-marks Binghe had slashed into the cavern floor earlier were glowing, completing the trap he had secretly laid with Mobei over the past two days.

One more step. One final kill.

Binghe darted through the cluster of disoriented enemies and reached the last sigil—a burn of glowing gold against stone. He sliced his palm, let his blood drop onto the glyph, and channeled everything.

The seal surged to life.

A ring of power exploded outward, knocking cultists unconscious and freezing the remainder mid-scream. The air twisted, and from the outer corridors, Tianlang-jun’s strike team burst through— timed to the heartbeat.

As always.

Binghe let out a breath, chest heaving, coated in sweat and soot and blood.

Mobei came to his side, untouched, his breath ghosting visibly in the chilled air.

“You’re reckless,” the ice demon muttered.

“You’re smug,” Binghe rasped. “We make a good pair.”

Mobei glanced at him, then nodded once.

“I’ll handle the interrogation,” he said, already walking toward the veiled woman struggling against her frozen restraints. “You clean up.”

Binghe sheathed his sabre and turned to the still-breathing commander he spared.

“You talk,” he murmured, crouching beside him, voice like velvet over a blade. “Or I let my companion do the listening.”

The male choked on his own blood.

The chamber that had once echoed with war cries now rang only with shallow breathing and the occasional clatter of dropped weapons.

The cultists were subdued. The bandits frozen in place, or fled. Blood soaked the cracked stone, steam rising faintly where heat clashed against lingering frost.

Mobei-jun dragged the veiled demoness to the circle’s center. She was still struggling, though one arm was frozen solid to the elbow.

Binghe joined him, wiping a smear of blood from his jaw, his sabre sheathed. He glanced at her through his blood-slick lashes.

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “All of this,” she said coldly, “won’t matter when the truth comes out.”

“What truth?” Mobei asked, voice flat.

She smiled beneath her veil. “You think this is a triumph? When the Crown Prince is found among cultists— his name whispered alongside blood rites and sacrifices— what do you think the court will believe?”

Binghe’s fists clenched.

The woman twisted toward the direction of the frozen cultists. “They’ve already spread the rumours. That Prince Jieyin was traveling in secret to form an alliance with the old bloodline cult. That you— Mobei-jun— are in love with the halfbreed prince and plan to use him to take Tianlang-jun’s throne.”

Silence rang sharp.

Mobei didn’t move, but the temperature dropped further. Frost crackled across the cavern floor in branching veins, curling up the soles of the demoness’s boots.

“You’re going to claim you were working for me,” he said.

The woman’s smile widened behind the veil. “Of course. I was merely following your orders, my King. You’ll deny it, of course— but the mere suggestion is enough.”

And that was when the air changed.

It thundered— a vibration more than sound, rising from the earth.

A split opened in the circle of sigils Binghe had laid. Cold blue flame poured from it, burning in reverse. And from within it stepped Tianlang-jun.

Tall. Bright-eyed. Still wearing his deep red court robes and a half-finished hair braid.

He hadn’t even stopped to finish getting ready.

His gaze swept the room once— then locked onto the demoness.

“What. Did. You. Say.”

The woman went deathly pale. Even Binghe flinched.

Tianlang-jun walked forward, each step echoing like a war drum. Mobei stepped aside without a word, as if knowing this rage wasn’t his to bear.

“You dare speak my son and charge’s name with filth on your tongue,” Tianlang-jun said, calm and sharp as a blade. “And then try to stitch your schemes to Mobei's name? To forge rumors of betrayal beneath my roof?”

He waved a hand.

Chains of golden light erupted from the floor, wrapping the veiled female tight— neck, wrists, ankles. She screamed.

“You will answer,” Tianlang-jun whispered. “To every name you smeared. And to every drop of blood spilled in my son’s path.”

She spat something in an old dialect— but Tianlang-jun was already stepping closer.

Binghe watched him with unreadable eyes.

It wasn’t just fury in his father’s face.

It was grief.

This was a wound reopening, one Binghe didn’t yet understand.

“You are not my kin,” Mobei-jun said quietly to the veiled woman. “You were never of the Mobei Court.”

“You’re lying,” she gasped.

“Am I?” Mobei looked down at her, pale lashes silvered in the ice-light. “Then why do I remember you groveling for favour in Linguang-jun’s palace? I was young then, but I am not daft. Or are you ready to tell the truth now?”

Her mouth opened.

And Tianlang-jun’s hand clamped over it.

“No,” the demon emperor said, voice low and terrible. “She’ll speak the truth in court. Where the whole realm can hear.”

The portal opened again— gold-rimmed this time. For royal matters.

Tianlang-jun looked to Mobei and Binghe.

“You did well,” he said, softer now. “Come home. We’ll deal with the mess. And this time, no more sneaking off without escorts.”

Binghe groaned softly. Mobei smirked.

“Can I kill her first?” Mobei asked.

“No,” Tianlang-jun said. “We’re not savages.”

Then he smiled— sharp and toothy. “But we’ll let the court decide.”

The Demon Court of the Southern Fortress blazed with qi.

Hundreds of nobles, generals, vassals, and emissaries stood arrayed around the central dais— obsidian underfoot, bound in molten sigils. The high walls shimmered with barriers, and the ceiling above churned with slow thunder, fed by the mood of the realm.

Tianlang-jun stood at the center, tall and effortlessly composed in his imperial robes, his hand resting loosely on the hilt of a ceremonial blade.

