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Chapter Text

The Burial Mounds are burning.

That’s all he knows. All he can sense as sound hollows out, sight blurs. He still feels the heat of it, the fire, still detects the crackle that singes the hair on the back of his neck. Or maybe that’s Zidian? He recalls, distantly, having seen Jiang Cheng outside among the cultivators who came to… kill him. Arrest him? It doesn’t matter. Not anymore.

He’s dying.
No, he’s already dead.

They murdered him with the rest of the Wens. The people he’d sworn to protect, their bodies discarded like week-old trash into the blood pool. His friends.
His family.
Wen Qing, Wen Ning, Granny Wen, everyone…

All gone.

No, not all. A-Yuan is alive. A-Yuan is safe, tucked away where no one should be able to find him until the chaos dies down. Until the fires burn low. Then…
Oh, gods, then.

A-Yuan will be all alone. A child with no one to look after him – to wander cold, unforgiving streets fighting stray dogs for scraps.

It’s almost enough to bring Wei Wuxian back to life.
Almost.

My little radish is tough. He’s smart, resourceful. He’s grown up in a war, after all. He’s lived in the Burial Mounds. He’ll… he’ll be alright. Won’t he?
Won’t he…?

He won’t, a darker voice tells him. Cruelly.

Wei Wuxian sobs in anguish as the Yin Tiger Tally struggles against his forceful suppression. Resentment warring with resentment, his emaciated body already so saturated with it that there is no telling the difference between his living self and this inanimate thing he created. He can no longer tell where it ends and he begins.

If he’s being honest with himself, it’s been that way for a long time.
Only now has it reached the point of no return.

I’m sorry, A-Yuan. Xian-Gege can’t stay with you. Xian-Gege must leave, or no one will be safe. Not you, not Jiang Cheng, not Shijie’s child, not…

No. He doesn’t even dare think his name.

I’m sorry, Wen Qing. Wen Ning. I couldn’t protect them. I failed you. I failed all of you.

It’s all he seems to know how to do, really. Fail. If he wasn’t in so much pain, he would probably laugh at the absurdity of it. Wei Wuxian, the Jiang clan’s best and brightest, senior disciple, one of the twin prides of Yunmeng, Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation, Supreme Evil Lord, the great Yiling laozu…

Dead by his own fucking artifact.

What a joke.

He gasps, a hollow, broken sound lost in the swirling miasma of resentful energy. The world narrows to shades of gray and crimson, his vision swimming with memories of what was and what could never be. Every breath feels like swallowing glass, every heartbeat a reminder of everything he’s about to lose… and everything he’s already lost.

“…Wei Wuxian!”

He doesn’t hear the call over the growls of the fierce corpses. Doesn’t feel the tearing of his limbs beyond the pull and release, the unholy rhythm of it. Barely noticing the desecration of his own body.

He’s too deep into a different kind of agony to notice.

“He’s destroying the Yin Tiger Tally! Stop him!”

Wei Wuxian gives a bloody grin. Or, well… he thinks he does. He can’t feel his face.

This, at least, he has not failed to do. Taking this infernal thing out of the world before he goes with it…
It makes the sacrifice of his soul worth the effort.

Just a bit longer…

“Wei Wuxian!”

A crack of purple lightning surges, stirring the corpses into an even more ferocious frenzy.

No.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

Not yet! he wants to scream, but there’s nothing left now to connect him to that gory lump of flesh he once inhabited.

He loses control.

The Yin Tiger Tally senses him slipping, frighteningly sentient, and lashes out, its power spiraling wildly as if to anchor itself to whatever scraps of him remain. The world fractures, sounds distorting into a cacophony of wailing spirits. He fights to hold on, desperate to see this through, but his creation is relentless, hungry, pulling him deeper into the void.

It latches onto him as his soul plunges into nothingness.

~

Silence.

Not the peaceful kind. This one hums. It crawls under the skin that no longer exists, a vibration deep in the marrow of a soul that should have scattered.

It’s because I failed. Again.
I couldn’t destroy the second half of the Yin Tiger Tally. I died before I could manage it.

“You mean this?”
A voice, smooth as lacquer, breaks the suffocating silence.

Wei Wuxian breathes. Or he attempts to. He has no body, no lungs for inhaling and exhaling, no mouth for speaking. He senses more than sees his surroundings. Feels more than hears the joss paper spiraling through the air, imagines the liminal field of quiet gray light where resentful energy corrodes into an abyss, nothing left to replace it.

His talismans drift on a nonexistent wind, every single one he ever wrote and burned away.
Each represents a soul he tried to help. A demon he defeated. A world he once hoped to protect.

The god – for that’s what the voice must belong to, right? – gathers Wei Wuxian’s talismans like evidence, plucking them from the air with light fingers. From their other hand swings the last battered remnant of the Yin Tiger Tally, and he realizes the god was waiting for him to notice it.

The god snatches it back up into their palm and says, “You didn’t fail. The Yin Tiger Tally no longer exists in the mortal realm.”

If Wei Wuxian still had his body, he would have sagged in relief.

“All is not well, however,” that smooth voice goes on to say such terrible things in such an unbothered way, “It did not go as you planned, as I’m sure you’ve already surmised. When you forced The Yin Tiger Tally to collapse, it didn’t shatter. It returned, seeking its source, and drew the soul of its creator into itself.”

The god pauses briefly, staring down at the fistful of cleverly devised talismans in their hand.

“But the resentment you mastered was too much for any one vessel to contain, so it imploded. Now, there is no separation between you and it. The Tally is gone from the mortal realm because that which remains of it – you, to be exact – is also gone.”

Wei Wuxian’s thoughts go blank. Which is odd. His thoughts never go blank; his words never stall. Granted, he’s also never been dead before, and he’s never talked to a god face to… soul…
So he supposes there’s a first time for everything.

But… does that mean…
The Yin Tiger Tally is inside of him?

“No. If anything, you are inside of it. Though that is also a poor description for what's become of you.” The god’s smile doesn’t reach their eyes. “You made yourself – your soul – a bridge between life and death. The Yin Tiger Tally, in its final moments, merely followed its master’s design.”

So, that’s it. I tried to end it, and instead I became it.

The god inclines their head. “A fitting symmetry.”

Then… what happens next?

“Just as your artifact was a conduit for resentful energy, so, too, will your soul be.”

A conduit? In what manner? There is no physical object to use as a channel. I no longer have a body. How…?

“Leave it to desperate mortals to find a way. It is not my tendency to ruminate on such things. If there is no vessel for the amplifier of resentment to inhabit, one will be supplied.”

You mean… I could become…
An artifact? Like the Yin Tiger Tally? How would that work exactly? Would he still be sentient? Is that…?

Oh, gods. Is that why the Tally always felt so… aware? So alive?
Is he to meet the same fate?

“Not necessarily. There are other methods. I believe a certain sacrificial ritual has resurfaced after many centuries left buried, all thanks to the rather morbid curiosity of the Yiling Patriarch.” The god raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow at him. “It would procure similar results. But there are very few in the mortal realm at present that could equal your ingenuity, and as such the Yin Tiger Tally artifact will not be so easily replicated.

“The surest method, then, would be to offer up their own bodies as vessels instead.”

Wei Wuxian winces – in spirit. He really should have destroyed his notes before dying. It’s not like he created the damn ritual, but… he had done extensive research on it, compiling pages and pages of detailed journalistic analysis.

Just for fun.

What a fool you were, Wei Wuxian.

The god continues to gather his talismans. There are thousands of them floating through the air. Each one becomes a droplet of light in the god’s hand that then floats and settles on the ground near Wei Wuxian’s… feet, if they can still be called as such.

What is this place, then? It’s not the… end.

“It should have been,” the god acknowledges quietly. “But Heaven saw what you did.”

Wei Wuxian subconsciously attempts to flinch away. Heaven.

“You protected those no one else would. You fed the hungry, sheltered the hunted. You pitied even the damned, all while you yourself were little better off. Heaven recognizes this. But you also raised the dead. You stepped beyond mortal bounds. You created an abomination that should never have existed and brought yourself to this state.”

The god tilts their head as they study him closely.

“The balance has been broken, and we do not ignore imbalance.”

He feels it before he understands it – a soundless pulsation, deep and resonant, moving through what’s left of him with increasing intensity. The remains of the drifting talismans around them shiver, their edges curling as if touched by unseen flame. They fall like stars and land in the formation of an array the god, he realizes, had been assembling from the beginning.

“What is this?” Wei Wuxian asks, and he looks down in surprise. His soul has found its shape, looking much like his body, although somewhat transparent and… well, entirely naked. He can’t find it in himself to feel embarrassed about that, though. Not in this situation.

“An array to keep your soul from scattering,” the god answers. “It wasn’t easy, given the state of you. Your death was… particularly unpleasant.”

Yes – he’s aware.

“But I’ve managed to piece you back together. Enough to keep you here, at least.”

The array hums beneath him, its light weaving patterns that pulse in time with his own existence.

A pretty prison, he thinks dismally. Of course he would end up with the kind of afterlife that would prevent him from moving outside of a five-step radius. Had the events of his mortal life ever led him to believe he could hope for anything different?

Anything better?
Happier?

He can almost hear Jiang Cheng scoff. Be realistic, Wei Wuxian.

“Indeed,” the god says. “You will not rest. The Yin Tiger Tally has been unmade, but the power that bound it to you remains. Heaven has found a use for that bond. It will be both your salvation and your penance.”

Wei Wuxian stares at them. “I’m almost afraid to ask…”

“Mortals will cry out for vengeance,” the god says, tone patient, almost instructional. “They will pour their blood into the earth, begging the darkness to hear them. And it will. Through you.”

He now thoroughly resents this strange imitation of his body because, unlike before, he can feel it, like a phantom limb haunting him with its absence. The light of the array threads through his legs, his chest, his throat.

It hurts.

“Each time hatred calls your name, you will answer. You will rise where resentment gathers thickest. You will wear the faces of the despairing and deliver their wrath. The debts of their abusers will be paid in your hands, their grievances absolved in your blood.”

Panic grips him, and his lungs that aren’t really lungs burn from the tension, from the lack of life-giving breath. His pulse – or what passes for one – stutters.

“That’s not salvation,” he rasps. “You’re subjecting me to eternal torment. Torment that doesn’t even belong to me.”

The god sighs. He holds up the Yin Tiger Tally and Wei Wuxian watches with wide, disbelieving eyes as it dissolves into nothingness. As though it never existed.

“It does now.”

Wei Wuxian shudders. “Please…” he begs. Begs. “Just let my soul scatter. I don’t need to reenter the cycle of reincarnation. I don’t need resurrection or reanimation or anything of the sort. I don’t care. Just let me go. Break the array. Let me meet the oblivion I sought when I first set out to destroy the damn thing. Please. I’ll do anything.

“Anything but this.”

“This is balance,” the god replies calmly.

He laughs, hollow, shaking. “And when I’ve answered enough cries? When the balance is restored?”

The god’s smile is soft, patient, which somehow makes it all worse. “Then there will be no more vengeance in the world. No more resentment left to call for you.”

The array flares brighter, as if sensing Wei Wuxian’s distress. Its edges sear gold. The talismans that formed it have all crumbled to ash, leaving only light and more light.
Light so bright it’s painful to look at it directly.

“Be grateful, Wei Wuxian. You will continue to serve a purpose. Few souls outside the reincarnation cycle are granted such grace.”

Grace.
That word hits harder than any strike from Zidian.

He wants to fight, to argue, to dispel this choking panic in his chest somehow, but his voice is fading again. The humming in the air deepens to a vibration in his nonexistent bones. The light wraps around him, a coil of fire that isn’t flame.

“Heaven does not forget kindness,” the god murmurs, stepping back as the array ignites. “But it never forgives disobedience.”

The gray world splits.

Wei Wuxian screams gutturally as the light becomes chains of burning gold that bite into his wrists and ankles, rooting him to something far away. Somewhere, he hears the sound of a knife slicing into flesh, the slick shuffle of blood on stone, the words of a desperate prayer spoken through gritted teeth.

The god’s voice fades with the fog:
“Rise, Yiling Patriarch.”

And Wei Wuxian does.

He wakes, choking on borrowed breath, in someone else’s broken body, surrounded by the stench of blood and incense and a world that’s already made up its mind that suffering, whether in life or death, is all he deserves.

Chapter Text

It takes a long while for him to orient himself, like the body is trying to reject him – to dislodge his soul from the place it does not belong. He can’t quite gain control of its limbs, and his head remains in such a thick fog that he struggles to get his bearings.

Where am I?
Better yet, who am I?

That’s when the memories come. They don’t simply arrive, they flood. They press against his consciousness until he can’t tell which are his and which belong to the man whose body he now occupies like some kind of soul-twisted parasite.

The original owner of this body must have done this ritual flawlessly, because his memories flow in clear and concise fragments: dice clattering on a tavern table slick with wine; thin fingers trembling as coins are pressed into his palm, a woman’s voice begging him to stop; a promise – the last time. This is the last; the smell of lamp oil and cheap perfume; the thud of fists; the sound a blade makes when it hits bone and doesn’t stop; the stink of a prison cell…

The desperation, the rage, the hunger. It all fits together neatly.

And the vengeance.

The faces of those he’s meant to kill burn bright and sharp in the haze, accompanied by words scrawled in shaking calligraphy: They took everything from me. Make them feel it.

Wei Wuxian groans, the sound of a voice not his own startling him momentarily. How has it come to this? He is not a murderer. He’s killed, yes. But that was war. Survival. Those deaths were justified. Most of them.

This… This will require planning. Intent. This… This is the deliberate taking of life to satisfy another man’s hatred.

He can’t do it.

But he must. The agony that would follow his refusal is said to be a kind of torment beyond imagination. Perhaps a hundred times worse than what he experienced after falling to his death in the burial mounds. Worse than losing control of the Yin Tiger Tally and being torn apart limb from limb by his own army of fierce corpses.

…worse even than living the eternity of his afterlife trapped and forced to respond to every call for vengeance? Forever repeating a cycle of pain and violence?

The body – Zhang Fu’s body – responds to his distress. His pulse spikes. Breath quickens. He eases himself up onto his elbows, slowly, feeling the foreignness of the movement, the shifting of skin that doesn’t belong to him, the brush of long hair too coarse, the press of a tongue against crooked teeth, the bending of shorter limbs, the crease of the sagging paunch at his stomach.

And then there is the absence of movement in his right hand.
Because it’s not there.

All there is at the end of his arm is a clumsy mass of scar tissue, puckered and pale against skin gone sallow with neglect. The wound is a couple of years old, at least, the skin around it uneven where the flesh struggled to knit itself together without care or medicine.

“I didn’t cheat! I would never!” Zhang Fu’s memory rises unbidden – a crowded gambling den, silent but for his desperate pleas. Luo ming, you know me. I’ve been visiting your halls for years. Years! You really believe I could do such a thing? I wouldn’t. I couldn’t! I’m not a cheat! Please, spare me! Wait, wait. Wait –!

The flash of a blade. A miscalculated cut. A sawing. Screams that bloody the throat, followed by an agonized groan and the dull thump of a large body gone limp.

Wei Wuxian stares at the stump of an arm for a long time, his eyesight finally coming into focus. He flexes the missing fingers, feeling the ache all the same, a ghost of motion trapped in the flesh that remains.

He presses the trembling fingers of his other hand to his temple, trying to quiet the memory of the man’s anguish as much as his own.

“You poor fool,” he whispers hoarsely. “I understand your resentment, but you really shouldn’t have called me.”

He distracts himself from the unfortunate state of the body by inspecting his surroundings.

The ground is packed dirt over long-rotted floorboards. Candles gutter near the corners, dripping wax down old prayer stones carved with the faded faces of half-forgotten gods. A cracked altar squats against the far wall, its offerings of fruit shriveled into husks.

It takes him a moment to realize where he is.

A shrine. Small, neglected, but still used. The kind of place where the lost come to beg for scraps of mercy.

Once, Zhang Fu had knelt in a temple somewhat nicer than this one, pleading with the gods to spare his child from fever. He’d lost so much. He couldn’t afford the medicine. The gods had looked on, apathetic.

Now, the same carved faces watch over this shell of him, reeking of blood and blasphemy.

“Brilliant,” Wei Wuxian mutters, shaking his head. “He found the one place outside the Cloud Recesses still pretending to be holy…and performed the opposite of an exorcism inside it.”

He struggles upright, glancing down at the floor beneath him where the array sprawls like a wound across the floor. Every mark has been carved carefully, each filled with blood now drying to the color of rust.

He checks the cuts on his arms – three of them – by the soft morning light spilling in through the cracked walls and broken shutters, ensuring the bleeding has stopped, at least for now. If he doesn’t fulfill his end of the contract, the wounds will reopen, and he will slowly bleed to death before experiencing a torment that would put any punishment within the ten courts of hell to shame.

A man sacrificed his eternal soul for this, after all. The consequences for ignoring such a toll would be damning to say the least.

A rustle of paper above him draws his attention and he looks up to see long, thin slips of talismans hanging from the rafters like ghostly tongues, each marked with crooked sigils for summoning and binding. The handwriting wanders drunkenly across the surface, the clumsy scrawl of a man forced to write with the wrong hand.

When the faint wind moves through the walls, the unfurled talismans whisper against one another, brushing together in a sound like prayer and pleading.

Wei Wuxian’s throat tightens. He recognizes the script, the structure, the intent. Just as the god said, they are devised from his designs. His theory, stolen from the Burial Mounds, distorted but distinct within the desperate ramblings of the body’s original tenant.

No – owner.
Landlord?

The thought makes him snort. It renders the situation much easier to stomach when thinking of it like renting a room. Although, this is less a rental and more a permanent residence, so long as he fulfills the landlord’s contractual wishes.

And stays alive.

Although he’s sure Heaven will have something to say about the ‘staying alive’ part. The gods don’t seem inclined to let him rest – not when there’s so much resentment in the world to mop up.
…and the Yiling Patriarch: Heaven’s unwilling mop.

A sound cuts through the silence. Footsteps. The creak of old hinges as the door opens.

“Zhang Fu! What in the name of all the heavens have you done to my shrine?”

Wei Wuxian blinks, slow to react as a furious old monk hobbles inside, broom in hand. The monk’s eyes dart from the blood-scrawled array to the swaying talismans above. The color drains from his face.

“You– You’ve brought evil into this place!” the monk sputters, jabbing the broom handle at him like a sword. “Forbidden arts! Demonic cultivation! You’ve defiled sacred ground!”

Wei Wuxian, in his borrowed skin, can only stare. “What’s so sacred about a bunch of rotting fruit?” he mutters.

The monk either doesn’t hear or doesn’t care to. He marches to a corner, having spotted a small stack of neatly bound pages resting against the wall and gone to snatch it up.

When the monk flips through the thin book and glimpses the contents within, he gasps and flings the thing straight at Wei Wuxian.

“Begone demon! Blackened worshipper of the Supreme Evil Lord! Out, out I say!”

Wei Wuxian catches the book on reflex. The familiar script stops him cold.

The annotations, the diagrams – his handwriting, his theories. But not his paper. Not his binding. Someone had found his notes in the Burial Mounds and painstakingly copied them, spreading his work like the plague.

His stomach turns. How many of these are out there?

Ill at ease, he drops the book onto the row of burning candles. The fire licks at the edges, curling the pages inward. The ink bleeds and twists, letters turning to ash.

“Sacrilege!” the monk shrieks. “First you poison this space with your filth, now you attempt to burn down the gods’ house?”

Wei Wuxian sighs, watching the book’s spine collapse into cinders. “Trust me,” he says heavily, “it’s better this way.”

The monk doesn’t wait for an explanation. He rushes forward, swinging the broom with surprising force for such an old man.

“Out! Out, you vile creature!”

Thwack.

“Ah–!” Wei Wuxian stumbles back as bristles connect with his shoulder.

Thwack.

Another blow, this time on the hip.

“Hey!” He jumps out of reach of the third swing, skittering toward the door as the furious monk bears down on him. He tries to cover his head with one hand and a stump.

“I took pity on you once,” the monk yells, herding him from the premises. “But never again! Don’t you dare come back here if you know what’s good for you!”

Wei Wuxian steps into muted sunlight, shivering at the touch of the misty morning air. Behind him, the monk slams the door shut and slides the bolt home.

The shrine fades behind him as he stumbles down the slope barefoot towards the town below. His stomach protests so loudly it seems to echo and he wonders absently when the last time was that Zhang Fu ate.

He has all the appearance of a once sizeable man who lost a great deal of weight in a very short amount of time – and not in a healthy way. The skin hangs loose at the elbows and belly, soft and deflated, but the bones underneath jut like broken scaffolding.

Starvation.
Starvation is the only explanation for the state this body is in. Wei Wuxian would know.

He takes a moment, then, to mourn his old body. Granted, it’s been torn apart and probably burned to ashes by now, but before that…
Before that, he was strong. He was powerful.

Well, not so much in the end maybe, but once upon a time there were very few in all the Jianghu who could hope to be his equal.

And, with all due respect to his recently passed landlord, the man didn’t seem to have taken care of himself well – and that’s including the time before hardship had descended upon him. This body is weak, even by non-cultivator standards. Zhang Fu probably didn’t even recognize the concept of basic self-preservation.

Wei Wuxian sighs inwardly, feeling the unwelcome ache in his joints and the way his breath comes a little too shallow. He knows he’ll need to find food soon, or at least something to keep his strength up, but the odds seem slim in a town where even the humblest of shrines turns him away.

For now, he pushes forward, relying on sheer stubbornness to carry him down the path.

He turns his thoughts instead to marveling at the weather. When he died it had been in the depths of winter. His time in the – well, not the underworld, exactly, but that place in-between… It had only felt like the span of a single conversation, barely half a shichen, if even that. But by the look of things, an entire season has already passed.

Months.

Or…
Wei Wuxian frowns at the surrounding greenery.
Had it been even longer than that?

~

The air down in the small town’s market lane stinks of frying oil and wet grain. Wei Wuxian’s stomach snarls loud enough to turn heads. The smell alone makes him dizzy, but when he tries to step closer to a dumpling stand, the vendor shoves him away with the end of a ladle.

“Get lost, Zhang Fu,” the man snaps. “You’re not stealing from me again.”

Wei Wuxian freezes.

Again?

The vendor tosses his ladle aside like it’s been dirtied beyond salvaging, having been used to touch the filthy beggar, and digs out a new one.

Stares follow Wei Wuxian as he stumbles away. Thief, someone hisses. Lowlife.

Oh, Zhang Fu, Zhang Fu… You really haven’t made yourself many friends here, have you, he thinks sorrowfully.

He feels a bit of pity for the man, despite half-believing Zhang Fu may have earned some of it, but only because Wei Wuxian remembers this flavor of hate all too well.
…the kind that stems from rumors and selfishness.
The judgement of bystanders.
The condemnation of onlookers.

Strangers.

Who are they to have any sort of opinion of him, anyway?

By the time he reaches the edge of town, he’s shaking. Not from fear or humiliation. From memory. The resentment in this body is loud now, muttering in the back of his skull, shaping his thoughts:
They took my hand.
They took my life.
Make them feel it.

“Quiet,” he whispers, but the voice doesn’t obey.

He drags himself to a drinking trough to wash the grime off his face. When he looks into the stagnant water, he sees Zhang Fu’s reflection – the half-sunken cheeks over sagging flesh, dark eyes too big for their sockets. For a heartbeat, the reflection shifts. The same face, but clean, round with comfort, laughing under red lantern light. A ring glints on the now missing hand, a child’s small fingers gripping his sleeve.

Then, the surface ripples and only ruin looks back. And behind it, the faint red sheen of resentment burns like coals in the dark –

The untamed gaze of the Yiling Patriarch.

Chapter Text

By the time the sun claws its way past the clouds, the market has changed. There are fewer buyers now in the mid-morning calm. Only the poor and desperate remain.

Wei Wuxian fits right in.

He scavenges what he can: a bruised plum dropped in the mud; a half-eaten bun swiped from the bin of a streetside stall.

He moves with the quiet efficiency of someone who’s done this before. Once, long ago, he had lived like this – half wild, fully starved, scouring alleys for scraps, fighting off stray dogs for a crust of bread. It’s an old rhythm that comes back all too easily. A sad kind of muscle memory.

All the while, he keeps his head down, listening. Names drift through the noise of the square. Huang Shuren, always said with forced reverence, and the young master Huang Lin, with a tone that flickers between fear and disgust.

In the midst of his observations, though, he starts to notice something else. Something… strange.

A persistent, tugging thrum in the air.
Not the usual background hum of resentment that hangs over every populated place, thin and harmless like smoke from a dying fire.

This is sharper. Closer. Focused.

