FROM THE ASHES OF CHILDHOOD

Liu Qingge's hand clamps around his wrist—tight, commanding, merciless. And the world collapses. "You think you can hide from me, boy?" No. This isn't Qiu Jianluo. This is Liu Qingge. They're at a meeting. He's being accused of... something. The words blur like paint in rain. "Shen Qingqiu!" The voice of Bai Zhan Peak's lord echoes in his head, but it sounds exactly like... like that voice from the past. "No one will believe a slave over his master." Air sticks in his throat. His wrist burns from the foreign touch, and his skin remembers the pain of those old days. His heart pounds so loudly it drowns out every other sound. Faces around him blur into smudged stains. Dark room. The smell of mugwort and something else—foul, cloying. Hands that grab and hold. "Let go," he whispers, but his voice sounds like a child's. Like that little Shen Jiu who begged for mercy. "Don't fight, and it won't hurt as much." But he fought. Always fought. And it always hurt. Liu Qingge is saying something—maybe apologizing, maybe shouting. Shen Qingqiu can't make out the words through the noise in his head. Ringing in his ears, everything swimming before his eyes. "You deserved this." "Look at yourself—who would believe you?" "This is your fault." He tears away—sharp, desperate, the way he tried to break free from those grasping hands back then. But it didn't work then. Never worked. "Don't... don't touch me," his voice cracks like a teenager's, like he once was. Everyone is staring at him. Everyone judging. Like then—when he came for help and was told that slaves lie. That he was to blame. That he drove his master to it with his behavior. Filthy hands on skin. Pain. Shame. Helplessness. Why is he even alive? Why does he keep breathing when every breath brings new pain? When every touch returns him to that hell he never truly escaped? "Be silent, or it will get worse." He was silent. Silent for years. But silence didn't save him—it only drove the pain deeper, where it festers and poisons everything around it. "Shizun?" Someone's voice, distant and frightened. His disciples. They see his weakness. His breakdown. "No one will ever love someone like you." "You're dirty." "Broken." "Worthless." Shen Qingqiu closes his eyes, but behind his lids are the same images. The same faces. The same pain that never leaves, only hides, waiting for a moment to remind him of itself. Maybe it would have been better not to survive back then. Not to become a Peak Lord. Not to torture his disciples with his brokenness. Not to exist in this world where every day is a battle with his own demons. "You will never be good enough." His hands tremble. His breathing breaks. The world sways like a ship in a storm. And somewhere deep inside, little Shen Jiu is still crying in a dark corner, still waiting for someone to come and say it's over. That he's safe. But no one comes. No one ever came. How he got here—he doesn't remember. His feet carried him past curious glances of disciples, past whispers behind his back. "What's wrong with Shizun?" "He looked strange..." "Maybe he's ill?" Ill. If only they knew how sick he is. How rotten inside. The bamboo hut greets him with familiar silence. Here no one can see. No one will pity or judge. He can finally stop pretending. Shen Qingqiu sinks to the floor right at the threshold, unable to reach even the mat. His hands still tremble—with a fine, vile tremor impossible to stop. Like back then, in childhood, when he hid in dark corners and tried to become invisible. Numbness. The first stage—when the mind simply shuts down, protecting itself from the unbearable. He knows this state. Lived in it for years after his liberation, when the world seemed unreal and he himself—a ghost among the living. "Why am I still here?" The question sounds in the emptiness of the hut, and the echo returns it, mocking and merciless. Really, why? Why continue this parody of life when every day brings only pain? Memories surge again—uncontrollable, vivid as fire. Qiu Jianluo leans over him, and in his eyes—hunger. Not for food, not for power. For him. For his pain, for his tears, for his helplessness. "Scream louder, boy. I like it." And he screamed. Screamed until his voice broke, until only hot, wet silence remained in his throat. Intrusions. Flashbacks that come without warning and seize him completely. Time ceases to exist—there is only the past, alive and merciless. Shen Qingqiu presses his back against the door, as if trying to dissolve through it. His breathing falters, something sharp and hot constricts in his chest. "No one will believe you even if you tell." "Look at yourself. Who would want someone like you?" "You wanted this yourself, didn't you? Otherwise why did you come?" He didn't want to. He never wanted to. Avoidance. He masterfully learned this art. Avoiding crowds, touches, closeness. Building walls from coldness and cruelty so no one could get too close. So no one would see the truth. But walls don't protect from