Beside him: Mobei-jun, still dusty from travel, face like chiseled frost. Luo Binghe, bearing faint bandages, flanked his father’s other side, quiet and observant.

At the far end of the hall, the veiled demoness knelt in chains, barely conscious. Her mouth was bloody from biting her own tongue to keep from speaking—but Tianlang-jun had already forced the confession. Her words, pulled by truth-binding spells, echoed in every courtier’s ears.

“…Linguang-jun gave the order.”

“…we were to pin the treachery on Mobei-jun…”

“…with the Crown Prince captured, the legitimacy of the line would be questioned… the North would claim the South as protectorate…”

A sharp crack resounded as a high-ranking vassal lord slammed his palm against the court rail.

“This is an outrage,” he said, his horns faintly glowing. “Letting Mobei-jun’s festering Northern drama leak into the South? We’re in the middle of rebuilding. The old emperor’s absence nearly shattered us—now we risk collapse again!”

Murmurs rippled through the court. A few nodded in agreement.

“Should the Crown Prince have been killed,” another said carefully, “our realm would have fallen into chaos. Perhaps—perhaps Mobei-jun should remain in the North. See to his unruly uncle once and for all.”

Binghe felt Mobei’s breath shift beside him.

But before either could respond, Tianlang-jun raised his hand.

The court fell silent.

His smile was thin, but it held weight.

“You speak as if Mobei-jun is a liability,” Tianlang-jun said, “when he is the reason I stand here at all.”

He let the words ring out.

“When I was sealed beneath the Bailu Mountains— abandoned by allies, shackled by mortals— it was not the South that freed me. Not any of you, noble though your blood may be.”

His gaze swept the court.

“It was Mobei-jun. When he was no more than a youth. When he had no power, no position. When crossing into mortal territory would have gotten him killed.”

Mobei didn’t react. But Binghe saw the small twitch at the corner of his mouth. Embarrassed pride.

“I repaid that debt,” Tianlang-jun continued, “by crowning him King of the North. I meant it then. I mean it now.”

He stepped forward.

“If any of you believe this alliance unwise, speak now— clearly, with your names attached. I would prefer honesty over sabotage and spilled blood.”

A long silence. No one moved.

Only the bound demoness hissed faintly through her teeth.

“Still?” Tianlang-jun mused, turning to her. “Do you truly think your death will protect him?”

She glared at him.

“You won’t get to kill me. Linguang-jun’s blade is sharper than yours.”

He clicked his tongue. “What an exhausting breed you traitors are.”

He nodded to the guards.

Two stepped forward— but the demoness jerked on the chains and screamed. The sound grew shrill— too shrill— and with a sudden lurch, her body twisted, qi igniting in corrupted flares.

“She’s going to self-destruct!” someone shouted.

But before she could, a spear of ice ripped through her chest— Mobei-jun’s hand still raised from the throw.

The detonation collapsed back in on itself.

Her corpse hit the floor with a sound like stone cracking.

Silence.

Then Tianlang-jun said— casually, almost breezily:

“Let this be a lesson.”

He turned his gaze to the shaken courtiers.

“If any of you have ambitions— grievances— dissatisfactions… do not go whispering into rat holes. Be forthright. Face me. And face me properly.”

His smile widened— too many teeth.

“Because next time, I might not be in the mood to spare a court session.”

The air shifted. The court guards straightened. Several vassals lowered their heads.

And beside him, Binghe stood frozen— staring at his father with quiet awe.

This…

This was what a ruler looked like.

Not just power. But presence. Strategy. Ruthlessness. Mercy when it suited him— and fire when it didn’t.

Binghe bowed slightly, something unreadable in his eyes.

The world he left behind— the life in Bai Zhan, the lonely path of self-perfection— it could never have prepared him for this.

The war court was quiet now, shadows casted by the setting sun slant through the stained crystal archways. The throne stood empty; the roaring had stopped. Outside, the fortress buzzed faintly with resumed activity. Inside, only three remained:

Tianlang-jun, sprawled half-casually across the host’s chair, one leg hooked over the armrest, sipping from a peach-glazed cup of wine.

Mobei-jun, upright and unreadable, stood at attention with one hand behind his back.

And Luo Binghe, arms crossed, still slightly pink from dried blood and heat, glaring sullenly at both of them.

“You did well,” Tianlang-jun said cheerfully. “Very dashing. Ferocious. A little too reckless, but the blood on your collar added drama.”

Binghe sighed. “Father—”

“You really should have worn your black armor. The chief steward is right, it can bring out the best in your eyes.”

“I’m not going to court in spiked armor!”

“Why not? Your suitors certainly—”

“I’m trying to be serious!” Binghe snapped, cheeks darkening.

Mobei-jun made a faint hum. Tianlang-jun just grinned like a devil sunning himself.

“Fine,” Binghe huffed, turning to Mobei. “I’ll say it plainly. You shouldn’t keep coming with me. I’m already taking enough of your time. You have a kingdom, Mobei. An entire frozen territory with responsibilities and a psychotic uncle trying to stage a coup. You’ve done more than enough.”

Mobei said nothing.

Tianlang-jun rested his chin on his hand. “He has a point.”

“Then say something!” Binghe snapped again. “Back me up here!”

Instead, Tianlang-jun took a sip of wine, then waved lazily.

“I’ll deal with Linguang-jun.”

Binghe froze. “…What?”

