Work Text:
The Ninth Day of the Ninth Month. The morning on Qing Jing Peak began with frost bleaching the bamboo leaves to a crystalline fragility. The air was pure and cold, like polished jade. Just like the master of the quiet peak, many would say. And only Shen Qingqiu himself knew that his first name, Jiu, did not mean "Jade" at all. Jiu as in "Nine" – by order of purchase. The ninth slave in the batch. A stray pup whose name was just a number on a dirty tag.
Once, he himself had chosen this holiday, self-proclaiming it as his birthday. The festival of ascending heights, of exorcising evil spirits—and the "birthday" of one whose soul was forever mired in filth and whose only salvation was to pretend to be someone else. Shen Qingqiu's entire life was an attempt to hide his lowly origins and rotten nature behind the mask of a refined, noble immortal master.
Little Jiu, Shen Jiu, chuckled involuntarily. The smile was bitter, spreading across his lips like acrid smoke. Back then, he hadn't yet understood the full meaning of this day. It was just a good day for Jiu. Major holidays meant more food for all of them, the perpetually hungry street urchins, which was crucial with the approaching cold. A chance to snatch a better morsel and, if they were really lucky, an extra copper coin of alms from tipsy passersby.
For a moment, ghosts of the past flashed before his eyes: a dirty market square flooded with lights, steam from food stalls, and the heat from noodle pots in a foreign, warm, and noisy world where neither he nor Qi-ge had any place, of course. The shouts of vendors, laughter, curses, the clinking of coins—on the ninth day of the ninth month, it all merged into one deafening, lively hum. Dust kicked up by hundreds of feet mixed with smoke from braziers, creating a thick, sweet-spicy haze. The smell—of hot oil, freshly baked flatbreads, meat—that was the smell of the festival. His festival. A time when there were still the two of them—a pair of perpetually hungry ragamuffins, nimble as rats and just as inconspicuous. And yet… had Jiu been… happy then?
Qi-ge, the older one, with a serious face, would look out for a distracted vendor or a careless passerby. And Jiu… Jiu would seize the moment, knew when to be bolder or, conversely, to put on a pitiful face. And then the two of them would be squeezing a flatbread out of some "benefactor," scalding hot, and then eating it in the nearest alley, greedily and hurriedly, burning their fingers and tongues.
A faint rustle behind him brought him back to the present. Qi Ming Fan had blended so harmoniously with the familiar Jiu-background of the peak that he was perceived almost naturally. Here is the bamboo, here is the stone, and here, bowing in a respectful obeisance, is the head disciple of the Qing Jing Peak Lord. His disciple. Jiu took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. Little Jiu retreated, hiding deep inside the immortal master Shen, like a sewer rat in a dirty alley.
The air, cold and ringing, burned his lungs. Qingqiu breathed it slowly and deeply, as if trying to absorb not only the air but the very essence of his peak—detachment, loftiness, tranquility. His elegant, impeccable robes fluttered in the wind like the wings of a cicada ready for its last flight. Multi-layered hanfu, carefully chosen for the season. A laconic hairstyle with a precious crown suitable for the occasion and place. Everything was calculated and thought out in advance; Master Xiuya was supposed to be refined and elegant. And yet, despite the ostentatious lightness, it was all armor. The undergarments were made of seemingly plain yarn from the silk of ghostly corpse-eater spiders. A rare nastiness, those creatures, but silk from their webs could withstand a dagger strike as well as light armor. The next layer of undergarments, whiter, like freshly fallen snow barely covering the ground, was all covered in equally fine and almost invisible embroidery—protective symbols. Another layer of hanfu was embroidered with seals, no longer hiding them. Protection from fire, protection from forced teleportation, in case he carelessly, though it was unlikely of course, stumbled into a hidden teleportation seal.
A tactician of the Cang Qiong sect had many enemies—hidden and overt. The outermost layer, gaseous, echoing the frost on the bamboo leaves, was deceptively light. Saturated with the juice of the "Last Wish" holly elderberry, the lightest fabric could cut as well as a non-spiritual sword, if one channeled enough qi into it. From light to dark, from physical to mental protection, from blocking seals to attacking ones. All of this was armor. Even his perfect immortal posture, his cold indifferent gaze—all to hide that very Jiu, eternally hungry, eternally bitter, eternally expecting a stab in the back.
The wind swayed the frozen bamboo shoots, and their dry, glassy chime drowned out the quiet inner whisper of little rat Jiu, foretelling him that no matter how hard he tried, no matter how high he climbed—he would forever remain the ninth number. A dirty slave who stole a name, a peak, and a life for which he was not born.