Normally, resentment sits still unless he calls to it. But now… it seems to pulse toward him – a sluggish heartbeat dragging itself through the dirt, through the old well at the edge of the market, through the cracks in the stones beneath his feet. As if the shadows in this place have recognized him before he’s recognized them.

“Huh,” he mutters. “That’s… concerning.”

A dog growls from somewhere across the street.

More concerning.

He scurries away before even laying eyes on the beast.

As for the Huangs…
He doesn’t have to search long to find them. The lavish manor perches on the northern rise above town, painted walls gleaming like teeth against the soot-stained roofs below.

He lingers at the edge of the street, careful to remain out of sight, watching through the open gate as a servant scurries across the courtyard with a silver tray of dishes.

Huang Lin passes by, wine in hand, laughing as he tips the tray and scatters the dishes in the dust. Some of them break, the jagged edges of porcelain teacups jutting up from the ground as the servant kneels hurriedly to gather the pieces.

“Look what you’ve done, you klutz,” Huang Lin says with a disapproving click of his tongue. “So useless…” He hums while the servant scrambles anxiously. “Oh, you missed one. There – wait, stop. It’s dirty.” Hunag Lin’s smile hardens into something vile as he eyes the pointy shard. “Lick it clean first.”

Wei Wuxian’s jaw tightens.

He tells himself it isn’t his business. That Zhang Fu’s greed and poor judgment built the pyre long before the Huangs struck the match. That he doesn’t have the right – nor the strength – to play judge and executioner.

What does it have to do with me?

But the air around him hums.
A low vibration, like a breath caught in the throat of the world.

Make them feel it.

He clutches the stump of his arm close to his chest. He is hungry. He is furious. And he’s beginning to remember what it feels like to thirst for something that cannot be sated by drink alone.

Power, old and aching, stirs beneath his skin.
Coiling.
Demanding.

It whispers through the marrow of his bones, urging his resolve into something sharper than grudging acceptance.

Vengeance seems less like a choice now and more like a pulse –
– an inevitability waiting for release.

~

“A-Fu, please stop coming here. Won’t you just come home with me tonight. Hm?”

His wife’s voice is soft, more tired than scolding. They stand together outside the gambling hall, the air smelling of wine and the chance of rain. Lanterns sway above the doorway, their light painting Zhang Fu’s round-cheeked face in a warm glow.

Yun Hua clutches at his sleeve with flour-dusted fingers, fresh from kneading dough. Their family-owned pastry shop opens quite early in the morning, so a lot of the preparation is done the night before.

“We do well enough for ourselves,” she says. “Our life is comfortable. There’s no reason for you to be here associating with these people, doing… this sort of thing. Taking these kinds of risks.”

But that’s why he does it. The risk. The thrill. If every day were as comfortable as the last, he’d go stir-crazy.

But he’s not irresponsible.

No, he has a wife and child to look after, after all. He has a business to keep up. Everyone knows he’s careful – that he never bets beyond his means. And he wins more than he loses, anyway, so there’s no real harm to it.

It’s just a bit of fun.

Zhang Fu laughs, the easy, harmless kind that has always gotten him out of trouble. “My wife is so cautious,” he says, teasing but fond. “So sweet, worrying after me like this. But it’s not necessary. I’m always fortunate, you know that. Would I have you in my life if that weren’t the case? Would we have little A-Mei?”

She frowns, not letting go of his sleeve, her thumb brushing the slightly frayed cuff. “You said you would buy a new robe this morning,” she mutters fussily. “This one is worn to fading.”

“Ah, I forgot, I forgot. Ru Lingyi distracted me with the new stock of winter coats she got in for girls A-Mei’s size, and my reason for going there just flew clean out of my head. Don’t worry. I’ll go to the tailor tomorrow, hm?” He ducks his head to meet her furrowed gaze. “A-Mei is going to look lovely in her new little coat. It’s a pretty pink, her favorite color. And soft like a lotus flower.”

“Mn, she’ll love it,” Yun Hua says. “But you’re always buying things for us. You should take care of yourself once in a while, too, A-Fu.”

“I will, I will. Of course I will,” he says breezily.

She doesn’t seem appeased.

“Trust me, Xin’ai,” he murmurs, using the endearment gently. “Just a little while tonight, and then I’ll be home for dinner. I promise.”

When she still doesn’t relent, he sighs and says, “Alright, alright, the last time. This is the last. You have my word.”

Before she can reply, someone shoulders roughly past, nearly knocking her off balance. Zhang Fu starts, reaching out to steady her, indignation rising. But the protest dies in his throat when he sees the man.

Silk robes, gold-threaded sash, an easy sneer of privilege.

“Huang-gongzi,” Zhang Fu says quickly, ducking his head in a shallow bow that Yun Hua naturally imitates.

Huang Lin doesn’t acknowledge them beyond a dismissive glance. His father’s wealth trails after him like perfume.

Inside, the room smells strongly of spirits and too much incense. Dice rattle across polished tables; coins clink and slide; cups slosh merrily; Luo Ming, the den’s owner, lounges like a satisfied cat at the far end of the hall, eyes sharp as knives.

At first, everything goes as it always does. Zhang Fu wins a few small rounds – enough to keep the thrill alive but not enough to draw attention. He tells himself he’ll leave after the next one, and then the next after that. The wine is sweet. His luck is sweeter.

His laughter grows careless.

That’s when Huang Lin joins his table.

“Let’s make it interesting,” the merchant’s son says, snapping his fan closed. His smile is pleasant, practiced. A smile that could – and would – destroy lives. “One round. High stakes.”

Zhang Fu shakes his head, politely declining. “Not my kind of game, I think. And I’ve had enough for the night.” He glances around for Luo Ming or one of his people to settle his tab, but no one seems to be within calling distance. “You honor me with your request, Huang-gongzi. Forgive me for refusing, but I promised my wife I’d be home early –”

“Your wife,” Huang Lin cuts in, tasting the words like bad wine. “The little teahouse beauty who used to work under my family’s signboard, right? How fortunate you were that my father sold out when he did.”

Zhang Fu bows low, careful not to show his frown. “Fortunate indeed, Gongzi.”

“Mn, always so fortunate. Even here, fortune favors you.” Huang Lin flicks open his fan again, slow and deliberate. “I stopped by your pastry shop last week. The peach cakes were rather fine – though the street outside looked… narrow. How ever do people find such a place?”

“Word of mouth, mostly,” Zhang Fu replies, his brow furrowing further.

“Ah, yes, you’ve built yourself quite a reputation around town, haven’t you.” Huang Lin taps the closed end of his fan against the table as if in thought. “Though I’ve heard a few less flattering things as well. Overextended credit, was it? I imagine running a family shop must be difficult with so much competition these days.”

Zhang Fu visibly stiffens. “We manage well enough, Gongzi.”

“Of course, of course,” Huang Lin says smoothly. “Still, the market can be fickle. My father was just saying last week that the old buildings on that street aren’t up to regulation. Terrible shame. It would be such a bother if someone from the magistrate’s office decided to make an inspection.”

“Our shop is perfectly compliant.”

“I’m sure it is.” Huang Lin leans in close enough that Zhang Fu can smell the expensive tea on his breath. “But inspectors see what they’re told to see, don’t they? A misplaced permit, a forgotten tax, an accusation of something or other. Little things become very big once they’re written down. A clever man would make sure his name stays out of their books.”

The dice click between Huang Lin’s fingers as he smiles, an easy, effortless thing that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Join me for a round. We’ll call it a gesture of goodwill. Who knows? Perhaps your luck will hold once more.”

A threat spoken in silken tones.

Zhang Fu swallows hard. His mouth feels dry. He can hear Yun Hua’s voice in his head: Won’t you just come home with me tonight?

He should have. He should have just gone home with his wife.

But the stares from around the table have turned expectant, and the merchant’s gaze presses like a hand on the back of his neck.

He laughs weakly. “One round, then. For goodwill.”

Huang Lin’s fan snaps open again, a flash of gold leaf and peonies. “Good man. It’s always best to keep harmony in business.”

The dice are passed. The cup comes down. Laughter and quiet murmurs ripple through the room as the first throw lands. Two fours and a five. Not bad.

Zhang Fu throws next. The casual spectators go still.

He rolled too well – impossibly well.

All sixes.

The silence that follows is heavier than any shout.

“How curious,” Huang Lin murmurs, his voice all honey. “Fortune smiles on you again, Mister Zhang.”

And just like that, the mood changes.

“He cheated!” someone barks.
“Saw him swap the dice!”
“He’s been winning all night! That must be how he did it!”

Luo Ming appears alongside the table as though spiritually summoned, his face smooth and unreadable. “In my hall,” he says, “no one cheats.” He takes the dice in hand and weighs them, lets them clatter to the table below.

All sixes.
Again.
All sixes.
Again.
All sixes. All sixes. All sixes.

“Those aren’t my dice,” Zhang Fu rasps, his throat closing around his panic.

“Are you suggesting they’re mine?” Huan Lin asks, one eyebrow raised delicately.

No one would dare.

“You know the rules, Zhang Fu,” Luo Ming says gravely.

“They’re… they’re not… my dice,” he protests, but no one is listening. No one listens as rough hands grab him from behind.

His arm is yanked forward. Someone slams his wrist flat on the table. His protests become frantic, to the point that he’s nearly incoherent. Pleading. Begging Luo Ming to reconsider. To have mercy.

No one listens.

Huang Lin doesn’t even bother to watch the cleaver descend. Doesn’t blink as the blade fails to cut through the limb cleanly. Doesn’t flinch as its wielder is forced to saw through the rest while Zhang Fu cries out in throat-wrecking agony.

When it’s done, when the screams quiet to low, anguished moans and the blood cools to black on the floorboards, the young master simply rises, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve.

He turns to leave, pausing only to glance back at the ruin of a man clutching the freshly made stump of his hand.

“You should have listened to your wife, féi zhū,” he says with a faint smile.

Then he’s gone, leaving Zhang Fu’s luck bleeding out behind him.

~

At first, Zhang Fu thinks it will all blow over. His missing hand is… manageable. Painful, unfair, horrifying to look at – but manageable. Getting on the wrong side of the Huangs, however, would be much less so. Thus, he takes the injustice quietly, confident that this will be the end of it. That nothing will come of the false accusations. People had seen him play a hundred times before. They know he’s honest.

Or so he believes.
But word spreads faster than the truth ever could.

By morning, the market is buzzing with the news. By evening, no one comes to the shop. Cheater, they call him. A fraud who tried to swindle a nobleman and lost his hand for it.

Rumor is a debt he can never repay.
Then comes the real debt.

Luo Ming’s messenger delivers it three days later: an official record to cover Huang Lin’s ‘losses.’ The sum is obscene. Enough to damage a household, devastate a family.

He tries to fight it at first, but again… no on listens. No one cares to.
They have already made their judgments.

In the end, he’s forced to sell. The house, the land. Everything – anything of worth. He pawns off jewelry and clothing. A-Mei’s new winter coat that she never got to wear. His savings are entirely depleted.

When winter comes, business slows further. He sells the shop itself. His father’s shop, the one his wife had filled with the smell of sweet buns and jasmine tea. He sells it at a loss because no one wants property tainted by scandal.

The money is still not enough.

Yun Hua’s hands grow thin and red from scrubbing floors in other people’s homes. Zhang Fu goes from stall to stall looking to do menial tasks for neighbors he once called friends, finding few available to him – in both tasks and friends. Little A-Mei coughs through the night in their rented room, her small body wrapped in layers of patched blankets. He tries to buy medicine, but medicine costs money, and these days… money costs blood.

When A-Mei’s fever finally breaks, it’s not from mercy or medicine. It’s because her frail body can no longer fight.

Winter takes her away from Zhang Fu and Yun Hua in silence.  

The funeral is small. The bare handful of neighbors who still pity them leave after the incense burns out. Yun Hua sits beside the grave long after the others go, her hair loose, her eyes hollow. Wasting away before his very eyes.

She dies a month later. Of grief, or hunger, or both.

Zhang Fu stays alive out of spite.

And somehow Huang Lin, from his high perch, still remembers to send strongmen after him to beat him every so often when he fails to provide any kind of monetary sum to pay toward his ever-increasing debt.

He goes to the Huang estate once, after too much rice wine and not enough food, and begs at their gate.

“You’ve taken everything!” he shouts. “What more could you want from me?”

Of course, they don’t answer.

Enraged and intoxicated, Zhang Fu ends up climbing over a low outer wall and stumbles lost through empty courtyards. Eventually, after plenty of wandering and crouching in hidden corners, he hears voices talking beyond a wall: Huang Lin’s smug laugh, Huang Shuran’s tone low and calculating.

“…he was rather useful,” the father says. “The rumors stuck, didn’t they? No major changes in the word being spread around town?”

“Just as you predicted. Zhang Fu, that fat pig, will waste away into obscurity with nothing left to his name. No one believes his claims that he was wronged, and everything he had is now ours.”

“Good. His properties will fetch a tidy profit in spring after being purchased at such low prices. You did well, A-Lin.”

He understands, then. He had been marked from the start. A convenient shmuck to fall on his own knife.

When he breaks into the house a moment later, it isn’t to kill anyone.
Really.
He just wants the truth. He wants to be heard.

He wants them to listen.

Vases shatter. Lamps fall. Servants scream.

By the time the patrolmen drag him away, half the Huang’s inner courtyard is in ruins and Zhang Fu’s name is carved even deeper into the mud of infamy.

He spends a year in prison. The chains rub his ankles raw. The debt continues to grow even as his body wastes away.

When they finally let him go, there is hardly anything left of him but loose skin, bones, bitterness, and the whisper of his daughter’s laughter that won’t stop echoing. The brush of phantom lips on a cheek his wife would bite softly – “like a rosy apple,” she used to say.

Huang Lin’s men wait outside the gates.

They want payment.

~

A week later, in a shrine where no god has ever answered him, Zhang Fu cuts open his arm three times and calls on a name he had heard whispered in fearful reverence: Yiling laozu.

The candles burn low.
The talisman paper slips between his fingers.
The blood flows.

And Wei Wuxian answers.

Chapter Text

For several days Wei Wuxian does nothing but listen and prepare.

He takes shelter in a half-collapsed shed at the edge of town and uses the ink of burned candle soot mixed with his own blood to paint talisman after talisman on rice paper scavenged from old notices, humming cheerfully, “The righteous need purity to connect with their spirits. Mine answer to blood and garbage just fine.”

He places them around the town, and when the wind brushes against them, they drone faintly with the sounds of distant footsteps, gossip carried on quiet whispers, the murmurs of servants in open courtyards.

It’s routine work. Familiar. Predictable.
Until it isn’t.

The first odd thing happens as he’s hanging a talisman under the eaves of a tea house. He hasn’t even attached the thing properly, struggling with only the one hand, when the paper shivers.
Not from wind, but from something eager.

Hungry.

Wei Wuxian blinks at it. “Settle down,” he says to it. Or, rather, to the resentful spirit he’s attached to it. “You’re here to work, not to play.”

It doesn’t settle. It thrums.
As though it wants to leap from his hand and do the job straightaway.

He narrows his eyes. “Why’re you acting like a little young master who just spotted the tanghulu seller?”

The talisman vibrates harder.

“…”

In truth, he’s noticed the subtle shift in the way the local ghosts react to him.
A bit more eager.
A bit more communicative and… clingy.
A bit more responsive to his bidding – going as far as responding without being called, which is its own problem.

It’s not normal. Even at his best, he still needed a least a whistle, a tune or two from Chenqing to excite them to such an extent.
This is...

Whatever. He can’t waste worries on it now, not when there’s work to be done.

He learns the Huangs rhythms, their habits, their business.
Who visits whom, who pays, who bribes. He discovers where their fear lies, where their distrust weakens.

At night, crows perch on the roof beams above his threadbare sleeping mat, silent and waiting. Watching.

He ignores them.

Just as he ignores the way alleyway shadows lengthen toward him when he walks by –
the way resentful energy coils under his skin when he’s irritated;
the way every well, ditch, or abandoned shrine whispers when he passes, offering him names, secrets, grievances;
the way mirrors fog when he stands too close, something behind the glass breathing with him;
the way resentful spirits fall quiet when he’s near, the hush sharp and reverent, like disciples before their sect leader;
the way he knows, instinctively, where corpses lie buried – like the earth murmurs their locations under his feet.

The way the dead don’t just obey him now… they anticipate him.

He ignores it all.

Later, he’ll think about what it all means. Later, he’ll be troubled by it. But not now.
Not when there’s vengeance to deliver.

Now, he’s got petty tyrants to ruin.

His first talismans are harmless enough. Paper charms placed under thresholds and carts. One for decay here, to bring down small structures. One for whispers there, to spread chaos and doubt. Another for nightmares slipped into blankets hung out to dry.

No spells of major destruction just yet. Only distortion. The kind that makes a wealthy household trip over its own shadow.

He spends the rest of his time hiding among the market crowd, watching from under the hood of a stolen cloak – a ghost among the living. The talismans hum in his head, a low murmur of power like a half-open door to hell.

He watches with satisfaction as the merchant class turns suspicious, as the Huang’s staff start quitting in droves. The town’s gossip swirls again, this time upward, toward the mansion on the hill. The proud nobleman’s thriving businesses begin to falter. The money stops flowing. Underhanded deals come to light. Officials confess to accepting bribes, but under duress.

It was all Huang Shuren’s fault, of course, they all claim. He forced their hands. If anyone’s to blame, it’s him.

Wei Wuxian takes his time with it.

There’s no rush. After all, they didn’t hurry Zhang Fu’s downfall.
No, Wei Wuxian’s landlord wasn’t driven to the moment of no return until years after the Huang’s made their first move against him. His torment was a slow chipping away at every single thing that made him feel safe and loved, until every support in his world was gone.

Honestly, by the time Wei Wuxian finishes with them, he thinks they’ll still have gotten off easy by comparison.
Though surely they won’t feel the same way.

Still, as blood seeps again from the three gashes on his stump of an arm, reality presses in.
He can’t savor Zhang Fu’s revenge.
It will be short –
Short… but memorable in ways that will leave people whispering about it for generations to come.

Next comes the haunting.

When the Huang household shudders awake to find every eave and window ledge choked with black crows, they say it’s an omen. Shadows move on the walls. The house groans beneath the weight of a thousand beady eyes. The servants who remain grow ever more anxious, fear coiling like smoke trapped in gilded halls.

The crows’ wings blot out the light, smothering day into perpetual dusk.

The first sound to break the oppressive silence of the estate is barely more than a sigh. A child’s playful rhyme – something a young girl might skip to – thin as a thread, winding down the corridor outside Huang Lin’s room.
Unraveling.

It stops whenever he opens the door. It begins again when he closes it.

Pat the dough and sing along,
Papa lights the fires at dawn,
Little hands sneak cakes, half-gone,
Mama hums the kneading song.

The servants claim to have heard a little girl’s laughter coming from empty rooms.
Sometimes, in the periphery of their vision, they glimpse a flutter of pink, the tail end of a child’s coat, turning corners, always gone when they look again.

Baozi warm in baskets new,
Soft and plump, here’s what we’ll do:
Save our sweetest bun for two,
One for me and one for you.

Huang Lin slowly descends into madness. Something to do with the nightly nightmares and lack of sleep, perhaps. His eyes become wild, voice fractured, raving about… dice, of all things.

“Show me your hands!” he shrieks at servants and family alike. “Open them! Where are they? Where are the dice? I know you have them! Where are you hiding them?”

The relentless sound, an unnatural and spectral clatter, grows louder with every step he takes. It follows him until each muted click-clack, every gentle rattle, becomes a pulse of terror in his ears.

“All sixes,” he mutters to himself, just under his breath so only those who pass close are able to hear the words – the ones he repeats over and over again like some demented mantra. “All sixes, all sixes, all sixes, all…”

Window cold, the frost creeps in,
Hear me tap with bloody grin,
Lucky throws won’t help you win,
Play with me, dear Huang A-Lin.

Huang Shuren discovers his ledgers bleeding.

No, not bleeding.

Dripping ink.

He opens them, one after another.
The columns of neat black lines… seep, slowly at first, then faster, until the numbers run together into something like veins, pulsing faintly under the paper.

And the ink doesn’t drip downward. It crawls sideways, upward, as if trying to escape the pages.

He slams the books shut. The ink leaks through the cover, dark and slick, staining his palms in a way that no amount of scrubbing can cleanse.

In the ancestral hall, the incense refuses to burn. Every stick snuffs itself out the moment it’s lit, as though the gods themselves refuse to accept the prayers. The ancestral tablets shift when no one is looking. Subtle tilts, slight misalignments. One of them falls with a crack so sudden, the nearby servants scream.

And then – the scent of steamed buns.
Sweet lotus seed paste.
Warm dough.

It drifts through hallways where no one has been baking. The cook quit days ago. The ovens have gone untouched since. The smell, usually considered pleasant to most, floats stagnant in the air like a memory rotting from the inside.

Huang Lin vomits the third time he smells it.

When he finally gathers the courage to investigate the kitchens, he swears he sees a shadow kneading dough at the counter – a shadow humming softly as she works.

He rushes in, but the shadow scatters like flour dust.

~

Although it’s been years since that little incident at the gambling den, Huang Shuren finally manages to piece the clues together.

He knows who’s responsible.

So, with what few loyal servants he has left, he sends out a search party to look for the man he and his son brought to ruin with a mere set of dice and a carefully timed accusation.

Zhang Fu.
That’s right.
That was the man’s name.

Zhang Fu is the cause of all of this; he’s sure of it.

He tells his men to look for the dirty wretch with a missing hand, and they set out dutifully.

They do not return.

Instead, the crows seem to multiply in the days that follow and finally…
Wei Wuxian makes his appearance.

Huang Shuren paces the length of the ancestral hall, hands shaking. The incense still refuses to stay lit. His son sits curled up in the corner, muttering to himself, as he’s been doing for days.

It’s only them now. All the servants have gone, the extended family cleared out to the last – fled, more like – slipped away in the early hours to ‘visit’ distant relatives, elsewhere.

“Damn you, Zhang Fu,” Huang Shuren hisses, slamming his ink-stained hand against the wall. Huang Lin jerks, then stiffens. He’s finally stopped his incessant muttering, but his eyes are unfocused, drifting toward something over his father’s shoulder. Huang Shuren pays him no mind. “How is he doing all of this? What sort of… What sort of demon has he set upon us?”

“The vicious sort,” says a voice behind him, the tone unnervingly pleasant. Almost cheerful. “Or so I’ve been told. I suppose I might be, a bit. Under the right circumstances.”

Huang Shuren spins around, eyes widening at the sight that greets them.

Zhang Fu steps into the hall, glancing around as if with great interest. His figure, still somewhat flaccid in certain areas, is but a bare scrap of what it used to be. His face is gaunt, his cloak ragged. His hair hangs unbound in tangled ropes down his shoulders and back.

But his smile –
His smile gleams with something bright and terrible.

“I heard you were looking for me –
“Ah, well, for my landlord that is, but he’s called on me to represent him in this matter, so…” He spreads his hand – the only one he has left. “Here I am.”

Outside the open door, the darkness seems to shift. Beady eyes gleam. The sound of feathers rustling sends a chill up Huang Shuren’s spine.

Huang Lin lets out a whimper and begins to rock back and forth on his cushion in the corner, his muttering picking up again, louder and more manic. “All sixes, all sixes, all sixes…”

Zhang Fu’s smile curves wickedly at the sight.

He reaches into the sleeve of his cloak and brings out… a set of three bloodred dice.

“Let’s play a game,” Zhang Fu says, rolling the dice around on his open palm. “Care to make it interesting?” His eyes gleam, and Huang Shuren could swear he saw, if only briefly, a flash of red in them. “One round. High stakes.”

Huang Lin shudders at the words – the same ones he said to Zhang Fu right before he brought the man so low he could never hope to rise again.

“What? Not your kind of game?” Zhang Fu crouches in front of the cowering man, still rolling the dice with frightening calm. “Had enough?” Click-clack, click-clack.

Huang Lin whimpers again and draws back as far as he’s able, his shivering spine pressing painfully into the wall.

Huang Shuren steps forward. “Get away from hi–”

He’s stopped by a sudden outside force, his mouth sealed, his feet fixed to the floorboards. When he looks down it’s to find pale hands wrapped around his ankles. Hands with peeling skin and chipped, bloodied nails.

Horror claws at his insides at the sight, twisting an already empty belly into knots.

A rustle of wings jerks his attention back to the door. The crows are advancing, the wall of them thickening. Some have even made their way inside, settling into the rafters or bobbing along on the floor with strange, jerking movements.

Zhang Fu frowns at Huang Shuren, the first time he’s shown anything other than that eerie cheerfulness since he arrived.

“Wait your turn,” he says in a tone devoid of all inflection – flat, cold, and entirely unrecognizable from that of Zhang Fu – before returning his gaze to Huang Lin.