“I’ll deal with him,” Tianlang-jun repeated. “He’s annoying, and frankly, I’ve been dying to put that smug snake in his place since I came back from being sealed. Mobei-jun will go with you. Problem solved.”

Binghe gaped. “You—you’re going to fight his uncle for him?”

“Yes. So you two kids can go frolic through more jungles and eradicate some cults or whatever it is you do.”

“I’m not frolicking!”

“You say that, but don’t lie to me. I am imagining the glorious battles, the aftermath and hair ruffling, the secret side glances, the awkward bandaging—”

“That’s just travel injuries!”

Mobei-jun cleared his throat.

Both Binghe and Tianlang-jun turned.

“…If you’re truly asking,” Mobei said in his low voice, “I want to go.”

Binghe blinked. “You— you what?”

“I want to go,” Mobei repeated. “I haven’t seen much of the world. I want to understand it through your eyes.”

A beat of stunned silence passed.

Then Tianlang-jun leaned forward slowly, a very dangerous glint in his eye.

“…Do you like Binghe?”

“I do,” said Mobei-jun, completely deadpan.

Binghe felt his stomach drop.

“Fatally honest— perfect. In what way do you like him?” Tianlang-jun grinned.

A pause. Then— the smirk.

Subtle. Barely there. But Binghe saw it. The slight upward curl of the lips, the faint gleam in the eye, the expression of a predator indulging a private joke.

Oh no. Oh no no no no no. Not THE smirk.

He knew that smirk. Had fought beside that smirk. Had buried bodies with that smirk. Had buried entire kingdoms alongside it.

It meant nothing good.

“Father!” Binghe barked, voice rising in a pitch of panic. “Don’t listen to him! He’s not serious! He’s teasing! He’s— he’s like that! That’s just his face!”

Mobei glanced at him. “Is it?”

“You—!” Binghe almost stomped. “I’ve had enough of these damn suitors! Enough of miscommunications! No more weird smirks that give people weird ideas! No more!! Not even from you!”

Tianlang-jun laughed so hard he dropped his wine cup. “He’s blushing! Mobei, you’ve done it now. This is the most expressive I’ve seen my son since his poison symptoms kicked in.”

“I am not blushing!” Binghe screamed, turning an even deeper shade of red.

Mobei-jun tilted his head thoughtfully. “So you are poisoned. Perhaps I should help cure—”

“GET OUT!”

Omake 1: “No, Shifu, I Haven’t Shifted My Sights from Binghe to His Cousin Zhuzhi”

Bai Zhan Peak had always been a quiet place, the sort of mountain fortress that wore its stillness like iron armor. But in recent weeks, a strange peace had taken hold— no juniors, no training duels, no disciplinary howling in the courtyard.

Just Gongyi Xiao and Zhuzhi-lang, cohabiting in the quiet stone house by the cliff’s edge.

It was fine. Comfortable, even. Zhuzhi cooked like someone with far too much firsthand knowledge of how Binghe liked his porridge (a little thinner than normal, just enough ginger and shredded chicken), and Gongyi Xiao hadn’t burned his mouth in days. A miracle, truly.

Until today.

Today, Liu Qingge returned from the deep south.

He strode through the peak gates like thunderclouds and sword qi, wind ruffling his white robes and displeasure etched across his face like chiseled stone.

“Shifu,” Gongyi Xiao greeted brightly, stepping out of the kitchen with a bowl of dumplings. “You’re back!”

Liu Qingge eyed him.

Then eyed the neatness of the living space.

Then eyed Zhuzhi-lang, who was calmly peeling fruit with a dagger, entirely too comfortable on his disciple’s couch.

“…You,” Liu Qingge said, voice like the crack of a whip, “are still here.”

Zhuzhi inclined his head. “Milord,” he said mildly. “Would you like some melon?”

“No,” Liu Qingge growled. “I would like an explanation.”

Gongyi blinked. “Explanation for what?”

Liu Qingge’s eyes narrowed to a squint. “Don’t play dumb. You’re glowing.”

“That’s just the chicken broth,” Gongyi protested. “Zhuzhi makes it with ginger now.”

“It’s not the broth. You’re…content. Too content.” He turned to Zhuzhi. “What have you done to him?”

“I boiled dumplings,” said Zhuzhi with utmost sincerity. “Then I wrapped his ankle when he slipped on the mossy step.”

“You… touched him?”

“I’ve also changed his bandages twice and he held my wrist once while sneezing, if that helps.”

Liu Qingge’s jaw clicked.

“Shifu,” Gongyi sighed. “Please don’t make this weird.”

“You’re both acting weird!”

“I’m not acting on anything,” Gongyi said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “There’s no ‘thing’ to act on.”

“You moved in together.”

“I needed someone to keep an eye on me.”

“And you chose him?”

“Binghe asked him to stay. Zhuzhi’s peaceful!” Gongyi defended. “He’s tidy! He doesn’t throw furniture!”

Liu Qingge’s glare darkened. “So that’s your type now?”

“Shifu!” Gongyi cried, exasperated. “No, I haven’t shifted my sights from Binghe to his cousin Zhuzhi!”

There was a pause.

Zhuzhi sipped tea. “That’s reassuring.”

“Wait,” Liu Qingge said. “You had sights on Binghe?”

“Shifu!!”

“Don’t shout,” Zhuzhi added helpfully. “It’s bad for digestion.”

“You stay out of this!”

Another pause.

“I could move out,” Zhuzhi offered.

“No,” Gongyi and Liu Qingge said at the same time.