"—Shizun," the youth's voice was quiet, meticulously respectful, perfectly fitting the morning silence. "This unworthy one dares to be the first to present his gift."
Oh, if only. His slender fingers nervously clutched a half-open fan. Jiu—no, Shen Qingqiu—had found it on the doorstep of the bamboo hut. There was no proper packaging for such a fragile item, no note attached. The folding fan simply lay on the floor by the sliding door, as if the giver couldn't care less about its fate. Had someone else been in Shen Qingqiu's place, they might easily have stepped on the fan without noticing.
"Yue Qingyuan would have done just that," Shen thought irritably, almost mindlessly forming a seal to reveal the hidden. Then a small cascade of the "All-Seeing Eye" and several basic seals for poisons and curses.
The fan was clean. It radiated natural qi, of course, but that was always the case with high-quality items. All masters of their craft, even mortals, always unintentionally put a drop of qi into their creations. And materials growing in places with good feng shui usually also absorb energy from the local flows.
Shen Qingqiu slowly picked up the gift, weighed it in his hand, listening to the echo of residual natural qi in the fan, and after a moment's hesitation, opened it. On the silk screen was skillfully embroidered a branch of persimmon—ripe, juicy, almost alive. Unexpected. Qingqiu had almost expected bamboo or misty mountains, perhaps cranes, but not persimmon. An extremely inappropriate choice—the New Year was still far away. But what could one expect from the giver, a Bai Zhan barbarian through and through. Liu Qingge.
Could that idiot really have hoped that I, with my super-sensitive perception of qi, wouldn't recognize that the wood used for the guard of this atrocity is century-old pines from Bai Zhan Peak? The thought flashed like a furious spark.
Qingqiu clenched the fan in his hand, ran his finger over the wooden guard—nothing extra, just polished wood smelling of resin and the faint, bitter aroma of freshly worked timber. The fan's guard wasn't even treated with fragrant oil, coated with wax, or protective lacquer. And yet it was polished to perfection so that the despised Master Xiuya wouldn't get a splinter while using it. In this rough practicality, there was something… personal. Inside Shen Qingqiu, a familiar, poisonous wave of irritation rose.
Liu Qingge was simply awful. Straightforward, arrogant, haughty, and… teeth-grindingly talented and stubborn, no worse than Jiu. A damn, motherfucking genius from a rich and influential family. And yet, he had rejected all that as something unnecessary. As the heir of an ancient clan, the master of Cheng Luan couldn't not have been taught at least the basics of manners. And yet, Liu Qingge ignored the norms of decency with the same stubborn persistence with which he ignored the masters' prohibitions. He acted as if all these conventions were merely obstacles in the path of his sword—obstacles to be swept away with one sharp movement. They had disliked each other immediately.
Perhaps the Liu clan's ancestors really did have demons; how else to explain such an untamable and utterly graceless persistence? No normal, sane person would spend years pursuing another like a ghostly hellhound, looking for the slightest reason to duel.
And the most unbearable thing for Qingqiu was not the inevitable defeat. Shen could have borne his own loss. After all, he was a spiritual cultivator, and Liu Qingge was one of the strongest inner disciples of the previous Bai Zhan Peak Lord. No, the most unbearable thing was the expression on Liu Qingge's face after victory. Not triumph, not pride over a defeated rival. No. He looked as if Shen Qingqiu had betrayed all his ideals, along with the entire Cang Qiong Sect—a gaze full of silent reproach, disappointment, and some incomprehensible, deep resentment. It was more maddening than any defeat. Such was the straightforward and completely incomprehensible Liu-shidi, the future Lord of Bai Zhan Peak.
Qingqiu snapped the fan shut sharply, almost furiously. He inconveniently remembered how that same thick-headed shidi had publicly accused him of attempting to murder a fellow sect member. Ha, if he had wanted to, no one would ever have known what happened to their famous future God of War.
That insufferable shidi, always looking for a reason to pick on him, following him like an elusive shadow whenever Qingqiu left his peak... Perhaps that was why he so rarely left Cang Qiong. Not out of arrogance, but because of that oppressive, inescapable feeling that someone was always standing behind him, his gaze heavy and relentless. Every time, it provoked a furious, uncontrollable irritation in Shen Qingqiu.
And yet... yet, despite the accusations and obvious hostility, Liu Qingge had never missed a single festival, not a single one of his, Shen Qingqiu's, birthdays.
Exquisite quality war fans, rare ingredients for the most complex elixirs that beneficially influenced qi flow, ancient books on tactics for spiritual spellcasters, a bestiary with descriptions of rare monster breeds and their habitats that were almost impossible to find. All the gifts were personal, chosen with deadly care and thoughtfulness. And—always anonymous. As if this barbarian seriously believed that Shen Qingqiu was incapable of figuring out the giver.