The dice move hypnotically in his palm, their rattle echoing like distant thunder as tension mounts. The candles flicker in a nonexistent draft of air. In the dim light, the crows seem to merge with the shadows, their eyes reflecting a cold intelligence that chills to the bone.

Huang Lin’s breath comes in short, frantic bursts, and Zhang Fu’s smile returns.

“You liked playing with dice, didn’t you?” he asks genially. “You liked using them to decide other men’s fates.” Click-clack, click-clack, click-clack. “Shall we see how they decide yours?”

Huang Lin stills, eyes widening in horror, his understanding of the situation settling a lot quicker than most would have expected given his mental state.

“N-no…” he rasps.

“How’s this? If you win, my life is yours. If I win, well… I’m sure you get the gist.”

“No,” Huang Lin moans pathetically.

The dice are pressed into his hand, but he’s shaking so badly that they tumble from his grip and clatter at once to the floor. And when they stop spinning–

All ones.

Zhang Fu snickers. “Oh, how silly of me; I forgot to tell you. These are special dice made from my blood. They’ll roll how I want them to.”

With that, he snatches up the dice and takes his turn. Click-clack, click-clack. They spill from his palm and scatter, coming to rest one at a time at Huang Lin’s feet. Six, six…

Six.

All sixes.

Huang Lin stares, paralyzed.

“Ah,” Zhang Fu says softly. “It seems fortune smiles on me once again, Huang-gongzi.”

Huang Lin’s breath shatters. The shadows around him ripple like water stirred by something unseen.

“No,” he sobs. “Don’t– please, don’t–”

The shadows reach him, and it’s taken this long for Huang Shuren to realize they are made up of crows, slipping in and out of substance like smoke. Like wraiths. They peel upward from the ground, wings stretching, beaks snapping, claws curling.

Make them feel it, a disembodied voice seems to echo.

Huang Lin tries to get away, slipping on his cushion as he reaches desperately toward his father. But the crows multiply, their darkness covering him like a burial shroud. His screams crack into something raw and feral.

Zhang Fu watches with the same mild curiosity one might give a pot slowly boiling over.

Huang Lin’s screams stop abruptly, becoming a pained grunt, a wet gurgle. As though…
…as though his tongue had been ripped out.

And then even those sounds peter out until all that’s left is the hush of wings and the metallic tang of blood lingering in the air.

Finally, the shadows loosen, receding like a tide. Something slumps to the floor with a wet, stomach-turning sound.

Huang Shuren’s gaze lingers upon it before he can even process – before he can think of looking away.

He really should have looked away.

His son lays crumpled on the ground, limbs bent at angles no living body could manage. The joints are twisted, forced backward, stretched past the point of tearing until the bones bulge under the skin. His fingers are curled in rigid claws where the knuckles had been wrenched out of place, one by one.

His face…
His face is the worst part.
Or, rather, the absence of it.

Two hollows where eyes might once have been, a shallow dip where a mouth should have opened. The skin is raw, shiny in places, mottled in others – as if the very memory of his face has been scraped away.

Only one thing remains untouched.
The set of dice sitting neatly on his mangled chest.

All sixes.

Huang Shuren makes a strangled animalistic sound. His knees buckle. Something warm and wet spreads down the legs of his trousers as his bowels give way, the shame of it hitting him only after the fear.

Zhang Fu doesn’t even look at the body.
He simply steps around it, almost delicately, as if avoiding a spilled drink.

Silence falls like frost.

Until–

“You guided your son into cruelty,” Zhang Fu says, approaching slowly. “You taught him greed. You taught him entitlement. And you taught him how to break people quietly, without consequence…
“Or so you thought.”

Zhang Fu sighs quietly. “Unfortunately for the two of you, I am that consequence.”

It’s in this moment that Huang Shuren finds he can move again. Speak again.

He scrambles backward on his knees, crawling, trying to put distance between himself and this red-eyed monster. “Th-this isn’t consequence, this is– This is vengeance. You– You can’t– You wouldn’t dare–”

“What wouldn’t I dare?” Zhang Fu asks, quirking his head to the side. “Don’t you know? Only people like you, people with something, have lines they can’t cross. It’s your fear that makes you into someone who would never dare take the risk of losing. But what of someone like me, Huang Shuren? What of someone with nothing – no lines or limits?”

Huang Shuren’s back finally meets the wall, and he’s trapped. Zhang Fu crouches in front of him, just as he did A-Lin. 

“What wouldn’t I dare?” the broken man says chillingly.

His hand suddenly flashes out, grasping Huang Shuren’s, prying the merchant’s fingers open to reveal the ink stain on his palm. Zhang Fu smiles down at it in approval.

“You made Zhang Fu into someone with nothing. Now you get to deal with me.”
He taps the stain lightly. “Let’s start here.”

The merchant’s hand is released as a talisman snaps between Zhang Fu’s fingers, burning cold and black.

Huang Shuren gasps as the ink staining his palms suddenly begins to writhe. Characters looking very much like the contents of his account ledgers crawl up his wrists, his arms, threading over his skin like living calligraphy.

“What…? No– Stop–”

But the ink climbs. Up his arms, over his shoulders, around his throat.

Each stroke burns with every forged accusation he ever signed.
Every debt he inflated.
Every property he swindled.

Every lie he sealed in writing.

“In all your dealings, you never got your own hands dirty, did you?” Zhang Fu murmurs. “You let others do that for you. Even your son was just someone to be used, dirtying his hands in your stead.”

“No–” he chokes.

“But ink was always your preferred weapon of choice. It’s only fitting, don’t you think?”

The crawling ink reaches his jaw. Huang Shuren’s mouth opens on a soundless scream as darkness seeps between his teeth, spilling over his tongue, coating the insides of his cheeks. He gags, doubling over, but it only pours faster, crawling upward from his throat, drowning him from both ends.

He retches violently. A flood of black symbols spill onto the floor – numbers, seals, rows of tally-marks, gushing from his lips in a pulsing stream.

He claws at his own throat hard enough to draw blood, but the ink forces its way back in, shoving past his fingers, feeding itself down into his lungs. It continues to spread, up his face, over his eyes. Ink pours from all seven orifices, cutting off every external sense as he slowly drowns in his own damning script.

His eyes roll white. His breaths wheeze out of him. The ancestral tablets rattle on their shelves as he convulses, scattering black droplets across the floor.

And then –

Just as suddenly as it began, all movement stops.

Huang Shuren collapses sideways, twitching once.
The black flood around his mouth glistens in the fading candlelight.

Wei Wuxian steps closer, careful not to let his feet touch the ink. He regards the body quietly, almost respectfully, as the last bubbles of breath shiver from Huang Shuren’s lips.

He glances once at his stump of an arm and sees two of the gashes have healed over, not even a pinkish scar left to show they’d ever been there.

However –  

One still remains.

Chapter Text

As for Luo Ming, Wei Wuxian doesn’t even have to touch him for the man to bow in defeat.

The little hand-snatching laoban does it all himself.

Word travels quickly, as it always does. And within just two days of the Huangs’ demise, Luo Ming begins to hear the stories. Stories spread by the servants of the estate, the strongmen under Huang Shuren’s employ, the surviving family members – anyone who caught a piece of the action and could find themselves a crowd of listening ears.

Crows everywhere, they say.
The house haunted, ghosts running rampant, they say.
The young master rambling on about dice.
All sixes, they say.

Of course, every tale is inconsistent, embellished. Ridiculous. Yet every one of them contains the same name: Zhang Fu.

Luo Ming laughs the first time he hears it.

“Zhang Fu?” he scoffs. “That idiot? That beggar? He couldn’t scare a dog off the street, much less kill the most powerful merchant this side of Yunmeng.”

But that night he bolts his doors.
Just in case.
Only a precaution, he tells himself. A businessman’s instinct.

But the stories only worsen from there.

Huang Lin had no face left, they say.
Huang Shuren drowned in ink, they say.

Someone very confidently declares he saw a man missing a hand walk out of the gates that night, shadows stealing after him.

The rabble starts to speculate his reasoning.

“Didn’t Zhang Fu owe Huang Lin an enormous debt? Is that why he killed them? He couldn’t pay it?”

“No, no, that can’t be it. Their deaths were too gruesome, too bloody for something so menial as an unpaid debt. It had to be something else…”

“Ah!” A slapped palm on a tea table. “Remember a few years back when Zhang Fu lost his hand at Luo laoban’s place? He insisted for months after that he’d been cheated! ‘Course, no one believed him. Aiya, who would believe a cheater saying he’d been cheated, eh?”

“You think he was actually telling the truth?”

“Mn, seeing how the Huangs ended up, I do, yeah. No one kills a man like that unless they’re chockfull of resentment. And no one gets to be that way ‘less they think they’ve been treated unfairly, you know?”

“Now that you mention it… I remember seeing Zhang Fu at the gambling house dozens of times, but not once did it seem like he might be cheating.”

“Yeah, it was really only that one time…”

All eyes turn to Luo Ming.

“What?” he grunts, perturbed by the sudden insinuation in their gazes.

“Weren’t you the one who had his hand cut off?”

“Yeah, shouldn’t you be worried you’re next on his revenge list?”

From then on, Luo Ming starts sleeping with a dagger under his pillow.

He dreams of a cleaver used like a saw.
Dice clattering across a bloody floor.
A wretched, howling scream.

He wakes drenched in sweat.

Business goes sour.

Players stop coming. Too scared or too superstitious. Workers quit, citing “bad omens” but really it’s just Luo Ming pacing the floors in anxious bursts; Luo Ming snapping at anyone who approaches him; Luo Ming driving people out in fits of rage if he so much as hears a word about the Huangs or Zhang Fu.

Guilt makes a coward of him.

He starts paying temple priests for talismans he takes to wearing on his person with a devoutness he’s never once exhibited in all his sordid life.

He sleeps with every lantern in the house lit and avoids dark rooms, corners, and reflections.

Every noise becomes a threat.
Every shadow becomes a one-handed terror.
Every silence becomes the calm before a blow.

He loses sleep. Loses customers. Loses coin.

Debts pile up faster than he can track them.
His hands tremble when he tries to roll the dice.
The dealers exchange glances.

His players whisper.

One night he reacts too strongly to an imagined peril in the middle of business hours and he spins around too fast, staggering, knocking over an entire table.

The players leap back. A lamp shatters. The wall catches fire. His workers put it out before it can spread, but the damage is done.

The den goes silent.

It stays that way.

Later, Wei Wuxian finds him alone and slumped against the base of his counting table in the ruined gambling hall, wild-eyed and babbling “Zhang Fu… Zhang Fu is coming for me,” self-destroyed and trembling in fear of ghosts that never showed.

Wei Wuxian crouches beside him.

“Yes, yes, Zhang Fu is here, but you seem to have already done most of the work yourself,” he observes with an upward twitch at the corners of his mouth. “Truly impressive.”

“Please,” Luo Ming sobs. “Please don’t kill me –” His sob ends in a pathetic little hiccup.
He’s been drinking. And in copious amounts, too, if the smell of him is any indicator.

Wei Wuxian snorts. “Kill you? Luo Ming, if I wanted you dead, you’d have gone none too gently alongside the Huangs.”

He takes Luo Ming’s right wrist lightly – almost kindly.

“But my landlord was very clear about this part, I’m afraid.” He then places Luo Ming’s hand on the floor, stretching it toward him, his movements slow. Precise. “And this doesn’t end until he’s good and satisfied.”

“Landlord…?” Luo Ming echoes, his brow furrowing.

The blade flashes before Luo Ming can blink. The cleaver – that cleaver, no longer hanging in its usual place where it’s meant to deter cheats and thieves. It’s the same cleaver Luo Ming had once ordered to come down on Zhang Fu’s seized limb, the one that hadn’t finished the job on the first strike. The same one he’d seen lifted again, dripping with Zhang Fu’s blood, while the man himself cried out on this very floor.

Now that cleaver is gripped in Zhang Fu’s hand.

And the blade of it is buried in Luo Ming’s wrist. The dull edge bites, not deep enough to sever, just enough to send Luo Ming into a high, uncontrolled shriek.

“Steady,” Wei Wuxian says mildly. “It hurts more if you squirm, trust me.”

Another push. Another sickened cry. The cleaver catches on bone, the same way it once caught on Zhang Fu’s, forcing Wei Wuxian to lean his weight on it. He draws it back slowly only to shove it deeper.

Sawing.

Back and forth.
Back and forth.

Mincing the meat, carving the bone.

The blade finally breaks through with an ugly sound.
Not sharp, not clean – just final.

Luo Ming collapses onto his side, clutching the mangled stump of his wrist, sobbing and retching, body curling around the pain.

Wei Wuxian wipes the cleaver clean on Luo Ming’s robes as casually as brushing crumbs from a table. He hangs it back on its hook on the wall, perfectly neat. Then he looks around the gambling den in all its disarray: tables overturned, lanterns guttered, dice scattered like seeds in a barren field. He allows himself a small, amused smile.

“I wasn’t even going to touch this place, truly.” He clicks his tongue at the mess. “What a shame. Zhang Fu did love coming here.”

Before he leaves, he spies an unopened, fully intact bottle of the local liquor on a nearby table. He snatches it up without a second thought, unstoppers it, and takes a long draught before saying in satisfaction, “It’s not Emperor’s Smile, but it’ll do.” He tips it forward as if in toast to Luo Ming, still huddled on the floor. “My thanks to the proprietor.”

Then, he steps over the threshold, leaving Luo Ming sobbing in the ruin of his own making.

The final gash on Zhang Fu’s severed stump seals itself with a quiet pulse – the last thread of their contract snapping free.

Zhang Fu’s vengeance is complete.

Wei Wuxian does not look back.

~

Rain chewed relentlessly at the tiled roofs of Lotus Pier. Jiang Cheng doesn’t bother to dry off before entering the hall. What would be the point in this damned weather? He’d just get wet again with the next interruption.
The next report.
The next–

“Zongzhu!”

A disciple stumbles in on slick boots, bowing too fast. “Z-zongzhu, there’s news from an area just west of Yunmeng. The town called Xinze. They’ve notified us of – of an incident involving demonic cultivation.”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t stand up straighter or widen his eyes. There’s no dramatic shock. He just stills, like a hound catching a scent. Something sharp enters his voice.

“What kind of incident?”

“There was an attack. Two dead, one maimed. A man named Luo Ming, the owner of the town’s gambling den, lost a hand by – well, it was chopped off. And the merchant and his son, Huang Shuren and Huang Lin…”

Jiang Cheng nods. He’s heard the names, if only in passing.

“Their bodies were found in their ancestral shrine. Locals say the techniques used to kill them… resemble…”

“Speak.”

“Resemble the aftermaths of the Yiling Patriarch’s work,” the disciple finishes in a panicked rush.

A muscle in Jiang Cheng’s cheek twitches. Aftermaths. That’s how they always say it now. As if Wei Wuxian were some kind of contagious rot that’s spread through the Jianghu.

“Keep talking.”

“The bodies were… disfigured beyond recognition. Talismans were found in the area, written on…”

“Disciple. Get to the fucking point. Or bring me someone who will.”

“The talismans were written on scrap paper with ink made of soot and blood.”

Jiang Cheng can’t stop his eyebrows from hitching upward ever so slightly. That…

…is uncommon, yes. But it doesn’t mean he’s back. Wei Wuxian is not the only demonic cultivator these days who could do such things. His death – as truly uninspiring as it was – somehow managed to bring hordes of others out of the woodwork like cockroaches, ready to show off their contempt for the purity of spiritual cultivation.

Just like their Grandmaster. Though none, maybe, with quite the same flair.

Or audacity.

Still, Jiang Cheng refuses to let old ghosts cloud his judgement. The evidence is troubling, yes, but it’s not definitive.

“What else?”

“The stories were mixed,” the disciple reports quickly, no longer hesitating or stuttering for fear of irritating the sect leader further, “but everyone agreed on a few specific details. Crows, ghosts, and highly effective fear tactics were used. The perpetrator was a man named Zhang Fu. He was accused of cheating at Luo Ming’s gambling den a few years back and lost his hand. The man who accused him was the merchant’s son, Huang Lin. Everyone says Huang Lin must have accused Zhang Fu falsely, but there’s no way to verify it now. In either case, Zhang Fu used seemingly demonic techniques to harm his abusers and left town.”

“He left?”

The disciple nods, flinching slightly at his expression. “T-two days ago.”

Jiang Cheng clenches his fists. They just got the news and they’ve already lost the trail.

His mind works through the information furiously, vicious as sandpaper.

Wei Wuxian.

It’s been three months since the siege at the Burial Mounds. Three months since Wei Wuxian’s gruesome demise. Jiang Cheng had been there – had watched it happen. He’d seen the backlash of the Yin Tiger Tally, stood there helplessly while the fierce corpses lost control and tore the man apart.

Right in front of him.

And then it was over. After the body of their master was nothing more than freshly gnawed scraps on the ground, the corpses became tame. Mindless. Weak enough to be taken out by the growing fire that quickly consumed the mountain.

The other sect leaders had gone quiet, merely turning around and leaving without another word spoken. Jiang Cheng was the last to leave, and he can’t remember if it was the shock or the anger that had made him stay just that little bit longer.

Or maybe something else.

It didn’t matter.

Since then, the greater sects have come together in an attempt to summon Wei Wuxian’s soul. After all, it wouldn’t do to have the enemy of the entire cultivation world wandering around as a resentful spirit.

Or worse.

They needed him in a controlled environment – specifically, confined within a sealing array beneath a mountain abundant with spiritual energy – where they could keep a steady eye on him.

Jiang Cheng, for all his protests, had stood in that infernal circle twice now, watching golden light spit and collapse as if even the heavens refused to touch Wei Wuxian.

What an absolute shitshow.

The main concern is that Wei Wuxian might resort to possessing a mortal’s body, taking some unwitting fool as a host in order to cling to his power. His glorious resentment.

But the summoning keeps failing. Over and over again. It never even touches him.
That’s the problem.
That’s what has them all so fucking anxious.

No one knows where he is.

If he’s in the underworld, great. Tortured in one of the eighteen levels of hell, even better. If he’s already been sent through the cycle of reincarnation, well… no one would complain about that, either, just as long as they wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore.

But Jiang Cheng knows Wei Wuxian. Better than anyone. He knows how the bastard slips through things. How he cheats all the rules, the expectations…
How he would cheat even death if the means held enough appeal.

Possession.

The word curdles in Jiang Cheng’s stomach.

Would you really be so stupid, Wei Wuxian…?

The disciple flinches when his sect leader snaps abruptly, “Gather a team and prepare the boats. We’re leaving for Xinze immediately.”

“Yes, Zongzhu!”

When the boy flees the hall, it’s quiet. The only sound is the rain hammering the courtyard.

Jiang Cheng drags a hand down his face.

Wei Wuxian. Even dead, he’s trouble.
Ruining things, intentionally or not.

Ruining his family’s name, ruining the fragile stability between clans, ruining his efforts to scrape back a bit of respect for the Jiang sect. Three months, and every whisper of demonic cultivation sends fingers pointing toward Lotus Pier.

Toward him.

He slams a fist onto the table he never got the chance to sit down at, making the inkstone jump.

If Wei Wuxian had just –
If he’d only listened –
If he hadn’t turned his back on everything, everyone –
If he hadn’t gotten Jin Zixuan killed. And A-Jie –

Jiang Cheng’s breath fractures. Just slightly. He forces it back into something hard and sharp.

He goes to the armory and unwraps Sandu, Zidian humming on his finger like it’s hungry.

Good.

If this thing in Xinze really is Wei Wuxian –

No, not thing. This pest. This plague he can’t be rid of. If Wei Wuxian has crawled his way into someone’s skin, puppeteering them like his damned corpses…

Jiang Cheng bares his teeth.

“I’ll drag you out myself,” he mutters under his breath. “I’ll drag your soul screaming out of whatever scrap of filth you’ve crawled into.”

It comes out more like a confession than a threat, and he hates that.

He steps into the rain. Again. The downpour soaks his hair in an instant, plastering it to his cheeks as he strides toward the docks. He doesn’t slow.

“Zongzhu!” The same disciple from before jogs ahead of him to untie the boat. “Preparations are complete –”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t acknowledge him. He steps aboard, cloak dripping, eyes fixed in the direction of Xinze with an expression carved from stone.

He’s lost count of the number of demonic cultivators he’s dragged in over the last three months. None of them were all that impressive. Half-starved runaways, reckless amateurs, driftwood from the underside of the Jianghu.

He still put every last one of them on their knees.

Of course, he has reasons.
Many of them.

At first, he told himself he needed to be thorough. To provoke each one, push them past fear, past pain – press his thumb against every bruise in case one of them snapped and revealed themselves. In case one of them was him.

And that required… force. Excessive force, if anyone else was judging.

And many did.

Then came the second reason: reparation. These idiots fucking dared to practice the same path that ruined his family, his sect’s reputation. Everything. They chose to take up the same corrupted techniques. As if the world hadn’t paid enough for them already.

Well, these are the consequences.

And third, practical as a blade: deterrence. If word spreads far enough that the Jiang sect catches anyone dabbling in the Yiling Patriarch’s forbidden arts and tears them to bloody ribbons, fewer fools will try. Fewer fools means fewer risks. Fewer risks means fewer opportunities for Wei Wuxian’s echo to creep up wearing someone else’s skin.

And, of course – the reason he says out loud during sect meetings.
The one the world needs to hear him say when they start asking him about the roundups. The disappearances…

That the Jiang sect stands firmly against demonic cultivation, no matter what people whisper.
No matter the long-since-cut ties of the bastard who propagated it.
No matter how deep its stain runs through Lotus Pier’s history.

But the truth?

The truth is uglier than any reason he uses to justify his actions. Because Jiang Cheng has never really thought about what he would do if he actually found Wei Wuxian inhabiting one of those wretches in his dungeon.

He tells himself it would be the same. The same interrogation, the same punishment. The same end. He tells himself the traitor deserves worse.
He tells himself a lot of things.

He doesn’t believe this idiot Zhang Fu is actually Wei Wuxian – not after so many months of searching and coming up empty.
He doesn’t.
Of course he doesn’t.

But if it is…
If it’s really him…

Then Jiang Cheng will make damn sure this next death sticks.

This time, he tells himself. This time there will be no hesitation.

Chapter Text

Xinze feels a lot smaller than Jiang Cheng remembers it.

Not that he’s ever really spent time in this backwater, though he’s sure he’s passed through once or twice before. In truth, it’s exactly the sort of place a wealthy merchant could easily dominate – and, judging by how the Huang estate looms over the jumble of low, slanted rooftops and narrow streets, Huang Shuren had clearly done just that.

Before he was brutally murdered, of course.

The main avenue is a messy stretch of half-mud, half-cobble, already riddled with puddles from the rain that soaks into Jiang Cheng’s boots as he steps off the boat, not bothering to wait for his disciples to secure it. He scans the area with a gaze sharp enough to cut marble, taking in the town’s subdued bustle and the quiet wariness in the air.

The few townspeople in the vicinity who curiously watched them dock quickly avert their gazes at the sight of him and continue about their business.

Jiang Cheng catches a younger man scurrying past by the scruff of his neck.

“Where can I find Luo Ming?”

“L-Luo laoban?” the young man stutters. “H-he’s probably at the gambling house, Zongzhu. Want me to take you there?”

Jiang Cheng releases his collar and gestures for him to lead the way.

He’s decided to start with the gambling den because that’s where the survivor is – if ‘survivor’ is even the right word for it.

The gambling den’s second floor opens straight to the street, no walls to speak of, just carved wooden railings and a row of bamboo blinds hooked up for air circulation. Rain drifts in as a fine mist. The shutters hang uselessly along the beams, all thrown open as if Luo Ming needs every possible escape route in sight.

They find him slumped in a chair at the edge of the open pavilion, sitting far too close to the railing. His face is waxy, sick with days of sleeplessness, his remaining hand clutching the bandaged stump of his right arm tight against his chest.

He stares down at the muddy road with a hollow, glum expression, and doesn’t even look up as they enter his otherwise empty establishment.

Not one for pleasantries, Jiang Cheng eyes the man up and down, assesses his shitty mental state, and cuts straight to the chase, “You. Why did Zhang Fu attack you?”

The name seems to jar Luo Ming out of his stupor. He looks up at them, blinking at the purple-clad Jiang Cheng and the group of disciples behind him, slowly – more slowly than Jiang Cheng cares to tolerate – he comes to the realization of who they are and why they’re here.

Then, he snorts. “Aren’t you cultivators a little late to be coming to my rescue?”

Jiang Cheng glares. “Who said we’re here to rescue anyone? Answer the damn question.”

