By the time voices began to rise, it was already too late.

They never reached the midpoint of the agenda.

Shen Qingqiu’s tone had gone from silk-smooth to razor-thin in a single sentence, and Liu Qingge’s patience—already meager—fractured like glass. Words turned sharp. Accusations turned personal. The air between them grew tight enough to draw blood.

At the head of the table, Yue Qingyuan practiced the ancient sect technique of seeing nothing, hearing nothing, and being spiritually nonexistent.

No one stopped them.

So Liu Qingge stood.

He did not bow. He did not announce his departure. He simply turned and walked out, the doors rattling faintly in their frames from the pressure of his qi alone.

He rarely attended these meetings. Everyone knew that. He came not for politics, not for planning—but for expectancy. For that faint, irrational hope that Shen Yuan might accompany his brother and sit quietly at Qing Jing’s side.

He had not.

Today, the seat beside Shen Qingqiu remained empty.

That absence sat heavier than the argument.

He moved through the sect like a storm walking in human shape. Disciples shrank back, startled by the force of his presence; even the bravest only managed half-formed protests.

“Peak Lord Liu— Qing Jing is—”

He ignored them.

Another tried to intercept him, flustered. “You can’t just—”

He walked past.

At the foot of Qing Jing Peak, the disciples grew more desperate. They blocked the path with their bodies instead of their swords.

“Peak Lord Liu, you need permission—”

He stopped.

For a single breath.

And then continued walking.

By the time he reached the bamboo house, the world had gone still.

The wind touched the leaves lightly. The door stood closed. Quiet. Delicate. A place that clearly did not belong to violence.

His hand lifted.

It clenched.

He thought, very briefly, of kicking the door in. Of splintering wood and letting the world feel what a real disturbance was.

Instead, he forced himself to knock.

Once.

Twice.

The sound was controlled. Measured. Nothing of the storm that lived under his ribs.

He stood there in silence afterward, jaw tight, breath even, waiting like a man who had walked through fire just to stand in front of a fragile thing and not break it.