Chapter Text
Look, Shang Qinghua was just minding his own business!
He's in a town near the base of Cang Qiong, haggling with traders. Not, for once, for the Sect—it's one of his rare free afternoons, and he's determined to enjoy it even if it kills someone! (It probably will. But not him, and that's what really matters, so.)
Little known fact about Shang Qinghua: he rather enjoys cooking, actually, and is fairly good at it. He would like to think so, anyway. Of course, he's no Luo Binghe in the kitchen, but if his timeline is right the protagonist is currently a toddler—he's not doing any cooking right now, so can one really compare them? (Yes.)
Another fact: he kills it in the market. No one can get a better deal than Peak Lord Shang Qinghua, that's for sure!
He's arguing over a few cuts of meat when a commotion breaks out nearby. It escalates quickly, turning into a near unintelligible screaming match.
Except—
One of the yelling voices is very audibly a child, high and screeching. Shang Qinghua hesitates.
He's a Peak Lord and a cultivator, sure, but he's the lord of An Ding! Just because he can fight doesn't mean he wants to!
But… even Shang Qinghua draws the line at hurting children. He drops the cut of meat he's been examining when the kid stops screaming words and instead screeches in pain, pushing through the crowd before he can decide better.
The crowd surrounds a tall man holding a kid—god, he couldn't have been older than ten, and stick thin too—by the elbow. The kid's feet are almost entirely off the ground as he kicks and writhes. He even snaps with his teeth a few times when his captor gets too close.
Shang Qinghua clears his throat. When it does absolutely nothing—really, that's so unfair, he's seen Shen-shixiong silence entire peaks that way!—he draws his sword instead. That does make a satisfying hush fall over the crowd.
Yeah, that's what he thought.
The man looks at over at him, not releasing his grip on the child.
"What's going on here?" Shang Qinghua demands, putting on his Scary Authority Figure voice. He scowls for emphasis. Through it all, the kid never stops squirming, though his efforts are notably weaker.
"This kid stole from me," the man growls, shaking said child. The child yelps.
Okay, so this guy's just been officially promoted to Asshole. Shang Qinghua will react appropriately.
"What did he steal?" he asks, just to make sure it's not, like, some precious family heirloom. Or a cartful of melon seeds. (Then he might see the justification.)
Asshole huffs, really working himself up now. "Steamed buns," he nearly shouts.
Shang Qinghua regrets, sometimes, just how many low-IQ horrible-to-kids NPCs he'd added to PIDW.
"Steamed buns," he repeats flatly. He opens his mouth to really give it to this guy—you don't spend so much time reading Peerless Cucumber's infamously brutal reviews without picking up a few tricks—but thinks better of it when the man shakes the kid again as he confirms the item of theft.
Shit, that sounded bad. Like bones cracking, at the very least, if Shang Qinghua knows anything about it.
"Okay, okay, let's settle this," Shang Qinghua says, and pulls a single coin from his pouch. He holds it out towards the man, yanking it back when Asshole immediately tries to snatch it.
Wow, rude. But Shang Qinghua knew that already.
"Not quite," he chides, holding the coin up between two fingers. It glints in the sun, the single piece likely worth more than Asshole's entire cart of steamed buns. "If you want this, you gotta give me that," he finishes, gesturing to the child.
Asshole doesn't even blink. He drops the kid carelessly, shoving him into Shang Qinghua.
Shang Qinghua catches the kid before he can fall, making sure to grab the shoulder opposite the arm the man had been holding. The kid's face contorts with fear and anger. He holds the arm he'd been suspended by close to his chest, cradling it. His wrists are bruised and raw. Shang Qinghua tosses the coin at the man and he catches it, turning to hurry away as soon as it hits his palm. Good—that gives him some time to put distance between them before Asshole realizes its only a pebble with a qi illusion on it.
The crowd disperses around them, the marketplace quickly returning to its normal bustle.
Shang Qinghua guides the kid to a less populated area. They end up in the alley between two inns, dim and stinking of filth.
Shang Qinghua drops to his knees to be on eye level with the kid. The child is still furious and terrified, trembling violently and glaring hard enough to light something on fire. The boy snarls, wild, cradling his injured arm close to his chest.
"Hey, hey, it's alright," Shang Qinghua soothes. He lays his hands on his lap, palm up and empty, and waits.
It takes several moments for the kid to calm down. He glances past Shang Qinghua towards the mouth of the alley like he wants to run.
Ha! Try to outrun a peak lord, kid! An Ding is still Cang Qiong!
"Do you have any family?" Shang Qinghua asks. "Somewhere you're staying?"
The boy squints at him, all big eyes and sunken cheeks, and doesn't respond. Smart.