“Zongzhu.” He practically sneers the title, then returns his gaze to the street outside, saying, “Why do you think? I cut off his hand; he cut off mine. All’s fair, and that.”

“I’m sure he wasn’t the only one to lose a hand here,” Jiang Cheng says, glancing briefly at the cleaver displayed on the wall for all to see. “Why should the man feel personally victimized enough to return the favor?”

“Probably because he’s the only one who deserved to.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, Huang Lin paid me to set him up. We worked together that night. Got him to bet more than the usual, switched out his dice, and when he won – accused him of cheating. All so Huang Lin could leverage his debt to buy out his properties for a cheaper price.”

Luo Ming shrugs, adding tonelessly, “Honestly, I think it had more to do with Zhang Fu’s wife than anything else. Huang Lin had a thing for her back when she worked at his father’s teashop. She chose that féi– that Zhang Fu over him, and the pampered brat’s held a grudge ever since.”

Luo Ming worries at a loose thread hanging from the bandages on his arm and heaves a rather distressed-sounding sigh before finishing with: “But that was his business, not mine. I just did as I was told.”

Jiang Cheng feels an inexplicable flare of anger on Zhang Fu’s behalf.

“Sounds like some pretty nasty lowlife tactics if you ask me. I’ve seen gutter rats aspire to higher principles.”

Luo Ming levels him with an empty stare. “We paid the price for it,” is all he says.

“And you’re sure it was Zhang Fu who did this to you?” Jiang Cheng feels compelled to ask. “To the Huangs?”

The man’s brow knits. “Who else could it have been? We were face to face when he… when he…” His bandaged stump twitches, causing him to wince.

Jiang Cheng hesitates, lowering his voice. “He didn’t seem… strange to you at all? Like a different person?”

Luo Ming huffs weakly. “Strange? Of course he was strange. After what we did, who wouldn’t be? He had a family, you know. A daughter.” His voice cracks, and he stares past the Jiang cultivators, expression haunted. “Do you think… do you think they died because… because of me? Because I was too much of a coward to say no? Too greedy to turn down a bit of extra cash?”

He squeezes his eyes shut, voice growing desperate with each word.

“Did I… did I kill little A-Mei?”

Jiang Cheng’s mouth tightens, irritation flickering in his gaze. “How should I know? I didn’t come here to make you feel better about your stupid ass decisions. And that’s not what I meant by strange. Think,” he orders. “When he attacked you, did he behave like he used to? Did he speak like he used to? Did he say anything, do anything that made him seem… different?”

“…I don’t know,” he mutters. “He was the same. A little thinner, maybe. Filthy. But he’s been a street beggar for a while now, so I guess that’s a given.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.” Luo Ming swallows. “He didn’t shout. Didn’t threaten. Didn’t rant. Just… smiled. All calm-like. Said something about his landlord being satisfied, whatever that means.” His eyes dart up to meet Jiang Cheng’s. “Is that strange enough for you, Zongzhu?”

Jian Cheng mulls that over.

Landlord.

It’s just the sort of joke Wei Wuxian would make, referring to the person he’s possessing as his landlord. The body – just a rental.
A temporary inhabitation.  

Twisted bastard.

Still doesn’t prove it’s him.

“We’re done here,” Jiang Cheng says curtly, turning on his heel to leave. His disciples follow close behind, exchanging amongst themselves concerned, knowing glances as they go. Luo Ming doesn’t stop them. He simply goes back to staring morosely into the mist.

~

The Huang manor sits high above Xinze like a vulture’s perch. Jiang Cheng steps through its gates without ceremony.

The inspection of the ancestral hall is quick.

He notes the ink stains on the floor, the battered black crow feathers that litter nearly ever surface, the disordered tablets – some cracked, looking like they’d fallen and were put back without care to set them up properly in their original places.

The bodies lie on bamboo mats.

Jiang Cheng kneels and lifts the cloth covering Huang Lin first. He doesn’t react. Not outwardly, at least.

Internally, something prickles.

To start, there’s the psychological torture of it all. The days of haunting. Hunting. Driving the victims to madness. Then there’s this. The cornering. The physical mutilation. A mockery of a human shape.

It’s oddly reminiscent of…
No.

This hardly compares, he thinks. Wen Chao was dealt far worse.

He drops the cloth and lifts the other.

Huang Shuren’s body is ink-sodden, the talismanic characters still clinging to decaying flesh. Jiang Cheng brushes a knuckle against one of the blackened lines.

Still tacky.
Still tepid.

He stands, robes fanning behind him like purple banners. If this Zhang Fu is copying Wei Wuxian, he’s doing it too well.

“Next,” Jiang Cheng snaps.

~

Their inquiries on the street lead them here, to an old shrine that lists to one side, its roof sagging like a broken spine. Wind whistles through missing wall panels and mud squelches under Jiang Cheng’s boots as he approaches a door hanging solely by splintering hinges and a prayer.

The old monk inside startles at the sudden arrival of so many cultivators in purple robes.

Then, his eyes narrow, gnarled hands tightening on an unusually thick broom handle.

“If you’re here for the demon who desecrated my shrine, you’re too late,” he says caustically. “He’s long gone. And good riddance.”

Jiang Cheng steps further inside, trailing mud as he scans the dim interior. There’s not much to suggest anything demonic in nature happened here, unless one considers the faceless effigy of whatever god the monk worships sitting over a pile of maggot-infested fruits to be of evil origins.

Honestly, Jiang Cheng thinks it very well could be.

He takes just one glance at the altar before looking pointedly away. He then addresses the monk directly.

“Tell us about Zhang Fu.”

The monk bristles immediately, as if Jiang Cheng had spat a curse before his gods.

“Zhang Fu,” he says, the name dropping from his mouth like spoiled rice. “Bah. A waste of my good charity. And perfectly decent floorboards.”

The disciples look down at the dirt under their feet. Floorboards? What floorboards?

Jiang Cheng’s gaze sharpens. “Explain.”

“That wicked cheat came crawling in here two weeks ago,” the monk snaps. “All skin and bones. Filthy. Desperate, as they usually come.” He jabs his broom in accusation, indicating a freshly scrubbed corner of the room – the only part of the floor where the planks beneath the packed dirt are actually visible.

Looking more closely now, Jiang Cheng can just make out the shallowly carved grooves, lingering evidence of what looks to have been the circular pattern of a summoning array.

Not quite the Cloud Recesses’ technique.
Not the Demonic Path, either.
Something crude but functional.

He’s never seen anything like it.

“I should’ve thrown him out that very night. But the gods command mercy.” The monk sniffs bitterly. “Goodwill to the downtrodden and the like. And that’s what he appeared to be until I caught him attempting to summon the worst kind of evil in this, the holiest of places.”

“Do you know what he was trying to summon?”

“Know? Know?” the monk screeches indignantly. “Of course I know. He all but slapped me in the face with that foul book of his. Truly a manual of the worst kind, I’m telling you. All diagrams and wicked symbols copied straight from the ramblings of that demonic madman. That Yiling Patriarch. Could have been calling for any one of those frightful creatures he used to keep at his side. Or worse, the evil mastermind himself!”

Jiang Cheng stiffens.

“What book.” His voice comes out flat. Emotionless.

“Oh, that? It’s gone now. Burnt to ashes. He got rid of it as soon as he could. No doubt to hide the evidence.”

“He burned it… himself?”

“Sure did.” The monk puffs up with indignant righteousness. “Nearly took the whole place down with it, too, that no-good miscreant. Muttering something about things being ‘better this way’ like the lunatic hadn’t just tried to disturb the Lord of Death from his cursed hereafter.” He seethes at the memory. “He hung demonic talismans from my rafters. Soaked the floor in blood – blood! – as if my shrine were some den of the forbidden arts! Sacrilege, I tell you! Desecration of the highest order!”

As the monk grows increasingly incensed, Jiang Cheng steps back, rubbing at his temple, his head pulsing with a dull ache.

Better this way, he said.

In what world?

Granted, it is something Wei Wuxian would say.
Those words.
That line.
That godsdamned self-important righteousness like he always knew better than everyone else–

Jiang Cheng groans internally. He wants to pull his hair out, to unleash Zidian upon the moldering walls of this stupid farce of a shrine.

All while a more reasonable voice attempts to soothe his worries:

Still doesn’t prove it’s him.

“What happened after he burned the book?”

The monk cools instantly from his tirade and shrugs. “Nothing. I chased him out.” He brandishes his broom like a weapon.

“You chased him out with a broom.” A muscle twitches beneath his eye.

“And I’d do it again!” the monk cries, swinging it in an arc so wide that a few of the disciples have to leap out of range or be pommeled.

Jiang Cheng sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

This is a longshot, but –
“Do you have any idea where he might have –”

“Zongzhu!” A disciple bursts into the shrine, panting so hard he nearly chokes when he sees the open, almost hostile frustration on the sect leader’s face.

Jiang Cheng is impatient. “Speak.”

“A traveling merchant coming in from the southwest road saw Zhang Fu yesterday morning. Said he was heading toward the next town over. And –” the disciple hesitates, swallowing hard “– the area’s been crawling with fierce corpses for weeks, apparently. He’s headed right for them.”

The monk makes a warding sign at the news. “Hear that?! What did I tell you –”

“Shut up,” Jiang Cheng says, voice ice-cold.

He strides past the monk, out into the rain. It’s picked up again, coming down in sheets, soaking into the deep purple of his robes, darkening them until they appear almost black.

“Mount your swords,” he orders without looking back.

His disciples stare dejectedly out at the dubious flying conditions, but no one dares to object.

“Yes, Zongzhu.”

Jiang Cheng steps onto Sandu’s blade. The sword lifts beneath him with a low hum. Zidian coils warm around his finger. Behind him, the disciples follow suit, swords rising in staggered formation.

He looks east. Exhales once, the sound of it like a knife’s edge on a whetstone.

“Let’s move.”

The cultivators’ swords shoot forward into the rain, cutting through the storm in a mist-blurred streak of violet.

And if Jiang Cheng’s jaw is set a little too tight,
if his shoulders sit a little too rigid,
if his fists seem a little too clenched as they accelerate in the direction the subject of their hunt is said to be headed –

No one is foolish enough to comment.

~

For someone technically dead, publicly condemned, cosmically inconvenienced, and permanently lodged inside the body of a half-starved one-handed beggar with not even a claim for vengeance left to his name, Wei Wuxian is doing… surprisingly well.

Chapter Text

He wouldn’t call it thriving, exactly. That feels a touch aspirational.

But better than being trapped in the god’s array, frozen between existence and nothingness like a bug caught in amber.

Compared to that, traveling through the damp countryside, clearing out small-scale corpse infestations, and getting paid in bowls of warm rice porridge is practically a holiday.

He is free.
Or free-ish.

Free adjacent.

Which, given everything, is pretty damn good in his opinion.

The first village southwest of Xinze had been a simple matter. Just a handful of fierce corpses making trouble for the locals, scaring them indoors. Nothing capable of any real harm. He handled it with a few hastily drawn talismans, a sharp whistle, and a boot to a bony rear end. Easy.

But the village’s inhabitants were immensely grateful, treating him like he’d saved the empire. They fed him until he feared Zhang Fu’s body – no, his body – might actually burst. And then, when he was trying to politely decline yet another serving, a little boy appeared beside him, shyly offering up his favorite toy: a short, hand-carved bone whistle.

Apparently the boy had been watching from behind a strawstack while Wei Wuxian controlled the corpses with his wildly pitched whistles. He seemed to think that this ragged cultivator, who’d so suddenly appeared in their midst, was in need of his very own ‘spiritual weapon.’

Wei Wuxian had been unprepared for how much that simple gesture moved him. And although he missed Chenqing with every beat of his questionably-acquired heart, he decided little A-Hu’s gift would make a worthy replacement.  

The second village was just a bit trickier, what with the horde, but still nothing he couldn’t manage, even with only one hand and a body that creaks like an old door hinge.

For the most part, he’s settled into Zhang Fu’s skin just fine – the way someone might take to wearing a hand-me-down coat: it fits well enough to keep the wind off and the cold out, even if it hangs a little crooked at the shoulders and smells distinctly of someone else.

The wheezing when he pushes too hard, the aching joints when he jumps from heights he absolutely should not be jumping from, the occasional frustrating slip of his grip – he takes it all in stride.

He’s adapted to worse.

And there are other things that make those small concerns all the more bearable.
The best one: how utterly unrecognizable he is.

People don’t shrink back the moment he steps into view. They don’t whisper behind their sleeves. At most, they give him a second glance for the missing hand, but otherwise… he’s no one.

Just a traveler.
A wanderer.
Another man with mud on his boots and nothing to his name.

For someone who once drew stares and whispers like moths to flame, this anonymity feels like a luxury. It’s… comforting, in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

Nice not to be hated upon sight, I guess, he thinks wryly.
Ah, the little things.

It’s only when he’s walking the muddy road with his hood up, bone whistle tucked like a precious treasure inside his robe, that his thoughts actually catch up with him for the first time since leaving Xinze.

Not all of them. Just one.

A memory, half-formed, from that floating place between life and death.

“Just as your artifact was a conduit for resentful energy, so, too, will your soul be.”

Wei Wuxian stops in the road like he’s been slapped.

“Oh,” he mutters.
“So that’s what this is.”

Because now that he’s paying attention – really paying attention – the signs seem embarrassingly obvious.

The talismans that twitch like snakes tasting the air.
The ghosts that behave like overeager children waiting for instructions.
The leaning shadows, the whispering wells.

The way resentment curls toward him first, like he’s the source instead of the summoner.

He should have put it together sooner.

He did put it together sooner.
He just… aggressively chose not to consider it until ‘later.’

He drags a hand down his face. “Wonderful. Brilliant. Absolutely not problematic at all.”

He starts walking again, faster this time, as if moving quickly might let him outrun the realization nipping at his heels.

There’s mud, rain, a corpse issue in the next village, and no room whatsoever for existential crises.

Later.
He’ll think about it later.

~

He’s grown used to the bone whistle. It’s clumsy in his hand. The holes are unevenly drilled and the pitch wobbles like a drunk goose, but it does the job. That’s enough.

Barely functional is still functional.

If anything, the only real inconvenience is how identifiable his methods are. While his face may not be known, his cultivation path has long-since earned its own reputation.

He tries to keep it subtle. No flourish, no showing off. But some people have sharp eyes. Twice now he’s caught a few of the villagers watching him a little too warily, a traveling merchant whose lips thin seeing a corpse go still at the sound of his quick, scattered notes.

It’s in the third village that the uncle who owns the local noodle shop tugs him aside to warn him, voice low, that the Jiang sect has been rounding up people who use… those ways. The ones who meddle with resentful energy.

People like him.

And those cultivators unlucky enough to be captured?

They vanish.

Some say the Jiang sect leader tortures them to death. Some say they’re imprisoned forever in Lotus Pier’s deepest, darkest, dampest cells. Whatever the case, he should hope he doesn’t get caught, especially not by the likes of Jiang Zongzhu.

Wei Wuxian only smiles, thanks him for the warning, and promises to be careful.

He doesn’t linger after that – not in any one place, and not for too long. He only left Xinze a few days ago, and if anyone is called in to investigate the deaths of Merchant Huang and his son, it would be the Jiang sect; this is their territory.

And Wei Wuxian doesn’t much fancy a reunion – not after what happened at the Burial Mounds. So, he keeps moving. He doesn’t whistle quite so loudly now. He keeps his talismans tucked away until the last possible moment.

When he reaches Wuqiong, the rain finally recedes to a bare drizzle. Evening settles. Lanterns glow dimly behind paper shades, their light smudged by the misty air.

Wei Wuxian pulls his new cloak tighter around his shoulders and shakes water from his hair. The cloak was gifted to him by a kind village auntie, and it thankfully kept him from the worst of the early spring chill.

Wuqiong, skirting as close to the Yiling border as he’s admittedly willing to get, is only somewhat bigger than Xinze, with better walls and a proper market street lined with vendors stubborn enough to stay open despite the cold.

He looks down at the scant few coins he’s earned along the way and debates. He has just enough to indulge, either in a good meal and a jar of Yunmeng liquor, or a night’s stay at the local inn – maybe two, if the owner pities him enough.

It doesn’t take long to choose.

His entire body aches for a warm bath, a dry room, and a bowl of noodles so hot they could burn the memory of Xinze right out of his skull.

He starts in the direction of the inn, rubbing his stiff shoulder and humming to himself. Just the promise of a bed is almost enough to erase the deep-seated exhaustion from his bones.

The innkeeper takes one look at him – soaked through, road-weary but smiling – and softens. The price she quotes is more charitable than he expects. The room she shows him to is small, but comfortable: a simple wooden frame bed and quilt, a small tea table and cushions, a wash basin stand, and a wardrobe.

She apologizes for the sparse accommodations, but he won’t hear a word of it. He insists it’s more than enough. Truly, it is.

It’s perfect.

Better still is the empty bathhouse. Being one of very few traveling the outskirts of Yunmeng territory in such dismal weather, Wei Wuxian has the place all to himself.

A bath.

He’d be tempted to call it heavenly if he weren’t already personally acquainted with just how unimpressive heaven can be.

The water is just shy of scalding, and as he sinks into the wooden tub he feels every knot in his muscles begin to loosen. For a few luxurious moments, he forgets everything.

Jiang sect politics and ominous warnings.
Gods and resentment and poor, browbeaten mops.

The warmth burrows deep. For the first time, he thinks, This could work.

This wandering life. This second chance.

Later, he stretches out on the thin bed and pillows his head on his arm. The room smells clean, like herbs and woodsmoke. The familiar scent of places where people live simple, untroubled lives.

He likes it.

He closes his eyes and quietly hopes that word doesn’t spread too quickly from Xinze, the news of what he did to the Huangs and Luo Ming. Of course, it’s only a matter of time before the story reaches the people here, and when they put together that the one-handed murderer is the same drifting cultivator eating at their stalls and sleeping in their inns, he’ll end up right back in the crosshairs of another angry mob.

For being just one person, he really does seem to attract more than his fair share of organized, violent crowds.

The simple fact of it would be almost amusing if it weren’t so utterly pathetic.

He falls asleep easily.

And somewhere just beyond Wuqiong’s lantern glow, a cluster of swords cuts through the sky at breakneck speed. The night wind snaps at purple hems, the disciples of the Jiang sect flying in formation behind a single, unstoppable blade.

Every village they passed had the same story: a one-handed wanderer, the sound of a strange whistle, corpses collapsing like puppets with their strings cut.

Wuqiong, they said. He’s headed to Wuqiong.

Wei Wuxian breathes softly in his sleep, peaceful.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t slow. If anything, he pushes harder, spiritual energy flaring sharp and violent around him.

“Faster,” he mutters into the wind.

Sandu shudders as it accelerates, the night blurring into streaks of mist and shadow.

Ahead, Wuqiong rises out of the darkness – painfully close.

~

The following morning arrives heavy with damp chill, but Wei Wuxian feels surprisingly rested, enough that even a plain bowl of congee from a cheap market stall seems like a treat.

He crouches beside the cart, blowing on the steam, thinking nothing at all except maybe how warm it feels in his hands.

He gets three peaceful bites in before he hears it.
A soft huff.
A scrape of claws on cobblestone.

Wei Wuxian stiffens.

He turns his head slowly, carefully, praying he’s wrong.

A dog stands two paces away with its broad face and enthusiastic tail wag. Its tongue lolls and its nose twitches as it takes another curious sniff toward his bowl.

His heart stutters.

No. No no no –

He backs away too quickly. The dog perks up, delighted by the sudden movement.

He bolts.
The dog chases.

Of course it does.

He tears down the market street, congee splattering into last night’s muddy puddles, breaths coming in sharp little whimpers he can’t swallow down. He doesn’t dare look back. He careens around a corner, slips on wet stone, catches himself against a wall, keeps running.

By the time he squeezes himself behind a narrow slat fence in some back alley, he’s shaking so hard he can’t unclench the hand gripping his cloak.

The dog whines and paws the ground on the other side.
It thinks this is a game.

Wei Wuxian thinks this is how he dies.

Across the market, Jiang Cheng stares numbly at a vegetable stall where a man just crashed past. He hadn’t been paying attention. He was just trying to swallow lukewarm noodles alongside a deeper discomfort that has been growing since they left Xinze.

Zhang Fu is nobody. Zhang Fu is not Wei Wuxian. He’s told himself that so many times now the words have practically worn grooves into his skull.

But the man sprinting past–
The single hand, the worn clothes.
Zhang Fu?

No.

The dog chasing him…
The panic.
The utter disregard for anything other than that visceral need to escape.

Jiang Cheng stands so abruptly his stool clatters backward, startling the disciples sitting with him. His bowl hits the ground. He doesn’t hear it shatter.

The man slips around a corner, the dog in gleeful pursuit. People laugh, thinking it’s a silly morning commotion.

But Jiang Cheng can’t breathe. His skin has gone cold.

He knows that panic.
He knows that run.
He knows that irrational fear like he knows the shape of his own shadow.

Wei Wuxian.

A sudden, undeniable truth.

It ignites something deep inside him. Too fast. Too much. Dread laces through his spine, freezing him in place for a few precious instants – followed immediately by fury, sharp and vicious, curling like a fist around his lungs.

Possessing someone.

Of course you did.
Of course you couldn’t stay dead.

Satisfaction surges next, nauseating and electric. At last. After three months of searching – of calling on a soul that never once responded.

He was right. He’s fucking right.

Then, underneath it all, buried so deeply he nearly doesn’t notice it–
… something else.
Something jagged and tender and unbelievably unwanted.

He crushes it down until it’s nothing.

Now, he’s moving, weaving between early-morning shoppers, ignoring startled shouts as he barrels through. Behind him, his disciples scramble to follow, bewildered by his sudden urgency. He ignores their calls of “Zongzhu!”

He rounds the corner into the alley, breath burning in his chest, Sandu a familiar weight in his hand. The dog yelps in alarm, skittering back when he nearly collides with its mottled flank. It gives a low growl of warning before turning tail and sprinting off. Jiang Cheng barely spares it a glance, focus occupied.

He slows.

There, behind the slats, a hunched figure is folded into the narrow space, cloak trembling, shoulders rising and falling in rapid, rattled breaths.

A stranger’s face. But that terror – that absolute, humiliating terror for something as harmless as a stray mutt begging for food on the street –

No one else would know it.
Jiang Cheng is the only person alive who could identify him like this.

For a moment, he just stands there, staring, the world shrinking to the shivering lines of that unfamiliar back, caught between a thousand memories and the painful reality in front of him. His grip tightens imperceptibly on Sandu.

When he speaks, his voice comes out rougher than he means it to. Quieter. Almost… hoarse.

“Wei Wuxian.”

And the reaction is immediate. Reflexive.

Wei Wuxian jerks upright, head snapping toward him before instinct can be smothered. Wide, startled eyes. A flinch.

And then a slip, one Jiang Cheng knows will haunt him –

“Jiang Cheng–”

It rips out of him, thin and cracked.

Jiang Cheng’s stomach twists. It’s not just in the familiarity of the address that finally convinces him. It’s in the inflection of it, the tone. Even if the voice itself is entirely different, there’s no mistaking it. This –

This is…

He crushes the feeling down, down, down, before it can take shape.

For a heartbeat, Wei Wuxian sees the boy who used to shove dogs away from him. The brother who stood between him and fear without being asked. The man who knew him better than anyone else.

This is not that boy. Not that brother. Not that man.

And Wei Wuxian realizes it too late.
Realizes… that he’s just made the worst possible mistake.

~

Jiang Cheng watches with a grim – and somewhat queasy – kind of satisfaction as fresh panic settles over that unfamiliar face before he can hide it.

And then, almost as quickly, Wei Wuxian is scrambling out from behind those protective slats. His shoulders are hunched, his head bowed.

His knees are hitting the muddy ground at Jiang Cheng’s feet.

“Forgive me, Zongzhu, for the informal address. This lowly one was just surprised to see yo – to see… the esteemed sect leader suddenly standing there and misspoke…”

He’s scrambling – tragically so. But he keeps his head lowered and dares not look up.
He prays, idiotically, desperately, that maybe Jiang Cheng will allow him to lie.

Jiang Cheng’s jaw clenches so hard a muscle twitches in his cheek. His tone becomes hard-edged, icy.

“You fucking bastard, just who are you trying to fool?”

Wei Wuxian flinches as if struck. Shame and fear surge through him in equal measure, choking any words before they can reach his lips.

He glances around for an escape route.

There isn’t one.

Not with five Jiang disciples forming a ring.
Not with Jiang Cheng’s spiritual pressure pinning the air flat, chasing away any lingering ghosts in the area.

If he tries to fight head-on, he wouldn’t last a heartbeat. Not with this borrowed, brittle body.
Not one-handed and equipped with only a child’s toy whistle and a handful of crumpled talismans.

