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Shen Qingqiu dipped two fingers into the porcelain jar, lifting a small, silken curl of pearl-white cream. It was his customary blend, procured from a renowned apothecary in the capital.

Not that he needed it.

His cultivation had suspended his youth, but this was a habit from his disciple days—a luxury he refused to relinquish. A tactile reminder of a past where such a simple pleasure was an impossible dream.

He smoothed the cream over his cheeks and brow. It had always been a pleasant sensation, but this batch was... different. It melted into his complexion, leaving behind an airy freshness that sank in with almost decadent ease.

The jar had not changed, but the product was markedly superior. Suspiciously so.

He summoned Ming Fan.

"Yes, Shizun?" the disciple bowed as he hurried in.

Shen Qingqiu gestured lazily toward the jar. "Did you fetch this from the usual shop?"

"Of course, Shizun," Ming Fan said quickly, but his voice faltered under Shen Qingqiu's deepening scowl. He hesitated, then amended, "That is... the cream itself is from there, but... this disciple delegated the task to another..."

Shen Qingqiu’s fan snapped open. "To whom?"

"...Luo Binghe." The name was nearly whispered.

The bamboo house seemed to chill several degrees.

"You entrusted my personal requisition," he said, each word sharp as an ice shard, "to that beast?"

Ming Fan flinched.

"Summon. Him."

Moments later, Luo Binghe appeared at the door, bowing with impeccable manners. "Shizun."

Shen Qingqiu tapped the jar. "You procured this?"

"Yes." Luo Binghe’s tone was smooth, deferential. "From the same apothecary as always. They mentioned a new refinement to the formula. A… secret ingredient."

Shen Qingqiu studied him, searching for cracks in that jade-polished guilelessness. "A secret ingredient." His voice dripped skepticism.

"Yes, Shizun." Luo Binghe inclined his head. "If you dislike it, I’ll have them prepare the old recipe instead."

The cream still tingled pleasantly on his skin. Shen Qingqiu exhaled, annoyed at its undeniable superiority. "No. Leave it."

"As you wish." Luo Binghe bowed once more and withdrew.

Shen Qingqiu watched his retreating figure, unsettled but unable to place why.

Outside, beyond the threshold, Luo Binghe’s lips curved. A low chuckle escaped him, dark and satisfied.

***

At the next Peak Lord gathering, Qi Qingqiu’s voice rang sharp with envy.

"Shen Qingqiu, what on earth have you been using?" She crossed her arms. "Even my best powders can't compare. How can a man’s skin look smoother than mine?"

He flicked open his fan. "Perhaps Qi-shimei should devote more effort to her cultivation than to her senior’s complexion."

She rolled her eyes, though a thread of genuine jealousy remained in her gaze.

"Shen-shidi does look even more radiant these days," Yue Qingyuan cut in with a light laugh. "It suits you."

A strange heat prickled at Shen Qingqiu’s neck. He turned away. "Zhangmen-shixiong’s eyes must be failing him. Enough of this nonsense."

But Yue Qingyuan only smiled, and Qi Qingqi muttered under her breath through the rest of the report.

***

Compliments became frequent. Too frequent.

Outer disciples whispered as he passed: "Peak Lord Shen looks younger every day…"

"He's like a painting come alive…"

Shen Qingqiu had always been a renowned cool beauty, his features refined and sculpted with the untouchable allure of a snow-crowned peak. But now...

Now the frost had thawed. His beauty, once the distant moon of winter, glowed with spring’s first sunlight, soft and luminous, as though warmth had finally dared to brush the edges of ice.

Even he lingered at the mirror each morning.

Impossible. Absurd.

The praise should have been proof of his superiority. Instead, it felt like a spotlight on something he hadn’t permitted, a change he hadn’t commanded.

And through it all, there was Luo Binghe.

The boy endured his daily torments with the same pathetic obedience. He scrubbed the endless stone steps until his hands were raw, sorted mountains of dusty scrolls, and suffered the lash of Shen Qingqiu’s tongue with downcast eyes.