"Okay, then," Shang Qinghua sighs. "Let's try this again. I'm Peak Lord Shang Qinghua of Cang Qiong Mountain Sect. I'm only trying to help, kid."
The boy's eyes are wide, his expression strange and unreadable. At last, he shakes his head, slow and hesitant.
No family. No home.
Shang Qinghua had thought so, with the state of the kid's clothes. And the stealing food. But it's still unpleasant to have his suspicions confirmed.
Sometimes, he really hates this world he'd made.
"Alright, we're gonna take care of that," Shang Qinghua says, gentle. "I need to check your qi potential, then we'll decide what to do. But no matter what, I'll bring you somewhere safe, 'k?"
The kid nods, though he still looks suspicious. There's a weariness to him, written through the slump of his shoulders, the kind that comes from a long time spent scared and alone. He's still holding the arm that the man had suspended him by close to his chest, worryingly protective. This close, the bruises on his wrists are clear and deep, splotching shades of sickly yellow and purple.
Shang Qinghua offers his hand. After a moment, the boy lays his wrist in it, stick-thin. Even through his sleeve, the kid's wrist feels tiny and fragile. Shang Qinghua gently slips the cloth down, resting two fingers of his other hand above the ring of bruises. A static shock zips between them, making Shang Qinghua jump and the kid inhale a tiny sharp breath.
"Ah, sorry," Shang Qinghua says on reflex. The kid doesn't seem to register it at all, gaze distant and face almost disturbingly blank.
The boy's heartbeat thrums against the thin skin of his wrist.
For the first few seconds, it's a perfectly routine check. Shang Qinghua sends a thread of qi snaking through him, and finds a healthy—if underdeveloped and weak with neglect—meridian system. Good potential for cultivating, he thinks, remembering Mu Qingfang's lectures. The man had insisted all peak lords — and Hallmasters, and everyone else—needed to know at least basic first aid. He won't deny it's come in handy more than a few times.
Shang Qinghua withdraws his hand and lets his qi sink into the kid's meridians, giving him a little boost. He looks like he needs it, his face going gray as he begins to sway.
"Woah, hang on," Shang Qinghua yelps, leaping forward to catch the kid as he looses his balance. His feet tangle in his robes. Shang Qinghua ends up on his back in the alley's filth, holding the now unconscious child against his chest. He sits slowly, wrinkling his nose at the stench now clinging to him.
The kid's eyes roll under his lids. His face is tense and pained, and it sends something tight and squirming to roil in his chest.
Fuck.
He can't just leave him here. It feels equally wrong to dump him with the rest of the kids Shang Qinghua scoops off the streets, though—it kind of feels like his fault the kid passed out, so his responsibility to make sure the kid ends up safe.
Sometimes, Shang Qinghua hates having morals. His life would be so easy if he could just get rid of the few he's managed to keep this long.
Looks like Shang Qinghua's just gained a new disciple.
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So, Shang Qinghua has a routine when he picks up street kids.
In the city at the base of Cang Qiong, he's been supporting a few orphanages for—damn, has it really been almost thirty years now? Shang Qinghua feels old thinking about it. Anyway, the orphanages have been the base of his spy network—after aging out with all the skills the orphanage teaches, his kids go out into the world and establish themselves. Some end up at Cang Qiong, others in the city, more stationed along his trade routes—look, it's hard work sourcing literally everything a massive sect like Cang Qiong needs! If he can establish a solid network and get kids off the street at the same time, why wouldn't he? Doesn't everyone benefit here?
Anyway, this kid is coming straight to An Ding. Well, he's actually going straight to Mu Qingfang, but after that!
An Ding needs all the people it can get. Especially people with fire, like he hopes this kid has. The whole Tianlang-jun fiasco was only a few years ago now, and tensions with the demon realm have been pretty bad since.
…and he just feels bad leaving him. Shang Qinghua may be ruthless to his enemies, but an orphan child hardly counts. Plus, the kid only passed out after Shang Qinghua checked his qi, so he kind of feels like it's his fault the kid fainted.
He bundles the child against his chest. The boy weighs almost nothing. The boy's eyes are rolling behind his thin lids and his face is pale and feverish.
Shang Qinghua takes off for the sect, flying as fast as he can. It takes several hours for the distant figures of the sect mountains to come into view. By the time Shang Qinghua slips through the wards around Can Qiong, the sun is starting to sink below the horizon.
The boy still hasn't woken up. His breathing is steady but shallow, his expression pained and shifting. In the fading light, he looks even paler--all the color is drained from him, leaving behind a waxy gray cast.
Not good. Very, very not good.
Shang Qinghua goes straight to Qian Cao, bypassing the aerial wards around the medical peak easily. He lands beside Mu Qingfang's small house, set in a small clearing away from the larger treatment centers and surrounded by a neatly-tended but sprawling garden.