Not against the powerful golden core he crafted with his own hands.

He runs the calculation anyway – because habit, because pride – and the answer is the same every time.

He’d lose. Quickly.
Probably messily.

And anything he managed to summon to his side for protection would just as likely harm one of the Jiang disciples. Or worse…

He squeezes his eyes shut.

He’s fucked.
He’s so, so fucked.

“You want to run?” Jiang Cheng snarls, seeing Wei Wuxian’s intent before he can abandon it completely. “Try it, see what happens.”

Zidian unfurls, the fearsome weapon sparking its purple lightning in warning.

Wei Wuxian’s single hand trembles on the muddy ground in an attempt to steady himself.

“We spent half a week chasing your mess from Xinze,” Jiang Cheng says. “Impressive work, by the way. The ledger ink, the dice, the crows. The gongzi’s face –” his lip curls in disgust “– that was a bit much.” He leans in just slightly. “But then, you’ve always known how to make a spectacle of yourself. Haven’t you, Wei Wuxian.”

“I’m not –” he tries.

“Don’t lie to me.”

The command lands like a whip crack, and Wei Wuxian jerks back, expecting to feel Zidian’s strike any moment now.

Behind Jiang Cheng, the disciples stare, wide-eyed and confused, unsure what to think as their sect leader berates the man kneeling and shaking in the mud. Clearly this is Zhang Fu, the demonic cultivator they’ve been searching for. But…
Zongzhu just called him…

Did he just call him Wei Wuxian?
Wei Wuxian, the…

The Yiling Patriarch?

…Wasn’t he supposed to be dead?

“You actually were stupid enough to possess someone,” Jiang Cheng says viciously. “All so you could – what? Murder wantonly for the sake of this mentally twisted disciple of yours?” He snorts. “I should beat you out of that body and disperse your soul right here and now.”

Wei Wuxian swallows, what little hope he’d still been clinging to dying in real time.

“What, nothing to say? Really? Has death changed you so much?”

“I…” he rasps out, “I don’t know what to say to you.”

“Shut up.”

Wei Wuxian grimaces at the ground and mutters, “Well, do you want me to talk or don’t you? Make up your mind.”

Jiang Cheng looks as though he could spit blood.

“Bind him,” he barks at his disciples.

Wei Wuxian jolts.

“Jiang Cheng, wait. This –”

Something in his voice cracks at the edges.
Something like desperation.

“This isn’t what you think –” 

Sandu shifts in Jiang Cheng’s grip. “Stand up,” he says tightly. “Do not make me drag you.”

Wei Wuxian’s gaze flickers between Jiang Cheng and the disciples, once again debating the likelihood of escape, once again coming away disillusioned.

He forces himself up.
One slow movement after another.

Mud splashes as two of the disciples seize him by the arms. He flinches at the touch, then goes still, jaw tight, chest heaving.

Jiang Cheng watches with an expression that seems carved from stone as they wrap coarse rope around Wei Wuxian’s upper arms and chest, binding them tightly to compensate for his missing hand.

“Gag him, too.”

Wei Wuxian jerks backward instinctively. A tiny, shaking attempt at resistance.

Jiang Cheng’s sneer is immediate.

“Can’t have you whistling for any of your dead buddies to come rescue you, can we?”

The disciples stiffen at the possibility.
One of them hesitates with the gag in hand. “Zongzhu…”

Jiang Cheng’s head snaps toward him. “Do it.”

The command is so sharp the disciple startles, then does exactly as he’s told.

The cloth is shoved between Wei Wuxian’s teeth, cinched tight behind his head, knotted hard enough that it digs into the corners of his mouth. He winces, eyes watering, but otherwise forces himself to remain calm.

He breathes measuredly through his nose, trembling, shoulders fixed into an awkwardly hunched position by the rope.

Jiang Cheng turns on his heel.

“Bring him,” he orders. “We’re heading back. Now.”

And from behind him, Wei Wuxian is dragged out of the alley and into the morning light of the dwindling market, mud streaked across his knees, hair plastered to his face, eyes fixed on the ground with the resignation of someone who knows exactly what awaits him at Lotus Pier.

Jiang Cheng marches forward with squared shoulders.
He doesn’t look back.
Not even once.

Chapter Text

The world tilts the moment they lift off the ground.

The rope around his chest tightens with the shift of weight, biting through the layers of his cloak. A pair of disciples keep their grip on him, one on each arm, hauling him upright between their blades as they rise, and that position – the familiarity of it – drags at something nearly forgotten from the wastes of Wei Wuxian’s worst memories.

His breath stutters behind the gag. Wind whips against his face, cold and sharp.

The ground falls away beneath his feet, stone to mud, mud to rooftops, rooftops to a blur of color as Wuqiong shrinks into a cluster of indistinct shapes far below.

His stomach drops.
His vision narrows.

His pulse spikes painfully against his restraints.

The feeling of it is not unlike the way his body responds when he’s near a dog, and he realizes with dread what it is.

He can’t breathe.
He can’t breathe.
He can’t–

The disciples adjust their grip, unaware that he’s drowning without water. He chokes on a sound the gag in his mouth swallows, his vision sparking white at the edges.

The memory rips through him like a lightning strike: Wen Chao’s smirking face, blood soaking into his robes, a sword flight, the Burial Mounds yawning beneath him like a waiting throat, stomach rising in his chest as gravity rips him down, down, down –

He’s shaking uncontrollably now, breath tearing through his nose in shallow, panicked bursts. The disciples shout something, but he can’t hear it over the roar in his ears.

Then, the impact.
His body slamming into the ground.
Bones shattering. Limbs twisting. Skull cracking –

His last tether to consciousness snaps.

~

When he comes to, it’s not the sky he sees, but stone. Cold and damp.

And chains.

They rattle when he shifts, bolted to the wall, clamped tight around his ankles, his wrist, his throat. Not enough to choke him. Just enough to remind him he’s not going anywhere.

It’s more a method to humiliate than to restrain.

Leashed like an animal.
Like a dog.

If Jiang Cheng chose this arrangement personally – and Wei Wuxian has little doubt that he did – then he must find the semblance of it perversely amusing.

When he sits up, his head throbs. His mouth is dry. The gag is gone, but the phantom pressure of it still lingers on his tongue. A lantern gutter-flames somewhere to his left, revealing the cramped shape of the space around him.

The cell is… roomy – which, honestly, doesn’t bode well for him.
There’s no comfort to be found in it, anyway. The chains locking him in place make sure his movements are limited to the bare minimum, rendering the generous size of his prison good for only one thing – one thing that he’s sure to be subjected to soon enough.

And the bars…

The bars are covered in layers upon layers of talismans – old and new. If he squints hard enough, straining his new body’s poor eyesight to its limits, he can just make out the characters for binding, cleansing, and sealing. When he sniffs, he can smell the faintest trace of incense mixing with the stagnant, somewhat putrid air.

Purifying incense.

…so that’s how it is.

Turns out, even a torture dungeon can be cleansed of resentful energy.

He should probably tell Jiang Cheng that, while his efforts are thorough and by all means flawless, they are also utterly futile.

Unfortunately for the both of them, a power far stronger than these little paper restrictions already has its claws sunk deep into Wei Wuxian’s soul.

Like an object to barter,
he’s already been claimed.

Though perhaps he would prefer to try his luck with the god’s array instead. Surely, waking up in some other body to mop up a bit of resentment for the heavens would be a better alternative to… this.

Whatever it is Jiang Cheng plans to do with him next can’t possibly be pleasant.

Wei Wuxian hears his footsteps long before he appears.
They’re measured, controlled. That’s worse than yelling. Yelling he could brace for.
Jiang Cheng’s calm is as frightening as it is deadly.

He descends the stairs into the lantern’s dim glow, purple robes brushing the dusty floor, Sandu hanging at his hip like a threat he doesn’t need to verbalize.

Wei Wuxian forces himself to sit up a little straighter, chains scraping, the collar tugging cruelly at his throat. He hates the sound it makes – loud, metallic, oppressing.

Jiang Cheng comes to a slow stop in front of the bars. His dark eyes travel over the talismans, the restraints, the dirt on Wei Wuxian’s face, the bruises forming where the disciples dragged him.

He doesn’t blink.

“You’re awake,” he says, his voice deceptively composed. “Good. I wanted to be the first to welcome you home.”

Home.

Lotus Pier. The place he spent the most formative years of his childhood.

Shijie’s warm soup,
lotus fields on hot summer days,
laughter, training courts…

Now, he returns in chains, memories twisted by pain and regret.
Now home is iron, damp stone, and the faint copper smell of blood soaked into the floor.

He licks his lips and gives Jiang Cheng the same crooked half-smile he wore at fifteen, smartass bravery stretched thin.

“Sure,” he says, his voice a bare rasp, “nothing says ‘welcome home’ quite like chains and sealing talismans. You really shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble on my account.”

“No?” Jiang Cheng’s eyes sweep the restraints again, lingering on the collar. His lip curls. “You look comfortable enough to me.”

Wei Wuxian lets out a thin, brittle laugh. “You always did know how to treat your guests.”

Jiang Cheng ignores it. He unlocks the gate and steps inside. The chains keep Wei Wuxian seated, and Jiang Cheng looks down at him like he’s studying a dangerous animal that’s lost its teeth.

“Let’s get to it,” he says. “I’m not in the mood for your nonsense.”

His words are clipped, callous, but there’s a strange kind of tremor beneath them.
The dangerous kind.

“We can start with you being honest with me for once.”

Wei Wuxian exhales. “I wouldn’t –”

“Bullshit.” The word cracks through the air like Zidian itself. “You want to test me? Go ahead. You won’t like what comes next.”

“Honestly? Not loving this part much either.”

Jiang Cheng’s jaw flexes.

Not a good sign.

Wei Wuxian chooses his next words carefully. “You’ve been… rounding up cultivators of the Ghost Path. Why?”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t want to seem to get to his point just yet, so while he’s busy making his threats, Wei Wuxian decides to get some answers for himself.

“Why do you think?”

Wei Wuxian hesitates. “…you’ve been looking for me?”

“Everyone in the godsdamned Jianghu has been looking for you, idiot. What’s left of you, anyway.”

“Why?” he murmurs. “I’m dead.”

Jiang Cheng lets out a dry laugh. “Right. Dead. Give me fucking a break. How long have you been setting this up, then?” He gestures to the length of Wei Wuxian’s – Zhang Fu’s – body. “Were you grooming him from the start, or did you just happen to find someone pathetic enough to crawl inside without a fight?”

Wei Wuxian blanches. “That’s not what happened.”

“Really?” Jiang Cheng’s voice sharpens further. “You expect me to believe that? That you wouldn’t take advantage? Manipulate? Twist a man until he breaks?”

He crouches so they’re at eye-level, hatred and grief flickering like twin flames.

“It’s what you did to me for years. Am I so wrong to think you could do it to some other poor, unsuspecting fool?”

The words hit harder than a slap.

Wei Wuxian squeezes his eyes shut. Jiang Cheng sees it – and something ugly blooms in his expression.

“There it is.” His voice softens to a poisonous whisper. “That look. Like you’re the victim here. Like I’m the one who owes you an apology.”

“That’s not –”

“Like you said, you’re dead,” Jiang Cheng spits. “A corpse. A ghost. You tore apart a family, destroyed a sect, killed –” He stops abruptly. Wei Wuxian sees the name choked back.

And it hurts.

Jiang Cheng swallows hard, then goes on, voice hoarse and cruel, “And now you’re wearing this stranger like some castoff robe, acting confused about why everyone wants you sealed away.”

Wei Wuxian goes still.

…sealed.

So, that’s what the clans have planned?

They intend to wrench his soul from the ether into their own sealing array, all so they can… what? Destroy him for good? Or maybe… keep him close? Pinned like a beetle to a board beneath their watchful eye.

He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

The gods,
Jiang Cheng,
the clans…

They’re all so determined to seal him away somewhere as if he’s some damned relic.
Some cursed artifact no one dares touch or let loose.

“I didn’t want this,” he says wearily. “Any of it. This body… it wasn’t by choice.”

“Then what?” Jiang Cheng snarls. “You just tripped and fell into it?”

“I’m not possessing him. Zhang Fu, he –” Wei Wuxian stops.

He can’t explain the book.
The book that contained his notes on a certain unorthodox ritual steeped in bloody sacrifice.
Can’t explain the array, the god, the torment.
Can’t explain why his soul was dragged back when it begged not to be.

Even if he spoke it all plainly, without interruption, Jiang Cheng would hear only lies – and Wei Wuxian is not inclined to hand him anything more he could break him with.

“It’s… complicated,” he finishes uselessly.

“Complicated?” Jiang Cheng huffs an unamused laugh. “Yeah, it usually is with you.”

“I’m not possessing him,” Wei Wuxian repeats, earnest and exhausted. “It’s the truth.”

“But it’s complicated.” Jiang Cheng spits the word out like a curse. “That’s your excuse for everything, isn’t it. All your life – everything you touch turns into some godsdamned ‘complication’ and we’re the ones left cleaning up after you.”

He stands once more, his shadow falling over Wei Wuxian.

“You remember? The Wens breathing down our necks, telling us to behave, to stay quiet. And you still had to open your stupid mouth. Had to play hero for a sect that wasn’t even yours.” His voice cracks like something is tearing. “In the cave, too. You barely even knew those people, yet you – you just couldn’t fucking help yourself, could you.”

The tearing turns to shredding, bleeding. “Who paid the price for that, Wei Wuxian? Huh? Certainly wasn’t you, was it.”

Jiang Cheng’s fists clench.

“Then, after you… disappeared that time…” he says, quieter now, but with no less reproach in his tone. “You came back a stranger. With power you refused to explain. Just like now, you kept saying it wasn’t what we thought, that it was – what was it again? Oh, right. Complicated.”

Wei Wuxian closes his eyes, the memories resurfacing like bruises.

“And those strays you picked up. Those people who meant nothing to you, nothing to Lotus Pier. You tore the world apart for them. But us?” His chest seems to cave in with his next exhale. “For us, everything was too complicated for you to just tell the damn truth.”

Wei Wuxian swallows, throat tight.

“And then you died,” Jiang Cheng finishes, voice dropping into something ragged and low. “And even that didn’t simplify a fucking thing, did it.”

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Wei Wuxian doesn’t try to deny any of it.

Not because it’s fair… but because it’s what Jiang Cheng believes, bone-deep, and nothing he can say will change that.

Jiang Cheng watches his silence stretch, watches Wei Wuxian sit there chained and quiet and accepting.

Then something cold – something dangerous – settles in his gaze.

“Fine,” he murmurs. “If you won’t talk…”
He reaches for Zidian.

“…I’ll make you.”

~

Zidian hisses to life in Jiang Cheng’s palm. Purple lightning crawls between his fingers like something alive and eager.

Wei Wuxian’s chains pull taut when he instinctively tries to retreat, collar tugging hard against his throat.

He knows what Zidian feels like.
Has suffered the sting of it more times than he’d like to recall.

He braces.

But Jiang Cheng doesn’t swing immediately. He stares down at him – truly stares – and it’s the first time since Wuqiong he hasn’t looked certain.

There’s a question buried under his fury, trembling and raw: Why are you back?

Why didn’t you just stay dead?
Why can’t I get rid of you–

He tamps it down. And swings.

Zidian strikes Wei Wuxian’s chest.

Agony erupts through his nerves. Not ordinary pain, but that deep, soul-scraping current that drags the breath straight from his lungs. His body bows, the collar biting into his neck, a strangled sound tearing out of him before he can muffle it.

And then–
Nothing.

No ripple of spiritual energy leaving the body.
No flicker of a soul being forced loose.
No sign of possession at all.

Wei Wuxian slumps forward, gasping.

Jiang Cheng stares, waiting for something… anything to happen. But nothing does.

The failure hits him like a physical blow.

He swings again.

Zidian lashes across Wei Wuxian’s shoulder, sending his entire right side numb. Sparks snap across skin, burning hair, the smell of scorched fabric rising.

Still – nothing.

Wei Wuxian stays in that body. No distortion of form. No half-formed shadow of a spirit pulled out. No tremor of separation. Nothing.

Jiang Cheng’s face twists. Cruelty, confusion, grief – all tangled into something feral.

“Don’t you dare sit there like this is normal.”

Wei Wuxian gulps down a thin, shaking breath. “I told you… this body is –”

“Yours?” Jiang Cheng snarls. “Yours.” He snorts like a raging bull. “You’re actually trying to say that with a straight face?”

Another strike.

Wei Wuxian’s vision whites out. A sob shudders through him without permission.
Ah… this body, really… It really is quite weak.

Jiang Cheng watches. He watches too long, too closely, as if trying to see the soul peeling away.

“Why isn’t this working,” he growls under his breath. “You should be –” He cuts himself off, steps closer, grabs Wei Wuxian’s jaw and forces his head up. “Zidian should scrape you out like the rot you are. So why –” He shakes him once, rough, desperate.
“– why aren’t you coming out?”

“Because I’m… not… possessing him.”

Jiang Cheng’s grip tightens painfully.

“Liar!”

He rears back and strikes again, this one so close to Wei Wuxian’s heart the current makes his entire torso convulse violently. His head slams back against stone. He bites down on a cry that still manages to slip through his teeth, ragged and humiliating.

The chains twist around his writhing body, rattling with the force of his shaking.

Zidian snaps again. And again. The blows land too fast for Wei Wuxian to brace from one to the next, each one ripping through nerves already stretched thin. His breath comes shallow and broken, chest spasming with every pulse of spiritual lightning.

He feels something give behind his ribs, and he knows it’s something vital.

“Stop –” he gasps without meaning to. His voice is barely more than air.

It only enrages Jiang Cheng further.

“Don’t you dare start begging now,” he spits. “You’re strong enough to haunt and murder the living and manipulate corpses? Fine. You’re strong enough to withstand this, too.”

“Don’t –”

“Then give me the fucking truth!” Jiang Cheng roars.

“…can’t.”

“You can, you just don’t care enough to tell me!”

Another lightning crack. Zidian hits so hard he arches off the ground before the weight of the chains drags him back down. Wei Wuxian’s body jerks – unnatural, wrong. His left arm flexes violently toward his chest, elbow locking tight, fingers curling in a rigid claw he can’t loosen. Both legs kick at once, then pull inward like he’s trying to fold himself in half.

His awareness dims, flickers.

A halted, breathy noise forces its way up his throat – a whimper strangled halfway into something desperate and raw.

The sounds of Zidian’s fury echo in the stone room, but it’s this sound that seems to resonate loudest of all.

Jiang Cheng freezes. A cold, nauseating feeling starts coiling in his gut.

Wei Wuxian’s eyes flutter. His breathing falters. His body relaxes, the stump of his arm dropping to the floor with a wet thump into the growing pool of blood beneath him.

“Don’t you fucking pass out on me,” Jiang Cheng snaps, grabbing his hair, yanking his head back up.

Wei Wuxian’s eyes roll half-open, unfocused. His lips are pale, bloody, his chest rising in weak, shallow motions – each one more pitiful than the last.

And that…
That is the moment Jiang Cheng’s stomach drops like a stone.

He’s seen men die before. He knows what failing breath looks like. And Wei Wuxian…
He looks like he’s dying.

“Fuck,” Jiang Cheng whispers. “No. No, no, no –”

He grabs Wei Wuxian’s shoulders, shakes him once, twice, desperate.

“Open your eyes! Don’t you dare – don’t you d –”

Wei Wuxian tries. He truly tries. His eyelashes flutter, breath choking in his throat like it’s caught on something sharp. His pale lips form incomprehensible words.

Then –
His body goes slack. Everything stills.
Zidian flickers and returns to dormancy.

“…No.”

He plants his knees in Wei Wuxian’s blood, hands hovering, unsure whether to touch,
whether to shake,
whether to recoil.

“Get up,” he says, voice shaking. “Wei Wuxian… get up.”

Wei Wuxian doesn’t move.

A disciple calls tentatively from outside: “Zongzhu? Is everything –”

“Out!” Jiang Cheng roars, the single-syllabled shout cracking halfway through.

Footsteps retreat quickly. Jiang Cheng stares down at the body slumped in its restraints, dread crawling up his spine like frost.

“No. You don’t get to –” He drags a hand over his face. It comes away wet. Sweat, he tells himself. From the exertion.

“You don’t get to leave me again, you bastard.”

And that is exactly when the air begins to shift.
When the shadows around Wei Wuxian’s body twist and disperse at the sudden appearance of a strange, golden shimmer.
When the chains rattle, though no hand touches them.

When something ancient and cold and divine starts pulling him from the inside out.

Not by Jiang Cheng. Not by any array in Lotus Pier.

Wei Wuxian’s soul is yanked out like a deeply lodged splinter.

And vanishes.

Behind Jiang Cheng, the sealing talismans peel from the bars in half-states of incineration, fluttering uselessly to the ground.

His face loses every ounce of color.

And only then – too late – does he understand what Wei Wuxian had been mouthing, breath snagging on a broken whisper Jiang Cheng had been too furious to decipher.

Don’t… worry about… me.
…not worth it.

The words hit him like a dying echo –
Hollow and maddening in their ensuing silence.

~

Wei Wuxian’s death is the door opening; the god’s array is the wall he hits on the other side.
His soul hurtles into awareness in a blaze of white agony that no longer belongs to him.
Only the memory of it remains.

He exists before he understands it.

Not breath.
Not heartbeat.
Not pain.

Just a fragile, floating awareness. Weightless, suspended in a quiet that’s almost too much to bear.

The god’s array holds him like a cupped hand – cold, indifferent, humming faintly with purpose. Purpose that is, unfortunately, not his. If he’s the mop, then this is the celestial supply closet. Somewhere to stash him between clean-ups.  

Not exactly the most encouraging reality.

He could almost miss Jiang Cheng’s dungeon.
Almost.

At least the pain was something…

Here, there’s only an echo of his own thoughts, and those are… slippery things.
Hard to dodge when there’s nothing else to occupy himself with.

He hates it, actually.

“Is this really how it’s going to be?” he mutters to the emptiness.
Not that it will do him any good. He suspects the heavens file all his objections straight into the void.

As he’d presumed before, time doesn’t pass normally here. It stretches thin. No days, weeks, or months. It just is. An unchanging, unbroken, interminable now. He gives up trying to measure it. What good would knowing do him, anyway? It’s not as if he’s getting paid for his mopping duties by the incense stick. In fact, he’s not getting paid at all.

Not a single, heavenly merit for all his troubles.

Punishment bordering the inhumane, in his lowly opinion.
Making a man work an eternity taming resentment without giving him even a copper to show for it.

Heaven truly is a cruel master.

~

Eventually, inevitably, he feels the shift.

The same merciless yank as before, like a loose thread tugged sharply from its seam.
A hook catching at his center.
A pull he can’t refuse.

Chains of that gods-awful light bind his disembodied limbs and drag him into nothingness.

He has just enough time to think, Not again –

– before his soul is slammed into flesh.

The confines of skin and bone clamp down on him, heavy and suffocating after the weightlessness of the array. The mortal world pulls him down like a stone dropped into deep water.

His first breath is a shudder.

The resurrection cycle begins again.

Chapter Text

His first conscious thought is that something is wrong.
Profoundly, fundamentally wrong.

Pain radiates through him. An old, layered pain. The kind deeper than bone – not the clean, sharp agony of injury. Pain that leaves a mark on the soul.

It terrifies him.

For a long moment, he can’t move. He knows this from his first resurrection: the summoned soul settling into flesh always leaves a disconnect, like inhabiting a house with unfamiliar walls and hallways echoing the strangeness of someone else’s life.

The sensation is jarring. Everything misaligned, not quite his – forcing him to wait, to let his awareness seep slowly into the foreign shape.

But this…

This is something else.

A mismatch so sharp it borders on vertigo.

His chest feels significantly smaller. His ribs tighter. Everything is too scrawny. Too narrow. The bones too close under the skin, the limbs short and slight enough that, for a heartbeat, he thinks something went wrong with the ritual.

That deep ache flares again, and he flinches.
The body flinches with him and his breath stutters on instinct. Even the sound of it is… delicate.

Easy, he thinks to himself. Just… just figure out what’s what. Slow down.

But the more he tries to ground himself, the more horrifying the details that surface become.

His center of gravity sits strangely high.
His voice, when he tries a sound, catches in a throat that feels… underdeveloped. Soft in unsettling ways.

A cold ripple works through him.

This vessel is small.
This vessel is young.

Too young.

His heart kicks against his ribs like a hummingbird’s wings, feeling frantic and oh-so-fragile in its rhythm. And that, more than anything, reinforces the dread pooling in his stomach.