What do you want from me, Liu Qingge? he thought with bitter bewilderment. You pursue me like a criminal, and you gift me like a…
Qingqiu couldn't find the right word. There was no concept in his world that could describe this perverse, stubborn devotion expressed through accusations and silent gifts.
However, Liu Qingge was not alone in his attempts to ruin his mood. As soon as Shen Qingqiu stepped down from the threshold of the bamboo hut and walked into the garden, a figure appeared at the far edge of the clearing, one that had previously successfully merged with the shadow of the bamboo grove. Yue Qingyuan—the Sect Leader of Cang Qiong. His presence here early in the morning on the Double Ninth Festival was as inevitable as the sunrise, but still completely unwanted for Shen Qingqiu.
The Zhangmen-shixiong was without his ceremonial regalia, in simple clothes, and in his hands was not another elegant casket, not the nauseatingly familiar box of expensive sweets, but a small package smelling of sesame oil.
"—Xiao Jiu."
Shen Qingqiu froze. His entire being clenched into one solid, furious knot. That cursed name, burned like a brand on his soul. A name that the other had no right to utter. A name he had rejected along with his dirty past, becoming the brilliant Qingqiu. And only Yue Qingyuan still tried to fit the name—"Ninth"—onto the head of the Strategy Peak, like the wooden shackles that once bound his ankles.
He slowly turned to the visitor, and his face became a mask of icy, refined contempt.
"—Zhangmen-shixiong," Qingqiu's voice sounded hissing and thin, like a blade drawn across silk. Like a snake warning of a strike in advance—just try to come closer, and you won't avoid the bite. But Yue Qingyuan ignored all his non-verbal signals with the composure of an experienced politician.
"—On such a day, how could this older brother not visit his younger brother?" he said, and in that phrase, so unbearably formal and nauseatingly polite, echoed a long-standing guilt.
"—Older brother?" Shen Qingqiu laughed sarcastically, and the sound was dry and crackling, like breaking bones. "The older brother who left me to rot in the Qiu estate hell?"
He saw Yue Qingyuan's eyelids tremble. Barely noticeably. If Qingqiu weren't watching so intently—he wouldn't have noticed. He saw it and felt a wild, burning satisfaction—and immediately after, a piercing sting of disappointment. He wanted, like in childhood, to grab Yue-ge, shake him, and yell heartily at such a big, but utterly hopeless boy. Alas, his sworn brother had long since died, slowly poisoned by regular meals and clean clothes during his apprenticeship on Qiong Ding Peak. The Qingyuan standing before him only wore the same face and the same qi imprint by some absurd coincidence. Soft, warm, chilling to the bone, deceptively safe. Little Jiu, still living inside him, remembered. Knew nothing of qi, but remembered that this warmth meant peace and protection. The adult Qingqiu knew that nothing in this world was given for free. All of Zhangmen-shixiong's gifts were bribes, like, take it, you defective one, and keep your mouth shut good and tight. No need for outsiders to know what the current head of Cang Qiong Ridge did in his childhood. These handouts, these searches for supposedly chance meetings, all attempts to control Qingqiu—all of it was worse than any physical torture.
"—I brought you this," Yue Qingyuan held out his package. "Here."
Shen Qingqiu didn't move. He looked at the oil-stained package from which emanated a coarse, sweetish smell of hot flatbreads. The smell of their hungry childhood. The smell of that place from which one of them had escaped, and the other—had been abandoned. Fury, bitter and intoxicating, hit his head.
"—Why?" he hissed, and his fingers clenched into fists inside his wide sleeves.
He expected return fire, accusations, anger—anything that would give an outlet to this poisonous energy between them. But Yue Qingyuan just looked at him with his heavy, sad gaze.
"—We always dreamed of eating them together on the Double Ninth Festival, Xiao Jiu."
These words hung in the frosty air like breath vapor. Simple. Monstrously simple. And in this monstrous simplicity, in this refusal to fight, lay their entire shared tragedy. Yue Qingyuan continued to pretend that everything could still be fixed, that everything was fine, and that this chasm between them was just a mundane misunderstanding.
Just wonderful! Excellent martial brothers I have! Shen Qingqiu thought venomously. One can't spend a day in the sect without coming to his Qing Jing to pick a fight. You'd think Liu-shidi only returns from his endless hunts to beat up disciples—a misunderstanding called training—and to bicker with him, the dirty degenerate Shen Qingqiu. The other comes to visit his peak—as if it's his own home, dragging gifts more expensive than the last. If Qingqiu were a maiden, rumors of courtship would already be spreading. As it is—only gossip about his arrogance and spoiled nature.