He steps from his sword to the ground, doing his best not the jostle the boy further, and speed-walks to the cottage door. Before he can decide whether to shuffle the kid around enough to free a hand or just kick the door, it swings open to reveal Mu Qingfang.
Mu Qingfang is already dressed down for the night, his leisure robes plain and mussed. He's already leading Shang Qinghua into his house, past crowded tables and shelves, into his spare room, asking questions over his shoulder before he even greets Shang Qinghua.
Shang Qinghua answers as he carefully steps over and around piles of manuscripts on the floor. He lays the boy on the clear side of the bed, pushing the various books and jars over to the other side.
Mu Qingfang checks the boy's qi with two fingers pressed to his wrist. His brows draw together as he concentrates, his dark eyes narrowing.
"The boy will be fine," Mu Qingfang finally says as he withdraws. "A combination of several things are keeping him down—long term malnutrition, severe shock, and physical strain, among other things. A dislocated shoulder and strained elbow, as well. All easily treatable, thankfully."
Mu Qingfang resets the boy's shoulder with a swift push and a sickening crack. The boy shudders, making a small pained sound, but doesn't wake.
Retreating to the crowded shelves lining the room, Mu Qingfang begins to pluck jars and vials and little paper packets up. "Feed him qi," he instructs over his shoulder as he steps back into the main room, arms laden with ingredients.
Shang Qinghua, knees weak, sits on the edge of the bed next to the child. He lays one hand on the kid's too-thin wrist and begins to feed a gentle stream of qi into his meridians.
Relief is a wave sweeping through him, all the tension and fear draining away. Shang Qinghua glances between the kid on the bed and Mu Qingfang. The kid's system is soaking in the qi greedily, weak tugs on Shang Qinghua's much stronger meridians.
Mu Qingfang returns, his armful replaced with a few vials and a single bowl of some swirling, foul-smelling concoction. He pries the boy's mouth open and begins to drip an orange mixture Shang Qinghua recognizes as a qi restoration tincture.
It takes several moments before color begins to return to the boy's face. After Mu Qingfang fusses over a few vials, dripping potions into the kid's mouth, the boy's face relaxes and his breathing eases. His arm looks better too, lying at a more natural angle and supported by a folded blanket.
Mu Qingfang drops into a chair set next to the bed, sighing. They sit in silence for a few moments, both watching the steady rise and fall of the kid's chest.
Shang Qinghua quite likes Mu Qingfang. An Ding and Qian Cao have always had a close relationship as the healing peak and the peak that sources everything—including the most basic medical supplies. Their friendship is quiet and long-standing, spanning from the time they were both merely outer disciples.
"How long until he wakes up?" Shang Qinghua finally asks, breaking the comfortable silence between them. Mu Qingfang exhales a long breath through his nose.
"A shichen, maybe two," he replies. He strokes the stupid mustache Shang Qinghua is convinced he keeps just to annoy him. "Before the morning, surely, though he's welcome to stay through the night. I wasn't planning on sleeping anyway. Where did you find him, Qinghua?"
"I was trading in a village—the one with the music hall you like, with all the paintings and the good plum wine," Shang Qinghua starts.
Mu Qingfang nods, gesturing for Shang Qinghua to continue. Shang Qinghua feels his face harden as he recalls. "Anyway, I was in the market and this kid got caught stealing some steamed buns by some asshole. I got him away but he passed out pretty quick, so I brought him here. No family, I asked."
Mu Qingfang only nods again, thoughtfully silent. His hand hasn't left his stupid little mustache, exhaustion written in every line of him. "It's a cruel world for orphaned children," he signs, shaking his head sadly. "If only…"
He doesn't finish, but Shang Qinghua hears it all the same. If only we could do more. His chest burns with warring hate and love for this world he'd made—so many parts of it are beautiful, but it's built on an ugly, rotting core, hate like disease eating it from the inside out. It's what had made Luo Bingge, after all, and what would make him again.
But Shang Qinghua is only one man, and the Sect has other priorities. If he doesn't want to face the wrath of eleven angry peak lords, he's got a lot of shit to take care of. Sure, he delegates—he wouldn't be alive, let alone functional, if he didn't—but that still leaves so much for him to do.
Too much to go gallivanting around saving orphans and taking them to his shidi's house in the middle of the night, for sure.
But…maybe he can make an exception. Just once.
Of course, everything comes back to bite him eventually. He just hadn't expected it to be so soon.
He's sitting at Mu Qingfang's desk in the early hours of the morning. There's a mostly ignored stack of paperwork in front of him—fetched from his peak along with a clean set of robes—and he's waiting for the kid to wake up. He might be dozing a little—maybe more than a little—when it happens.