Another pause.

“…Would anyone like more dumplings?” Zhuzhi asked, completely unfazed.

“Yes,” Gongyi muttered, sinking into the cushions.

“No,” Liu Qingge gritted. “I’m going outside to destroy something.”

And with that, he stormed out into the misty courtyard, muttering about cousins, chicken broth, and suspicious calmness.

Gongyi sighed into his bowl.

Zhuzhi passed him a tissue. “He’ll come around.”

“I miss Binghe.”

“I know.”

Omake 2: “Letter Intercepted” or, “Shifu Has Absolutely No Chill”

Bai Zhan Peak. Misty morning. Sparrows chirping. All was calm.

Until the peak’s protective talisman gave a clink and spat out a sealed letter into the waiting hands of Liu Qingge.

The ward shimmered, confirming identity of recipient:

To Gongyi Xiao.

Liu Qingge stared at it.

Then at the name written in elegant, deliberate strokes.

Then at the sender’s mark pressed into the wax seal:

—Luo Binghe.

Liu Qingge did not flinch.

He simply turned on his heel and marched into the house like judgment on two legs.

Inside, Gongyi Xiao was innocently brushing his hair. Zhuzhi-lang was pouring tea.

“You got a letter,” Liu Qingge said flatly.

Gongyi brightened. “From Binghe?!”

“No.”

Pause.

“…Shifu, it has his seal.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Shifu, you’re holding it upside down.”

Zhuzhi tilted his head. “That’s clearly Binghe’s seal. The wax is still warm.”

Liu Qingge narrowed his eyes. “It might be a forgery.”

Gongyi tried to lunge, but Liu Qingge side-stepped and unsealed the letter in one motion.

“You’re reading my mail!”

“I’m your Shifu. You forfeited privacy when you learned to stab with a sword.”

“You’re not even his Shifu!”

“Exactly. So I must vet his intentions thoroughly.”

Zhuzhi sipped his tea. “You’re just worried he’ll start writing love poems.”

Liu Qingge froze.

Gongyi paled. “He wouldn’t—right?”

Liu Qingge began to read aloud.

“Xiao-ge,”

“We reached the southern jungle’s edge two nights ago. Mobei-jun is…”

(he paused)

“…tolerable.”

“You were right. His frost qi makes a good blanket.”

Liu Qingge’s eye twitched.

Zhuzhi hummed, “So far, it sounds like a travel journal.”

“Sometimes I miss the smell of the Bai Zhan fields in autumn— when the wind shifts and the leaves turn silver. I remember that day you dragged me down from the west cliff when I broke my ribs. Thank you.”

A pause.

“I wish I could see you again soon, even just once. Maybe I’d feel less…”

Liu Qingge stopped.

Gongyi stood frozen. “What does it say?”

Liu Qingge cleared his throat.

“Nothing.”

Zhuzhi looked up. “He’s missing him.”

“Dangerously sentimental,” Liu Qingge muttered, folding the letter shut. “Too vulnerable. I’m confiscating this.”

“You’re what?”

“For morale.”

Gongyi lunged again—this time successfully. “I’m writing him back. I’ll include poems, Shifu.”

Liu Qingge paled. “No.”

Zhuzhi: “I’ll help edit them.”

Chaos ensued.

The letter was saved. And three hours later, Gongyi’s reply was tucked into the ward-activated talisman with great ceremony— sealed, kissed, and blessed with Zhuzhi’s best ink.

Liu Qingge didn’t speak to either of them until dinner.

But that night, standing alone in the courtyard, he looked toward the south and whispered—

“Don’t die, Binghe.”

Then kicked the training dummy hard enough to snap it in half.

Omake 3: “Letter Received (Jin Linyun Appears and Ruins Everything)”

The southern jungles were hot. Too hot. Even at night.

Luo Binghe sat cross-legged by the fire, polishing his sabre when—

Fwoop!

A breeze that smelled like crushed snow lilies and lightning spiraled into camp.

“Why does it always do that,” Mobei-jun muttered from his corner, sipping his broth with a glare.

The wind burst into glitter.

Out stepped Jin Linyun, glowing like he’d just woken up from a nap inside a cloud. Which he might’ve.

“Hi, Binghe!” he beamed.

Binghe startled, nearly slicing his sleeve. “Jin? How did— where’s Zhaixun?”

“Your father lets me check in on you sometimes. Zhaixun needs a break from me sometimes. I brought— oh.” He pulled a scroll from his sleeve, “This arrived through the Bai Zhan ward network. Smells like black pine and grilled sweet potato. Must be from your Xiao-ge.”

Binghe’s hands trembled as he took it.

Mobei-jun drank his broth louder.

Jin flopped down next to Binghe like he belonged there.

“You’re glowing,” Binghe said dryly.

“Am I? Must be the moonlight,” Jin said innocently, resting his chin on Binghe’s shoulder to peek at the letter.

Mobei’s jaw tightened.

Binghe unrolled it.

“Binghe,”

“You brat. You better be eating. I swear if you skip meals, I’ll let Instructor Ji Jue give your sparring sessions when you come home. I don’t care if you’re a prince now—”

(Binghe chuckled softly.)

“Your last letter made me feel things I wasn’t prepared for. I miss you. I’m glad you’re with someone who can fight like you, keep up with you. That you’re well.”

“Shifu’s mad you didn’t write him too. He confiscated your letter to me and read it out loud.”