oneself. "I should have died then." The thought comes quietly, almost tenderly. Like an old acquaintance who's always nearby, always waiting for a moment to remind him of herself. Should have not survived in that house. Not learned to fight. Not become strong. Simply... vanished. Negative alterations in thinking. The world is black and white, without half-tones. All people are threats or victims. All touches are pain. All relationships are lies and betrayal. "Liu Qingge... he just grabbed my arm. An ordinary movement. But I..." He's broken. Irreversibly, definitively broken. Like a shattered pot that can be glued together, but the cracks will remain. And through these cracks, pain seeps, poisoning everything around. "All my disciples fear me." "I make their lives worse." "I either explode from the slightest irritation or feel nothing at all. Either scream and punish for trifles, or look at the world indifferently, as through thick glass." "I'm a monster." "I became what I feared." "I cause pain to others because I don't know how to live without it." Memories spin in his head like water in a whirlpool, dragging everything deeper. In the darkness of the bamboo hut, the past comes alive, filling the space with ghosts and pain. Qiu Jianluo's hands. Qiu Jianluo's laughter. Pain. Qi-ge's betrayal. His frightened eyes when he ran, leaving Shen Jiu alone. Distrust in others' eyes. "Prove it. Where are the witnesses? Where is the evidence?" His own cruelty to disciples. Their fear. Their tears. "Enough," he whispers into the darkness. "Enough of living like this." The sword lies nearby. Just a few movements—and everything will end. No more pain. No more memories. No more of this endless, exhausting pretense. The final stage—despair. When pain becomes unbearable and the future—unthinkable. The Lord of Qing Jing reaches for the sword with a trembling hand. His fingers almost touch the hilt when the door bursts open with a crash. "Shen Qingqiu!" Liu Qingge storms into the hut like a hurricane, his face red with anger, sword already in hand. "What do you think you're doing?! You disgraced all of Cang Qiong at the meeting, and now you're hiding here?!" Shen Qingqiu slowly rises without turning. His hand still near the sword. "Perfect. Even better than I planned." "Get out, Liu Qingge." "How dare you?!" The voice of Bai Zhan Peak's lord rises to a shout. "You must explain your behavior! What was that hysteria?!" "I owe nothing to anyone," Shen Qingqiu responds monotonously. "You do! You represent the entire sect! And you behave like..." "Like what?" Silence. Then Liu Qingge takes a step closer. "Like a madman." "A madman. Yes! If only you knew..." Shen Qingqiu finally turns. On his face—the usual cold smirk, but something in his eyes makes Liu Qingge freeze for a moment. "Then prove I'm mad," he says quietly. "Challenge me to a duel." "What?" "You heard me. Challenge me." Liu Qingge frowns. "You're not yourself. I won't fight with..." "With whom?" Shen Qingqiu's voice becomes cutting. "With a weakling who can't bear a touch?" "Come on. Give me a reason. Let me end this with honor!" "I don't understand what's happening to you, but..." "Coward," Shen Qingqiu drops. Liu Qingge flares up. "What did you say?!" "Coward. Afraid to fight?" "You bastard!" Liu Qingge rushes forward with sword raised. Shen Qingqiu dodges at the last moment, grabs his own sword and meets the strike. Clang of metal. Sparks in the hut's darkness. "Good. Excellent." Shen Qingqiu fights, but strangely—as if not trying to win. He defends, dodges, but doesn't attack seriously. "What's wrong with you?!" Liu Qingge snarls between strikes. "Fight like a man!" "Why?" Shen Qingqiu parries. "You wanted to prove I'm weak." Another exchange of blows. Shen Qingqiu retreats, allows Liu Qingge to press him toward the wall. "A little more. Just let him..." Liu Qingge delivers a wide strike. Shen Qingqiu could have dodged. He doesn't. The blade passes along his ribs, leaving a deep wound. Blood stains his emerald robes. A dark spot spreads. Liu Qingge freezes in shock. "What are you..." "Continue," Shen Qingqiu says hoarsely, not looking at the wound. "You wanted to prove you were right." "You deliberately... You let me..." "Continue!" "Why did he stop? Why doesn't he finish it?" Liu Qingge lowers his sword, horror and incomprehension on his face. "You... what are you..." He looks at the blood, at how Shen Qingqiu indifferently presses his hand to the wound. Something's wrong here. Something very wrong. "Don't want to fight, then get out!" Liu Qingge doesn't move. A strange, anxious feeling grows in his chest. Like before battle, when an enemy behaves unexpectedly. "You're bleeding." "So what?" "You need to see Mu Qingfang." "No!" His voice breaks into a scream. Liu Qingge freezes. That scream... like a wounded animal cornered. He takes a step forward. Shen Qingqiu presses against the wall. "Don't come closer." Another step. "DON'T COME CLOSER!" Such fear in his voice that Liu Qingge gets