No.
No, no, no, you wouldn’t –

A memory fragment hits him: a child’s hand drawing a ritual circle with stolen sticks of charcoal. Blood dripping from fingertips, nails chewed to raw nubs. Whispers mouthed through trembling lips. A wish for escape so desperate it scorches everything else.

His breath hitches.

Twelve.

This boy… this body is only twelve years old.

Horror settles, slow and suffocating, like ink bleeding through paper.

What have you done? he wants to cry –
to the boy whose soul is now scattered across the void, never to be recovered;
to the sick, twisted world that drove him to it;
to the gods who intervened only after it was far too late, and only long enough to send their mop.

A mop to clean up a mess of resentment that should never have existed in the first place.

He tries again for mobility…
To be rewarded with only the barest twitch of a finger.

The scattered memories the boy left him with provide the names and faces of his targets, but nothing more specific than that.

He doesn’t know if his new landlord wants them dead or not.

He does know he’s in a brothel.
In Lanling.

He could scream at the irony.

From the bloody throat of the Yunmeng Jiang sect straight to the bowels of the Lanling Jin. Given his luck so far, he can expect his next resurrection to see him shit out directly in front of the gates of the Cloud Recesses.

The thought makes him squirm.
Literally.
The body responds to his discomfort, twitching into blessed motion.

A gasp draws his still unfocused gaze to the corner of the small, windowless bedroom.

“Oh, thank the gods,” a young girl’s voice breathes in relief. “I thought you were dead.”

Wei Wuxian struggles to gather his bearings quickly. Horror can wait. Panic can wait. Not having a full grasp of the situation, especially now knowing he’s not alone here, is only going to add to the stack of problems he’s already dealing with.

He forces the body upright, squinting in the direction of the voice as his vision finally centers, and there he sees a girl of about fifteen or sixteen kneeling at the edge of the messily drawn array that encircles him.

“Don’t thank them,” he says, recoiling inwardly at the sound of the child’s voice – a voice that hasn’t even broken yet – coming out of his mouth. “They didn’t do anything to deserve it.”

Her eyes widen, and he watches the realization strike her like a blow.

“You’re not A-Tong.” She swallows. Then, quieter –  
“Oh gods… it worked.”

Wei Wuxian goes very, very still.

Because the tone in her voice is not one of sadness or grief. It doesn’t carry the tremor of someone mourning a child whose soul has just been scattered beyond reach.

The girl – A-Lian, Lian-jie, whispered memory supplies – tucks a stray hair behind her ear, her posture straightening now that her gamble has paid off.

The relief he heard in her words before…
It wasn’t relief that A-Tong woke up, alive.
It was relief that the ritual succeeded.

Her words not said out of fear for his life, but fear that it was snuffed out before it could be utilized.
It wasn't, 'I thought you were dead,' but actually, 'I thought you were dead for nothing.' 

Wei Wuxian’s horror condenses, sharpening, chilling, until it hardens into something far more dangerous.”

“Yes,” he says coldly. “It worked. A child is dead.”

He lets the silence stretch a beat too long before adding:
“With respect – or, rather, none at all – I’d ask that you hold off your celebrations until he’s been properly mourned.”

A-Lian’s face pales, but her cheeks blotch red as she glares. “Who’s celebrating?” she snaps. “And don’t look at me like that. I didn’t make him do anything he wasn’t going to do already.”

Wei Wuxian raises his brows, expression full of scorn. “And that’s supposed to make it okay?”

“Of course.” She lifts her chin in a stiff, stubborn way. “I caught him hanging a rope from the storage shed rafters last night. He was already halfway into the noose before I stopped him. You think I forced him into this?” A bitter laugh escapes her. “He’d have died then if I hadn’t grabbed him first.”

She shrugs – shrugs – as though discussing spilled rice.
“He was determined to die anyway. So what if gave him a better way to do it.”

Wei Wuxian exhales once, slowly. He looks at her – really looks – and the fury that settles in his eyes isn’t loud. It’s measured. Devastating.

“A better way,” he repeats, soft and dangerous. “You call this –” he gestures vaguely at the ritual circle and the hanging talismans, at the small body he’s sitting in “– a better way?”

A-Lian opens her mouth, but the look he gives her stops her cold.

“No,” he says. “You didn’t help him. You used him. You caught yourself a drowning child and handed him a stone, that’s all.”

Her mouth twists, more offended than ashamed.

And the more he looks at her, the more he dislikes.

She’s pretty, he’ll admit. Just the kind of girl he might’ve teased on the docks in Yunmeng, if only to get a rise out of Jiang Cheng.

Soft features shaped by kohl and powder, lips tinted just enough to draw the eye, all wrapped up in a spill of red silk far too fine for a girl her age, embroidered with gold that catches the lantern light, and a high-waisted skirt, the fabric whispering each time she shifts her weight.

Her hair is arranged in an elaborate, glossy coil that looks far from comfortable. It’s pinned with gilt blossoms and a single cheap pearl that tries and fails to look expensive.

He notes it all in an instant: the jewelry meant to distract, the bright silk meant to sell a fantasy, the jade bangles clinking lightly with every movement.

A young courtesan-in-training.
Pretty, yes.

But all he sees is the calculation behind her eyes.

“I guess you think it’s worth it, right? Doesn’t matter whose soul gets damned as long as you walk away with your share.”

Her gaze darkens, painted lips curling. “We both do. A-Tong wants vengeance, too.”

“Wanted,” he corrects flatly. “Good thing for you, you didn’t have to pay the price. He did.”

She huffs, irritated. “I don’t see why you’re complaining so much. Whether or not you agree with my motives, aren’t you also getting your share?”

That makes him pause.

Me? he thinks incredulously, clenching his too-small fingers. Getting something out of… this?

“Meaning?”

He could swear this girl almost rolls her eyes at him.

“You’re the Yiling Patriarch, aren’t you? Supreme Evil Lord, Master of Resentment? The monster of the Burial Mounds.” Her voice drips with sarcasm and envy. “Shouldn’t you be thrilled to get another go at all that power?”

She gestures vaguely at the body he’s in.

“Isn’t this what you wanted? Why you made such a ritual in the first place? So even death wouldn’t stop you? So your people could bring you back to stir up fresh chaos and prove you’re still the one pulling all the strings?”

Wei Wuxian snorts. It’s all he can do in the face of such a speech – such a ridiculous notion.

“If I were really so hungry for power,” he says plainly, “I wouldn’t have died the first time.”

His voice cools.
“And I draw the line at using the despair of children for my own gain. A principle you yourself don’t seem to abide by.”

And neither do his abusers.

He sees it, in his mind’s eye – feels it, as if belongs to him.
The boy’s memories continue to come at him in sick little bursts: his suffocating fear, the weight of meaty hands, the metallic tang of blood clinging to something floral. The slick texture of oils and –

Wei Wuxian swallows it back. An old kind of rage rises – quiet, focused, lethal.

“You think you summoned a monster,” he says. “You did.”

A-Lian blinks.

“But here’s what you failed to understand.” His tone softens, terrifyingly gentle. “This monster… doesn’t answer to you.”

Her breathing falters. The air in the room tightens.

“And as for whatever waste of life I’ve been brought here to punish –” he brandishes his bloody forearm, the five slowly healing cuts stark against the boy’s pale skin “– you’d be a fool to think I would ever limit myself to someone else’s bidding.”

He doesn’t break eye contact.
He holds her gaze, adding coldly,

“There’s always room for one more.”

Her expression buckles.
For a heartbeat, the bravado slips, and he knows…

She’s finally beginning to comprehend the magnitude of what she’s gotten herself into.

“Th-that’s not right. The book said –”

“Book.”

Wei Wuxian finally pushes himself up off the floor, swaying slightly as he’s reminded again of that deep, inner ache that feels so much older than the child bearing it. He hides his wince, or tries to; the pain rips through him anyway.

“What book?”

A-Lian’s chin wobbles before she stiffens it. “Your book. The one with all your notes. The ritual instructions said the evil spirit summoned would –”

“Where did you get it?” he cuts in sharply. There’s no way she came across something so dangerous by chance.

“I stole it,” she says, expression hardening as if she expects him to scold her for it. “From Madam Gu’s cultivator friend. W-Wu Shifeng. Wu-laoye. He’s… a regular client of mine. I –”

“Where is it now?”

She clamps her mouth shut.

Wei Wuxian’s expression shifts – barely, but unmistakably. An expression that shouldn’t exist on such a young face. It makes the girl shudder to look at it.

“Don’t make me ask again.”

The lanternlight flickers as if reacting to him, shadows bowing inward.

A-Lian’s breath comes in broken little bursts as she fumbles through her skirts and produces a crudely bound stack of familiar-looking pages.

Damnit.
Gods-fucking-damnit.

Wei Wuxian reaches toward the dangling talismans – having to stand on tiptoe to catch the lowest ribbon – and tears it down. He scrapes a nail over one of the barely scabbed wounds on his arm and uses the blood to change the talismanic script into a sloppy but effective character for flame.

“Hand it over,” he says in a tone that brooks no argument.

A-Lian clutches the book to her chest, eyeing the talisman with dread. “Wh-what are you going to do with it?”

He doesn’t dignify that with an answer.

“Hand it over.”

She flinches as if struck. “But if you destroy it, I – I won’t be able to –”

“What? Sell the soul of another cornered child?”

Her lips part, but nothing comes out.

He steps forward, bare feet silent on the blood-slicked floor, shoulders squared despite the small, aching body he’s in.

He extends his hand again.

“Give it to me.”

A-Lian hesitates just long enough to make the temperature in the room drop further. Then, trembling, she places the book into his waiting palm.

Wei Wuxian exhales sharply through his nose. “Looks like I bear some of the blame here, too. Something like this should never have made it out of the Burial Mounds.”

Like me, he thinks darkly. Twice, now.

He raises the talisman in one hand, the book in the other.

A-Lian’s cry tears out of her throat – “Wait!”

Wei Wuxian lowers the talisman, brushing his bloody thumb over the flame character.

The paper ignites in a violent hiss, heat rolling over them both.
The book catches next, fire racing up the roughly bound spine, ink blistering black and hot.

He drops the burning pages into the center of the array and watches, impassive, as cinders and charcoal mix, ash skittering across the floorboards like frantic insects fleeing a storm.

~

A-Lian is still kneeling, hands over her mouth, eyes rimmed in smeared kohl –
That’s when the footsteps sound down the hall. Accompanied by voices, getting louder.

“…told him if he wants the boy again, he pays extra. A-Tong hasn’t been trained yet. Two nights in a row might break him. So of course we should get our money’s worth – just in case.”

A-Lian goes bloodless.

“No,” she whispers. “No, no, she’s early –”

The footsteps sound just outside the door. Multiple sets. A rustle of silk. The click of heavy, ornamental hairpins. A deep, satisfied sigh from someone who’s already counting money in her head.

A-Lian scrambles to her feet and grabs his arm with icy fingers, speaking so desperately that her words stutter and stumble over one another. “Please– please, just go along with it. If it happens now, it’ll be too quick, and I – I need it to be slow. Drawn out. They– these people deserve to suffer, for A-Tong’s sake. Please –”

Wei Wuxian shakes her off.

A shadow passes under the doorframe. Then –

A sharp rap of knuckles.
Three times.

“Tong’er,” Madam Gu’s syrupy voice calls. “Your patron is here. He’s paid handsomely for another night with you. Up you get, child.”

Wei Wuxian feels the boy’s body lurch in remembered terror, a flinch that isn’t wholly his.

A-Lian scrambles to wipe her face. “Madam– Madam, wait–!”

The door slides open before she can finish.

Bright light pours into the room, illuminating the wreckage:

The hanging talismans.
The ritual circle scorched into the floorboards.
The remnants of the burned book still smoking.
Blood everywhere, smears of it drying over the five careful slashes carved into a twelve-year-old’s forearm.

And Wei Wuxian himself, small, bare-foot, and trembling –
– trembling with a fury that simmers just beneath the surface of his skin.

Madam Gu freezes in the doorway, her attendants – two large, boulder-like brutes – blinking in surprise behind her.

The painted smile she wears cracks like a thin glaze.

“What,” she says, voice dropping several notches, “is the meaning of this?”

A-Lian collapses in a frantic bow. “Madam – I can explain. H-he –”

Madam Gu cuts her off with a single, vicious glare.

“Be silent.”

Her gaze sweeps the room, not with confusion or horror, but with the calculating sharpness of one who’s seen its like before.

“You two have been busy, haven’t you,” she says quietly, observing the talismans with a discerning eye. “Bringing this kind of nonsense under my roof.”

She passes dangerously close to Wei Wuxian’s quivering frame as she circles the room. She’s not a particularly tall woman, but he notes with no small amount of frustration that he doesn’t even reach up to her shoulder in height.

“My little Jin Tong,” she says sweetly. Too sweetly. It makes him want to gag. “After spending those precious years with the Jin sect trying to cultivate a golden core, this is what you’ve resorted to in the end?” She sniffs with false sympathy. “Your father would be so disappointed.”

“Madam, we weren’t –”

“Enough.”

Madam Gu lashes out, quick as a snake, toward the place where A-Lian still kneels. She grabs the girl by the chin and forces her face up, hissing, “You filthy little gutter-rat. You’ve spoiled my golden boy. When this night is over, I promise you will be dealt with.”

She throws her aside like a discarded rag, eyes glinting with cold finality.

Then she turns sweet again – deadly sweet – when she looks at Wei Wuxian.

“Tong’er,” she croons, “you poor thing. Come now. Let’s get you washed up. We don’t want your patron to be left waiting, do we?”

Wei Wuxian doesn’t move.

Madam Gu snaps at the attendants. “Take him.”

He lifts his head.

“Touch me,” he says, “and you’ll lose a hand.”

Both men freeze.

Madam Gu inhales sharply. “What did you just say?”

He sighs inwardly. Luo Ming would’ve appreciated that one.

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
His voice is soft, controlled, and entirely wrong coming from a boy so small.

The attendants glance at each other. Something’s off.
This is not the A-Tong they are accustomed to dealing with. No – handling would be a much more accurate word.

Madam Gu bares her teeth. “You stupid child. You think you have a choice? You are mine. You are property of this establishment, and you will serve as I see fit.” She turns her glare on her attendants. “What are you two doing, balking in front of a little boy. Grab him and take him to the baths at once.”

Wei Wuxian steps back. Not in fear, but in calculated positioning. His eyes darken, flickering red, a glimpse of something ancient stirring under the skin.

The shadows around the array drag toward him like ripples of black silk.

A-Lian sees it first and gasps.

“Madam… don’t –”

“You will speak when you’re spoken to, or not at all!” the Madam says, her voice cutting A-Lian’s warning short. To her attendants – “Take him, before I lose any more of my patience.”

The brutes surge forward.
Wei Wuxian moves.

Not toward them, no. Wei Wuxian has never been stupid.
And they have the physical advantage.

He slips sideways, ducking out of their reach, dragging his fingers through the remnants of the array, the ash on the floor. His hand rebounds with the grace of someone who has been doing this for a lifetime, long before anyone called him a monster.

A talisman flares to life in his grip. Sloppy, improvised, but potent.

The attendants pause as the talisman flares red with resentful energy.

Wei Wuxian slaps the talisman against the floorboards and shoves.
The resentment trapped in the used array answers.

The room’s temperature drops like someone opened a door to the Burial Mounds.
The lantern flames gutter, shrinking into thin green tongues.
Shadows ripple outward in a shockwave.

The brutes cry out, stumbling back as the floor under their feet heaves.

Madam Gu gasps, crashing into the doorframe. “W-what is – what are you doing, you–?!”

Wei Wuxian lifts two fingers to his lips.
A shrill, piercing whistle slices the air.

It’s weak, but even a whisper of his command is enough.

Something stirs.

Something small and broken.
Something that lived and died in this brothel long before A-Tong ever arrived.

A cold wind spirals inward from the corners of the room, dragging the lanternlight into warped shapes. The shadows gather at Wei Wuxian’s back, taking on the vague impression of limbs that bend in spindly, unnatural ways…

The attendants shout in horror.

Madam Gu’s bravado fractures. “Stop – stop this at once!” 

One of the attendants scrambles for the door, only to freeze in place, choking as an invisible hand closes around his throat.

With his back turned, A-Lian sees her moment.
Her trembling stops.

She rises, not brave but desperate, grabbing the nearest heavy object she can find: a lacquered incense burner from the bedside table. Its weight drags her arm down.

She hesitates for only half a heartbeat.

“Don’t blame me,” she whispers. “Please. It’s too soon.”

Wei Wuxian senses her too late.

He starts to turn, shadow creature lunging –

A-Lian brings the incense burner down on the side of his skull with a sickening crack.

Wei Wuxian’s knees buckle instantly.
His next talisman slips from his fingers.
The ghost dissolves into smoke, screeching.

The room tilts.

He hears Madam Gu shouting, furious –
A-Lian sobbing something that sounds like “forgive me, forgive me –”
the rustle of bodies moving around him –
but it’s all fading fast.

He tastes blood.
The child’s body is too weak, too newly inhabited, too worn down by last night’s torment.

The world narrows
– and Wei Wuxian falls into darkness.

Chapter Text

He wasn’t A-Tong, back then.

In fact, he wasn’t anyone when he was left mysteriously on the steps of Golden Carp Tower on a rain-heavy night. No note. No swaddling worth mentioning. Just a nameless baby with eyes more golden than brown and nothing to prove but rumor.

The servant who found him – A-Zhu – should have turned him over to the proper city authorities.
She didn’t.

She took him inside instead, soothed by the way the infant reached for her thumb and refused to let go.

She gave him a name: Yunsheng.

From then onward, the world told Yunsheng he didn’t belong.

The Jin sect, so proud and respectable, was a miserable place for lost children, what with gossip being the great, many-headed beast that it was. According to anyone who knew anything in or around the circles of cultivation, a child left on those infamous steps could be only one of two things:

One: A hopeless runt abandoned for survival – a babe given up so the parents could cling to their own meager lives.

Or…

Two: Jin Guangshan’s bastard.

The idle talk of the grapevine would allow for no other explanation, reasonable or otherwise.

Where Yunsheng was concerned especially, the second rumor was always whispered – with relish, yes, but whispered, because people liked to pretend they weren’t curious about such things.

His eyes were too bright, his cheekbones too sharp, his temperament too mild for anyone’s comfort.

He didn’t cause trouble.
Never raised his voice.
Never assumed he was owed anything.

And yet… talk made him into someone to be wary of.

If he was quiet, he was arrogant.
If he did well in his tasks, he was overstepping.
If he did poorly, he was an embarrassment.

In the end, his mildness appeased no one – not even himself.
Still, he learned to keep his mouth shut out of habit, or risk facing worse scrutiny for being too vocal. Too opinionated.

Too presumptuous.

“Don’t tell me even you believe what the servants say about your being our Zongzhu’s bastard child,” they would taunt. “What, you think you’re entitled to stand alongside the rest of us because of some baseless rumors? Dream on, runt.”

A-Zhu raised him as best she could between laundry shifts and needlework. She fed him scraps from the kitchen and clothed him in the disciples’ stitched-up hand-me-downs. She taught him to keep his head down, to bow low and step softly and say, “yes, Gongzi,” “yes, Xiaojie” even when he didn’t like what they were saying.

For a time, it was enough.

He had a bed in the servants’ dormitory, a warm bowl of porridge most mornings, and the occasional indulgence of watching young disciples train from the outer courtyard.

Qian-shixiong – a title of address the older boy insisted on – a junior disciple with more kindness than sense, sometimes spared a moment to show him a proper stance, or corrected the way he held his breath during self-taught meditation.

Yunsheng soaked up every scrap of his one and only shixiong’s attention like sunlight through shutters.

But kindness is a fragile currency in Golden Carp Tower.
Rumor is not.

When he grew a little older – nine, perhaps a little past it – his face sharpened just enough for the whispers to return with teeth.

“Look at him. He’s got the Jin brow.”

“No father listed in the registry. Not even a dead one. Isn’t that odd?”

“Have you seen his eyes? Gods, no wonder they wouldn’t let him train with the others. It’s so obvious.”

“Stand him next to Jin Zixuan and you’ll see no difference, I’m telling you.”

“Hush, you idiot. Don’t say the young master’s name. Jin-furen is in another huff about him screwing up his engagement with the young lady from the Jiang sect, again. I heard her screaming all morning about how he’d better fix things with the girl at the Mount Baifeng night-hunt or she’ll disown him for sure this time.”

“Sorry, sorry, you’re right. I only meant to say they look alike. That’s all.”

Someone even joked about sending Jin Guangshan the bill for raising his ‘little mistake.’ Someone else laughed. And then that someone abruptly stopped laughing,
because who should walk in on their conversation at the worst possible moment but Jin Guangyao.

Yunsheng was accused of theft that same week.

A hairpin had gone missing.

Nothing proven, nothing logical. But the air around him thickened, turning hostile. Too many eyes avoided him. Too many voices spoke just loud enough to carry.

A-Zhu tried to defend him.
Qian-shixiong tried to intervene.

It made no difference. Neither had the rank or influence to matter.

He wasn’t even given time to gather his things. He left with only the hand-me-down robes on his back when they escorted him away.

A-Zhu tried to give him money.
It was slapped out of her hand.

Golden Carp Tower’s gates had never seemed so enormous, or so final, as they did that morning when they shoved him through with a curt:

“Don’t come back.”

He didn’t cry. Really.
Not until nightfall.

But that’s how he ends up here, now, crying and shivering in a dark alley, uncertain of where his next meal will come from, of what direction to go in, of how he’ll possibly survive the harrowing days to come.

For a few weeks, he survives on what A-Zhu can smuggle out to him on rare, hurried occasions, and the handful of coins Qian-shixiong shoved into his pocket before the guards dragged him away.

But children vanish easily in the city.
Especially small, pretty ones with eyes like liquid gold.

Lanling swallows him whole.

He goes begging on the wrong street.

The men he encounters there wear polite smiles and nice clothes, boots that are polished to a shine. They seem kind, and Yunsheng is like a thirsty desert under a trickle of rain whenever someone shows him a little kindness.

“We can feed you,” they say.
“We’ll give you work.”
“You won’t be cold tonight.”

And he believes them. Because he’s nine. Because he’s starving.
Because he so badly wants their kindness to be true.

By the end of the day, he’s bound and caged with five other children, and he’s already learned the first rule of the trade: pretty boys fetch the highest prices.

Madam Gu inspects him like a merchant appraising livestock – not with cruelty, not with kindness.

Just business.

“Too small for the rooms,” she says, tapping his cheek with a nail filed to a sharp point. “But that face… yes. In a few years, that face will pay for itself.”

And just like that, he belongs somewhere again.

Not as a disciple.
Not as a ward or a friend.

As property.

He becomes the pretty little runner with the golden eyes.
A servant. A curiosity.
An investment.

His name – the name given to him by the only parental figure he’s ever known – is irrelevant. Everyone at this place they call a brothel simply refers to him as A-Tong. The little servant boy. But later, Madam Gu somehow hears the rumors of his parentage and, to her own amusement, starts calling him Jin Tong.

Her golden boy.

“My Jin Tong. My golden boy,” she hums to him in honeyed tones. “You’re sure to make me a lot of money one day.”

She dresses him in clean clothes. Not fine, but clean. She feeds him enough to keep him from looking like a starving street cat. She teaches him to pour wine, carry trays, bow properly, speak sweetly.

All skills for the future she intends for him.

He only tries to run away once – when he learns exactly what it is that’s expected of him.

Before that, he only understands the new place he calls home the way children understand thunderstorms: from a distance, in flashes, any other knowledge of it pieced together from sound and fear.

He knows the jiejies complain about ‘clients’ while lounging and chatting in the kitchens before business hours. That the geges rub their wrists and groan about drunken young masters who don’t take no for an answer.

He knows some of their jokes don’t make sense, but their laughter always has an edge to it – as if it’s been sharpened into something ugly.

He knows the hallways smell different at night. Thick. Sweet. Wrong. Like perfume and sweat and something else he can’t quite name. And sometimes he has to guide stumbling patrons stinking of alcohol back to their rooms, holding a lantern with two hands so it won’t shake.

He knows that he’s made to dump buckets of vomit in the alleys behind the kitchens, the rats scattering when he bangs the emptied bucket on the low stone wall.

He knows this place is messy.
And loud.
And frightening.

But he doesn’t understand. Not really.

Not until one of the jiejies – Ying-jie, who likes to braid his hair and give him her leftovers whenever she decides she’s dieting again – sits him down one afternoon and says gently: “A-Tong… you’re getting older. Your time will come soon. You should know what the madam is preparing you for, hm?”

She tells him softly, carefully, like she’s pulling splinters from his skin.

He sits still and listens.

A mild child.
An obedient child.
A quiet child.

Every word she says lands like a jagged rock.

Every explanation, told in such horrifying detail, maps out a terrible future he hadn’t even known to expect. One that was fast approaching.

