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Chapter Text

A thousand mountains and not a bird flying
ten thousand paths and not a single footprint
an old man in his raincoat in a solitary boat
fishes alone in the freezing river snow
— River Snow by Liu Tsung-yuan

(...)

Shen Qingqiu had never really thought very hard about the Mobei jun Situation™. 

In the abstract, sure. In the way one thinks about distant earthquakes or tax reform. Like, yeah it sucks, but not my problem lmao. 

Mobei Jun was Luo Bingge’s best friend — well. “Best friend” in the way Peak Lord Mu Qingfang would call a rabid wolf “somewhat spirited.” The closest thing Luo Bingge had to a peer. Tall, silent, perpetually glowering, radiating northern permafrost and unresolved familial hostility. His uncle hated him, he killed his own father. There had been betrayal and exile. A frozen throne build from blood. Something about bloodlines and demonic legitimacy, which was pretty nice to read about. Shen Qingqiu remembered reading at least three chapters of it clutching his pearls, really intrigued by the plot's twists.

There had been a whole northern political arc in Proud Immortal Demon Way.

A long one.

An excruciating one. Well, no, but yes. I mean, it was cool, but the papapa was a kinky long thing with temperature play that bored Shen Yuan so much he slept through it. 

It happened during the transitional phase of the novel; when it was no longer good, but not yet catastrophically bad. The sweet spot of mediocrity. The early wives still had personalities and motivations, some even had minor political intrigue. The harem hadn’t yet collapsed into a blur of interchangeable devotion and soft-focus sighing.

The North arc was one of those “look, I can write geopolitics” moments Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky went through before surrendering entirely to market demand. It was a novelty: Snow demon clans, succession disputes, tribal alliances, ritual duels under aurora-lit skies. Mobei Jun’s uncle positioning himself as regent. Luo Bingge swooping in to support his brooding ice-prince ally while accumulating both prestige and, inevitably, another wife.

The tenth wife, in fact.

Cao Feiyan (曹飞燕). Her name literally meant “Flying Swallow,” though “Feiyan” (飞燕) carried an allusion to Zhao Feiyan (赵飞燕), a famously beautiful consort of the Han dynasty known for her lightness and grace, said to be so slender she could dance upon a man’s palm. The name telegraphed everything: delicate, ethereal, politically useful.

In PIDW, Cao Feiyan was a northern demon noblewoman with ice-affinity cultivation. A minor but symbolically important clan whose loyalty tipped the balance during Mobei Jun’s succession struggle. She entered the narrative as a diplomatic hostage, then a reluctant ally, then became inevitably, irrevocably, Wife #10 after Luo Bingge saved her from an assassination attempt staged by Mobei Jun’s uncle.

At the time, she still had plot.

She negotiated and argued. She challenged Luo Bingge’s southern arrogance. There were banquets layered with frost-patterned silk. There were tense exchanges about demonic autonomy versus imperial consolidation. There was even a half-decent scene where she accused Luo Bingge of treating the North like a chessboard.

Shen Qingqiu remembered being faintly impressed.

(It didn’t last.)

By Wife #18, the northern politics were reduced to a footnote. By Wife #32, Mobei Jun’s throne was stable enough to function as background décor. Cao Feiyan’s personality dissolved into the soft, obedient glow of narrative gravity.

But at that stage, just before the plunge, there had been tension and stakes. The illusion that alliances meant something beyond romantic acquisition. Now, unfortunately, he lived in a world where those skimmed chapters had bones. And armies. And a very real northern ruler whose uncle still hated him.

The North had seemed far away.

It rarely stays that way. 

That was clear when Shang Qingqiu knocked on his door in the middle of the night. Shen Qingqiu did not know how the situation had gotten like this. One moment, the North had been a skimmable political inconvenience. The next, it was —

This.

“This,” in this case, being Mobei Jun. Smaller. Significantly smaller.

Shang Qinghua was pacing in front of him, cradling a baby in his arms with the air of a man who had personally offended the heavens and was waiting for the invoice. The baby in question had snow-white lashes. Pale blue eyes. A tiny, deeply offended frown. Icicles formed on the edge of Shang Qinghua’s sleeve every time the child sniffled.

Shen Qingqiu stared.

“…Explain,” he said at last.

Shang Qinghua swallowed.

“Cao Feiyan,” he began weakly, “was —” he coughed, correcting himself under Shen Qingqiu’s stare, “— is a sweet thing.” The baby in his arms let out a tiny, menacing huff of frost. “The sweetest little thing in the North!” Shang Qinghua insisted, face turning red. “You don’t understand, Shen-shixiong, she was written to be gentle! Soft-spoken! Tragic backstory! She used to nurse injured snow-beasts back to health! She — she braided feathers into talismans for good luck!”

Shen Qingqiu blinked.

“Was,” he repeated pointedly. Shang Qinghua deflated slightly. “She was the sweetest little thing in the North,” he amended miserably.

Cao Feiyan, a snow owl demon of the Cao clan. In PIDW, she had survived by attaching herself to stronger powers. Too weak to contend for the northern throne. Too gentle (supposedly) to survive the clan’s brutal succession rites.

She had wanted to be queen. But she could never be Mobei Jun. The North did not bend for little owls. So in the novel, she settled. Wife #10. A strategic alliance. A comfortable golden cage beneath the Demon Emperor’s banner.

Shen Qingqiu had assumed that was the end of her ambitions.

He had been, as usual, catastrophically wrong.

“Let this master understand,” Shen Qingqiu said slowly, fanning himself with deliberate calm. “You are telling me that a weak snow owl demon, who in your original draft could not win a succession duel, has somehow poisoned the current ruler of the North and reduced him to infancy.”

Shang Qinghua looked down at the baby. The baby glared back with ancient, murderous dignity. “…Technically, yes. It is kinda my fault, I guess. Possibly, I´m not sure.”

The temperature in the room dropped three degrees.

“How?” Shen Qingqiu asked.

Shang Qinghua hesitated.

Then, in a very small voice: “Well. She’s a liar.” Silence. “She always wanted the throne,” he rushed on. “Not the emperor’s court… the North. But she didn’t have the strength. Snow owl demons are reconnaissance types. Illusion affinity. Mimicry. Subtle toxins. Her clan, especially, had ties with a few merchant families. Of course, an owl demon can’t overpower ice tyrants head-on, but she can — um.”

“— poison them,” Shen Qingqiu finished flatly.

Shang Qinghua nodded miserably. “It wasn’t lethal,” he added quickly. “Just… regressive. A de-aging curse refined from northern glacial venom and dream-herb sap. Temporary! Probably! It destabilizes demonic qi and forces the body back to its earliest stable form. Which, unfortunately, for Mobei Jun, is —”

The baby sneezed. A thin sheet of ice spread across the floor. Shen Qingqiu closed his eyes.

“So,” he said evenly, “instead of challenging him, she removed him from the board.”

“She’s buying time!” Shang Qinghua squeaked. “If the ruler becomes a child, the elders must convene! The succession rites reopen! She might position herself as regent —”

“For the baby,” Shen Qingqiu said.

“Yes!”

They both looked at the baby. The baby’s expression was unmistakably murderous.

Shen Qingqiu exhaled slowly. “In PIDW,” he said, voice dangerously soft, “she settled for being the tenth wife.” Shang Qinghua nodded. “But here,” Shen Qingqiu continued, “without Luo Binghe’s imperial gravity pulling every ambitious woman into orbit and with me consolidating Mobei Jun´s political power… I mean, we are at an early stage. I think it might be my fault… I don't know, I really don´t know…”

Shen Qingqiu tapped his fan against his palm. “So let this peak lord summarize: a ‘sweet little sparrow’ poisoned the most powerful ice demon in the North, destabilized an entire political region, and is currently attempting a bloodless coup via magical infancy.”

“…When you put it like that —”

“I am putting it exactly like that.”

The baby Mobei Jun extended one tiny, frostbitten hand. A shard of ice formed midair. Shen Qingqiu raised a brow. “Yes, yes,” he sighed.

“Even de-aged, he is still terrifying."

"That is not the point.” The real question coiled beneath the absurdity: “Shang Qinghua,” he said coldly, “fix your plot.”

Shang Qinghua clutched the baby tighter. “I’m trying!” he wailed. The baby bared his gums, as if it was threatening. Outside, frost crept quietly along the windows.

Shen Qingqiu sighed and, with the air of a man accepting karmic retribution, held out his arms. “Give him here.”

Shang Qinghua hesitated. “Shen-shixiong, he just froze half the floor—”

“First,” Shen Qingqiu interrupted coolly, “you are holding him wrong.” He plucked the baby Mobei Jun from Shang Qinghua’s stiff, panicked grip with the effortless precision of someone who had, against all expectation, become distressingly competent at childcare. “Two,” he continued, adjusting the child so his head was properly supported, one hand steady at the back, the other firm beneath the small, ice-cold body, “you are radiating anxiety. Even demonic infants respond poorly to that.”

Mobei Jun blinked up at him. The murderous glare softened. The tiny body relaxed. A faint puff of frost escaped his mouth as he sighed and then, with grave inevitability, snuggled closer into Shen Qingqiu’s chest. The temperature in the room stabilized.

Shang Qinghua stared. “…He didn’t do that with me.”

“Of course not,” Shen Qingqiu said mildly. “You’re sweating.”

“I’m under a lot of pressure!”

The baby made a small, displeased sound at Shang Qinghua’s raised voice and burrowed further into Shen Qingqiu’s robes, fisting a handful of silk with surprising strength.

Shen Qingqiu adjusted him again, tucking the child securely into the crook of his arm. A faint circulation of spiritual energy hummed beneath his palm, controlled and cool. He let a thread of his own cultivation flow in a gentle, balancing current. It was not enough to provoke, but just enough to soothe.

Mobei Jun went still. Then he nuzzled. Shang Qinghua made a strangled noise. Shen Qingqiu ignored him.

“Now,” he said, voice crisp as winter air, “let us separate our strengths.” Shang Qinghua straightened instinctively. “You,” Shen Qingqiu continued, “are the original author. You know the elders and the factions. The weak points in Cao Feiyan’s support are like child's play for you. You are -- like -- their queen or something. You go to the North and handle the coup.”

“Me?!” Shang Qinghua squeaked.

“Yes, you,” Shen Qingqiu said without sympathy. “You wrote this mess. You may as well clean it up.”

Shang Qinghua opened and closed his mouth several times. Meanwhile, Mobei Jun had hooked his tiny fingers into Shen Qingqiu’s collar and was glaring at Shang Qinghua with unmistakable territorial hostility. Shen Qingqiu smoothed a hand over the baby’s soft white hair.

“As for me,” he went on serenely, “I will manage the domestic side of this disaster.”

Shang Qinghua stared at the picture before him: Qing Jing Peak’s elegant lord, robes immaculate, posture flawless… holding the de-aged tyrant of the North like an experienced mother hen.

“…You’re weirdly good at this,” Shang Qinghua muttered.