“Zhuzhi helped me write this one. He’s weirdly romantic. I don’t know what I said in the middle paragraph anymore. He kept adding metaphors about moonlight and blood-soaked battlefields.”

“Write me back or I’ll walk south myself.”

“Xiao-ge.”

Binghe was quiet.

Then he carefully rolled the letter and tucked it inside his robe like something sacred.

Jin hummed beside him. “He misses you. You miss him.”

Binghe nodded.

Then Jin said, “I like it when you’re quiet and soft like this. But if you cry, I will cry too, and then your gorgeous but scary boyfriend will think we’re both weak.”

“I don’t have a—” Binghe started, only to be cut off by the creaking of a wooden bowl being set down too hard on the rock.

They both looked up.

Mobei-jun had stood, face blank, voice cold.

“I’m going to check the perimeter.”

“Why?” Jin asked sweetly. “It’s night. The jungle is asleep.”

Mobei’s voice lowered. “It won’t be for long.”

He vanished into mist.

“…Oops?” Jin said.

Binghe groaned into his hands. “Why are you like this.”

Jin laid back on the grass and stretched. “Just keeping your suitors honest.”

“I don’t have—”

“You do,” Jin cut in. “And they all look like they walked out of a painting.”

He sighed dreamily.

“I’m the only one who acts like a disaster.”

“Can you not?”

“Nope.”

Binghe buried his head in his knees. “Why is my life like this.”

Jin patted his head. “Because fate likes a romantic comedy.”

Omake 4: “Unfamiliar Inconveniences (Jealousy Is Not a Word I Know)”

The southern jungles were loud. The creatures louder. And the glittering reptilian godling currently stealing Binghe’s attention the loudest of all.

Mobei-jun stood in the trees, watching.

He had left camp for exactly ten minutes. Ten. Not to escape Binghe. Certainly not to cool off. Just routine perimeter inspection.

When he returned—

That thing had arrived again.

That soft, star-polished Azure Dragon with a mouth too fast and hands too familiar. Resting his chin on Binghe’s shoulder. As if he belonged there.

Mobei’s eyes narrowed.

He clenched his jaw as Binghe laughed quietly at the letter. A low, private sound.

Something inside Mobei shifted. Twisted.

He stepped back, treading silent on moss. The mist around his feet cooled the plants. His fingers twitched by instinct. If this had been a threat, it would’ve been beheaded already.

But it wasn’t a threat.

It was just—

The sparkly lizard again.

Didn’t he go home?

Isn’t that other giant black lizard supposed to look after him?

Why was he back?

This wasn’t his arc.

This was his and Binghe’s arc. Jungle arc. Tactical-growth arc. Cult-dismantling arc. Danger and bonding and training scars arc.

Not— silly letter-reading under starlight with chirping crickets arc.

Mobei-jun sat on a boulder and stared up at the moon.

A drop of condensation slid off the edge of his sleeve. He caught it with a flick of his knuckle.

…Was this jealousy?

Unlikely.

Jealousy was a weakness. A mortal affliction.

He folded his arms.

Still. That Azure Lizard smelled like sunlight and smiled like an idiot.

Mobei didn’t trust it.

What was the point of being beautiful if you had no mystery? No dignity?

He pressed a hand to the side of his head.

Was he—

Annoyed?

Flustered?

He scowled deeper.

“I’m the only one who acts like a disaster,” he heard the lizard say.

Mobei turned his head just in time to see Binghe faceplant into his knees with a groan.

“…Why is my life like this,” Binghe mumbled.

Because you let stupid things happen to it, Mobei thought darkly.

He clenched his fingers. His claws scraped his palm. The cold flared at his feet.

He is going to kill that lizard.

One day.

Not today. Because Binghe would throw a fit. But soon.

For now, he returned to camp, walking just loud enough for Binghe to hear his approach.

Binghe looked up.

Mobei raised one brow and said, flatly, “Your pest is loud.”

Jin waved at him, sparkling. “Nice to see you too, Mobei!”

Mobei did not return the wave.

He dropped his sword beside the fire, sat down beside Binghe, and leaned in just slightly closer than usual.

His shoulder brushed Binghe’s.

He looked at Jin. “Still here?”

“I like to visit,” Jin said serenely.

Mobei’s eyes gleamed frost blue. “Shouldn’t you be ruling something somewhere?”

Binghe choked on his tea.

Mobei looked away with deliberate calm. “Just wondering.”

Omake 5: “Just Us and the Himbo God of Murder”

The Peak Lords’ meeting room echoed with… silence.

Awkward, painful silence.

Shen Yuan (formerly known as a decent shut-in man with a mild webnovel addiction) tugged at his sleeve, trying very hard not to sweat under Liu Qingge’s blistering glare. It wasn’t even a proper glare. It was more like—

“You have the face of my dead soulmate and I don’t know what to do about it” kind of glare.

Which was worse.

Much worse.

He leaned slightly toward Shang Qinghua and whispered from the side of his mouth, “He’s still looking at me.”

Airplane-bro muttered, “Of course he is, you’re wearing his boyfriend’s skin.”

“His shixiong’s skin,” Shen Yuan corrected weakly.

“Same thing in this context.”

“Why is he so intense?! Isn’t he supposed to be a himbo? Just punch, grunt, and go home?”

Shang Qinghua scratched nervously at his neck. “You ever see a himbo stare at someone like he’s about to bury a sword through his own heart out of repressed longing?”

