Liu Qingge had been away from Cang Qiong for a full week.

Yue Qingyuan had sent him on a distant, dangerous mission — one that would have made most cultivators hesitate. For the Bai Zhan war god, it had only meant stronger opponents, sharper blades, and the familiar, grounding rhythm of battle. In another life, in earlier years, he would have taken advantage of the distance, stayed away longer, chased another fight, another hunt.

But things had changed.

The mountain no longer felt like mere duty. And one certain Qing Jing Peak lord had somehow become an unwanted — yet undeniable — center of gravity. The absence was… irritating. A persistent unease beneath his ribs, like a badly balanced blade.

He dismissed it. Of course he did.

After finishing the last demon — a grotesque, many-limbed creature that had terrorized the outskirts of a small town — Liu Qingge stood alone in the settling quiet, breathing steady, sword dripping black ichor. The villagers would be safe now. That was enough.

He should have left immediately.

Instead, he went into the town.

He hated towns. Too many eyes. Too much noise. Whispers rising behind hands. Mothers pulling children away, men staring with equal parts fear and admiration. He drew a hood lower over his face and moved through the market as quickly as possible.

Then he saw it.

A fan — intricate, elegant, crafted with care rather than luxury. Painted bamboo, faint cranes in flight, a subtle scent of clean wood. It was unmistakably Qing Jing-coded in a way only Liu Qingge would notice. Shen Qingqiu already had far too many. He even lost them regularly throughout Cang Qiong, carelessly leaving them behind in training grounds and meeting halls.

Still.

He bought it without hesitation, placing more than necessary on the stall and walking away before the vendor could stammer out his gratitude.

It was not done. He had also slain a particularly rare and powerful beast — one whose corpse could be used for powerful artifacts or medicine. With careful precision, he preserved it, binding it in spiritual sealing cloth as though it were a sacred offering.

By nightfall, he was already on his way back.

When Cang Qiong came into view, Liu Qingge did not slow. He didn’t go to Qian Cao Peak for recognition. He didn’t return to Bai Zhan to be welcomed. He didn’t report to Qiong Ding. His feet carried him, unthinking, unhesitating, straight to Qing Jing Peak.

The disciples saw him and panicked.

“L-Liu-shishu—!”

“Wait— you can’t— don’t bring that in—!”

He ignored them, dragging the massive, sealed corpse across their pristine paths, their protests dissolving into horrified whispers. He reached the bamboo house and stopped only out of bitter memory, fingers curling into a fist instead of kicking the door down as he once had.

He knocked.

Once. Twice. Impatient. Controlled.

The Qing Jing disciples stood behind him, flushed and helpless, watching their peaceful home be invaded.

“This is important,” Liu Qingge said, voice low and firm. “Open the door.”

Inside, Shen Qingqiu was definitely going to be upset.

And for reasons he refused to name, Liu Qingge found that he didn’t mind at all.