Shen Qingqiu gave him a cool look. “This master survived Luo Binghe’s childhood. Compared to that, this is merely advanced frost management.” The baby huffed softly, as if approving the comparison. “Cao Feiyan is buying time,” Shen Qingqiu continued. “If she seeks regency, she will need legitimacy. She cannot openly declare herself queen while the rightful ruler lives… no matter how small he currently is.” He glanced down. Mobei Jun stared back with ancient, frosty dignity compressed into infant proportions. “Yes,” Shen Qingqiu said quietly, almost cooing. “You are very fearsome.”

The baby blinked slowly.

Shang Qinghua swallowed. “And if she tries to eliminate him while he’s like this?”

“Don´t worry, I will hide him.” Shen Qingqiu’s smile sharpened. “But, if she tries, she will discover that kidnapping a demon lord is far more difficult than poisoning one.” 

A faint ripple of killing intent brushed the air. Even as a baby, Mobei Jun responded. A thin layer of frost formed along Shen Qingqiu’s sleeve, but it did not bite him. It curled there obediently. Shang Qinghua looked between them and shivered.

“…You two are getting along way too well.”

“It is because I´m made of ice.” Shen Qingqiu adjusted the baby one last time and began pacing lightly, robes whispering over the floor. “Go,” he said calmly. “Stall the elders, undermine her narrative, spread doubt or whatever you do best. Remind them that snow owl demons are known for mimicry and deception.”

“That’s speciesist—”

“It is politically effective.”

Shang Qinghua groaned. At the doorway, he hesitated. “Shen-shixiong… if she succeeds—”

“She won’t,” Shen Qingqiu said. Mobei Jun’s tiny hand tightened in his robes. The air cooled another degree again. Shen Qingqiu looked down at the child in his arms. “Rest —,” he murmured softly. “— and grow quickly. There is a throne waiting for you.”

The baby’s eyes fluttered once. Then closed. 

The door slid shut behind Shang Qinghua with a soft thud.

Silence settled over Qing Jing Peak. For a moment, nothing happened.

Then —

Sniff. A small, sharp intake of breath. Sniff. Sniff. Shen Qingqiu looked down. Mobei Jun’s tiny brows were drawn together. His lashes trembled. His small hands flexed uncertainly in Shen Qingqiu’s collar.

The air grew even colder. Frost gathered in fragile veins along the edge of the window lattice. He was stressed. Of course he was stressed. De-aged, displaced, separated from his territory, stripped of control. No matter how powerful the soul inside, the body was still that of a child.

Another sniff. This one wobblier.

Shen Qingqiu exhaled softly.

“Well,” he murmured to the empty room, “at least no one is here to witness this peak lord’s dignity being compromised.”

He shifted the baby higher against his chest, supporting him with one arm while the other hand smoothed gently over the soft down of white hair. The tiny mouth trembled. Before that tremble could escalate into something catastrophic, like an ice storm, Shen Qingqiu lowered his head.

He pressed his lips lightly against the baby’s round, chilled cheek. A small, warm kiss. The frost at the windows paused. Mobei Jun blinked. Shen Qingqiu, now fully committed to the humiliation, gave him another soft kiss. And another.

“Oh?” he cooed under his breath, voice stripped of its usual cool hauteur. “Why does little Mobei sniff like that? Is he hungry? Is he uncomfortable? Has someone been very mean to him?” The baby’s fingers tightened again in his robes. A faint, distressed sound escaped him. Shen Qingqiu brushed his thumb gently beneath one pale eye. “Don’t cry, don’t cry,” he murmured, swaying slightly on instinct. “Such a brave baby. The bravest in the North. No one is allowed to bully you while you’re this small, hm?”

He pressed another kiss to the plump curve of baby fat. The chill around them eased, even if it was gradually. The frost receded from the floorboards, melting into harmless dew. Mobei Jun let out one last shuddering sniff. Then, very slowly, his forehead tipped forward until it rested against Shen Qingqiu’s collarbone.

The tension in his tiny body unwound.

Shen Qingqiu continued the gentle sway, one hand rubbing small circles along the baby’s back, careful of the delicate fluctuations of demonic qi beneath the surface.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “No need to freeze the mountain. This master is perfectly capable of spoiling one overthrown tyrant.” A faint puff of cold air brushed his throat, no longer sharp. The small hands loosened. The murderous dignity compressed into infant form softened into something far more vulnerable. Shen Qingqiu allowed himself one more kiss, lingering just a heartbeat longer against the cool softness of that cheek. “Rest,” he whispered. “You may conquer your enemies later.”

The baby made a tiny, almost indignant sound at that, but did not pull away.

Shen Qingqiu moved with quiet efficiency. If he was going to be responsible for a de-aged northern tyrant, then he would do it properly.

He carried Mobei Jun into his bedroom, sleeves gathered carefully so as not to expose the baby to unnecessary drafts. The room was warmer than the main hall, but even so, frost clung faintly to the carved bedposts where demonic qi leaked in soft pulses.

“Unacceptable,” Shen Qingqiu muttered.

He set to work immediately. Thick blankets were arranged in a careful perimeter around the bed. If the baby rolled, wriggled, or attempted an early conquest of the mattress edge, he would land on cushioning instead of hardwood.

Satisfied, Shen Qingqiu turned to the bed itself.

He pulled additional quilts from the chest, layering them not in a flat stack, but in a curved hollow at the center; building up the edges, leaving a soft depression in the middle.

A nest, basically. Warm silk beneath and cotton padding at the sides. An outer layer to block drafts. He even tucked in two smaller rolled cloths as barriers so the baby wouldn’t shift too far in his sleep.

Finally, he lowered Mobei Jun into the center of the carefully constructed nest. For a moment, the baby lay there, pale lashes fluttering. Blue eyes blinked up at the canopy overhead. Shen Qingqiu adjusted the quilt around his small shoulders.

“There,” he said quietly. “A temporary northern stronghold.”

The baby stared at him. Shen Qingqiu allowed himself a small nod and turned toward the wardrobe. He would need soft  cloths  for makeshift diapers. Demonic infants were still infants. Even tyrants could not bypass biology.

He stepped behind the screen to retrieve appropriate linen.

And in that brief instant, a sharp, wounded wail.

Shen Qingqiu froze. The cry was not loud in volume, but it was sharp in impact. The air temperature plummeted instantly. Frost exploded outward from the bed in a crystalline ring. The canopy curtains stiffened with ice.

Another cry. This one was trembling. Shen Qingqiu reemerged immediately. Mobei Jun’s tiny face was scrunched red with distress. His small hands were reaching outward blindly, fingers flexing as if grasping for something no longer there.

The moment Shen Qingqiu stepped back into view, the baby’s crying hitched, but did not stop. 

He understood. Ah. Of course.

Shen Qingqiu crossed the room in three swift steps and leaned over the bed.

“I was gone for one breath,” he said gently.

The baby’s eyes were bright with unshed tears, furious and frightened all at once. Frost had crept halfway across the mattress. Shen Qingqiu slid a hand beneath his back and lifted him smoothly. The crying softened instantly into broken little hiccups.

“I see,” Shen Qingqiu murmured, settling back onto the edge of the bed. “Little Mobei does not approve of abandonment.” A tiny hand latched into his sleeve with desperate strength. Shen Qingqiu’s expression softened despite himself. “This master merely went behind a screen,” he said mildly. “You would not survive a true northern winter with such dramatics.” The baby pressed closer, burying his face against Shen Qingqiu’s chest. The frost retreated. Shen Qingqiu exhaled slowly. “So that is how it is,” he said. “Very well.”

He adjusted the baby onto one arm and, with the other, reached blindly toward the wardrobe to retrieve cloth. It was inconvenient, yes. But the moment he shifted as if to put Mobei Jun down again, the small body tensed in warning.

“…We will be doing this together, then,” Shen Qingqiu concluded. The baby sniffled once. No further protest. Shen Qingqiu allowed himself the faintest, resigned smile. “Clingy,” he murmured. “How troublesome for the ruler of the North.” But he did not attempt to set him down again.

Resigned to his fate, Shen Qingqiu adjusted the baby securely on his hip.

Mobei Jun was cold, yes, but compact. Manageable, or so he hoped. His small hands were still twisted tightly into Shen Qingqiu’s outer robe, as though any further disappearance might trigger another localized blizzard.

“Very well,” Shen Qingqiu said loftily. “If Your Northern Majesty insists on supervision.”

He moved about the room with careful balance, one arm supporting the baby while the other gathered soft linen cloths, folding them with crisp precision. His movements were practiced, disturbingly so.

Mobei Jun watched everything with grave intensity.

Shen Qingqiu glanced down at him. “What?” he said mildly. “You think I do not know how to handle overly dramatic demonic offspring?” A tiny frown. Shen Qingqiu sniffed. “This master once knew another demon,” he began, tone sliding into dry reminiscence, “— half, admittedly, but that half was more than sufficient… who was equally theatrical.”

He tucked one cloth into place, tested the fold, adjusted it again. “So clingy,” he continued. “So weepy. If this master left the room, there would be storms. Emotional storms, in fact. Spiritual storms, maybe. Possibly actual storms.”

Mobei Jun blinked slowly. Shen Qingqiu shifted him higher on his hip. “And the tears,” he went on. “One would think the heavens themselves had wronged him. Eyes red, voice trembling. ‘Shizun, why are you leaving? Shizun, do you not want me?’”

He pitched his voice into a faint, exaggerated imitation. The baby’s grip tightened. Shen Qingqiu huffed. “Yes, yes. Just like that.” He finished folding the last cloth and set it neatly on the bedside table. “A white lotus,” he declared, glancing down. “Exactly like you.”

Mobei Jun stared at him. The title clearly did not align with his internal sense of tyrannical dignity. Shen Qingqiu raised a brow. “Do not look at me like that. With your big eyes, easily aggrieved. Clutching my robes as though the world ends if I move two steps away.”

He poked gently at the baby’s soft cheek. “White lotus behavior.” A faint puff of frost brushed his wrist in protest. Shen Qingqiu laughed under his breath. “Mm. Even the temperament matches. Quiet on the outside. Extremely vindictive on the inside.”

Mobei Jun made a small sound and leaned forward until his forehead pressed lightly against Shen Qingqiu’s collarbone again. Ah. There it was. The dramatic cling. Shen Qingqiu sighed, but there was no real irritation in it.

“You demons are all the same,” he murmured. “Acting aloof.. Freezing entire territories. And yet the moment you are small enough to be honest —” He adjusted the baby’s position again, one hand smoothing over soft white hair. “— you refuse to be put down.”

The frost in the room had completely withdrawn now, leaving only a gentle coolness. The earlier sharp distress was gone. Mobei Jun’s breathing evened out. Still holding him, Shen Qingqiu sat carefully on the edge of the bed.

“If anyone ever learns that the fearsome ruler of the North once cried because I stepped behind a screen,” he said quietly, “this master will deny everything.” The baby made a faint, sleepy huff. Shen Qingqiu allowed himself a small, private smile. “Yes,” he added softly. “White lotus indeed.”