Shen Yuan shivered. “I thought this was a combat character. Why does he have a tragic backstory face?!”

Across the room, Liu Qingge sat ramrod straight. Arms folded. Brow furrowed. Lips pressed into a line of near-celestial symmetry. His spiritual pressure didn’t leak—he was too controlled for that—but the weight of his presence filled the room like a silent accusation.

Shen Yuan clutched his teacup like a lifeline. “Do you think he knows I’m not Shen Qingqiu?”

“He has eyes,” Airplane muttered. “And heartbreak. And trauma. So probably not. But also yes. It’s complicated.”

“He looks like he’s judging my soul.”

“He looks like he wants to kick your ass but politely. Maybe cry about it after. Definitely write a love letter and burn it.”

Shen Yuan slouched further down in his seat. “Do you think I should apologise?”

“For hijacking his lover’s body and soul?”

“…Yes?”

Shang Qinghua gave him a look. “That’ll go well. You’ll either get stabbed or proposed to. Possibly both.”

At that moment, Liu Qingge exhaled through his nose and looked away.

Shen Yuan almost sagged in relief.

Then Liu Qingge looked back.

Right at him.

Like he was measuring coffin sizes.

Shen Yuan hissed, “He blinked. I saw it. He definitely wants me dead.”

“Bro,” Airplane whispered with deep sincerity, “I think he wants you to take responsibility.”

“FOR WHAT?!”

“Your face!”

Shen Yuan’s soul left his body.

Omake 6: “Wedding Bells and Razor Blades”

The double doors swung open.

Qi Qingqi strode in first, robes immaculate, her hair in a flawless coil. She glanced once between Shen Qingqiu and Liu Qingge—

—and stopped dead.

“Oh,” she said slowly, her voice filled with dawning amusement. “Oh.”

Shen Yuan tensed.

Wei Qingwei followed behind, already rolling his eyes. “What? What is it now?”

Qi Qingqi’s eyes gleamed like a beast that caught a scent trail. She swept into her seat, practically bouncing with energy that spelled doom.

“Did you two finally make up and get back together?” she asked sweetly. “Because I swear I still have your future wedding presents in my storeroom. Never even opened them!”

“Qi-shimei—” Shen Yuan began, voice cracking halfway through.

Wei Qingwei let out a long-suffering sigh and slumped into his chair. “Stop being idiots, both of you. It’s been years. Either elope or stab each other.”

“Don’t tempt him,” Shen Yuan hissed through his teeth, smile frozen in place. “I think he’s leaning toward the second.”

Liu Qingge didn’t react.

Not overtly.

But Shen Yuan could feel it— that ticking clock of composure. His Shidi was sitting ramrod straight, arms folded, expression granite cold. And still… still looking at him with those eyes that were half-sword, half-regretful thunderstorm.

God. Why was he like this?

Wasn’t this supposed to be a man of fists and footwork?

Since when could Liu Qingge speak like—

“You’re mistaken,” Liu Qingge said calmly, voice like a blade unsheathed. “There’s no reconciliation. There was never closure to begin with.”

The room stilled.

Even Qi Qingqi blinked.

That… that was elegant-ish.

That was poetic. But also sounded like it had a body count attached.

Shen Yuan tried very hard not to choke on air.

“Hah,” Airplane muttered beside him, elbowing him in the ribs, “the original goods ex-boyfriend speaks like a jaded widower in a palace drama now. Nice going.”

I didn’t do anything! Shen Yuan screamed internally. This man built an entire love story and funeral on top of my existence and I wasn’t even invited!

He tried to smile diplomatically. “Liu-shidi is just expressing himself. With… with clarity. And conviction. As expected of Bai Zhan’s Peak Lord.”

Qi Qingqi narrowed her eyes, sensing blood in the water. “Shen Qingqiu, you’re flustered. I haven’t seen you like this since you tried to explain away that poetry scroll in Liu-shidi’s room.”

Shen Yuan stiffened. “What poetry scroll?”

“Ah.” Qi Qingqi grinned. “So you don’t remember writing it?”

“…What poetry scroll.”

“‘My blade shall cut the heavens for thee,’” she quoted innocently. “And other embarrassing drivel.”

Wei Qingwei laughed into his sleeve. “It rhymed too.”

Shen Yuan considered crawling under the floorboards.

Liu Qingge, with absolute stoicism, finally looked away.

Only to say, voice like thunder wrapped in silk:

“It was private.”

AH.

NO.

Liu Qingge, you can’t just go around sounding like a tragic romantic lead!

Where is the man who only wanted to duel beast hawks and eat plain porridge?!

Shen Yuan turned helplessly to Airplane.

Shang Qinghua whispered, “You really did hijack someone’s soulmate drama.”

Shen Yuan buried his face in his hands.

Omake 7: “A Perfect Opportunity.”

The entire meeting was a blur of inconsequential noise to Liu Qingge.

The other Peak Lords came and went, making their quips, their arguments, their boastful reports and proposals. He sat through it all like a carved statue in the shape of a man— silent, composed, seemingly attentive.

But his eyes didn’t stray far from one person.

Shen Qingqiu.

Or rather, the man wearing Shen Qingqiu’s face. The one who didn’t sit quite right in Shen Qingqiu’s robes, who smiled too easily, whose polite, measured tone fell apart slightly every time Liu Qingge so much as looked at him.

He was observing.