Shang Qinghua had kind of expected it—look, you don't live on the streets long enough to be in that kid's condition without hella trauma—like, just look at Shen Qingqiu, that guy's a prime example! So yeah, Shang Qinghua had expected the kid might have a hard time adjusting and feeling safe, but this—
"Where the hell am I?" The kid repeats in a tone far too adult to make sense coming from a skinny little kid. He hefts the heavy medicine bowl he's holding threateningly over Shang Qinghua's head, his hands pale and shaking against the stone. There's a thin crack in the side of the bowl and a matching sore spot on Shang Qinghua's skull. "Who the fuck are you? Demonic cultivator? A slaver? Tell me!"
"Ah, okay, let's put that down," Shang Qinghua yelps, throwing his hands up instinctively. "You're in Cang Qiong Mountain Sect and I'm Peak Lord Shang Qinghua. I found you getting in trouble—"
"Traitor," the boy snarls and brings the medicine bowl down on Shang Qinghua's head.
Crash!
The bowl shatters.
"Owww," Shang Qinghua whines quietly, rubbing the new sore spot on his forehead. Yeah, he's had worse, but that fucking hurt!
He has to rein in the sudden flare of temper, breathing deep as irrationally disproportionate anger thrums through him. This is a scared kid, he reminds himself, and heroically does not murder him immediately. Said kid has backed up to the far wall, scrambling through the contents of Mu Qingfang's bookshelf like he's looking for another potential projectile. The formerly neat piles of paper and books on the floor are scattered haphazardly.
Then it hits him (not literally, this time): the kid recognized him. Well, not him, per se, but his name. Which means—
"PIDW?" Shang Qinghua hazards hopefully. It's only his first guess, and he really hopes he's right because otherwise he's gonna have much bigger problems trying to find the mole in his network.
The boy's eyes snap to him, freezing where he's making Mu Qingfang's home even more of a mess. He drops his stack of papers and they scatter on the floor. One comes to rest against Shang Qinghua's foot. He nudges it away.
"Proud Immortal Demon Way," the boy replies testingly, like he's confirming it. Shang Qinghua nods.
"Yeah, I transmigrated in as a baby," Shang Qinghua says, leaning back. The medicine bowl is in pieces on the floor, but that doesn't reassure Shang Qinghua any. "What about you? Been here long?"
The boy's eyes narrow and damn Shang Qinghua really needs to get a name from him. He can't call him 'boy' and 'kid' forever!
"A while," the kid says, an uncertain frown pulling at his mouth. "A few years, I think. Not sure. Who are you?"
"Shang Qinghua," Shang Qinghua repeats on habit, processing the words. So he's only been around a pretty short time comparatively—but how much of that was spent on the streets?
"No, from before," the kid scowls. "Were you involved in the PIDW forums? Active in the comments? I might recognize you."
"Oh, you were a fan?" Shang Qinghua probes, trying to glean just a little more so he knows how much to say. He's never met another transmigrator, but even he would love to throttle the author of this world at times, so it's probably better to play it safe.
The kid's scowl deepens, a new fury burning in his eyes. "A fan? Of this dumpster fire wreck of a novel? Never."
Shang Qinghua blinks. "Um. Well, I didn't think it was that bad."
"You wouldn't," the boy mutters before launching into a comprehensive tear-down of everything wrong with Proud Immortal Demon Way.
It lasts quite a while.
Long while.
By the time the sun is casting the long shadows of afternoon, they're both at the desk, Shang Qinghua sitting behind it and the kid perched on the surface.
"—and then she forgets she has powers and gets her entire family killed! Are those the actions of a wise and experienced researcher who should logically have a lot of experience dealing with stressful situations? No! Absolutely not! And then—"
After a through review of the plot (and plot holes) and characters (everyone except Luo Binghe sucks) the kid finally seems to run out of steam, slumping over and falling silent.
Unfortunately, Shang Qinghua is pretty sure he knows who this is.
If this is an anti-fan—especially the anti-fan he's thinking of—his life is gonna be hell. He might as well just jump into the Abyss if his alternative is being verbally flayed by Peerless Cucumber every day!
After a moment to collect himself, the kid turns sharp eyes on Shang Qinghua. "You never answered," he accuses. "Who were you? Were you in the forums?"
"No, I'm no one special, surprised I'm even here," Shang Qinghua lies. The kid hasn't confirmed who he is yet—every one of Shang Qinghua's attempts to interrupt the PIDW ranting had gone thoroughly ignored—but Shang Qinghua has a sneaking suspicion he knows anyway. "What about you? What's your name, kid?"
"Kid?" The obviously adolescent child says furiously, glaring at Shang Qinghua. "I'm not a kid, I'm almost twenty-eight! And I'm Peerless Cucumber. Shen Yuan."
Fuckity fucking fuck. Of course. Fuck my stupid life.
Just his luck.