Surrounded by the faint scent of bamboo, ink, and clean silk, the baby finally slept.

Mobei Jun’s tiny fist was still tangled in the front of Shen Qingqiu’s robe, but his breathing had gone soft and even. The tension in his small body dissolved completely, frost receding until only a pleasant coolness lingered in the room.

Shen Qingqiu carefully, carefully extricated himself.  It required strategy. One finger at a time, easing the grip loose. A folded strip of silk tucked gently into the baby’s palm as substitute. A slow shift of weight so the mattress would not dip too abruptly.

He paused after every movement. The baby stirred once, brows knitting. Shen Qingqiu rested a hand lightly over his chest, circulating the faintest thread of calming spiritual energy. The tiny frown smoothed.

Only then did Shen Qingqiu straighten. He stepped out of the bedroom as if navigating a battlefield. Once the door was softly closed, he allowed himself a long breath.

“…Troublesome,” he murmured.

Then he went to his study and rang the small bronze bell. 

Qing Jing Peak had a rotation system. The older disciples took night rounds, and it was less likely to panic at unusual requests. Shen Qingqiu trusted them not to ask unnecessary questions.

A knock came promptly.

“Enter.”

The door slid open to reveal one of his senior disciples. A girl with brown hair pulled neatly back, warm brown eyes, and an easy, steady smile. A reliable and unflappable beta.

She bowed deeply. “Shizun.”

“Good evening,” Shen Qingqiu replied, and only then realized how suddenly tired he felt. His sleeves were still faintly chilled from prolonged contact with demonic ice qi. His spiritual energy had been running a subtle, constant countercurrent for hours. He blinked slowly. “Could you please go to Qian Cao Peak,” he said, voice even, “and request white warm lily valley roots.”

He delivered the name with deliberate casualness.

It was an obscure plant. It was a rare, half-forgotten bitter thing, known only in fragmentary medicinal texts. No one fully understood its hidden properties. And if Shen Qingqiu had anything to say about it, no one would. They had more ways to make milk, but that was discrete enough to not arouse suspicion. Therefore, the disciple did not question him.

She simply nodded. “Yes, Shizun.”

The door closed again. Shen Qingqiu leaned back slightly in his chair. The plan was simple. Feed the baby. A child that small, however old the soul inside, would require simple things. Basic biological needs did not bend for tyrants. Babies were simple creatures. Warmth. Food. Clean clothes. Steady presence. (Love.) He exhaled slowly.

Much like kittens and puppies, one might say.

…Well. Not exactly.

Mobei Jun, even in infancy, had already demonstrated a capacity for targeted frost aggression.

Still.

Shen Qingqiu’s gaze drifted toward the closed bedroom door.

He had held babies before.

His nieces and nephews. They were soft, round, grabby little things. In another life, Shen Yuan had stayed at his siblings’ houses so the exhausted parents could go out for a night and pretend they were still young. He remembered pacing living rooms at two in the morning. Heating bottles. Rocking tiny bodies that smelled faintly of milk and laundry detergent.

He had not been particularly sentimental about it.

But he had been competent. Babies were not mysteries. They were small, loud organisms with predictable needs. He rubbed his temple lightly.

“I do not know how old you are,” he muttered under his breath, thinking of the white-haired infant currently occupying his bed. “Three months? Six? Demonic physiology is wildly inconvenient.”

A faint, distant crackle of frost echoed from the bedroom, yet he was still asleep.

Good.

Shen Qingqiu folded his hands neatly in front of him and waited for the lily roots. Warmth. Food. Cleanliness. Stability. He could provide those.

The North could burn politically for a few days without its ruler. For now, the ruler was the size of a particularly temperamental kitten. And Shen Qingqiu, whether he liked it or not, had taken responsibility.

The girl returned swiftly.

A soft knock. The slide of wood against wood. She stepped inside, placed the wrapped bundle of roots on his desk with both hands, and bowed. “Shizun.”

“Mm.” Shen Qingqiu inclined his head. “You may rest.”

She withdrew without question. When the door closed, Shen Qingqiu unwrapped the bundle. White warm lily valley roots. They were pale and knotted. Unremarkable enough to the untrained eye if you were simply passing a forest. Bitter enough to make most cultivators wrinkle their noses and dismiss them as medicinal filler.

He sat.

The grinding stone was cool beneath his hand. He worked steadily, crushing the fibrous root into paste. The scent that rose was sharp at first (green and acrid) then slowly mellowed into something warmer once hot water met the pulp. Steam curled upward.

Like it or not, Shen Qingqiu was an omega. A secret omega. The irony was not lost on him. In a world where secondary genders shaped politics, alliances, inheritance, he had navigated everything with careful control. Suppressants were a god sent. Discipline was the rule.

Nobody knew.

Or at least, nobody spoke of knowing.

Yue Qingyuan sometimes let a pause linger too long in conversation. Sometimes his gaze softened with something dangerously perceptive. Once or twice when his heat session started, a sentence had begun — “Xiao Jiu, is it time…” — and Shen Qingqiu had cut it cleanly off, redirecting with such precision that the topic dissolved before it could fully form. 

Mu Qingfang might suspect. He was observant enough. But no one had ever forced the matter. And Shen Qingqiu had never tested how far their silence went. 

The tea darkened as it steeped. In PIDW, this root had been a throwaway line. Some healer, somewhere, during a shallow harem dispute: “Ah, if only we had white warm lily valley root, the lady’s milk would return.”

Empty dialogue for some NPC. Decorative medicine, since children were not the point. Pregnancy in fantasy was merely aesthetic. Decorative fragility to make it real enough. Eroticized vulnerability, because, you know, it is a stallion novel. Everything was for the audience. 

(Not that this isn't for the audience as well; Shen Qingqiu knew that.)

Swollen ankles? Exhaustion? Difficulty nursing? Crying infants at three in the morning? Not marketable. Not sexy enough for the male gaze. So this plant had remained obscure and unstudied. Conveniently unavailable for the ladies that needed it.

Until now.

Of course, there were other ones, more popular and such. But, he needed discretion.   Shen Qingqiu watched the steam curl and thin. At this point in the timeline, the milk-inducing properties of the root had not yet been formally recorded. He would be the first to test it. His fingers tightened slightly around the cup. 

This would complicate things, be it physiologically and politically. Personally, even more. An omega producing milk — without a mate, without public acknowledgment — was not a small matter. Even suppressed, even hidden, his body would respond.

It would change his scent, his heat cycles, his careful equilibrium; a soft, restless whimper.

Shen Qingqiu’s breath stilled.

The scent of the tea reached him. It was warm, faintly sweet beneath the bitterness. And beneath that, it came a faint salted and cold. The memory of tears.

He closed his eyes briefly.

“Troublesome,” he murmured. He had planned to feed the baby with prepared milk, diluted properly, neutral and practical. (That would have been safer.) Yes, it would be kind of detached, but it would be sensible.

Another faint sound from the bedroom.

Shen Qingqiu opened his eyes.

“…Fuck it.” He lifted the cup and drank.

The bitterness hit first. It slid down his throat, like heavy and herbal punishment. Warmth spread through his chest, slow but undeniable, settling deep in his abdomen like a stone dropped into still water.

He lowered the empty cup.

There was no dramatic flash of light, of course, but it felt like it.  There was a quiet heat, low in his chest. 

Shen Qingqiu exhaled slowly.

“Well,” he said to the empty study, voice calm as ever, “what is one more deviation from the plot and dignity. OOC, my ass.”

He rose. In the bedroom, winter shifted softly against the windows. And the ruler of the North stirred.

Of course it had been reckless. Of course it had been impulsive.

Shen Qingqiu only fully understood the weight of what he had done much later, when the mountain was quiet, when the disciples were asleep, when the lantern beside his bed burned low and gold.

He sat against the carved headboard, robes loosened just enough to hold the baby comfortably against his chest.

Mobei Jun had woken hungry. There had been no turning back. Now the child slept again, small and warm against him, one hand curled loosely in the fabric over Shen Qingqiu’s heart.

The room was dim.

Still.

Shen Qingqiu closed his eyes and to his own quiet horror, tears slipped out as he felt the cold breath against his naked chest.

He did not even understand why. They fell silently, sliding down his temples into his hair. He was not in pain. Not physically. The tea had done what it was meant to do. His body had responded with obedient inevitability. The baby had fed, calmed, drifted into sleep with soft little breaths ghosting against his skin.

It should have been simple.

Warmth. Food. Cleanliness. Stability.

That was all.

So why… His throat tightened. He pressed his lips together and breathed slowly through his nose, but the tears continued anyway, unbidden. He wanted —

The thought came sharp and sudden.

He wanted to go to the sword mound. To kneel in the snow. To let the cold bite into his bones until the confusion inside him crystallized into something clean and sharp and survivable.

The sword mound was honest. It did not ask for softness. It did not need him in this way. Up there, the wind howled and blade sang and everything was simple: strength or fracture. Endure or break.

Here —

A tiny sigh escaped the baby. Mobei Jun shifted, pressing closer, seeking warmth even in sleep. His small fingers tightened reflexively. Shen Qingqiu’s hand came up automatically to cradle the back of the child’s head.

The movement was instinctive. That was what frightened him. He had chosen this without calculation. Without contingency planning. He had altered his body, his carefully balanced secrecy, for a crying infant who was not even his responsibility in the original narrative.

For a tyrant who would one day tower over battlefields and freeze armies where they stood.

Another tear slid down.

“…Ridiculous,” he whispered hoarsely.

The baby stirred faintly at the vibration of his voice.

Shen Qingqiu swallowed and steadied his breathing. The sword mound would still be there tomorrow. The snow would not vanish.

But this… this small, fragile, temporary thing in his arms… would not remain. Mobei Jun would grow. His qi would stabilize. His body would reclaim its true shape. And this strange, quiet dependency would disappear as if it had never existed.

Shen Qingqiu lowered his head slightly, resting his cheek against soft white hair.

He could leave. He could place the baby back in the nest of blankets and walk into the night. No one would stop him. He could take the mushroom body and never come back. But the child needed him. Now. That was the simple truth of it. So Shen Qingqiu stayed.

He let the tears dry on his skin. He kept one hand steady at the baby’s back.

By morning, Shen Qingqiu had not slept, but Mobei Jun had. The injustice of that did not escape him.

After ensuring the baby was fed, clean, scented and temporarily content in a carefully reinforced nest, this time warded with a light stabilizing array beneath the mattress, Shen Qingqiu retreated to his private library. If the North was already destabilizing, the last thing he needed was demonic heritage leaking across Qing Jing Peak like a proclamation.

He poured his will into research; scroll after scroll, volume after volume. He found out that demon seals were plentiful in cultivation literature. Unfortunately, most were written by people who hated demons. Chains of spiritual suppression. Bone-etching restraints. Soul-binding contracts designed to fracture willpower. Torture masquerading as scholarship. Even the so-called “gentler” methods involved long-term qi starvation and structural damage to the meridians.