Shen Qingqiu sharply snatched the package from Qingyuan's hands. The hot heat would have burned his palm, were Shen not an immortal master. He hated this man. Hated him with all his soul for the abandoned hopes, for the betrayal, for the fact that he had become, while he had been forced to build himself from scratch out of dirt and lies.
And yet… yet, this was still his Yue-ge. A lying traitor, but his older brother. The one with whom he shared meager crumbs of food, who slept next to him in a dirty alley, warming themselves under one lousy blanket. The one to whom he had promised to give all his loyalty in this life. A promise that bound Shen tighter than any magical oath that Jiu later swore first to his teacher and then to the Cang Qiong Sect.
"—Get out," Shen Qingqiu said hoarsely, turning away. He could no longer look at him. Silence hung, heavy and thick as tar. And then Yue Qingyuan, without saying another word, quietly departed, leaving him alone—with the flatbreads, with the hatred, with the unhealed wound that only Qingyuan could disturb and only Qi-ge, perhaps, could somehow heal.
It was there that Ming Fan found him, standing at the edge of the garden contemplating the frost-covered bamboo shoots.
"—Shizun." The head disciple's voice trembled with cold and reverence. "Everything is ready for the ceremony."
Shen Qingqiu slowly nodded. Time to play his role to the end. He turned, and his face was impassive and beautiful, like a carved jade seal.
"—Excellent," Qingqiu said, and his voice sounded clear and cold, exactly like a stone falling into a mountain lake. "Let us perform the rite."
Below, at the foot of the pavilion, the disciples were already bustling about like frightened rabbits. Muffled voices, the clinking of dishes, the pungent, bitter aroma of chrysanthemum wine being warmed on braziers reached him. He knew this picture by heart: respectful bows, sleeves held properly, gazes fixed on the ground, not on him. Their offerings would be perfect and soulless: calligraphy scrolls with sayings about longevity (which he was sick of), candied roots resembling pieces of amber, new brushes made of weasel hair—expensive, flawless, and absolutely unnecessary. They were afraid of him. Respected him, as was proper, but afraid.
Shen Qingqiu walked past them without looking. His silk hanfu rustled like autumn leaves, justifying the name once given by his teacher—"Late Autumn." The Xiu Ya sword ascended a low elevation, raised his hand—with a perfect, refined gesture—and the ceremony began. His voice flowed pure and cold, like water from a mountain spring, reciting ancient texts with impeccable pronunciation. Not a single intonation betrayed the storm that had recently raged within Qingqiu. Not a single muscle twitched on his face, framed by perfectly styled hair.
He was the embodiment of erudition, refinement, and absolute self-control. Shen Qingqiu, the brilliant Xiu Ya sword, master of Qing Jing Peak. Today was the Double Ninth Festival, his birthday. Not little Jiu's.
And yet, the new fan with the embroidered persimmon branch was tucked into his belt, enveloping Qingqiu in a light, unobtrusive scent of pine needles. And in the folds of his sleeve, in a hidden qiankun pocket, rested an oil-stained package.
Perhaps this evening, when the ceremonies ended and Qingqiu was alone in his quarters with a cup of traditional chrysanthemum wine sent from Zui Xian Peak… he would take them out.
Blessed silence, broken only by the crackling of coals in a copper brazier. Shen would place on the blackwood table a jade cup filled to the brim with golden chrysanthemum wine, and next to it—the coarse, oil-stained package. He would unwrap it slowly, almost ritually. One flatbread. For him. For little rat Jiu.
He would break off a piece—carelessly, as he used to eat—and raise the cup. Not for longevity, not for the sect's prosperity. For a ghost. For that boy Qi-ge, whose hands remained in his memory the only refuge in this cruel world. For that older brother who died on the day of his ascension to Qiong Ding Peak. For the dream of two boys to become great cultivators and never be apart again. The one that came true, but only halfway. They did become great. They indeed were not apart—their peaks belonged to the same sect and stood side by side, their lives as peak lords were intertwined forever. But a chasm separated them, one no rainbow bridge could help cross.
Shen would take a sip. The wine would taste bitter on his tongue, and the flatbread would cruelly remind him that the true taste of this "fulfilled dream" was the ashes of the burned-down Qiu estate.
He would sit like this until dawn. Shen Qingqiu—the head of Qing Jing Peak, a scholarly man, a master of the six arts. And Jiu—the ninth number, forever stuck in the past, drinking to the one who betrayed him, and to the one he himself could never forgive.
And in the morning, the mask would be put on again.