goosebumps. He doesn't understand what's happening, but feels—something is broken. Something important. But doesn't understand what. Moving on intuition. Hunter mode switches on subconsciously. He slowly backs away. Far. Non-threateningly. Hands palms forward. "Alright. I'm not approaching." Shen Qingqiu trembles. From pain or from something else. "Leave." "No." "Why?" Liu Qingge is silent. He himself doesn't know why. He just feels he can't leave. Can't walk away. "The bleeding needs to be stopped," he finally says. "It doesn't." "It does." Long silence. Shen Qingqiu slides down the wall lower, still pressing his hand to the wound. Liu Qingge slowly crouches and crawls closer. Shen Qingqiu goes completely rigid, but doesn't pull away. When fingers touch the edge of his robe to examine the wound, Shen Qingqiu flinches with his whole body. But the blood flows stronger than it seemed. Too strong. Shen Qingqiu's face pales, his eyes cloud. He goes limp, consciousness leaving him. Damnation. Liu Qingge carefully lays him on the floor. Blood has soaked through all the clothing, it's hard to tell how deep the wound is. He needs to remove the hanfu, examine it. His fingers tremble as he unties the belt, pulls off the outer robe. Another layer. Another. How many are there! And he freezes. On pale skin of the chest, just above the heart—a brand. Burned with iron, crude, hideous. A mark Liu Qingge has seen only once in his life, in the darkest quarters of the city. The brand of a pleasure slave. No. It can't be. The world flips, restructures in his head. Shen Qingqiu. Aristocrat. Heir of a noble clan. A lie? All lies! At this moment, something stirs on the floor. Shen Qingqiu regains consciousness, his eyes focus hazily. He sees Liu Qingge above him. Sees his own bare chest. The brand. "NO!" The scream tears through the silence. Shen Qingqiu frantically pushes away, tries to cover himself, crawl away. "DON'T TOUCH ME!" He thrashes like a wild beast in a trap, nails scraping the floor. Sharp movements make the wound bleed harder. Red stains spread across the floor. "I won't! I WON'T!" "He thinks I... that I want..." Liu Qingge freezes, understanding comes like a blow. All the breakdowns, flinching from touches, panic in his eyes. "A little boy. Who belonged to someone." Shen Qingqiu still thrashes, but strength leaves him. Blood flows harder from the movements, he weakens, his breathing ragged. "Please," he whispers, his voice breaking. "I can't anymore." Liu Qingge slowly moves away to not frighten him. But the blood. Too much blood. "What did they do to you? How many years have you hidden this?" Shen Qingqiu flinches again but doesn't resist. No strength to resist. His eyes empty, lifeless. Like a broken doll's. Liu Qingge carefully presses cloth found in his qiankun pouch to the wound, and Shen Qingqiu doesn't even move. Too quiet. Too pale. Liu Qingge lifts him in his arms. Light as a bird. Like a child. "To Mu Qingfang. Quickly." Dark room. Familiar smell of mugwort and fear. "Well then, boy, did you miss me?" Qiu Jianluo leans over him, hunger and anticipation in his eyes. Hands reach toward his body. "No," Shen Jiu whispers. "Please, no." "You know it's useless to resist." Cold fingers touch skin, and the entire world compresses to a point of pain. Helplessness rolls in like a wave, familiar and suffocating. His body turns to stone, muscles refuse to obey. As always. As back then. "No! I don't want to! No! It won't be like this anymore!" The thought, stubborn, burning, proud, emerging for the first time right now—"I won't allow this anymore!" And something changes! Qiu Jianluo laughs, and the sound cuts along his nerves, but... quieter than before. Not so loud. Not so frightening. Why? Shen Jiu blinks, tries to focus his gaze. The room is the same, the smell the same, but... proportions? Qiu Jianluo seems... smaller? Something's wrong. Something has changed. Shen Jiu lifts his head and looks at his hands. They're bigger. Stronger. No longer a child's. Calluses from the sword on his index finger. Sword. SWORD! HE HAS A SWORD! XUI YA! The warmth in his chest pulses stronger. Not just warmth—energy. Qi. Spiritual power he's accumulated for years, honed, strengthened. Qiu Jianluo still laughs, but his hands tremble. Why do they tremble? "I... I'm an adult!" "I'm not a child!" Realization comes like a lightning strike. Searing, bright, true. "I'm not seven years old. I'm not ten. I'm a grown man." Qiu Jianluo backs away, his eyes widening. He feels the change too. Something in the air crackles, sparks. "What are you muttering there?" Qiu Jianluo laughs, but uncertainty creeps into his voice. Shen Jiu slowly stands. Qiu Jianluo seems smaller than before. Weaker. "I said—NO." The voice sounds different. A man's voice. A cultivator's. "I have power!" "I have qi!" "What are you..." Qiu Jianluo backs away. Shen Jiu raises his hand, and spiritual energy flares around his fingers like living flame. All the pain, all the rage, all the years of humiliation