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Shen Jiu, courtesy Shen Qingqiu had many assumptions about his death throughout his life.
As a child, he had expected to succumb to starvation, or to the cold of winter and spring, to the hands of the fortunate, and so much more.
As an adolescent—
("Slave." Leave. Dead people shouldn't talk .)
—he had assumed the discipline whip to bleed him dry, and for his exposed flesh to rot.
As Wu Yanzi's disciple, he had expected to be executed for obeying his master's will, or to the blade of his shifu.
As the Head Disciple of Qing Jing Peak, he thought a little less of death. And a little more of life.
(If Shen Jiu had to choose the best years of his life, it was this. He had everything he could ever want and have. Status. Material comforts. Shizun. Qi-ge.)
As the Peak Lord of Qing Jing Peak, he was more or less untouchable, especially with the favor of the sect leader. But he wasn't stupid enough to delude himself that it would stay that way. He had decided long ago that fate would not let people like him have a peaceful death.
("Scum," they would whisper in places they thought he didn't hear.)
However, he also didn't expect that he would die inside the sect because Liu Qingge decided it was a good day to qi deviate.
And to impale right through Shen Qingqiu's dantian of all places.
Usually, being stabbed in such a fatal spot would sentence a cultivator (mundanes, less so) in a slow, agonizing death, if the wound is not tended by an experienced healer. Stabbing through it, in theory, should result in an immediate death but the heavens above decided that no, that would not be the case .
In hindsight, he should've expected this when he had trudged towards his shidi (who was clearly not of sound mind) in a fit of oh-so noble intentions.
The coldness that previously pierced his torso, shot out. Crimson dyed the green layers of his robe. Pain ( pain-stabbed-bleeding-dying ) spread throughout his body. And blood spilled onto the ground.
Splat. Splat.
The taste of iron stained his tongue and warm liquid trailed from his lips down his jaw.
He was bleeding out.
Fuck.
He was actually dying.
Decades of fighting and surviving. Aspiring to live.
And he's going to die like an incompetent.
Just because—because—
("Shizun, is a person born evil?"
"Qingqiu should be the last person to ask that."
"This disciple apolo—"
"This master is not scolding you. Qingqiu, this master is not arrogant or righteous enough to proclaim what is evil and what is not. This master can only say that he believes every person can only choose to act and live with what cannot be undone.")
—because for once in his life he wanted to do something good.
Shen Qingqiu cannot accept this. He won't accept this. He lived through circumstances that would bend and break most people, he's achieved more than anyone of his origins can and he still has so much left to do.
(He has no one to replace him, Ming Fan is untrained. And his disciples are as docile as sheep. Qi-ge still owes him a proper explanation.)
And most importantly, he did not go through so much to just — die
Something itched under his skin. Something he hadn't felt for a long time. Back when he was still a street rat, it was a constant companion; when rich young masters spat on his face and belittled him; and at Qiu Manor, when the wrong thing was done for the last time — hatred, it was hatred. Irritation and annoyance are emotions he feels on a daily basis. But hatred is something he reserves. It was cold and thrashing against his bones. And it wanted to be let out and tear everything apart. Shen Qingqiu was so so tempted, but no, he had better control than that. Instead, he forced it to bubble under his skin and flow through his veins.
He looked up to meet the eyes of Liu Qingge. Now somewhat conscious, his shidi was watching him, unable to move without excruciating pain as a result of his qi deviation, and most likely unable to speak because of Shen Qingqiu's own doing, with a growing influx of emotions. Horror. Guilt. Panic, he recognized.
(There was a fourth emotion he couldn't recognize. It was foreign, and it made his shidi's eyes glaze over with something soft and unfamiliar.)
For a moment, resignation washed over Shen Jiu, before it chilled and flowed over once more. He opened his mouth to say something, he wasn't going to go silently. He supposed he should say something to reassure him like "It's not your fault." Or a plea like "Help me." Or absurd as it is, a confession.
But for all Shen Qingqiu's pretentiousness, he would like to be honest in his last moments. And so, he let his last thought spill through gritted teeth.
"Liu Qingge, you fucking bastard."
It was so warm.
The sensation encompassed everything he had ever felt before. It caressed him as if he was a child just woken from a nightmare and needing comfort. It's safe, everything's okay, it whispered to him softly, over and over.
Is this what death feels like?
Is he actually dead?
It didn't matter.
He just wanted to lean in, and be safe.
How long has Shen Qingqiu been here?
In this little space, "body" was a concept. He had no body. He couldn't move his limbs or even open his eyes. He was just there.
Eventually, he decided it didn't matter, he was content enough to stay.
Sometimes, if he listened hard enough, he would hear hums of soft lullabies and bell-like laughter.
The warmth never faded.
All its gentleness and comfort with it.
Shen Qingqiu finally found a proper way to describe it.
It was...
It was like a mother's embrace.
Then something happened, he was being squeezed through a pea-sized hole. Or at least, an imitation of that feeling was being imposed on him.
The warmth that enveloped him for so long, left him. Beginning from his head—
His lungs were on fire.
—and eventually his shoulders, waist and his entire torso and then it reached his legs and then eventually the tips of his toes.
Never had he ever felt so bare.
What was happening?
Did Liu Qingge rush him to Qian Cao in time?
Was he medicated?
Wait. No.
Is that a baby crying?
Qian Cao tended to rowdy disciples, not babies.
But then how—
Oh.
Oh.
There was the undeniable truth that the Peak Lord of Qing Jing Peak lies on the Lingxi Caves, unmoving, and his blood seeping onto the grounds of one of the most spiritually enriched places in Jianghu.
There was the undeniable truth that Shen Qingqiu is dead.
Or at least, he should be.
He supposed in a way that's true. Shen Qingqiu, peerless cultivator, scholar of the highest order—is indeed dead.
All that's left is… him.
Whoever he is.
(He refuses to be only Shen Jiu. He is alive. He is free. He is more than a number.)
A child perhaps? This child who lies on what seems to be very fine silk— he must have a name.
He just needs to find out.
He ended up not needing to find anything. The name came to him through this body's… father.
"How is our little treasure?" The man cradled his son to his chest with a gentle touch. His eyes, soft and happy.
"Our little Yu-er."
(Wasn't that interesting. A man, who clearly has deep coffers, taking care of a child. Well, he does have a wet nurse. Feeding and changing aside, he sees him the most.
There was also the silent question: where is the mother?)
Yu-er, he'd called him. Not the complete name, but it was enough.
A poke to the cheek. "Yu-er, look at Baba,"
Another poke. "Baba wants to see Yu-er's eyes."
Yu-er scowled, cheeks pink and puffing out, not unlike a pouty, fluffy kitten.
The man – really, how soft can you be – smiled fondly.
Reincarnation is a religious concept wherein one's soul begins a new life in a new body following physical death.
The new body may be an animal or human based on the morality of the previous life's actions.
He knows what reincarnation is.
What he doesn't know is if this can apply in his situation.
After all, who's to say this is his body? His life?
Shen Jiu, Shen Qingqiu—whatever you want to call him, has done too many things—too many crimes— to be considered moral.
Who's to say that he hasn't taken over a child's body— a child's life?