Shen Qingqiu’s jaw tightened.

“No one,” he muttered, turning another brittle page, “has ever considered concealment without cruelty.”

The morning stretched long and thin. Light shifted across the floorboards. Ink stained his fingers. He was nearly at the final shelf — the one reserved for obscure, half-dismissed, borderline heretical texts — when he found it.

A yellowed poorly bound book. It was very unimpressive. The title was almost laughable. A Chronicle of Two Against Heaven. He nearly put it back. But fatigue makes one permissive.

He opened it.

It was, at first glance, rambling nonsense. A wandering cultivator’s account of an alpha and an omega who conceived a child marked by divine omen and hunted by a god who claimed ownership over the child’s fate. Much of it read like romanticized defiance.

But buried in the middle —

There… it was not a suppression seal. A veil.

The method described was subtle: instead of blocking demonic qi, it redirected its signature. Twining it through the cultivator’s own spiritual frequency until it read as human. Simply… braided as a flower crown. Yes, it was temporary and fragile, dependent on proximity and consent.

It had been used, according to the rambling author, to hide a child from divine perception. If it could confuse a god… It might confuse everyone.

Shen Qingqiu read the passage three times. Then he closed the book. “…It will have to do.” He returned to his bedroom. Mobei Jun was awake, staring solemnly at the canopy as if contemplating territorial expansion with a frown. He kicked his legs and tried to eat his fist. When Shen Qingqiu approached, the baby’s gaze shifted immediately to him. He made a content noise. 

Shen Qingqiu sat beside the bed. “This will not hurt,” he said quietly. “If it does, I will stop.” The baby blinked.

A small hand lifted. Shen Qingqiu took it.

The seal required three components: A stabilizing outer circle drawn in diluted spiritual ink. A secondary thread woven directly from the caster’s meridians. Physical contact at the heart point.

He prepared the ink first; ground talisman ash mixed with water and a drop of his own blood. On the inside of the bed curtains, hidden from casual sight, he painted a fine circular array, no larger than a dinner plate. The lines were delicate, curved rather than angular. Designed to diffuse, not trap.

Then he returned to the bed. He loosened his robes slightly, placing one palm over his own sternum. The other he placed gently over the baby’s cold chest. Mobei Jun watched him with unblinking blue eyes.

“Listen carefully,” Shen Qingqiu murmured. “Do not resist.”

He drew in a slow breath. Then he reached inward to the steady current beneath it. The rhythm that had soothed a crying infant. The warmth that had countered frost.

He pulled a thread of that energy free.

It hurt, like drawing silk from living flesh. A fine, bright filament of his own qi, tinged faintly with omega scent and bamboo clarity. Carefully he guided it outward. When it touched Mobei Jun’s demonic core, the reaction was immediate, frost flared.

The baby stiffened.

Shen Qingqiu did not pull back. Instead, he softened the thread, letting it curve rather than pierce. “Not a chain,” he whispered. “A braid.”

Slowly, he wove. Around the cold core. Through the edges of demonic qi. Twining his frequency with the baby’s, just overlaying.

Human over demon. Warm over cold.

The array on the curtains glowed faintly. The baby’s frost surged once more, then stilled. The air in the room shifted. The sharp metallic edge of demonic aura dulled.

What remained felt… muted and indistinct. Human enough to pass a casual inspection.

Shen Qingqiu exhaled shakily and sealed the weave with a final press of his palm. 

The glow faded.

Silence.

Mobei Jun blinked. He did not cry or show visible distress. Instead, the baby reached up and caught a loose strand of Shen Qingqiu’s hair and pulled hard.

Shen Qingqiu huffed softly.

“Yes, yes. Very intimidating.”

He checked the flow carefully.

The seal was not permanent. It required proximity. His presence would maintain the braid. If he withdrew too far for too long, the demonic signature would gradually resurface.

But for now… The North’s ruler felt like nothing more than a spiritually unusual human infant.

Shen Qingqiu leaned back slightly. Exhaustion washed over him in a heavy wave. He had altered his body, braided his qi, shifted the narrative again.

All before noon.

The baby made a soft, satisfied sound. Shen Qingqiu closed his eyes briefly. “…Hidden from a god,” he murmured. Hiding him from a mountain full of cultivators would have to suffice.

In daylight, Mobei Jun looked less like a tyrant and more like something stolen from a winter folktale. His eyes were an unusual blue, soft as a snow flake. They were clear and almost luminous. His hair, now fully dark rather than snow-white, lay in soft wisps against his round face. Thin lips. Small nose. And those eyes…

Long-lashed. Slightly tilted. Almost like a snow fox, huli jing caught mid-curiosity. The resemblance struck Shen Qingqiu unexpectedly. Fox-like eyes. Not unlike his own.

“…Troubling,” he murmured.

He fed the baby again, more smoothly this time. Mobei Jun latched with far less frantic urgency, hands resting more confidently against Shen Qingqiu’s chest. Now, there was no frost spikes or panicked surges of demonic qi. 

The seal held the snow storm. The braid of energy hummed faintly beneath his skin.

When the baby finished, he did not pull away immediately. He simply rested there, blue eyes half-lidded, small body warm and heavy with contentment. Humming, the baby nuzzled his skin.

Shen Qingqiu had intended to return to the library. Or to meditate. Or go to the sword mound and think.

Instead, exhaustion descended all at once. He shifted carefully onto his back, adjusting the pillows. Then, without much ceremony, he placed the baby on his stomach. The small body sprawled across him, cheek resting just below his ribs.

Mobei Jun made a faint sound of approval. One tiny hand splayed against Shen Qingqiu’s chest, as if confirming proximity. Shen Qingqiu laid one arm loosely around him in instinctive containment.

“If you fall,” he murmured drowsily, “this peak lord will not be responsible.”

The baby’s fingers curled into his night robes.

Shen Qingqiu closed his eyes.

The room was quiet.

The seal softened the edge of demonic aura into something indistinct. The air was cool but not biting. Mobei Jun’s breathing evened out first, steady against Shen Qingqiu’s abdomen.

Shen Qingqiu followed not long after. They slept through the day.

They fell into rhythm without meaning to: Sleep. Feed the baby. Clean the mess. Sleep again. Feed the baby.

Time blurred.

Shen Qingqiu stopped counting the hours sometime after the second night. Or perhaps the third. It might have been the fourth. Days dissolved into a cycle measured only by the weight of a small body in his arms and the faint ache beneath his ribs when the baby grew hungry again.

Mobei Jun was not a quiet sleeper.

Sometimes he woke in the middle of the night with sharp, indignant little sounds demanding attention with the same absolute authority he would one day use to command armies. Other times he simply stared at Shen Qingqiu in the dark, wide blue eyes unblinking, as if evaluating his regent.

When the room grew too confining, the baby would grow restless. That was when Shen Qingqiu would rise. He would wrap the child securely against his chest and walk the length of the bamboo house.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

The floorboards traced a straight path from door to window, like a slot-car track worn smooth by repetition. Shen Qingqiu paced it in silence at first.

Then, against all remaining dignity, he began to make soft cooing sounds. “Hm… hm… there now… steady…”

The bamboo walls hummed faintly in response. The mountain wind slipped through the chimes outside. Mobei Jun would listen, eyes half-lidded.

Sometimes a tiny hand would fist into Shen Qingqiu’s robe. Sometimes he would press his face into Shen Qingqiu’s shoulder and breathe in deeply, as if anchoring himself. 

Some time, after day two, his suppressants started to malfunction. His own smell of milk, green tea and honey dripped into the warded house. Fresh, clean and dangerously delicious. 

The seal held, of course. The braid of qi adjusted with every feeding, every shared sleep.

By the fourth day (or, so he thought. Shen Qingqiu was fairly certain it was the fourth) the world outside Qing Jing Peak began to feel distant. Abstract. Almost theoretical.

Then —

A knock. It was not the hesitant tap of a disciple on rounds or the hurried knock of Shang Qinghua in distress. Shen Qingqiu stopped mid-step. Mobei Jun, cradled against him, lifted his head. The baby went still. Another polite knock.

Shen Qingqiu’s expression cooled instantly.

He adjusted the baby higher against his chest, sleeve falling just enough to obscure the small face from direct view. A thin thread of spiritual energy slid into place around them, reinforcing the concealment seal.

“Enter,” he said evenly. The word carried just enough authority to slice through bamboo and bone.

The door slid open. Light from the afternoon filtered in, catching on drifting dust motes.

“Shen shixiong.” Mu Qingfang’s voice carried the same steady gentleness it always did. The measured, warm voice, threaded with quiet authority. It was the tone of a healer accustomed to walking into disaster without flinching. “This master knows you are tired and need some time to… rest,” he continued, stepping fully into the doorway. His gaze was already assessing skin tone, posture, breathing. “But you need to see Without-a-Cure’s treatment and —”

He stopped. There was a pause. A very precise pause.

“…Well,” Mu Qingfang finished carefully, eyes lowering to Shen Qingqiu’s chest. “That´s a baby.”

Congratulations, Mu shidi, you have eyes. Have you learned that in medical school?

Silence settled between them.

Shen Qingqiu did not move. Mobei Jun, who had been calm moments ago, shifted faintly under the scrutiny. A tiny hand tightened in Shen Qingqiu’s robe. The concealment braid held. The demonic signature remained muted, blurred into something human and indistinct.

Mu Qingfang blinked once. Then again. “Why,” he asked with admirable composure, “are you holding a baby?”

Shen Qingqiu adjusted his sleeve slightly higher over the child’s head. “This master —,” he said smoothly, “— is temporarily in possession of one.”

Mu Qingfang stared. “Temporarily.”

“Yes.”

The healer’s eyes narrowed just a fraction. “Shixiong,” he said gently, “babies are not spirit beasts one ‘temporarily possesses.’” Mobei Jun made a soft, warning huff. A faint ripple of cold brushed the air. Mu Qingfang’s gaze sharpened instantly. “…The room is unusually cool,” he observed.

“It is winter,” Shen Qingqiu replied without missing a beat.

Mu Qingfang did not look convinced. He stepped closer. Shen Qingqiu resisted the instinct to retreat. Up close, there was no hiding the details. The faint shadows beneath his eyes. The subtle shift in his scent (still carefully suppressed, but altered and a bit stronger than normal). The quiet protectiveness in the way his arm curved around the child.

Another small sound from the baby. Mu Qingfang’s expression did not change. But he noticed. Of course he noticed. He noticed the temperature shift. He noticed the way Shen Qingqiu held the child. He noticed the faint shadows under Shen Qingqiu’s eyes.

And something else.

A subtle change, a shift in equilibrium. A softness where there was usually only blade. Mu Qingfang’s gaze lingered a second too long on Shen Qingqiu’s face. Something is wrong, that look said. Shen Qingqiu met it coolly. Neither spoke. The baby made a small sound and tucked his face into Shen Qingqiu’s chest, fingers tightening in silk.