And what he observed was not the man who used to spar with him until sunset and then wordlessly hand him a cup of tea in apology. It wasn’t the cold, elegant figure who had once stood atop a snowy cliff and told him that he wished he’d been born someone different— someone more capable of gentleness.

This Shen Qingqiu was someone else.

Trying hard, yes. Not doing terribly. But not him.

And Liu Qingge could tell.

He didn’t say anything. Not yet.

He simply sat, watched, and waited.

Then Yue Qingyuan’s voice cut clearly through the muted drone of the meeting.

“There is a mission to be carried out in the southern reaches of the demon realm,” he announced, looking around the table. “We’ve received word of a lost celestial artefact. It’s old, volatile, and attracting attention. I want Shen Qingqiu to go as our sect’s representative.”

Shen Qingqiu— or whoever he was— straightened slightly, nodding. “Understood.”

“And you won’t be going alone,” Yue Qingyuan continued, eyes sliding to his right. “Liu Qingge will accompany you. His task is to ensure your safety.”

Liu Qingge didn’t blink. “Where exactly in the demon realm?”

Yue Qingyuan replied, “The southern part. Deep jungle terrain, based on our sources.”

Liu Qingge almost laughed. Almost.

The corners of his mouth twitched upward— just slightly.

He recently returned from that region. 

Perfect.

So that’s how fate was going to play this.

A legitimate mission. An excuse that could hold up to scrutiny. And, best of all, a direct route to the very place where a certain disciple of his is currently stomped through vines and cultists with a black sabre and a terrible attitude.

Liu Qingge folded his arms.

He didn’t say anything. But inside?

Good. Let them call it duty.

He called it opportunity.

Omake 8: “So Long, Shen Yuan”

In the bamboo house nestled behind Qing Jing Peak, Shen Yuan was pacing in loose circles, hair half-out of his crown, sleeves flapping like distressed flags.

“I’m going to the demon realm with who?!” he shrieked, spinning on his heel to glare at Shang Qinghua, who was crouched at his tea table stuffing flaky pastries into his face like he was preparing for a last meal.

“Liu. Qing. Ge,” Shang Qinghua said through a mouthful of taro bun. “Isn’t it romantic?”

“Romantic?! This is a death sentence!” Shen Yuan clutched at his forehead. “That man—he hates me! You saw how he looked at me! He’s going to take this chance to push me off a cliff and call it divine retribution.”

Shang Qinghua shrugged. “He probably wouldn’t push you off a cliff. A cliff would be too merciful. Probably something with a spear. And bad poetry. You know, peak Bai Zhan courtship ritual.”

Shen Yuan slammed both hands on the table. “Shang Qinghua! Don’t joke! I’m not ready for a second life to end like this!”

“I’m not joking. Listen, bro. I wrote him as a feral attack dog with a martial arts manual and really high cheekbones. But you’re forgetting—he’s also secretly a romantic. He probably stares at the moon and remembers how your corpse looked under it.”

“WHAT?!”

“I mean, Shen Qingqiu’s corpse,” Shang Qinghua corrected, slurping his tea. “Not yours. Yet.”

Shen Yuan collapsed onto the floor, staring at the ceiling. “It’s the south too, right? The demon realm south? Where Tianlang-jun lives? That’s his backyard! That’s his BBQ pit! That’s where Binghe’s probably nesting right now like a murder pigeon!”

“Oh yeah,” Shang Qinghua said brightly. “And guess who’s not here in Bai Zhan or Cang Qiong lately? Guess who’s probably very bored and emotionally complicated and might just stumble across his Shifu playing chaperone with Qing Jing Peak’s mascot?”

Shen Yuan curled into a ball on the floor.

“This is going to turn into a love triangle bloodbath, isn’t it?” he moaned.

“Oh, no.” Shang Qinghua leaned back smugly. “We’re way past triangle. It’s an intricate dodecahedron now. And you, my friend, are the centrifugal axis.”

“I didn’t sign up for this!” Shen Yuan hissed.

“You transmigrated into the not-really-a-scum but is still the scum villain, bro,” Shang Qinghua said. “This is the discount package.”

Outside the bamboo house, a flock of birds startled into flight. Inside, Shen Yuan screamed into a pillow.

Somewhere far, far away, Liu Qingge sharpened his sword.

And smiled.

Omake 9: “Cang Qiong Send-Off: Featuring Shen Yuan’s Internal Crisis”

At the foot of Cang Qiong’s great mountain gates, the banners of Bai Zhan and Qing Jing snapped proudly in the wind. A small entourage gathered there beneath the looming morning clouds— sect disciples, one Peak Lord looking vaguely murderous, another looking vaguely unwell, and a teenager with a snake in his shirt.

“Liu-shidi. Shen-shidi.” Yue Qingyuan stood with hands tucked neatly into his sleeves, a placid expression on his face. “The sect is grateful for your service. May your journey be fruitful, and safe.”

“Understood,” Liu Qingge said shortly.

“Yes, of course, Zhangmen-shixiong!” Shen Yuan chirped too brightly, his shoulders so stiff they looked like they were wearing a second set of pauldrons. “Always happy to help, ahahaha.”

【System Notice: Mission Triggered— Flagged Route: Shen Qingqiu + Liu Qingge: “Rekindled Flames of the Cold Peak.”】

Shut up, Shen Yuan screamed inside.

Yue Qingyuan turned to smile benevolently. “The south is dangerous these days, but with the two of you together, I have every confidence.”

Liu Qingge glanced sideways at his “companion,” his mouth a sharp line. Shen Yuan tried to return the look with a respectful, dignified peer.