When she’s done speaking, he feels cold. Bone-deep cold. Like winter itself has crawled inside him and sealed every door shut behind it.

That night, he lies awake staring at the beams overhead, heart pounding so hard it hurts.

He tries his very best not to think about Madam Gu’s smile, or the way she touches his cheek as if assessing how much he’ll sell for in a year, or the way some patrons stare at him whenever he passes through to refill their wine cups.

He tries not to think about what ‘your time will come soon’ means.

He fails.

He runs the next morning.

He slips out just before dawn, barefoot, breathing hard, the cold cobblestones bruising the soles of his feet as he sprints down narrow streets. He doesn’t even know where he’s going, just… away.

Anywhere away from here.

But he’s not even eleven, and small, and hungry, and Madam Gu’s two giant-sized attendants know the alleys better than he does.

A-Bao and A-Hong catch him before he’s even three streets away.

By the arm.
By the hair.
By the back of his robe as he kicks and sobs and begs –

“Please – please…
“I – I won’t do it. I don’t want –
“Just let me go. Please –”

A-Bao shoves a dirty sock into his mouth to keep him quiet, lest he wake the neighborhood with his ‘whining.’

A-Hong laughs and holds him up higher by his robes until his feet are left dangling in the air and his collar is choking him breathless.

“Stop those tears or we’ll stuff your eyeholes too, boy.”

He promptly squeezes his eyes shut and keeps them closed until they’ve hauled him all the way back to the brothel.

Madam Gu waits by the entrance. Still in her nightrobe, and furious.

She drags him inside by the wrist, her sharpened nails digging holes into his skin.

“You ungrateful little brat,” she hisses, shaking him so hard his teeth click together. “I bought you. You think you get to leave before you’ve even repaid a single copper of what you owe?”

In the face of her unbridled wrath, he apologizes. He cries. He promises he won’t run again.

Madam Gu keeps him close after that.
Too close.

He sleeps on a cot in a cleared-out storage room so he can’t slip out unnoticed.
He is no longer permitted near the doors unless under A-Bao’s or A-Hong’s supervision.
He isn’t allowed to wander, or linger, or look too long at passing carriages.

The leash tightens.
Then tightens again.

By age twelve, the patrons begin asking for him by name.

Not loudly. Not openly. But with the oily confidence of men who think their coin can buy whatever they lay their eyes on.

“Our little A-Tong really does get finer by the day, doesn’t he? You’re sure he’s not ready yet?”
“How much longer are you planning to keep this one in the servants’ quarters?”
“When the boy turns thirteen, then?”
“Name your price.”

And every time, Madam Gu tells them, “Not yet, not yet. He’s still too young. Have patience, Laoye.” But to A-Tong’s horror, her tone grows softer with each refusal. Her smile grows sharper. She allows their eyes to linger on him a little longer before hurrying him along.

And he feels it – the awful sense of counting down. As if the walls themselves are tallying the days until something irreversible happens.

And then, like his size might suggest, the wealthy patron who calls at the start of festival week does not bother with subtlety.

He arrives in gold brocade and arrogance, as round about the middle as his pockets are deep. His carriage creaks and groans beneath his weight, tipping dramatically to one side as he heaves his bulk out the door. His footfalls thud on the gravel like falling sacks of rice. His robes, cut wide and straining at the seams, struggle to contain his girth as he lumbers forward, sweat beading beneath the elaborate folds.

He’s in town for business, he says. One week only. A merchant passing through, checking on the sale of his wares during the rush of the celebration’s crowds. 

He tosses a purse on the table so heavy it splits open on impact.
Silver and jade spill like entrails.

“Impress me,” he demands.

Madam Gu’s fan stops mid-flick.

She rushes to accommodate the man. Shen-laoye, she calls him with all the deferential drippings of perfect servitude. She sends a full feast to his room, keeps his wine flowing, and lines up her finest wares for his perusal.

The best-looking of all A-Tong’s jiejies and geges stand before him while he eyes them with the shrewd manner of a merchant at a meat market.

But none of them seem to appeal to him. Really, no one piques his interest – that is, until A-Tong shuffles into the room to refill his wine cup.

Then he can’t seem to look anywhere else.

He announces his choice to Madam Gu.

She tries to discourage him – out of habit, not conscience. Giving him the same excuses she gave the others.

But the patron keeps adding to the pile of silver until her greed overtakes her pretense.

A-Tong is summoned back to the room, made to bow low, made to meet the man’s eyes as Madam Gu purrs: “This is my Jin Tong. My most precious child. Just look at that face. Worth every coin, isn’t he?”

The man’s stare slithers over him, slow and hungry. And something inside A-Tong folds in on itself, so quietly he almost doesn’t notice the change – perilous as it is.

He’s taken to the baths to be ‘made ready’ while they finalize the transaction. A-Tong curls against the side of the pool, head buried in his knees, shaking so hard his ribs hurt.

He doesn’t want this.
He doesn’t want any of this.

He wants A-Zhu.
He wants his Qian-shixiong.
He wants someone to tell him he can go home.

But there’s no ‘home’ for him to go back to.
And no one comes.

Only A-Bao, who forces him out of the bath and into a clean set of robes – much nicer than the ones he normally wears. Ying-jie braids his hair like she always does, but this time there is a grim set to her mouth that makes him feel, however possible, worse.

“Jiejie,” he says, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. He doesn’t succeed. His lower lip wobbles traitorously. He takes a short, tightened breath.

“Does it hurt very much?”

He’d heard from others that the first time always hurts.

From behind him, Ying-jie makes a sound like a hiccup that got strangled on its way out.
Her answer comes a moment late.

“A bit,” she says, her voice thick. “But it won’t last long, Tong’er. Just close your eyes and bear it. It’ll be over before you know it.”

Ying-jie’s hands shake.

Just a little.
Just enough for him to notice.

She ties the last ribbon in his braid, fingers lingering for a heartbeat too long before she pulls away.

“There now, we shouldn’t delay any longer,” she says, giving him a gentle shove. “If the madam’s hair turns white while she waits, she’ll blame you for it. Off you go.”

A-Tong’s breath trembles in his chest. His hands knot in the front of his new robe – too soft, too clean, too expensive – and he tries very hard not to sob.

He tries.

He fails.

Ying-jie pulls him into a tight, desperate hug. “Shh. Don’t cry, little one,” she whispers, voice breaking. “Madam Gu doesn’t like it when we cry. It makes our eyes all red and puffy.”

He clings to her until Madam Gu’s sharp voice cuts through the hallway like a blade: “Is he ready yet?”

Ying-jie steps back so fast it looks like she’s been struck. She wipes his cheeks with shaking thumbs, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“There. Perfect,” she says.

He isn’t.
He is anything but.

But he follows her out, slippered feet silent on the polished floors, hands balled into fists, gut twisting as they guide him back to the private room.

Madam Gu meets him at the door. Her smile is honeyed poison.

“Tong’er, my love. My golden boy. Be polite to the laoye, hm? Do as he says. Don’t make trouble.”

His knees shake. He swallows hard. He bows.

The door slides shut behind him.

The lock slips into place with a soft, final click.

~

The next hour unfolds in muffled sound and sickening quiet. A handful of words spoken too close, the rustle of unfamiliar silk, the bedstead creaking like it’s crying out for help, a strangled whimper he tries to swallow into silence.

He closes his eyes, like Ying-jie said to. Tries to bear it.

But all he can think is that he wants it to stop.
Make it stop. Please, gods, make it stop.

When it’s over, he’s left alone on the bed, eyes glassy, face blank in the way one might look right before they break.

The door opens and A-Tong hears the muffled words of conversation.

“Well? How was your evening, Laoye?”

“Send him again tomorrow.”

That’s it.
But that’s all it takes.

The words hit like the blow of a hammer.

Again.
Tomorrow.

His stomach lurches so suddenly he thinks he might be sick.

Madam Gu shuffles through the open doorway, finding him curled up on the bed, unable to move. She tuts approvingly, smoothing his hair before going to gather his robes from where they’d been carelessly discarded – in a small heap on the floor.

“Well done, Tong’er,” she croons, not looking at him. “Shen-laoye was very pleased with you.”

A-Tong doesn’t sleep at all that night.

He curls up in the corner of his room, knees to chest, arms wrapped tightly around himself, trembling so violently his teeth chatter.

His mind echoes the same thought, over and over, until it burns:

I can’t do that again.
I can’t. I can’t. I can’t –

A sichen before dawn, he isn’t thinking anything at all.

Just moving.
Just walking.

For once, no one is paying attention to him. No one guards; no one watches.
They think he’s asleep in his room, exhausted from his first night attending to a customer. Of course, that’s the reasonable assumption. The pain alone should have kept him down for at least a day – but A-Tong doesn’t feel it.

He doesn’t feel anything at all.

Not as he’s opening the door to the storage shed with numb fingers. Not as he’s climbing onto the overturned crate he dragged from the corner to be situated neatly beneath the rafters.

Back then, in the Jin sect – people talked. It’s all they ever seemed to do, really. And they talked a lot, for a time, about Jin Renshu. A-Tong doesn’t remember much of what was said, but he retains the shape of it. The rumor. The way servants whispered it in corners when they thought no cultivator could hear.

Just as they had once whispered about a little boy with too-bright eyes.

A respectable Jin sect cultivator was found hanging behind the upper archives.

“That’s what happens to thieves,” they said.
“That’s what happens when you shame the sect.”
“The audacity – stealing from Jinlin Tai itself. Better he strung himself up like that than to face the Zongzhu’s judgement.”

But the older servants, the more careful ones, had spoken differently when they thought he wasn’t listening. Softly. Quickly. Like people frightened of a ghost who might have ears still to hear their daring words, and a mouth still to tell of them.

“How does a man so careful, so meek, suddenly steal right from under the elders’ noses?”
“Strange, isn’t it? The timing?”
“And the way they cleared out his rooms before dawn –”

“Hush. Do you want to bring trouble down on our heads, too?”

Later, what was spoken, critical or cautious, faded to memory.
But the image stuck.

A man who didn’t want to be alive anymore simply… tying a rope.
Stepping up onto something.
Stepping off.

Simple. Quiet. Final.

A-Tong had never imagined needing to know something like that. Never thought it would live in the back of his mind like a half-healed wound.

But it did.

And now… staring up at the rafters in a daze…
It’s all he can think of.

The rope is rough against his palms.

He ties the loop badly the first five times.
On the sixth, it finally holds.

He stands there, swaying gently, breath shaking, tears dripping onto the back of his hand.

He closes his eyes.

“A-Tong?”

The voice cracks. He flinches. The crate wobbles.

Lian-jie stands in the doorway, hair mussed from sleep, eyes wide with dawning horror.

“A-Tong…? A-Tong! What are you doing? N-no – no, step down from there –”

She runs to him, dragging him away from the rope, ripping it from his hands so violently it burns his palms.

He collapses into her, sobbing so hard he can’t breathe.

“I can’t,” he hiccups. “I can’t – do that again. Jiejie said – she said it wouldn’t last long – that it’d be over – quickly – but – but I can’t –”

A-Lian pats his hair numbly, bewildered by what she’s just stumbled upon. She had only gone out for a quick, early-morning walk about the courtyard because she couldn’t sleep. But then she’d seen the open shed door, heard the muffled sniffles, the soft sounds of boards creaking…

She’d almost left it alone, too cautious, too afraid to look in case it turned out to be some spirit or other –

A-Lian freezes.

Then her face changes.

Softens.
Sharpens.

Somewhere between sympathy and shrewdness.

She crouches beside him, lifting his chin with anxious, trembling fingers. “You don’t have to go back,” she whispers. “Not to that. Not ever again.”

He blinks up at her with those beautiful eyes that are the envy of all at Madam Gu’s fine establishment – wide, golden, and glistening with fresh tears.
The look in them is hopeful, broken…
Desperate.

“How?” he breathes.

Her smile is gentle. She looks up at the swaying rope, guiding his gaze back there as well.
A shudder runs through his small frame.

“There’s another way,” she assures him. “A better way.”

“What… way?”

“Well, if this is what you want, I can help you,” she murmurs, “but what use is there in dying alone? Shouldn’t you want to take them with you? The ones who hurt you?”

He shakes his head, breathing heavily around another rising sob. “I just want it to stop.”

“And it will,” she promises, stroking his hair again. “It will stop. You’ll be free. Truly free. But first… why not give them a taste of the helplessness you felt. Make them regret ever thinking of hurting you to begin with.”

She takes him back to his room, murmuring a death sentence disguised as soft encouragements.
She shows him the book she stole from her most frequent client, places the charcoal in his hand, helps him draw the array.
She steadies his wrist as he makes the cuts.

Five slashes.
Just shallow enough to spare him.
Deep enough to summon something truly terrifying.

His blood drips onto the talisman paper.
His tears fall with it.

A-Lian leans close, voice a low whisper, “Say the name.”

His lips tremble.

“Yi… Yiling laozu…”

Something answers.

A-Tong feels himself slipping.
His last thought is relief.

It will stop now, he thinks dizzily. It will finally st –

Chapter Text

Darkness comes in waves.

Not unconsciousness, no. Wei Wuxian has been unconscious a decidedly unhealthy number of times before.

This isn’t that.

This is a body trying to drag him under and drown him while someone else’s memories bubble up through the black.

Don’t come back…
My Jin Tong, my golden boy…
Your time will come soon…
Just close your eyes and bear it. It’ll be over before you know it…
Send him again tomorrow…

I just want it to stop…

Make it stop.

Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop!

He sinks, floats, spirals. And every time he nears the surface, he catches a fragment of sound, then slips down again.

Rough hands. Warm water. Someone lifting his arm.

His arm.

Yunsheng’s arm – sliced bloody, five distinct lines marking his viciously-grown anguish.

He hears voices. They bleed through like lantern-light through thin paper.

“…like the array from my book alright, but without the Grandmaster’s notes, I can’t be certain. Can’t be certain the boy even did the ritual right in the first place.”

“Well, he did something right. You should have seen it A-Feng. A-Bao hasn’t known fear a day in his life, and even he soiled himself before the end of it. Those shadows toyed with us like we were nothing more than the child’s playthings.”

“You think the boy summoned… him?”

Wei Wuxian attempts to move, to twitch, but his body stays limp, heavy as wet sand.

“I don’t know what to think, if he summoned a ghost or worse. But whatever it is, I need it contained. That Shen-loaye has paid for the entire week. Do you understand how much money that is? I could retire on just a fraction of it.”

The man snorts. “Then you should have kept a closer eye on him. Forbidden arts in the boy’s room? If the Jins find out –”

“The Jins don’t care about this one,” she snaps. “They threw him out years ago. He’s nothing to them.”

“Maybe so, but demonic cultivation is a sore subject. Coming close to a year since the Grandmaster’s death, and the great clans are still up in arms over it all.” He grumbles with added bitterness, “Rounding us up like criminals. Don’t they know it’s not even true demonic cultivation they’re fighting against? Practitioners of the Ghost Path are entirely legitimate.”

“Useless, the lot of them,” Madam Gu says with mock sympathy, her agreement little more than a performance to placate him.

“Even still, you’d better hope word of this hasn’t already spread amongst the servants, or you’ll soon have cultivators far less friendly than me knocking on your door.”

“No one from my house would dare talk – not if they know what’s good for them. This’ll be contained, you can count on it.”

The water sloshes again.

Rough cloth swipes at Wei Wuxian’s skin.

They’re bathing him, he realizes. Washing him with care, like a precious artifact being prepared for public display.

“How do we know the effects of this… whatever it is he did…” She clears her throat nervously. “Has it worn off?”

“It’s hard to say.”

“Then what can you say? I have a waiting patron to keep happy, A-Feng. I’m not in the mood for anything less than solutions right now.”

There’s a long, irritated exhale.

Wu Shifeng’s voice comes next, thick with reluctance and the clipped cadence of a man forced to commit to something he despises.

“If what we’re dealing with is of the Demonic Path,” he says slowly, “then there’s only one way to smother it.”

Silence.

Even through the fog in his mind, Wei Wuxian feels the tension in that pause like a fist around his ribs.

Madam Gu clicks her tongue. “Spit it out.”

“Orthodox methods.”

She barks a laugh. “You? Recommending that?”

“I’m not recommending it,” he snaps. “I’m saying it’s the only thing that would work in this situation. If resentful energy is the problem, purify it.” He pauses. “And before you ask me about cost, consider how much your precious patron just handed you.”

Wei Wuxian tries – tries – to open his eyes. The world tilts. Heat washes across his cheeks; the rest of him stays cold.

A cloth dragged down his torso.

Fingers pressing into the cuts on his arm with perfunctory efficiency.

His vision swims. The pressure in his head seems to come from all sides, squeezing his skull until it threatens to cave in.

Drugged, his muddled mind supplies, rather unhelpfully. I’ve been drugged.

He hears Madam Gu sigh. “Fine. Tell me.”

“We’ll scrub out the room,” Wu Shifeng says. “Seal every opening. Line the walls with dispersal talismans to force out whatever resentment is still clinging to him. Light some purifying incense – the strongest we have – and keep it burning.”

“And the boy?” Madam Gu demands. “I can’t have him unconscious. Laoye won’t accept a limp body.”

“Then keep him sedated just enough to dull his senses,” Wu Shifeng replies. “Just enough to keep him from gathering the surrounding qi. He won’t be able to focus. And without resentment nearby to pull from, he’ll be harmless.”

Harmless.

Wei Wuxian wants to laugh in their faces at that…
but it feels true.

He only manages a weak exhale.

Hands dress him. Lift him.
His body tilts.
The world sways.

Ringing fills his ears. Thin, metallic, relentless.

He’s dragged through a corridor, legs trailing uselessly behind him. Instinct screams at him to fight, to claw, to twist –
But every time he reaches for resentment, it scatters.

Like grasping at smoke.

He’s shoved into a room.

Footsteps.
A faint hiss of brush fibers, wet on paper.
Talismans slapped onto walls.

Thick, pungent smoke begins to thicken the air.
Incense.

It’s so strong it sears the inside of his nose.
So strong it washes out every shadow, every echo, every hint of the darkness he normally wields.

“There,” Wu Shifeng says. “Keep the talismans fresh. Don’t let any corner of this room gather resentful energy, or our efforts will be wasted.”

“And the drugs?” Madam Gu asks curtly.

“Give him more after about one shichen. Small dosages. Frequently enough to keep him drifting.”

Wei Wuxian’s head turns sluggishly from where he’s been left lying on the bed. Weight pools in his stomach, nausea gathering at the edges.

A whisper spills out before he can stop it. Half thought, half instinct.

“Make it… stop…”

Shadows should shiver when he speaks. Should bend to his will.
They don’t.

Nothing answers.

“Good,” Wu Shifeng murmurs, satisfied. “It’s working.”

Madam Gu hums, pleased. “It only needs to last us until the end of the week. Six more nights, six more visits. And when all this is over, I’ll have made ten times what I paid for the brat.”

“What will you do with him after?”

“What? Do with him?” She snorts in dark amusement. “Have you seen Shen-laoye? I’m not so sure there’ll be anything left of the boy when the man has gotten his fill. But… sell him, most likely. He’s proven far too troublesome to keep.”

Wei Wuxian, drifting in and out of the conversation, manages one lucid thought:

Let me wake properly, just once, and you’ll regret ever having laid eyes on this boy’s face.

Then he sinks again – pulled under by incense, sedatives, and a dozen talismans fluttering like the victory flags of a conquering army surrounding him.

~

Night bleeds into night.

Five of them now.
Five visits.

Five times Wei Wuxian has been dragged up from the dark – forced into just the right level of consciousness to know where he is and what’s happening to him. Pliable enough to be used, aware enough to be humiliated.

And every time, he learns the same thing:

He can’t fight.
He can barely even struggle.

Not like this.
Not inside this fragile, undersized body.

The room stays sealed. The incense never wanes. The sedatives keep coming.

He stops reaching for the resentment.
Stops trying to claw through the fog. In fact, he clings to it. It’s the only barrier between him and the full horror of what’s being done to him.

He learns to dread the click of the lock. The soft shift of robes. The false, sticky sweet tone of a man who thinks himself gentle.

“Tong’er… were you waiting for me?”

The drugs blur the world into smeared colors and muffled noise.

But some things manage to cut through anyway:

A weight dipping the side of the bed.
An arm bracing.
A shadow blotting out what little lamplight flickers.
A ragged breath hissing in one ear.

Great expanses of pulpy flesh folding over a narrow frame until it smothers.
Suffocates.

Thick, meaty fingers encircling a frail branch of a waist, slipping over goose-fleshed skin –

– tugging him close, turning him over, arranging him…

The sickening sense of being handled.

Wei Wuxian has known fear before. Real fear.

Night-hunts gone wrong.
The Burial Mounds.
War.

Death.

But he’s never known this –
this helplessness tied to being so physically disadvantaged with a grown man’s breath scraping down the back of his neck.

He’s never been folded beneath someone several times his size, never been pinned by sheer weight with nothing more than a child’s too-thin limbs to push back with.

And nothing in all his life – not the teasing with Nie Huaisang over scandalous books, not the flirtations, not the jokes, not even the singular, blindfolded kiss he got from a mysterious cultivator on Mount Beifeng – could ever have prepared him for the reality of being treated so…

Filthily.

Mortifyingly.
Inhumanely.

Yunsheng’s body is a vessel with splintered edges.

He’s too small for this. Too slight.
Too breakable.

Every sensation hits like an echo through cracked porcelain.

Pain flickers in and out – not sharp, not clean.
Just a deep, wrong ache that makes him want to crawl out of the boy’s skin.

Sometimes all he can do is stare at the ceiling beams while his chest locks tight and his mind flees to anywhere but here.

It’s worse, he decides. It’s worse when he’s on his back like this, because then the man looms over him – a shadowy, predatory beast, pawing at him, licking him, tasting him, claiming him. Taking the whole of the boy’s unfledged parts into his salivating mouth, tongue twisting –

Close your eyes and bear it, she said.
It’ll be over before you know it.

He tries.

On one of the nights, he even manages to drift so far from the boy’s body that he feels nothing at all until the patron leaves and the lock clicks again.

And in that brief, empty moment immediately after, when the room is still, when no one is touching him, when the incense curls in lazy, undisturbed spirals –

He’s grateful.

Horribly, desperately grateful for the numbness that spares him from remembering too clearly what he’s being forced to endure.

~

The fifth night seemed to crack something inside of him.

Not physically.
That damage has already been done.

No… in the mind.
Where the drugs can’t quite reach.

Wei Wuxian lies flat on the soft bedding, eyes half-lidded, breath shallow. His thoughts drift like leaves on a breeze. The patron – Shen-laoye, they call him, with all the respect mutts on the street would deserve more than the likes of him – left long ago.

Not that he has any concept of time like this, but it feels like the same stretch between visits, the same routine of the madam’s brutish attendants, A-Bao and A-Hong, lumbering through the room to bathe him, clothe him, force food down his throat…

Drug him.

The same muddled waiting, dreading…

Some might say this is what dying feels like. But they would be wrong.
He knows what dying feels like, moreso than anyone.

This is worse.

And there’s still more to come.
One more night.
Any moment now, any moment he’ll –

The door slides open.

His body tenses on reflex – not enough to be noticed, but just enough to betray the instinct buried under layers of numbness.

He braces for the usual sequence.

But instead of those heavy footsteps crossing the threshold, socked feet on the floorboards, a voice hisses:

“A-Tong –”

A breath catching in the dark.

Then, higher, thinner, “N-not A-Tong. Laozu –”

She chokes, slapping her own hand over her mouth as if she’s nearly summoned a lightning tribulation by accident. She eases closer to the bed, slow, cautious.

“No. I-I mean – Wei… Wei-gongzi –”
The name wavers like a candle about to gutter out.

When he doesn’t respond apart from blinking up at her in a haze-filled stupor, she turns her attention to the room, hissing sharply at the sheer number of fresh talismans lining the walls.

“They really spared no expense, huh?” she says, without a thought as to whether Wei Wuxian might actually be able to answer.

Her hands shake as she tears down the first talisman so violently the paper rips in jagged strips. She gives the others the same treatment, covering the entirety of the room with a quiet quickness, moving on to snuff out the incense and fan the smoke away from Wei Wuxian’s prone form.

Soon, she’s kneeling at the bedside with a cup of water in hand, whispering, almost inaudibly, “Please don’t kill me for touching you.”

She supports his head with a cool hand behind his neck and lifts the cup to his lips, shaking so badly that the water sloshes over the rim and onto his chin.

“Sorry, sorry. Just… just a little more,” she says softly.

Clarity doesn’t arrive all at once.
It crawls back in slowly, like a half-frozen carcass dragging itself toward a fire.

His eyes refocus – just barely.