Mu Qingfang’s eyes softened almost imperceptibly. He could have asked. He could have pressed. Instead, he exhaled. It was a long, quiet sigh; the kind one gives when confronted with an unruly disciple who has clearly done something reckless and refuses to admit it.

“…Shen shixiong,” he said mildly, “you look exhausted.”

“I am not.”

Mu Qingfang gave him a look. It was fondly disbelieving, like he had heard that answer before. “Without-a-Cure can wait until tomorrow,” Mu Qingfang said after a moment. “I will adjust the prescription for the...”

Shen Qingqiu did not react, but relief flickered somewhere beneath his composed exterior.

Mu Qingfang’s gaze dropped once more to the baby. He did not comment on the way the child’s qi felt… layered. He simply inclined his head. “Rest,” he said gently. “You are no use to anyone if you collapse.” There was weight beneath the words carefully placed.

“This master does not collapse.”

Mu Qingfang’s lips curved faintly. “Yes,” he said, as if humoring him. “Of course not.” Another small sigh. “This Qingfang will take some things to examine the baby.”

Then he stepped back toward the door. 

At the threshold, he paused and looked over his shoulder. The look said: You have done something impulsive, you are hiding something and I am choosing not to force it. He did not speak any of that aloud.

Instead, he said only, “Wait for me a bit, please.”

The door slid shut. The room felt very quiet afterward. Shen Qingqiu stood there for a long moment, jaw tight. Mobei Jun shifted and made a small, demanding sound. Shen Qingqiu looked down at him.

“…You see?” he muttered softly. “Even Mu Qingfang thinks I lack discipline.”

The baby blinked up at him, utterly unimpressed. Shen Qingqiu adjusted his hold and turned back toward the bedroom. Behind him, the bamboo house held its silence, mercifully free of questions.

That did not last.

Some time later — minutes? an hour? time had become unreliable — there was another knock. A familiar one.

Shen Qingqiu closed his eyes briefly.

“…Enter.”

The door slid open.

Yue Qingyuan stood there. His eyes were wide, something with concern and urgency. That open, unguarded earnestness that had always been Shen Qingqiu’s weakness. “Xiao Jiu,” Yue Qingyuan said softly, stepping inside. “Mu-shidi told me you had news.”

Shen Qingqiu smiled thinly. Fuck you, Mu Qingfang, he thought with crystalline clarity. Outwardly, he inclined his head. “Zhangmen-shixiong.” Was this revenge? Was Mu Qingfang a sadist? 

Yue Qingyuan’s gaze had already dropped. He saw the baby and did not hide his surprise. “…Oh.” A pause. The desperation in his expression did not fade, but it shifted to something closer to tears. “You have… a child,” Yue Qingyuan said carefully.

“This master,” Shen Qingqiu replied evenly the second time this evening, “is temporarily caring for one.”

Mobei Jun chose that moment to peer at Yue Qingyuan with bright, fox-like blue eyes. The air cooled faintly.

Yue Qingyuan noticed. Of course he noticed. He always noticed. His gaze sharpened for half a second, just long enough to register that something about the child was… unusual. Then he looked back at Shen Qingqiu. And what he saw there must have overridden everything else. Maybe it was the faint pallor or the exhaustion carefully masked.

(How long has he been sleeping poorly? Since the Conference?)

Yue Qingyuan’s hands tightened at his sides.

“Xiao Jiu,” he said quietly, “what happened?”

The question was gentle. Too gentle, almost. “Do not call me that.” Shen Qingqiu felt irritation flare at the vulnerability that the question pried at. Sometimes, he really wanted to pat the Original Goods on the back and share their misery. “Nothing of consequence,” he replied smoothly. “A temporary complication.”

Yue Qingyuan took one step closer, making Mobei Jun’s small hand grip Shen Qingqiu’s collar. A whisper of cold threaded through the air like a warning. Yue Qingyuan stopped immediately. He looked at the baby again. Then back at Shen Qingqiu. His eyes widened slightly. Understanding flickered. Puzzled, Shen Qingqiu almost asked what he had realized. 

“…You are hiding something… from Qi ge…,” Yue Qingyuan said softly.

Shen Qingqiu’s fan snapped open. “Zhangmen-shixiong overestimates his importance.” It was deflection.

Yue Qingyuan did not react to the barb. Instead, he exhaled slowly, shoulders easing. “If you do not wish to tell me,” he said, “Qi ge will not force you.” The words were steady. But the look in his eyes… That old promise. I will stand where you need me, even if you will not look at me.

Shen Qingqiu’s throat tightened unexpectedly. Annoying. Infuriating. “…Mu Qingfang talks too much,” Shen Qingqiu said coolly.

A faint smile touched Yue Qingyuan’s mouth. “He said only that you required support.”

Support. Ha! As if! Shen Qingqiu almost laughed. Mobei Jun shifted, pressing his cheek against Shen Qingqiu’s chest. Yue Qingyuan’s gaze softened at the sight, his nostrils flaring. He licked his own lips.

“You look tired,” he said quietly. Can people stop saying that to him? My god! 

“I am not.”

Yue Qingyuan’s expression did not change. He had heard that before. “…Then allow me to assist you,” he said. “In whatever capacity you will permit.”

Shen Qingqiu met his eyes. There was unwavering loyalty there. It would be easier if there were anger. Easier if Yue Qingyuan demanded answers. Instead, he simply stood there with big, earnest eyes and a look that bordered on desperation, as if the thought of Shen Qingqiu struggling alone was physically intolerable. Such a big brother. 

Shen Qingqiu inhaled slowly.

“This matter,” he said at last, voice low and precise, “does not concern Cang Qiong Sect.”

Yue Qingyuan did not flinch. “But it concerns you,” he replied.

Silence fell.

Mobei Jun blinked up at Yue Qingyuan again. Assessing whether this man was a threat or something else. Shen Qingqiu adjusted his hold, fingers steady at the back of the baby’s head.

“…Zhangmen-shixiong,” he said finally, tone cooling into formal distance, “if you have come to interrogate this master, you may return.”

Yue Qingyuan’s face tightened slightly at the distance. “I came,” he said softly, “because Mu-shidi said you looked like you needed someone.”

The simplicity of it was unbearable.

Shen Qingqiu looked away first. “…Troublesome,” he muttered under his breath.

Yue Qingyuan pretended not to hear and stepped closer. The temperature dipped once again. The little thing in Shen Qingqiu’s arms scrunched his face and gave the softest, most offended little sniff. A sound so disproportionately bratty that Shen Qingqiu almost smiled.

Almost.

White lotus, he thought dryly. Clingy, dramatic, easily offended. Mobei Jun tightened his grip on Shen Qingqiu’s robes and stared at Yue Qingyuan as if personally evaluating whether this tall cultivator deserved to remain within three steps.

Yue Qingyuan’s eyes shone. He nodded once. Then again. Like someone who had just reached a firm internal conclusion. “This master will speak with Shang-shidi,” he declared calmly. “We will commission appropriate baby clothes, toys… A crib.” He paused, already reorganizing sect logistics in his head. “Perhaps a stuffed cat.”

Shen Qingqiu blinked. “…A cat?” he repeated, one eyebrow lifting.

“Yes,” Yue Qingyuan said seriously, as though discussing defensive warding formations.

Shen Qingqiu sniffed lightly. “Why not a wolf? Or a puppy, perhaps. They say it is man’s best friend.” His tone turned faintly philosophical. “A dog is the only thing on earth that loves you more than he loves himself.”

Mobei Jun, who was currently demonstrating precisely that behavior by attempting to burrow into Shen Qingqiu’s collarbone, let out a soft huff. Yue Qingyuan nodded thoughtfully. But this time, his expression shifted to something even more indulgent and fond. Like an older brother humoring an unreasonable younger sibling.

“Well,” he said gently, “he might suit cats better.” His voice was low, almost a purr.

Silence.

Shen Qingqiu narrowed his eyes. “…Are you making fun of me?”

“Of course not,” Yue Qingyuan replied immediately. He did not look convincing. The corners of his mouth had betrayed him.

Mobei Jun blinked between them, then gave another tiny, offended sniff. He was clearly sensing tension and prepared to escalate it. Shen Qingqiu adjusted the baby with deliberate precision.

“This peak lord does not resemble a cat.”

Yue Qingyuan tilted his head slightly. The indulgent look deepened. “You are elegant,” he said carefully, his fingers twitched as if he needed to touch something. “Independent. Selectively affectionate.”

Shen Qingqiu’s eye twitched. “I am not selectively affectionate. I do not do affection.” Mobei Jun made a soft, satisfied noise and rubbed his cheek against Shen Qingqiu’s chest (likely searching for more milk). Yue Qingyuan glanced meaningfully at the baby and sniffed the air, like a shameless dog. Shen Qingqiu snapped his fan open. “That proves nothing.”

“Mn,” Yue Qingyuan agreed placidly. He stepped a little closer, slowly enough not to startle the child. Mobei Jun sniffed again. Then, after a long, suspicious pause…  nothing flared frost. Yue Qingyuan’s eyes softened further. “He trusts you,” he said quietly. The teasing tone was gone, but something steadier remained. 

Shen Qingqiu looked down at the round-cheeked face, the unusual blue eyes framed by black lashes, the thin lips slightly parted in concentration. Trust. What a dangerous word.

“He has poor judgment,” Shen Qingqiu replied lightly.

Yue Qingyuan huffed a quiet laugh. “You are tired,” he said again.

“I am not.”

“The baby is.”

Shen Qingqiu froze.

Yue Qingyuan’s gaze had sharpened just enough. The baby seal was holding. But Yue Qingyuan was not a fool. There were very few beings in the world whose spiritual pressure felt like winter incarnate. Even if it was diluted, even if it was bound.

Their eyes met. A silent acknowledgment passed between them.  You know. I know. We will not say it.

Yue Qingyuan bowed his head slightly. “I will send the items by evening,” he said gently. “And ensure no one asks questions.”

Shen Qingqiu exhaled slowly. “…Troublesome”, he murmured again. 

“Yes,” Yue Qingyuan agreed warmly.

He turned toward the door, then paused. “Oh. And Xiao Jiu?”

Shen Qingqiu stiffened. “…What.”

“If it is a cat,” Yue Qingyuan added mildly, “it will be white with a green collar."

The door slid shut before Shen Qingqiu could respond or throw a fan on his head or scream in his face. Silence returned. Shen Qingqiu stared at the closed door. Then down at the baby. Mobei Jun blinked up at him. Utterly unimpressed.

“…White,” Shen Qingqiu muttered darkly. “This master does not resemble a white cat. And I do not need a collar! Who does he think he is?” The baby yawned. And, traitorously, curled closer. So, of course, he chose that fragile moment of peace to soil himself. Shen Qingqiu closed his eyes. Of course. Naturally. He exhaled through his nose with the dignity of a peak lord enduring tribulation. “You truly pick your timing with malicious precision.”

The baby blinked up at him unrepentant and made a weepy expression.

Shen Qingqiu moved toward the washroom with a sigh. He adjusted the child against his back with a strip of cloth. Secure enough and practiced in a way that suggested hands that had done this before, long ago, in another life.

