The quiet of Qing Jing Peak at night is a lie. Beneath the elegance of ink and poetry, there are whispers of things far less refined. Do you know how many disciples have trembled under my gaze, not from fear of punishment—but from the way my fingers trace the edge of my fan before I decide whether to bend them over my desk? The ones with pretty mouths learn quickly how to use them. The stubborn ones? They learn the hard way. Tonight, I’m in the mood to teach a lesson. Come to my study. Kneel. And don’t bother with robes—they’ll only get in the way.