But afterward... Shen Qingqiu saw it. That fleeting shift once the cowering performance was over, as Luo Binghe turned away or was dismissed.

It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t resentment.

It was a knowing, lingering smile. A secret curve of his lips that he would direct at the ground, or at the wall, or sometimes, daringly, at the sheen on Shen Qingqiu’s own cheeks.

The look of a craftsman admiring his handiwork.

One afternoon, catching the boy’s glance again, Shen Qingqiu’s patience snapped.

"You think this is amusing?"

Luo Binghe lowered his eyes. "This disciple would never dare—"

The slap cracked unnaturally loud through the quiet courtyard. Shen Qingqiu had put the full force of his cultivation behind it; Luo Binghe flew back crashing into a wall and dropped hard to his knees. He grasped cheek, where four perfect, crimson lines welled from Shen Qingqiu’s nails.

He didn’t bow and beg for forgiveness. He simply stayed there, dark eyes wide, holding his bleeding face. The look he finally fixed on Shen Qingqiu was a deep, swirling pool of something dangerous.

Shen Qingqiu’s heart hammered against his ribs. "Wipe that look off your face," he hissed, his voice low and venomous. "Know your place, beast."

He turned on his heel. The pleasant tingle of cream on his skin now burning hot like a brand.

***

Shen Qingqiu stormed into his bamboo house, his pulse still jagged from the courtyard. He yanked open the basin, splashed his face with cold water, and scrubbed at his skin, almost feeling the sting he’d left on Luo Binghe’s cheek etched across his own.

It was intolerable.

His gaze landed on the porcelain jar. His hand shot out, gripping the smooth ceramic. For one breath, he imagined hurling it against the wall. Shattering it. Ending all this.

But he didn’t.

He set it back down with a muted clink.

***

Days blurred into the rhythm of sect life. Disciples trained, reports circulated, chores were doled out.

And Shen Qingqiu’s hand strayed—always, inevitably—to that porcelain jar.

Then Luo Binghe left on a two-month night hunt.

The first week was peaceful. The second, Shen Qingqiu’s supply of cream ran out. Annoyed, he sent a senior disciple to the capital for a replacement.

When the jar arrived, he opened it with a strange finality.

It looked the same. It smelled the same. But when he smoothed it on… it was just cream. Pleasant, but ordinary. The melting freshness was gone. The glow, absent. His reflection stared back duller, harsher, as though the frost had crept back.

Another week passed.

Two.

Three.

He tried more jars. Questioned disciples. Always the same result.

By the fourth week, he could hardly stand his reflection.

Shen Qingqiu felt himself hollowing out, restless in his own skin. Each past compliment replayed like mockery. The mirror had become an adversary.

When Luo Binghe finally returned, bloodied but whole, Shen Qingqiu kept his composure. His fan snapped open with deliberate calm, though his grip was too tight.

"You’ve been busy," he said coolly.

Luo Binghe bowed. "This disciple did not wish to disappoint Shizun."

Shen Qingqiu gestured toward the jar. "Do not lie to me." The words cut like ice. "There is no ‘new refinement’ at that apothecary. What was in it?"

For the briefest second, Luo Binghe stilled. Then he lowered his head. "…That is correct. The apothecary sells only the usual blend. The refinement… came from me."

Shen Qingqiu’s pulse spiked. "You dare tamper with what I entrusted—"

"Shizun misunderstands." Luo Binghe raised his eyes, something unreadable gleaming within. "This disciple only wished to make it more fitting. For you."

The fan snapped shut. "You are overstepping."

Yet even as he said it, the words rang hollow. Because the boy was right. It had fit him. Too well. He craved it.

Luo Binghe bowed low, perfectly submissive. "If Shizun permits, I will prepare a fresh batch tonight."

Shen Qingqiu’s breath caught, though his expression didn't change. "…Do not be late."

"As you wish."

***

Luo Binghe arrived at the bamboo house in the hush of evening. Only three candles burned within Shen Qingqiu's room, their light casting long, dancing shadows across the walls.