Unfortunately, his eye twitched.

Ah. That didn’t help.

Off to the side, Gongyi Xiao fidgeted. “Shifu…” he mumbled, looking up at Liu Qingge. “Travel safely. I’ll take care of the peak.”

Liu Qingge gave a brief nod. “Good.”

Then Gongyi Xiao turned to Shen Yuan with a respectful bow. “Shen-shibo.”

“Ah, Gongyi Xiao! So tall now! So filial, so polite— very promising, Liu-shidi, very promising!”

Liu Qingge stared at him like Shen Yuan had just coughed blood on his boots.

“Um, where is Luo Binghe?” Shen Yuan asked quickly, desperate to change the subject.

“Oh, Binghe said he’s traveling,” Gongyi Xiao replied. “Somewhere further south, training alone. He writes sometimes.”

The little green snake on Gongyi Xiao’s shoulder peeked out from his collar, blinked its beady eyes at Shen Yuan, and hissed gently.

Shen Yuan’s smile froze.

That snake saw everything in,  the thought with irrational horror. That snake knows things.

Liu Qingge shouldered his travel pack. “We should go.”

“Right!” Shen Yuan coughed, gripping the reins of his spiritual beast with slightly too much enthusiasm. “Off we go. Adventuring. Hunting important artefacts. Nothing romantic or murdery about that.”

He swung up into the saddle.

Liu Qingge followed, his expression unreadable.

Behind them, Yue Qingyuan waved serenely. Gongyi Xiao gave another bow.

As they rode through the gate together, Shen Yuan felt the gaze of Cang Qiong at his back and the rising dread of 1.8 million readers hungry for shizun drama at his front.

The wind carried faint whispers behind him.

“Is it true?” a disciple murmured.

“Did you hear they’re practically married? Already raised two sons together?”

“They even have a pet snake!”

Liu Qingge’s brow twitched.

Shen Yuan nearly dropped his fan.

This mission better be short.

Omake 10: “One Bed, Two Cultivators, Zero Chill”

Starring: Shen Yuan, Liu Qingge, and the unfathomable horror of this ultra-derailed-g*y-PIDW lore

The rain started sometime after sundown— sheets of it, thunder growling low like a beast with a bone to pick. Shen Yuan was soaked to his spiritual bones by the time he and Liu Qingge reached the little roadside inn.

The innkeeper looked apologetic. “Ah, immortal masters, we’re full tonight. But we do have one room left—  just one. And only one bed.”

One bed.

Double.

Liu Qingge said, “We’ll take it.”

Shen Yuan smiled like someone whose last neuron had just snapped.

“No other room?” he asked hopefully. “Even a broom closet? A stable? A coffin? I mean— storage room?”

The innkeeper shook his head. “Only the double-bed room, honored guests.”

Liu Qingge had already taken the key and was walking upstairs.

Shen Yuan trudged behind him like a man approaching his own funeral pyre.

The room was nice. Cosy. Clean. Lit by a soft lantern glow.

The bed was massive. Fluffy. Unforgiving.

Shen Yuan sat at the edge of it, stiff as a board, still in his wet robes, trying to breathe. Behind him, Liu Qingge was methodically unbuckling his light armour.

Piece by piece. Shoulder plates. Bracers. Inner robes loosened and—

Oh no. Skin. Muscle. Collarbone. Veins.

【System Alert: Warning! Warning! Biological reaction imminent!】

Shut UP, Shen Yuan mentally shrieked.

He turned his entire body to face the wall.

“So,” he said faintly. “Just to be clear, you’re okay with us both… on this bed?”

Liu Qingge, who was now shirtless and drying his hair with a towel, glanced over. “We’ve shared beds before.”

“Yes, but that was—! I mean—that was. We’re —technically—uh. No longer— uh.”

Liu Qingge sat on the edge of the bed. “You act like I’m going to devour you.”

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of!” Shen Yuan yelped, then clamped both hands over his mouth.

A long silence.

Liu Qingge raised an eyebrow. “Are you planning to sleep upright?”

“I— I can take the floor. It’s better for spinal alignment anyway.”

“No.”

“I’m very flexible.”

“No.”

“…That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Liu Qingge narrowed his eyes. “You think I’d take advantage of you.”

“No! I think you’d roll over and the sheer gravity of your abs might kill me.”

Another silence.

Liu Qingge— slowly— climbed under the blanket, claiming exactly half the bed.

“You’re being dramatic,” he muttered.

Shen Yuan climbed in like he was sneaking into a lion’s den.

He lay stiffly on his side, leaving a full half-meter of bedding between them. After a long moment, Liu Qingge reached out.

Shen Yuan’s soul left his body.

But all Liu Qingge did was pull the blanket a little higher over Shen Yuan’s shoulder.

“…You’re still wet,” he said gruffly.

“I— I’m fine. Dry. Arid. Desert-like.”

Liu Qingge grunted and rolled over.

Somehow, that made it worse.

Shen Yuan stared at the ceiling. Across the mattress, a furnace masquerading as a man radiated silent judgment and devastating body heat.

He prayed for unconsciousness.

He got dreams of the original Shen Qingqiu straddling Liu Qingge on that very bed.

He woke up screaming internally.

【System Alert: Sleep Paralysis Demon = Liu Qingge】

Never again, Shen Yuan thought, as he lay motionless beside the martial god of Bai Zhan Peak. Never again.