As soon as the baby’s view of him shifted, a small head lifted, searching. Blue eyes widened slightly. A soft, indignant sound escaped him. “I am still here,” Shen Qingqiu said dryly. “No need to cry.”

Mobei Jun settled, though not without a small sniff, as if to warn that he was being watched.

Shen Qingqiu set water to warm over a low flame. He crouched, testing the basin with his fingers. Too cold. He added a little more. Too warm. He poured in fresh water, mixing carefully, brow faintly furrowed.

The baby’s skin was naturally winter-cold, the chill of deep snow and still air. Shen Qingqiu could feel it even through layers of cloth. He did not know how much heat such a body tolerated. If the water was too hot… He stilled. No. He would not risk it. He dipped his wrist again. Lukewarm, colder than he would choose naturally for a baby.

Behind him, Mobei Jun had discovered his hands. He held one in front of his face, staring at it with profound suspicion. He flexed his fingers experimentally. They moved. His eyes widened. He made a startled little noise. Then grabbed at the air.

Shen Qingqiu glanced over his shoulder. “…Yes. Those are yours,” he said calmly. “Shocking, I know.”

The baby flailed both arms in apparent triumph. Shen Qingqiu hid the faint curve at the corner of his mouth.

He unwrapped the cloth carefully, efficient despite the awkward angle. The “dirty part” of caretaking was handled with composed resignation: cleaning, rinsing, wiping down small limbs that twitched in indignation at the exposure.

Mobei Jun kicked once in protest. The temperature in the room dipped faintly. “Do not freeze this peak,” Shen Qingqiu warned mildly. He lowered the baby into the basin with steady hands. Mobei Jun stiffened at first, feeling the shock of warmth against cold skin. For a terrifying half-second, Shen Qingqiu thought he had misjudged.

Then, the baby relaxed. A small sigh escaped him. Shen Qingqiu exhaled quietly in return. The human qi might have acclimated him with warmth. 

He washed him carefully; neck folds, round cheeks, small fists that tried to grab at the water. Each movement controlled, as though performing a delicate ritual rather than scrubbing winter grime from a demon lord.

Steam rose gently in the bamboo washroom.

Mobei Jun splashed weakly. Then, fascinated, stared at the ripples. Shen Qingqiu’s fingers traced down a tiny arm, checking for lingering frost-burn, hidden bruising, signs of instability in the de-aging curse. Nothing obvious. Good. He wrapped the baby immediately in a warmed cloth, pressing him briefly against his chest to keep the chill from returning too quickly.

Mobei Jun made a soft, satisfied sound. His nose nudged against Shen Qingqiu’s collarbone, scenting him. Clingy. A white lotus in the making. Shen Qingqiu adjusted the cloth and spoke quietly, voice lower than usual.

“You are fortunate this master is competent. But don't tell others that this shizun has a heart, he has a reputation to maintain."

The baby’s fingers curled into his robes, trusting like an infant.

Shen Qingqiu looked down at him, at the unusual blue eyes already half-lidded from the bath’s warmth. He felt something tighten in his chest. Careful, he told himself. This is temporary. He pressed a light kiss to the baby’s damp hair before he could reconsider. But his hold did not loosen.

Mu Qingfang chose that precise, fragile hour to appear. He stepped inside with steady eyes and a qiankun pouch hanging neatly at his waist and did not even knock at the door. He bowed as soon as he saw Shen Qingqiu.

“Shen shixiong,” he said calmly. “This Qingfang is here to examine the child and give you the new herbal tea for Without-a-Cure.”

Of course you are.

Shen Qingqiu stepped aside.

They moved into the bedroom. The curtains were half-drawn; afternoon light filtered softly through bamboo shadows. Shen Qingqiu placed the baby in the center of the bed, surrounded by folded blankets like a small emperor receiving tribute.

Mobei Jun stared at Mu Qingfang. Then, he growled. It was a very small growl. High-pitched and utterly lacking menace. Mu Qingfang did not comment, but his lips quirked faintly as he huffed through his nose.

“I see,” he said mildly. “He has your temperament, Shen Shixiong.”

He set the qiankun pouch on the low table and began removing items with deliberate care: a folded silk cloth, a small jade-handled pulse pillow, a thin silver needle case, a narrow porcelain vial.

He washed his hands first, then dried them meticulously. Only then did he approach the bed. A physician’s movements were never hurried. He sat at the edge, posture straight, and inclined his head slightly to the child, as if greeting an equal rather than a patient.

“Forgive the intrusion,” he murmured.

Mobei Jun narrowed his bright blue eyes. Mu Qingfang extended two fingers and gently took the baby’s wrist, placing it upon the tiny jade pillow. He closed his own eyes. Silence fell. His breathing slowed.

His fingers adjusted with a light pressure, then lighter still. Feeling for pulse beneath infant skin. Counting the beats and the quality of them. The depth. The rhythm. The hidden current of spiritual veins flowing beneath flesh.

His brows drew together slightly. He shifted fingers to the other wrist and measured again. Then he examined the child’s eyelids, lifting them carefully to observe the clarity of the sclera. He checked the tongue, pressing lightly at the chin to coax it out.

Mobei Jun responded by attempting to bite him.

Mu Qingfang paused and looked down. The baby had latched onto his knuckle with ferocious determination, yet there were no teeth. It was mostly gums. (And indignation.) Mu Qingfang’s shoulders trembled once. He did not laugh out loud, but he did make a small sound suspiciously like a suppressed chuckle.

Shen Qingqiu folded his arms inside his sleeves. “This master believes you are being attacked.”

“Yes,” Mu Qingfang agreed solemnly. “A grave threat.”

Mobei Jun released his finger only to lunge again, gumming the side of Mu Qingfang’s hand with renewed vengeance. Mu Qingfang endured it with saintly patience, even as he gently pressed two fingers at the base of the baby’s skull to assess meridians along the Du channel.

The baby growled mid-bite. It came out as a disgruntled hum. Mu Qingfang carefully pried his hand free and moved on to examining the fontanelle, pressing lightly, measuring firmness. He traced the line of the spine through the blanket, feeling for disruptions in spiritual circulation.

Throughout, Mobei Jun continued his campaign of toothless aggression. Each time Mu Qingfang leaned closer, the baby lunged. Each time, he attached himself stubbornly to sleeve, finger, or air.

Shen Qingqiu watched with thinly veiled satisfaction, feeling a bit proud. “He seems vigorous,” he observed coolly.

“Indeed,” Mu Qingfang replied. “Extremely so.”

He finished by placing a small silver needle near, though not piercing, the skin at the baby’s ankle, gauging the reaction of demonic qi to metal. Mobei Jun kicked. The needle flew from Mu Qingfang’s grasp and embedded itself neatly in the wooden bedframe.

Mu Qingfang blinked. Slowly turned his head. Shen Qingqiu raised an eyebrow. “…Not very healthy,” Mu Qingfang concluded with a sorryful face. He withdrew fully, folding his hands into his sleeves. “The child’s meridians are stable enough. Qi circulation is… unusual. There is no fever or internal damage.” He paused delicately. “However.” Shen Qingqiu’s gaze sharpened. “The cold attribute is dominant. Excessively so for this developmental stage. He will require sustained warmth.” His eyes flicked briefly to Shen Qingqiu. “Consistent physical proximity would be beneficial.”

“This master is aware.” Mu Qingfang inclined his head. Mobei Jun, as if to emphasize the point, grabbed the hem of Shen Qingqiu’s sleeve. Then attempted to bite him too. Shen Qingqiu looked down. “…Insolent.” The baby blinked up at him. Then, without hesitation, buried his face into Shen Qingqiu’s robes.

Mu Qingfang stood. “I will prepare warming talismans calibrated for infant sensitivity,” he said calmly, retrieving his needle from the bedframe. “And I advise caution.”

“Regarding?”

Mu Qingfang’s eyes met his. “Attachment,” he said lightly. A beat of silence, he remained seated at the edge of the bed, posture straight, sleeves folded neatly over his hands. He regarded the baby with the same composed scrutiny one might give a rare medicinal specimen.

“This Qingfang has completed the primary examination,” he said calmly. “Shen-shixiong may wish to hear the report.”

Shen Qingqiu did not look at him. “Speak.”

Mu Qingfang reached into his qiankun pouch and withdrew a thin strip of red silk marked with tiny inked increments. He slipped it gently beneath the baby, lifting him with careful efficiency to gauge length and approximate weight through counterbalance technique. It was an old physician’s method when scales were impractical.

He hummed faintly.

“For his apparent developmental stage,” Mu Qingfang said at last, “his bone structure is dense. That is good. He is very aware of his surroundings. Also good.” A pause. “However, his mass is slightly below optimal range.” Shen Qingqiu’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly. “Slightly,” Mu Qingfang repeated, tone deliberately mild. “It is not alarming, yet. But he will need increased intake. We will need to closely observe his development.”

Mobei Jun chose that moment to grab Mu Qingfang’s sleeve again and gum it aggressively. Mu Qingfang adjusted his arm without complaint.

“He possesses appetite,” he observed dryly.

Shen Qingqiu exhaled. “He eats.”

“How frequently?” Shen Qingqiu hesitated half a second too long. Mu Qingfang noticed. “Shen-shixiong,” he said gently, tilting his head, “what arrangements have been made regarding milk?” Silence. Mobei Jun released Mu Qingfang’s sleeve and turned his head, nose twitching faintly. Mu Qingfang’s gaze sharpened. “There is no wet nurse stationed nearby,” he continued. “Nor have I passed any omega cultivators assigned to this peak for such duty.”

Another pause. He inhaled lightly. Then again. His eyes flicked around the bamboo house. “…However,” he added, voice thoughtful, “there is the scent of milk present.” The air felt very still. Shen Qingqiu’s spine straightened. The faintest flush crept beneath the composure of his face. “This Qingfang has practiced medicine for many years,” Mu Qingfang went on calmly. “He recognizes such things.”

Mobei Jun turned toward Shen Qingqiu and made a small, expectant sound. Mu Qingfang followed the movement. His eyes widened, slightly enough to be noticed. Then narrowed with understanding.

“…Ah.”

Shen Qingqiu sighed.

It was not a dignified sound. It was the sound of a man who had made an impulsive, irreversible decision at midnight and was now being confronted by a physician with excellent observational skills.

“There is no need for commentary,” Shen Qingqiu said coolly.

“I have offered none.”

“You are about to.”

Mu Qingfang’s lips twitched faintly. “Shen-shixiong,” he said carefully, “self-induced lactation through herbal stimulation is… not without consequences. There not much known about it and the quality of the milk is still uncertain. It depends on the herb.”

“This master is aware.”

“Are you?” The question was mild. Mobei Jun began patting at Shen Qingqiu’s robes with impatient little hands. Mu Qingfang watched the gesture, then he looked at Shen Qingqiu's chest as he licked his lips. His mouth twitched and he tilted his head.  “The child requires more intake,” he said evenly. “His constitution runs cold. Sustained nourishment will support meridian stability.” A pause. “But so will the health of his caretaker. You milk is the reflection of your nourishment.”