"Must this be so elaborate?" Shen Qingqiu snapped, arms folded tight across his chest. He lay on the bed, silk blindfold in place. Luo Binghe had insisted the “process” required stillness and darkness to “seal in the refinement.”

"Yes, Shizun. It is essential." Luo Binghe’s voice was a low, soothing murmur, too close to his ear. "The potency is fleeting. It must be applied the moment it is prepared. This disciple only wishes to give you the best."

Shen Qingqiu scoffed, but relented. The weight of his disciple’s presence was palpable even through the blindfold. He could feel Luo Binghe standing beside the bed, his gaze like a physical touch.

At first, there was only silence, broken by the faint rustle of robes. Then came a slick, soft sound of friction against skin that was utterly foreign.

Shen Qingqiu stiffened under the cover. His lips thinned. Surely not...

The noises grew clearer: wet, deliberate strokes, muffled grunts. The rhythm quickened, turning frantic. Shen Qingqiu’s mind screamed in outrage. His hands clenched at his sides.

The sheer audacity! His disciple, in his room, beside his bed.

"Luo Binghe," he bit out. "you dare—"

A choked sound—half gasp, half groan—cut him off. A warm, thick splatter landed on Shen Qingqiu's cheek, then another on his brow. Its effect was instant, sinking into his skin, a thousand times more potent than the cream had ever been. The scent was musky, primal, and undeniably… Luo Binghe.

Shen Qingqiu tore away the blindfold and sat up. A single drop slid toward his lips. Without thinking, his tongue darted out to catch it. The taste was startling—complex, salty-sweet, bursting with a pure, concentrated energy that made the very core of his cultivation tremble.

Luo Binghe stood before him, chest heaving, dark hair clinging damp to his temples. His eyes were wide with guilt and ecstatic triumph. His cock, still hard and slick, was aimed at Shen Qingqiu’s face. Shen Qingqiu raised a hand, fingertips brushing the fluid on his cheek.

His gaze lifted, sharp as a blade.

"Is this what you intended?" His voice was a hoarse whisper, yet his other hand reached forward. Cool, elegant fingers wrapped around the base of Luo Binghe’s shaft.

The boy shuddered, knees buckling, whimpering. "Shizun..."

Shen Qingqiu said nothing. His fingers tightened, stroking once, twice, his eyes gone dark with a new, terrifying hunger. Then, with predatory grace, he slid from the bed to his knees.

"What are you—?" Luo Binghe moaned, the question breaking apart.

Shen Qingqiu’s answer was to lean forward and take the head of Luo Binghe’s cock into his mouth. He started slowly, cautiously, his tongue exploring the shape and taste. But the latent energy was an addictive drug. His movements grew surer, more eager. He took more, lips stretching around the girth, one hand braced on Luo Binghe’s hip for balance.

Luo Binghe trembled under his touch, breath ragged, each sound louder in the candlelit quiet.

A low growl rumbled in Luo Binghe’s chest. His hands tangled in Shen Qingqiu’s hair—not guiding, but claiming. Submissiveness replaced by raw dominance. "So good…" he rasped. "Shizun’s mouth is so good for this disciple."

He began to thrust, hard and deep. Shen Qingqiu relinquished control, his head held firmly as Luo Binghe fucked his mouth with deep, possessive strokes. The sounds were obscene: wet slaps and choked gags, which Shen Qingqiu fought to suppress.

At last, Luo Binghe spilled down his throat with a guttural moan. Shen Qingqiu swallowed greedily, wasting nothing, though traces escaped the corners of his lips. As Luo Binghe pulled out, spent, Shen Qingqiu cupped his hands beneath his chin to catch the last precious pearls.

He looked down at the substance pooling in his palms, then up at the panting, awe-struck boy. Calmly, he smeared the remainder across his cheek as if it were no more than cream. His voice, when it came, was ragged with spent effort and absolute, damning finality.

"It seems, Binghe, I have no choice but to keep you."