gather in this energy. "I have power!" Qi flows through his meridians, hot and alive. Years of training, battles, victories. All of it here, in his body, in his soul. Qiu Jianluo is no longer a giant towering over him. He's an ordinary man. Weak. Aging. Pitiful... "What are you..." Qiu Jianluo begins, but his voice cracks. Shen Jiu raises his hand. Qi gathers around his fingers, glows with cold light. Power. His power. Earned through pain, forged in battles. All the years of humiliation, fear, helplessness burn in this energy. But they don't destroy—they transform. Make him stronger. "I'm no longer that boy who couldn't protect himself!" "Stop! You dare not! You're a slave! You..." "I am the Second Lord of Cang Qiong Sect!" A strike of spiritual energy tears through the air. Qiu Jianluo screams, but the scream cuts off. Emptiness where a moment ago stood the nightmare of his childhood. A little ash on the carpet. Silence. Around him, everything begins to crumble—walls, ceiling, the very world of the nightmare cracks and shatters into pieces and smaller still, settling as ash on the ground. His entire past turns to ash. "You're dead," Shen Jiu says into the void. "You died many years ago. And I'm alive. I'm strong. I'm no longer that child. I am the Second Lord of Cang Qiong Sect, Head of Qing Jing Peak!" The last fragments of the dark world scatter as dust. Consciousness returns slowly, as if surfacing from deep water. First—only sensations. Softness beneath his back. Warmth of the blanket. The smell of medicinal herbs, sharp and clean. Shen Qingqiu blinks, focusing his gaze. White ceiling. Not the bamboo hut. Not the dark room from the nightmare. Qian Cao Peak. Memory returns in fragments. The meeting. Liu Qingge's hand on his wrist. Panic. Flight. The fight... The wound. His hand automatically moves to his chest and down, touches the tight bandage. Pain is there, but dull, bearable. Not that sharp agony from before. "How long have I been lying here?" Outside the window, soft light—sunset or sunrise? Hard to say. Time has blurred, become unimportant. Shen Qingqiu tries to remember the last moments before losing consciousness. Liu Qingge saw. Saw the brand. Saw his breakdown. What did he think? What did he tell others? Strange, but the thought doesn't cause the usual panic. There's anxiety, yes. Uncertainty. But not that animal terror that's usual. Something has changed. He carefully props himself up on his elbows, checking his condition. No dizziness. His hands don't tremble. In his chest—not a constricting knot of fear, but something else. Emptiness? No, not quite. Silence. For the first time in years, it's quiet in his head. No voices from the past, no echo of others' words. No constant tension, memories of others' glances, of whispers behind his back, readiness for a blow. Shen Qingqiu slowly sits up, expecting a rush of memories and pain. But only fragments of the dream come. Qiu Jianluo, the crumbling world, the sensation of power in his hands. A dream. It was just a dream. But then why does it feel like something important happened? As if some heavy door closed forever. He stands, checks the bandage. Neatly applied, professionally. Mu Qingfang, of course. His legs carry him to the window almost on their own, though they tremble, but to the window. To the light. Shen Qingqiu looks at the landscape, preparing to see the usual grayness. A world where there's no place for joy. And freezes. The sunset sky shimmers with shades of pink and gold. Not just colors—an entire symphony of light. Wind gently sways the bamboo, and the rustling sound doesn't irritate but... soothes? When did I stop noticing this? A small white butterfly lands on the windowsill. Its wings flutter in the rays of the setting sun. It's not afraid, not rushing to fly away. Simply exists in this moment. Simply... exists. Something in his chest gently unclenches. Not relief—it's too early for such loud words. Just... the absence of constant pain. As if for the first time in years he can breathe fully. The butterfly flaps its wings and disappears into the golden light. Shen Qingqiu remains standing by the window, watching as day slowly gives way to evening. And thinks that tomorrow there will be another sunset. And he... perhaps for the first time, he'll be curious to see it. In the doorway stands Liu Qingge. He doesn't enter, only observes from afar. Doesn't know what to say. And is it even necessary to say anything? He wants to speak about the horror he experienced seeing how the blood stain spread because of his sword. He didn't think he would feel such unfamiliar emotions. He wants to speak about how Shen Qingqiu looks different when sleeping. Without that tense readiness for battle that's always there. Now he knows this—he sat by the bed for a whole week. In the morning he must leave for the Lingxi Caves—the Sect Leader's order. And it's frightening to leave the Lord of Qing Jing unattended. Because now this is his business. His responsibility. THE END