Shen Qingqiu did not answer immediately. His expression was composed, but there was tension in his shoulders.

Mu Qingfang softened his tone. “If this Qingfang is correct,” he said quietly, “you acted without consulting dosage or long-term effect or how your Without-a-Cure treatment will have a cross side effect.” Shen Qingqiu looked away. The silence was answer enough. Mu Qingfang exhaled, resigned. “You are an unruly patient,” he said, almost fondly. Shen Qingqiu shot him a sharp look. Mu Qingfang continued smoothly, “If you insist on continuing, adjustments must be made… Dietary supplementation, rest cycles and monitoring of qi depletion.”

He paused.

“And discretion.”

Shen Qingqiu’s jaw tightened. “I do not require a lecture.”

“No,” Mu Qingfang agreed. “You require supervision.”

Mobei Jun, oblivious to the adult tension, had successfully burrowed into Shen Qingqiu’s lap and was now making determined hungry noises. Mu Qingfang’s gaze flicked down. Then back up. He did smile, there was unmistakable understanding in his eyes.

“The quiet scent is strong for a baby this age,” he added gently. “You need to let it go. Therefore even without formal acknowledgment of your offspring, others will notice.” Shen Qingqiu closed his eyes briefly. Nervousness pricked beneath his skin. He had calculated political fallout. He had prepared demon seals. He had planned for coups and concealment. Mu Qingfang rose at last, but this time not to leave abruptly. “I will prepare tonics,” he said calmly. “For both of you.” He paused at the doorway. “And Shen-shixiong?”

“…What.”

“You are not the first cultivator to choose such a path.” A beat. “But you are certainly the most stubborn about it.”

Then he stepped outside, leaving behind the faint scent of medicinal herbs (and rain and freshly chopped birch. Goddammit, how good it is. Is Shen Qingqiu crazy or his scent got even more prominent?), and a peak lord holding a baby who was already demanding his next meal. Shen Qingqiu sighed and lifted the baby into his arms. Mobei Jun immediately stilled. 

“…You are a glutton,” Shen Qingqiu informed him coolly. The baby blinked. Then made a small, indignant noise, as if protesting the accusation. “You ate not three hours ago,” Shen Qingqiu continued, adjusting his hold. “And yet here you are again, demanding tribute.”

Mobei Jun’s hands opened and closed, patting insistently at Shen Qingqiu’s robes. Shen Qingqiu lowered his gaze to the round face, the thin lips already pursed in stubborn expectation.

“…Is it because you are an ice giant?” he mused aloud. “Does His Highness require greater sustenance to maintain such overwhelming size and authority?” The baby huffed, then kicked once. A faint chill rippled outward, even if it was weak. Shen Qingqiu raised an eyebrow. “So temperamental. Truly tyrannical behavior.”

Mobei Jun responded by leaning forward and pressing his face firmly against Shen Qingqiu’s chest, as though that settled the matter.

Shen Qingqiu looked down at him for a long moment. The weight in his arms was still small. Too small, perhaps. Mu Qingfang’s words echoed… slightly below optimal mass. Annoying physician.

“…Very well,” Shen Qingqiu murmured. He shifted to sit properly against the headboard, arranging his robes with careful precision. His movements were practiced now and less hesitant than the first night, though no less careful. “You will not say this peak lord neglects you,” he said quietly. “Even if you grow into an ungrateful snow tyrant.”

Mobei Jun made a soft sound, pleased. As the child settled, the room gradually warmed. The frantic edge that sometimes clung to the baby during waking hours eased the moment he was held close.

Shen Qingqiu rested one hand lightly at the back of the small head. “You eat like a èguǐ at a banquet,” he muttered.  The baby’s fingers curled into the fabric at his collar, clearly satisfied and trusting. Shen Qingqiu’s voice softened despite himself. “You had better grow properly,” he added under his breath. “This master does not endure sleep deprivation for mediocrity.”

After the visits from the two peak lords, the disciples drew their own conclusions. Shen Qingqiu had done this before. When he grew… tired of the world, when irritation curdled into silence and he withdrew into the bamboo house, they called it self-imposed seclusion. They would leave trays of food outside the door, knock once, and retreat.

He never touched them. Lately, his appetite had been declining regardless of the baby. The food tasted like ashes in his mouth. Whether it was poor seasoning or his own restless qi, he did not examine too closely. It did not matter. Now, however, encouraged by the fact that both the sect leader and Mu Qingfang had been seen entering his residence (and the physician orders, most likely), the disciples’ restraint evaporated. Concern replaced distance which was infinitely more troublesome.

The first to arrive, of course, was Ning Yingying at dawn. The door slid open before Shen Qingqiu could fully brace himself.

“Good morning, Shizun—!” Her bright, cheerful voice rang through the bamboo house like a temple bell.

Mobei Jun, who had grown accustomed to low murmurs and controlled tones, startled violently. His face scrunched. And then, he began to cry a full, outraged, high-pitched wail that echoed off the bamboo walls with shocking force. The temperature dropped several degrees in an instant.

Ning Yingying froze mid-step. “…Eh?” She stared at Shen Qingqiu and the baby in his arms. At the very indignant, very loud baby in his arms. Her eyes widened to impossible proportions. “Shizun?!” she gasped.

Shen Qingqiu closed his eyes briefly. Mobei Jun’s crying escalated, tiny fists flailing, frost prickling faintly along the edge of the nearby table. Shen Qingqiu immediately adjusted his hold, drawing the child closer.

“It is nothing,” he said evenly, though he had to raise his voice slightly over the wailing. “You startled him.”

Ning Yingying clapped her hands over her mouth. “I-I’m sorry! I didn’t mean — I didn’t know — Shizun, why is there a baby?!” An excellent question. One Shen Qingqiu had no intention of answering in full. 

Mobei Jun cried harder.

Shen Qingqiu began pacing instinctively, slow measured steps across the bamboo floor. Back and forth. Back and forth.

“It is temporary,” he said shortly.

“Temporary?!” Ning Yingying squeaked. The baby hiccupped mid-cry, then resumed with renewed determination. Ning Yingying’s expression shifted instantly from shock to distress. “Oh no, oh no — he’s so small — Shizun, he’s freezing!”

“I am aware.” Indeed, the child’s skin had cooled with agitation. Shen Qingqiu murmured something low and soothing, far gentler than his usual tone. “It is merely noise,” he muttered. “Do not overreact.”

Ning Yingying stared. Her sharp eyes caught something then. Her shock melted into something dangerously close to awe. “Shizun…!” she whispered. “He 's so cute!”

The word seemed to offend the baby. He hiccupped again. Then clutched desperately at Shen Qingqiu’s collar. Shen Qingqiu shot her a warning look.

“Lower your voice.”

Ning Yingying immediately nodded, tiptoeing closer as if approaching a sacred relic. She peered at the round face, the unusual blue eyes brimming with tears. “Oh,” she breathed. “He’s beautiful…”

Mobei Jun paused mid-wail. Blink. Blink. He stared at her. Then, as if reassessing the situation, reduced the volume to an offended sniff.

Shen Qingqiu exhaled slowly. “That is better,” he murmured.

Ning Yingying clasped her hands together. “Shizun, where did he come from? Is he a relative? Is he sick? Is he cursed? Did you save him? Is he staying here? Can I hold him? Does he have a name?” The questions came like arrows. “Why are you smelling like milk? Are you wearing perfume? Do you need me to kill someone?”

Shen Qingqiu’s eye twitched. “One question at a time.” She nodded vigorously. The baby narrowed his eyes at her, like a suspicious baby lynx. Shen Qingqiu adjusted the blanket around him and fixed Ning Yingying with a measured look. “He will remain here for a time,” he said. “You are not to discuss him outside this peak.” Which was, of course, futile, since gossip would come either way. 

Her expression sobered immediately. “You want it kept secret?”

“Yes.”

Without hesitation, she nodded. “I won’t tell anyone.”

Shen Qingqiu believed her. That was almost worse. Mobei Jun, apparently deciding Ning Yingying was no longer an immediate threat, relaxed slightly, though he kept one fist twisted stubbornly into Shen Qingqiu’s robe, possessive.

Ning Yingying leaned closer again, whispering this time. “Shizun… he really is adorable.” Silence.  “You’ve been…” Ning Yingying began slowly, sniffing the air. She tilted her head, studying him with surprising seriousness. “…looking after the baby. And not in the sword mound?”

The bamboo house went quiet once again, like a forbidden subject being breached. Shen Qingqiu felt something strange settle in his chest at the phrasing. He gave a small nod.

“Yes,” he said simply. “The baby requires attention.”

It was the plainest explanation he could offer. Mobei Jun shifted in his arms with a growl, as if to punctuate the statement. Ning Yingying looked between them. Her eyes softened. Then, they began to shine. Like starlight in the dark.

“Oh,” she breathed. Shen Qingqiu stiffened faintly. That look… He had seen it earlier on Yue Qingyuan’s face. It was the same warmth, the same quiet decision. “I see,” she said, nodding solemnly. She straightened her back and clasped her hands behind her on the tip of her toes, trying very hard to look mature. “This Ying’er understands.”

Shen Qingqiu narrowed his eyes slightly. “Understands what.”

“That Shizun isn’t avoiding cultivation,” she said quickly. “Or avoiding the sect. Or…” She hesitated, then finished carefully, “…avoiding himself."

The words landed more cleanly than she probably intended. Mobei Jun blinked up at Shen Qingqiu, unaware of the emotional landmine being stepped on. Shen Qingqiu’s expression remained composed.

“I was unaware I required avoidance.”

Ning Yingying smiled gently. “Shizun always goes to the sword mound when he’s upset,” she said softly. “You kneel there until your robes are soaked through.” Silence. “And you don’t eat,” she added.

Shen Qingqiu did not answer.

Her gaze dropped to the baby. “But this time,” she said quietly, “you stayed.” Mobei Jun made a small, pleased hum, as if claiming victory over an unseen rival. Ning Yingying’s smile widened just a little. “This baby must be very important.”

Shen Qingqiu looked down at the small face nestled against him. He felt that strange tightness again. “He is inconvenient,” Shen Qingqiu corrected lightly.

Ning Yingying giggled under her breath. “But you’re holding him like he’s precious.”

“You are becoming overly observant.”

She beamed at that. “I learned from Shizun.” The baby shifted, then gave a small yawn, tension fully gone now. Ning Yingying lowered her voice instinctively. “Shizun,” she asked softly, “can I help?” There was no hesitation in it.

Shen Qingqiu studied her for a long moment. “…You may fetch warmer blankets from the storage hall,” he said. “The thicker winter ones.”

Her eyes lit up like fireworks. “Yes, Shizun!” She bowed quickly and hurried toward the door. Before slipping out, she paused and turned back. And looked at him with that same soft, knowing expression Yue Qingyuan had worn. “This Ying’er thinks,” she said gently, “that Shizun looks better like this.”

