Shen Yuan had been gone three days, and Qing Jing Peak felt it.

Without the younger twin drifting at his side like a warm shadow, Shen Qingqiu was unbearable. His temper—already infamous—had sharpened into something lethal and unpredictable, a blade with no sheath. The disciples moved with the tense precision of people navigating a field of hidden traps. Even breathing too loudly could provoke their Peak Lord’s ire.

Shen Yuan soothed him. Shen Yuan balanced him. Shen Yuan kept him human.

Without him, Shen Qingqiu devolved into what he had always been beneath the mask of civility— a coiled, bitter thing with teeth.

Three days without his twin was three days too long.

He taught as if preparing them for war. Lessons stretched for hours, his voice cold and impatient, correcting mistakes with razor-edged words that left students trembling long after. They rotated on the guqin, fingers clumsy with fear, knowing a single wrong note would have Shen Qingqiu snapping his fan open like a threat.

Ning Yingying had cried twice. Ming Fan had been struck once. And Luo Binghe—poor, unlucky Luo Binghe—stood before him now, on his knees.

The boy trembled, his forehead pressed to the polished floor. Shen Qingqiu loomed above him with icy disdain, fan half-open, eyes narrowed as if Binghe’s very existence offended him. The other disciples watched in suffocating silence, afraid to even dart their eyes away.

Shen Qingqiu tapped his fan against his palm.

Slowly. Deliberately. Menacingly.

“Oh?” he drawled, voice honeyed poison. “Have you only just realized how pathetic your effort was, beast?”

The boy flinched.

A cruel smile flickered across Shen Qingqiu’s face. He’d been like this since morning—irritated at every misstep, cruel in ways that were almost childish in their pettiness. Without Shen Yuan’s quiet fingers smoothing down his sleeve or whisper-soft reminders to breathe, he had become a storm in constant need of breaking.

He raised his fan.

Binghe braced.

And then—

A sharp, clear voice echoed across the training field:

“Announcing the return of Shizun’s honored brother—Shen Yuan-xiansheng has arrived back on peak!”

The disciples froze.

Then—

Relief.

Pure, unfiltered, bone-deep relief washed over their faces. It was as if the heavens themselves had descended, opening their gates to spare them from further torment.

Ning Yingying’s eyes watered. Ming Fan sagged like a collapsing puppet. Even Luo Binghe dared to lift his head a fraction, disbelief softening the terror in his eyes.

Shen Qingqiu went still.

The fan lowered.

His expression—tight and dark for days—did bot flicker or waver, but that was enough for every disciple present to know the lesson was over.

Their salvation had arrived.

Shen Yuan was home.