Shen Qingqiu’s fan paused mid-air. “…Like what.”

“Needed.” The door slid shut before he could respond. Silence settled again. Mobei Jun breathed evenly against his chest. Shen Qingqiu stood very still.

Needed.

Troublesome disciples.

He looked down at the baby. “…You are creating misunderstandings,” he informed him quietly. Mobei Jun, already drifting back to sleep, did not deny it.

So, of course — naturally — if Ning Yingying knew something, Ming Fan knew it too. Their relationship had improved considerably after Shen Qingqiu had very firmly placed boundaries around their weird courtship. They were not inseparable, but they were friends nonetheless. The kind of friends who whispered in corners and exchanged meaningful glances.

The kind who gossiped like two old aunties. And like dutiful aunties, they fussed over him. They did not dare pinch Shen Qingqiu’s cheeks, but sometimes, in the way they hovered, in the way they sighed dramatically at his skipped meals, it was clear they wanted to.

Now the head disciple arrived in a rush. He did not knock. The door slid open with a sharp sound, and Ming Fan stood there, breathing slightly hard as though he had run up the mountain.

He froze. His gaze was on Shen Qingqiu and the baby. His eyes widened to a frankly comical degree. “A baby!” he whisper-exclaimed, as if volume alone could preserve secrecy.

His face flushed red almost instantly, climbing up to the tips of his ears. The late bloom of puberty had hit him without mercy: lanky limbs, too-big hands, scattered pimples across earnest cheeks. He looked every inch a boy trying very hard to be an adult alpha.

“How did Shizun hide a baby from us?” he demanded in a fierce whisper, pressing his lips together in outrage on behalf of his own ignorance.

Mobei Jun stared at him. Then narrowed his blue eyes. It was funny how much he did not like people.

Shen Qingqiu sighed. “This master did not hide him from you,” he corrected calmly. “You were simply not observant.”

Ming Fan looked personally attacked by this. “We are observant!” he protested quietly. “Very observant! We would have noticed a baby!”

Mobei Jun made a small sound, clearly doubting that. Yeah, me too.

Ming Fan immediately leaned closer, completely captivated. “…He’s so small,” he breathed. The commentary from the peanut gallery was very heterogeneous. “We will need supplies!” he declared. “Toys! Clothes! Proper bedding! Perhaps a cradle! We can rotate night watch so Shizun may rest —” Shen Qingqiu could not stop it. He chuckled. It was a soft, brief sound. The room went still. Ming Fan gasped, as if witnessing a celestial omen. “Shizun laughed,” he whispered reverently.

Shen Qingqiu’s smile vanished at once. “You are being dramatic.”

Ming Fan looked deeply moved. “I haven’t heard Shizun laugh in —”

“Enough.” Ming Fan snapped his mouth shut, yet he was still glowing. “Zhangmen-shixiong is already handling the matter,” Shen Qingqiu said smoothly. “There is no need to mobilize the entire peak.”

Ming Fan straightened, the fan boy. “The Sect Leader knows?”

“Yes.”

“…Ah.” Something about that seemed to satisfy him. Ming Fan stepped closer to the bed, hands clasped awkwardly behind his back like a respectful uncle meeting a newborn.

Mobei Jun regarded him with intense scrutiny. Then, without warning, he reached out and grabbed one of Ming Fan’s long fingers. Ming Fan froze. His entire body locked up. The baby squeezed. Ming Fan made a strangled sound.

“Shizun,” he whispered hoarsely, “he’s grabbing me!”.”

“Yes,” Shen Qingqiu replied dryly. “That is what hands are for.”

Ming Fan looked down at the tiny fist wrapped around his oversized finger. His expression softened in a way Shen Qingqiu had never seen before. “…He’s warm,” he murmured.

“He is not,” Shen Qingqiu corrected automatically. “Don´t lie.”

Ming Fan blinked. “…Emotionally warm?”

Shen Qingqiu gave him a long look.

Ming Fan swallowed. “We will protect him,” he said suddenly, fiercely. “No one on Qing Jing Peak will speak carelessly.”

The declaration was earnest. Mobei Jun tugged again, unimpressed by speeches. Shen Qingqiu observed the scene quietly. The way Ming Fan stood awkwardly, too tall and too thin and utterly smitten by a creature small enough to fit in both hands.

The way his disciples’ first instinct had not been suspicion, but protection. 

(Would Binghe also be protected like that?)

“…He will remain here for a time,” Shen Qingqiu said at last. “You will conduct yourselves accordingly.”

Ming Fan straightened immediately. “Yes, Shizun!” A pause. “…May I… hold him?”

Shen Qingqiu narrowed his eyes. “Does Ming Fan know how to hold a baby?” Shen Qingqiu asked coolly.

He gave him a painfully bright, slightly terrified smile. “No, Shizun.”

“Then he will have to learn.”

Ming Fan straightened as if called to endure heavenly tribulation. “Yes, Shizun!” He stepped closer to the bed with all the rigid determination of a disciple approaching a sacred sword manual. Mobei Jun narrowed his blue eyes.

Shen Qingqiu rose smoothly and stood directly in front of Ming Fan. “First,” he said, voice crisp, “wash your hands.”

“I did!”

“Again.”

Ming Fan bolted to the washbasin. Shen Qingqiu watched with narrowed eyes as his head disciple scrubbed his hands like a surgeon preparing for battle. When Ming Fan returned, damp and solemn, Shen Qingqiu gave a short nod.

“Arms.” Ming Fan held them out stiffly. “Relax.” Ming Fan attempted to relax. He only succeeded in looking more rigid. Shen Qingqiu stepped closer and physically adjusted him, one hand pressing lightly at his elbow, the other guiding his forearm upward. “Support the head,” Shen Qingqiu instructed. “Always.” Ming Fan nodded vigorously. Mobei Jun watched the exchange like a general assessing a new recruit. “Do not grip him like a sword,” Shen Qingqiu added dryly.

“I would never —!”

“You are currently doing so.”

Ming Fan loosened his hold immediately. Shen Qingqiu shifted the baby carefully, lowering him into Ming Fan’s arms. There was a heartbeat of tension. Mobei Jun stiffened. Ming Fan froze.

The room felt very still. The baby blinked. Looked up at Ming Fan’s awkward, earnest face. And, after a long moment, he did not cry. Ming Fan’s breath left him in a shaky exhale.

“He’s so light,” he whispered.

“He is slightly underweight.” Shen Qingqiu replied.

Ming Fan looked horrified. “We will feed him more!”

“Yes. I will.”

Mobei Jun made a small sound and shifted, one tiny hand latching onto Ming Fan’s robes. Ming Fan’s eyes went wide again. “He’s grabbing me!”

“That is the second time you have made this observation.”

Ming Fan looked down at the baby as though he had been personally entrusted with the future of the sect. “…Shizun,” he said softly, “he looks at people like he’s judging them.”

“He is.”

Ming Fan swallowed. “Do you think he approves of me?”

Shen Qingqiu glanced at the baby. Mobei Jun stared back, inscrutable. “…He has not attempted to eat you,” Shen Qingqiu said after a pause. “Consider that high praise.”

Ming Fan beamed. The baby, perhaps offended by being discussed, gave a tiny huff and promptly tried to gum Ming Fan’s sleeve. Ming Fan made a startled noise.

“He’s biting me!”

“He has no teeth.” Shen Qingqiu covered his mouth with his sleeve. Was that…? Yes. It was another quiet laugh. 

“Shizun —!” Ming Fan looked up, stunned.

“Focus,” Shen Qingqiu said smoothly, though his eyes were faintly curved. “If you drop him, this master will personally ensure your cultivation regresses ten years.”

Ming Fan immediately corrected his posture. “I will not drop him!”

Mobei Jun squirmed, then settled, apparently deciding that this tall, gangly human was an acceptable temporary perch. Shen Qingqiu watched them. The lanky arms. The earnest expression. The baby held carefully, as though cradling something sacred.

“…Adequate,” he pronounced at last.

Ming Fan looked absurdly pleased.

And just like that, Mobei Jun became the unofficial mascot of Qing Jing Peak.

It happened without ceremony.

One disciple brought thicker blankets. Another carved a small wooden rattle shaped like a bamboo leaf. Someone else began rotating quiet “errand shifts” that suspiciously coincided with opportunities to glimpse the baby.

They cooed. They whispered. They argued in hushed tones about whether he resembled Shizun (he did, unfortunately, around the eyes). 

Shen Qingqiu sometimes wondered if they noticed. The unnatural chill that lingered when he cried. The way frost crept faintly along the windows when he was displeased. The sharp, assessing intelligence in those blue eyes. But no one said anything. And since no one said anything, Shen Qingqiu chose not to ask. They did not comment about Shizun's second gender, also. 

Of course, the tiny mascot needed a  name. He could not very well continue being “the baby.” So Shen Qingqiu named him: Shen Xiaohan. 沈筱寒. 

Shen — his own surname. A shield being a quiet declaration that, for however long this lasted, the child belonged here.

筱 (xiǎo) — “thin bamboo.” Well, it was not the towering, storm-defying bamboo of heroic poetry, but the slender kind that grows quietly along the water's edge. A flexible and resilient person. Graceful without announcing itself. On Qing Jing Peak, bamboo endured wind, snow, and isolation. It bent without breaking. Thin bamboo does survive.

寒 (hán) — “cold,” “wintery,” “chill.” In poetry, han often evokes austerity, clarity, hardship endured with dignity. The “cold scholar.” The “winter plum.” The clean bite of frost that strips the world to essentials.

Xiaohan. Slender bamboo in winter. A quiet life in the cold. There was poetry in it.

In classical imagery, bamboo and winter are companions of resilience. Alongside pine and plum, bamboo is one of the “Three Friends of Winter” (岁寒三友 suìhán sānyǒu); plants that remain steadfast in the harshest season. They symbolize integrity that does not wither under frost.

Shen Qingqiu had chosen the name with apparent detachment, but the symbolism was nice to see. A child of winter. Hidden among bamboo. Enduring cold without losing form.

When the disciples asked, Shen Qingqiu only said, “It is appropriate.”

Ning Yingying clasped her hands and declared it elegant. Ming Fan repeated the name several times to memorize it properly, as though committing a sword technique to heart. “Shen Xiaohan,” he murmured, awed.

Mobei Jun, Shen Xiaohan, blinked up at them with wide blue eyes, utterly indifferent to literary symbolism.

Someone began calling him "Xiao Han.” Someone else “Han-er.” The baby accepted tribute in the form of carved toys and soft cloth with imperial composure.

Shen Qingqiu watched from the sidelines. Sometimes he wondered… Did they truly not notice? Or did they notice, and choose silence?

Either way, Qing Jing Peak adapted around its winter bamboo.

And when the wind moved through the leaves and Shen Xiaohan slept against his chest, Shen Qingqiu would murmur the name softly under his breath.

As if testing whether it would endure. Thin bamboo. Winter cold. A child who belonged to neither.

And, for now… Belonged to him.