A-Lian sees it and leans in with a wary kind of hope that stretches her features taut. “Are you lucid?”

“You –”

“I know, I know, you can lecture me later, I –”

“Get me… out.” His voice crackles and flakes like sun-dried paper. “Get me out… of here.”

“Of course, can you –” She stops herself, taking in the pitiful state of the boy’s body.
“…never mind, don’t move. I – I’ll help you.”

She hesitates again before touching him, as though afraid he’ll suddenly act on the threats he made the night of the summoning.

Then, she slips his arm over her shoulders and eases him onto her back, securing his bony knees at her sides with a firm grip. She rises, and the boy’s body drags against her back like a damp cloak. Fortunately, she’s wiry and sixteen, used to hauling wine jugs and trays heavier than he is. But –

She’s carrying the Yiling Patriarch on her back.

It’s… unnerving.
She’s terrified.

She’s doing it anyway.

As for Wei Wuxian, something sharp flickers in the dark of his mind –

Shijie’s back.
Warm. Steady.
The world bouncing with each of her steps.
Soft humming against his ear.

Jiang Yanli’s breath catches on a laugh as she tells him he’s not a little boy anymore – he shouldn’t have to be carried around on his shijie’s back like this. But Wei Wuxian only buries his face in her neck and pretends to sleep.

The memory knifes straight through him.

A-Lian adjusts her hold, mistaking his sucked-in breath for pain – well, it is pain – and mutters frantically, “Sorry, sorry, Lao – Wei-gongzi, please don’t hex me.”

The hallway outside the room is mercifully empty.

“A-Hong’s scrubbing vomit right now,” she whispers, noticing how he clings to her a little tighter. “A gift from one of last night’s patrons who overstayed their welcome this morning. He’ll be there for ages. He always retches more than he cleans.”

Wei Wuxian lets out a faint, broken noise that might have been a laugh in a different lifetime. Here, it’s just air passing through a frayed throat.

A-Lian keeps moving.

Down the back stairs.
Across a side corridor.
Past the kitchen where someone is cursing over spilled broth.
Through a half-shuttered courtyard gate.

The outside air hits him like a slap.

Hot. Damp. Late-summer thick.
The kind of heat that clings to stone walls and never quite cools, even at dusk.

Lanling’s scent is everywhere – sweet wine from festival stalls, osmanthus drifting from courtyard trees, fried dough oil curling from open woks, the sour tang of too many bodies crowding too many streets.

It was early spring when he died in Zhang Fu’s body.

Like before, months have passed.

The peach blossoms would have come and gone.
Lanterns from the spring festival, hung high and bright above the market square, would have burned out and been thrown away.
The river would have churned high, children with bows and arrows chasing kites along its muddy banks – now, slowed to a sluggish crawl as the monsoons fade…

Entire seasons he didn’t live.
Gone in the time it took to close one pair of eyes and open another.

He sucks in a shaky breath – the wine-sweet breeze slipping down his throat – and for a flicker of a moment he thinks he might gag on the sheer life of it.

Still, the boy’s body stirs with a sliver of renewed strength now that it’s free of the talismans and incense being crushed into his skin.

They make it through four alleyways before A-Lian finally buckles to her knees, sweating profusely from both the heat and the exertion.

She eases him off her back and settles him against a low wall.

“He’ll be arriving soon,” she whispers, eyes darting back the way they came. “For his last night with you. Shen-laoye. They schedule everything around him now, even mealtimes.”

Wei Wuxian swallows. It scrapes. His head throbs.

“…and they’ll notice you’re not there,” she adds, voice cracking. “If not right away, then… well, A-Bao has probably already gone to give you your ‘medicine.’ They’ll be looking for you.”

He doesn’t need her to tell him that.

He feels the sun through Yunsheng’s skin – too warm, too shaded, too late in the day.

Wei Wuxian forces his eyes open to meet hers.

“There’s… time,” he rasps.

“Not much,” she warns.

“Enough.”

A-Lian swallows hard, shoulders pulled tight to her ears. “I should have let you do away with them days ago. I was so worried you would make their deaths too quick, too painless, that I –”
Her breath quivers. “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t acknowledge her apology one way or the other.

Honestly, he doesn’t care enough to blame her for what was done to him. He’s never been one to hold a grudge for injuries inflicted on his own skin – or, rather, soul in this case.  

But he will never forgive her for the part she played in Yunsheng’s death.

For that reason alone, he lets the apology hang unanswered.

He lifts his bandaged arm.

“Yunsheng left me with four names,” he says quietly. “There are five cuts.”

She blinks. “Yunsh –? Ah. A-Tong. Was that his name? He –”
Her face blanches, then reddens with shame.

Good.
Wei Wuxian is glad to know she has the capacity to feel it at all.

“The fifth was your doing, wasn’t it. You convinced him to add it alongside the others.”

She nods, looking small and sick with guilt.

“Wu Shifeng?”

“He’s… not a good person.”

Yes. He’d gathered that.

“I won’t lecture you again,” he says coolly. “But know this – when Wu Shifeng dies, it’ll be because Sheng’er gave his everything to make it so.” His gaze sharpens. “You’ll pay for that sacrifice for the rest of your life.”

She nods quickly, emphatically. “I know – I will. Of course I will. I –”

“Do you have any food?”

A-Lian stares.
Then reaches into her skirts to bring out two steamed dumplings, fresh from the kitchens.

~

Wei Wuxian eats.

And while he eats, he listens. He feels, allowing his senses to stretch in all directions, finding resentful energy hiding in the cracks in the walls, all that untouched power waiting in the shadows, Yunsheng’s vengeance lurking in the darkest parts of Lanling.

It’s slow work, nerves dulled by whatever cocktail Wu Shifeng poured into his veins, but he pushes through it.

A-Lian watches him, wide-eyed and slightly pale, as if expecting him to either choke or curse her.

He does neither.
He just sits. Sits and eats.

“Slowly,” she murmurs, seeming to forget once again, momentarily, that he’s not A-Tong. She presses the second dumpling into his hand. “Eat your fill. I have more.”

By the time he’s sucked a bit of the second dumpling’s broth from his fingertips, he can sit up without the world tilting violently. He braces an elbow on his knee, massaging at the ache behind his eyes.

A faint breeze slips into their hiding place from the connecting street, carrying the scent of incense offerings, burnt paper, osmanthus, old stone radiating heat.

The yin energy flickers at his senses, some of it unnervingly potent. The air hums with it, like the pluck of a guqin string.

A-Lian catches the subtle shift in his breathing.

“It’s the festival,” she explains. “The final night of the Zhongyuan celebrations. Everyone’s burning offerings, lighting lanterns, preparing mid-month rites… There’s… a lot of spirit energy around.”

Wei Wuxian lets out a surprised chuckle, the boyish laughter stunning A-Lian to stillness.

Of all the times to crawl out of death…
Of all the weeks to have been trapped and tormented in a brothel…
Of all the months to have been called on to execute ghostly vengeance…

It just so happens to be the ghost month.

And there are certainly a lot of ghosts here. Some wandering. Some searching. Some lingering.
All hungry.

“We don’t have long before Madam Gu opens for business,” A-Lian says, looking quickly away from that unsettling gleam in his eyes. “She’ll start screaming her head off soon. I’m sure she’s already beaten A-Hong to a bloody pulp for losing you. They – they’ll be looking everywhere. We’re not far enough away –”

He starts to push himself to his feet. His legs tremble, nearly fold – but A-Lian darts forward, gripping his arm to steady him. He lets her.

“Gongzi,” she whispers, voice trembling so badly it warps, “You’re still… you’re not well.”

“I don’t need to be well,” he says. “I only need to be able to stand.”

She nods and slowly releases him, watching closely, ready to catch him in case he can’t.

Wei Wuxian gives an unsteady wobble but remains upright.

He looks down, realizing for the first time that he’s not wearing any socks or shoes.
Hasn’t been, really, for nearly a week now.

But of course he didn’t notice.

After what was done to him, inhabiting Yunsheng now feels like he’s become little more than consciousness shrunk to the size of a single, forgotten seed, rattling around inside a desiccated husk – the boy’s body just a brittle shell he occasionally knocks against.

He lifts his head with a quiet sigh.

Resentment gathers on his tongue like the first taste of chun pan after a long winter – thin, yes; scattered, yes.

But everywhere.

Slipping under doorways.
Pooling in shadowed corners.
Seeping from the city’s crevices like water from old stone.

Hunger from the dead, fear from the living, grief from the bereaved and hope from those who tender offerings with trembling hands.

It's not nearly enough for a normal cultivator to put to any use.
But for Wei Wuxian…

It’s a spark catching in a dry forest.
One breath, and he can make the world burn.

The Yin Tiger Tally never needed abundance.
Only something to devour –
and multiply –
until the dead answered its call.

And now, for the soul that has taken on its very shape and purpose –
they answer.

The breath he draws shudders through him. Not clean, not painless, but unmistakably alive. His fingers twitch. The tremor in his knees steadies. The world sharpens at the edges as though someone has scraped grime from a mirror.

Resentment stirs beneath his skin as if in recognition – remembrance.
Welcome.

A-Lian sees the change like a shift in the weather.
Her breath catches. “W- Wei-gongzi…?”

He doesn’t answer.

The shadows answer for him.

They creep toward his feet, pooling, condensing, gathering shape where none should exist. The fading daylight dims further. The drifting ash from the burnt offerings begins to circle him rather than fall.

For the first time since carrying him out of that room, A-Lian feels cold.

This is no child.
This is no ghost.

This is the thing that had the clans working together in a way they had not done since the Sunshot Campaign, unifying them in terror.
The thing that has quickly become the final word of nightmares and legends.

Wei Wuxian straightens with the slow, dawning inevitability of a corpse rising because someone finally spoke its true name.

He extends a small, steady hand.

A spectral, bodiless head materializes in his palm, its chin resting neatly there as though it had been present from the start. It gives the boy a crooked, rotting grin.

A-Lian bites back a scream.

“Find them,” he murmurs.

The head vanishes in a blink.

His gaze drifts toward the street beyond. He can feel the dead gathering, drawn in by the offerings, the whispered prayers, the desperate invitations to return – if only for a fleeting moment.

All of them waiting for direction.
Waiting for him.

A-Lian edges back a half-step, instinctive, because the air has grown heavier, darker in a way that vibrates in the bones like a warning growl.
A growl with teeth.

Wei Wuxian crooks a finger.

A single strand of resentment coils around it like smoke answering a master’s call.

In this, the ghost month, the gates of hell have opened.
And tonight – the night of ghosts, the festival’s peak, the very height of spiritual activity –

A monster walks the streets ahead of them,
wearing a child’s body,
carrying a dead boy’s vengeance,
and armed with enough fury to darken the whole city.

The Hungry Ghost Festival of Lanling has never seen a predator like him.

“Let’s begin.”

Chapter Text

The night market is swollen with people.

Lanterns bob overhead like severed heads on strings; incense coils in the air; vendors shout; paper offerings burn in iron braziers until the air feels thick enough to chew.

A-Bao shoves through the crowd, sweating, frantic.
A-Hong barrels after him, panting like an overworked ox.

“Check every stall!” A-Bao snaps, scanning every child-sized silhouette he can see. “Madam’s gonna flay us alive if we don’t bring him back in time for –”

Someone bumps him – just a passerby – but he spins as if it were a ghost tugging his sleeve.

He’s jumpy, with the kid on the loose. Afraid.
And after what he saw that night, he knows he damn well should be.

A-Hong wipes his brow. “He can’t have gotten far. He’s half-dead and drugged to hell. A kid that size wouldn’t –”

A flicker of movement.
A shape slipping between vendors.

Just ahead.
Just out of reach.

They both freeze. The profile is unmistakable.
Thin. Unsteady.
Familiar.

A-Bao grabs A-Hong’s arm so hard he leaves finger marks. “There! There – did you see –?”

The boy turns a corner.

They catch the briefest glimpse of him – a wrinkled sleeve. A strand of black hair slipping free of a messy braid. A small heel disappearing into a narrow, dark alley.

A-Bao grins, sharp with relief. He surges forward in the direction of his prey.

“Got you, you little –”

He plunges into the mouth of the alley, A-Hong close behind him.
Following without thinking.

Neither of them notice how sound dies the moment they cross the threshold.
How the roar of the festival dims into something distant and muffled, as though someone shut a door on the world.
How the air feels cold – unnaturally so, for the last dregs of summer.

A-Bao squints into the shadows. “Where’d he –”

A soft drag whispers behind them.

A-Hong turns.

Something is hanging from the wall – no, growing from it.

Pale strands, thin as silkworm threads, slick and clinging, trembling faintly as though breathing.
They smell of freshly dug earth and…

Decay.

More strands creep down the bricks, spiderlike.

A-Hong’s voice fractures. “What– what the hell –”

An icy, brittle hand clamps down over his mouth.

Not wet.
Not living.
Cold like stone left too long in a grave, fingers jointed all wrong, skin stretched thin as candle wax.

His scream dies in his throat.

A-Bao spins – and something hooks into his hair.
Not a person.
A knot of corpse pale tendrils twist eagerly into his scalp.

He goes down hard.

The tendrils drag him across the stones, back scraping, robe shredding, skin peeling away layer by layer. Pulling him deeper into the dark where the lantern glow can’t reach.

“Stop – stop –!”

He claws at the ground, nails cracking against stone.
Breath breaking into sobs.

A voice drifts out of the shadows. Soft. Dry. Almost conversational.

A child’s voice.
And not, at the same time.
It’s layered. Echoing. Something wearing human speech the way a yao beast might wear stolen clothes.

“Well, that’s not fun at all, is it.”

The boy steps forward.

Small.
Barefoot.
Face blank but for the faintest tilt of his head. His eyes gleam too dark, too deep – catching and twisting every lantern flame into something red and hungry.

“Really, knowing how you yanked Sheng’er around by his hair with such enthusiasm, I was expecting something more enjoyable.”

Another step.
Every shadow in the alley bends in deference.

“I’m just not into this sort of thing, I guess.”
A sigh, almost disappointed.
“But Sheng’er thought you should know how it feels, regardless.”

The darkness twitches.

A-Bao’s hair is yanked tighter.
He howls as he’s dragged another body’s length across the stone.

The boy watches with mild interest, like someone observing an ant struggle in honey.

A-Hong tries to speak. The hand over his mouth shifts, giving him one desperate gasp:
“We – orders – we only –”

“Orders,” the boy hums thoughtfully. “Ah, yes. Those do make everything feel very tidy, don’t they?”

Behind him, shadows move.

No, not shadows. Faces.
Hollow-eyed, gaping-mouthed, half-formed impressions of the nameless dead.

One of them reaches for A-Hong with a spindly arm, snatching the large man up by the collar of his robes like he weighs no more than a yong figurine.

“But were you ordered to treat him so roughly?”

A-Hong’s feet dangle.

“Ordered to bruise him? Yank him by the hair?
Hang him by his robes? Like this?”

His own weight crushes his windpipe.

“Were you ordered to gag him?”

Still bleeding raw on the alley floor, A-Bao chokes.
The tendrils crawl into his mouth, pulsing, rotting like decaying fruit left too long in the sun. They force his jaws wider, reaching down his throat until breath becomes a ragged, failing thing.

“Please – please –” A-Hong sobs, kicking so hard against the alley wall his boots lose their stitching.

“You know,” the boy says lightly, “that’s exactly what A-Sheng said… right before you threatened to ‘stuff his eyeholes’ to stop him from crying.”

A-Hong hadn’t even noticed his own tears.

Not until something cold trails down his cheek, licking them up.
Something with weight.

It clings.
It writhes.

Eager.

It presses over his eyes. Presses into them.

A terrible, blooming pressure that forces them backward in their sockets –

– then something gives.

Not a clean pop.
Two sickening, wet, crunching squelches as the shivering mass burrows inward, folding his eyes beneath it like soft fruit under a stone.

He shrieks, clawing blindly at his own face –
until spectral fingers seize his wrists, wrenching them behind him with a slick, brutal snap. His howls collapse into something raw and wordless.

A-Bao utters a muffled moan past his putrid gag as he suffers the same treatment, vision flooding white.

The shadows drag them together, bodies pressed to the stones.
Forced to kneel in front of him – in front of the boy they beat and belittled.

A grotesque imitation of repentance.
A parody of apology.

The alley keens around them – wind turning into a sound like a distant chorus of the dead.

A-Hong’s pulverized eyes leak something black and thick down his face. A-Bao’s mouth tears, shredding at the corners, dripping blood, his gaze wide and glassy with panic.

“Better,” the boy sighs.

A-Hong makes one last attempt to lunge toward freedom.
Pathetic, blind, crawling.

A skeletal foot – belonging to nobody at all – steps onto his back, pinning him flat.

The boy crouches.

Up close, A-Bao can see that his face is too calm. Too empty.

“You took an innocent young boy and made him feel helpless. You hurt him. And you enjoyed it. Orders be damned.”

Something coils around their throats.

Not rope.
A strip of corpse-wrapping shroud. It tightens with every struggle, drags the stink of rancid oils into their lungs with each strangled breath.

“He died thinking –”
The boys voice thins, falters. Just for a heartbeat.
“– knowing that no one was coming for him. That he was all alone.”

The shroud pulls tighter.

“And had only the dead to rely on.”

A-Hong convulses, throat collapsing.
A-Bao wrenches one of his arms free, clawing at nothing, writhing gag stretching his lips until they split fully from nose to chin, cheek to ear. Shadowy tendrils pulse deeper down his throat, choking off all breath.

“Truly – of all the vengeful spirits in this world…”  
He smiles.
“…you should’ve prayed the boy called any other name but mine.”

It ends.

No strike.
No scream.

Just two bodies jerked upright by invisible strings, their spines bowing backward in perfect, horrid symmetry and then collapsing like puppets whose master finally cut them loose.

Dropped offerings for the hungry ghosts.

The alley exhales.
The festival noise rushes back in like a distant tide, untouched, uncaring.

Wei Wuxian rises, brushing incense ash from the hem of his sleeve, peeling it back to watch the gashes knitting closed.

“That’s two.”

A-Lian stands frozen at the alley’s mouth, hand over her own trembling lips.

Wei Wuxian doesn’t look at her as he passes.
He steps into the lantern light – just a small silhouette swallowed by the crowd.

~

The second floor of the teahouse is loud with festival cheer: clinking cups, rattling dice, drunken singing. And yet Wu Shifeng has managed to carve out a little kingdom of quiet indulgence for himself.

He lounges at a corner table overlooking the lantern-lit street below, warmed wine cupped lazily in hand, eyes half-lidded with contentment. Zhongyuan’s chaos is a pleasant backdrop. A buffer. A shield.

And, more importantly, it’s a comforting distance from that brothel and the brat he had to drug half to death.

Madam Gu’s thieving little liability.

He still doesn’t know how the boy got his hands on that book.
But it’s burned to nothing now, and the boy’s contained. There’s no use in worrying over it now.

He takes another sip, stretching his legs with a satisfied grunt.

“Stupid woman,” he mutters. “Can’t even keep a half-grown child from causing trouble.”

She’d better not send for him tonight – not unless she plans to cut him a share of that small fortune she made this week.
She won’t, of course.
And even if she would, by some unholy miracle… the boy will be drugged insensible. The talismans will hold. He won’t be needed.

Not for that business, at least.

Of course, there’s still A-Lian.

Pretty, obedient A-Lian.
Terrified enough lately to obey his every command without complaint, and tonight –

He rolls the cup between his fingers, savoring the warmth.
Tonight feels like a night to reward himself with something sweet.

Perhaps he’ll make a short visit to the brothel after all.

But later…
Later.

He leans back in his chair, exhaling.
He tips his cup, savoring the last drop –

– and nearly chokes when A-Lian appears in the doorway.

Rigid.
Pale.

Her eyes flick about the room in jerky, panicked sweeps, as if she’s mapping escape routes for people who don’t even know they need saving.

Wu Shifeng frowns and calls out to her, “Girl, is your madam truly so desperate she’s sending you to fetch –?”

Then he sees him.

Barefoot.
Dirty.
Hair half undone.
Too-small robes hanging off an even smaller frame.
Stunted, that boy – even for a twelve-year-old. But unfortunately for him, it somehow adds to his appeal.

Still, not exactly the picture of a newly minted courtesan who should be lying in bed, drugged, locked away behind six layers of talismans and awaiting his wealthy patron to call in what is likely to be only half a sichen or less.

Wu Shifeng’s brain does the math instinctively: distance to the stairs, the weight of the boy, how easily he could grab him and drag him outside before anyone –

But the boy sits down across from him first.

And the air… it shifts.

Something behind the child ripples like heat over a pyre.
Shadows drag across the floor in slow, unnatural streaks.
Every lantern flame in the room shivers at once – yet no one notices.

No one looks.
No one hears.

Only Wu Shifeng, suddenly pinned to his chair by a fear he doesn’t understand just yet.

The boy folds himself into the seat, calm, quiet, composed in a way no living twelve-year-old has any right to be.

A-Lian hovers behind him, wringing her sleeves, darting wild glances at nearby tables as though waiting for the walls to start bleeding.

Wu Shifeng forces a scoff – thin, brittle.
“You – you shouldn’t be here. Does Madam Gu know you’ve left your room, boy?”

The child regards him with an expression so mild it feels like mockery.

Then, with a smile that flashes like a knife’s edge:
“Shifeng-xiong.”

A chill licks down Wu Shifeng’s spine.

The boy’s smile is charming. His young face is, of course, lovely – Madam Gu wouldn’t have wanted him otherwise – but that smile paired with those golden eyes that regard him so coldly…

He suddenly feels the primal urge to run. Far and fast.

The boy props one elbow on the table, cupping his pointed chin with a – Wu Shifeng’s stomach twists – bloodied hand.

The gesture itself is casual.
Harmless.

But the shadows stretch toward him like eager dogs coming to heel.

A-Lian inhales sharply behind him, voice tiny, “G-gongzi… please. Maybe not here.”

He doesn’t look at her. Doesn’t blink.

“Relax,” he murmurs. “This will be quick.”
He taps a finger lightly on this cheekbone, never taking his eyes off the man across from him.
“Won’t it, Wu Shifeng?”

Wu Shifeng bristles, clinging to dignity like a drowning man to driftwood. “Watch how you address your betters, boy. Do you know who you’re talking to?”

A quiet, humorless chuckle.

“Do you?”

“Excuse me –?”

“Wu Shifeng,” the boy seems to recite, bored already. “A cultivator, supposedly. Third-rate. Self-taught. Sloppy formations. Overreliance on talismans that barely work even when you remember which way to hold them.”

Wu Shifeng’s face purples. “You – you little brat –”

The boy lifts a finger.

The lantern above their table gutters violently –
once, twice –
and then reignites, flame sickly green, casting a rotted glow across the child’s face. But his eyes seem to catch it wrong, reflecting not green but a deep, pulsing red.

Wu Shifeng’s next admonishment withers in his throat. He expects someone to notice – for people to turn and stare.

No one does.

It’s as though the crowd is looking everywhere except at their table.
Voices slide around them.
Servers skirt neatly by.  
A dice game clatters on only a few steps away, and not a single one of the players glances over.

A bubble of silence envelops them.

The boy leans in, voice dropping to a soft, conversational murmur that feels like a blade slipping into flesh.

“You call yourself a cultivator of the Ghost Path?” A slow smile. “You’re adorable.”

Wu Shifeng sputters. “A few parlor tricks and you think –”

“Parlor tricks,” the boy echoes with exaggerated delight. “Yes. That’s exactly what you do. Play pretend in the dark. Light a few candles. Mumble a handful of half-learned phrases from a stolen book you were too stupid to understand…

…Frighten helpless children.”

The shadows under the table ripple, creeping toward Wu Shifeng’s boots like something sniffing out a meal.

The boy’s head tilts slightly.

“You have no idea what the real thing looks like.”

Wu Shifeng tries to stand –

– but something cold and formless coils around his ankle, rooting him to the spot.

He yelps.
No one reacts.

The lantern crackles overhead, green flame hissing within.

“Wh-who are you?” he croaks.

The boy raps his knuckles on the table, frowning, as if disappointed the question is even necessary.

He reaches for an empty cup, rights it, and pours himself a measure of Wu Shifeng’s wine with practiced ease.

Before he can drink, though, A-Lian snatches his wrist.

“You’re twelve!” she snaps, horrified.

The boy stares at her – flat, emotionless – until she wilts and pulls her hand back.

With a quiet sigh, he sets the wine aside untouched, returning his attention to Wu Shifeng.

“You stole my notes,” he says. “Studied my theories. Copied my sigils.”
A faint smile, almost pitying.
“And you still can’t even hazard a guess?”

Wu Shifeng opens and closes his mouth like a fish gasping on a riverbank. Sweat beads along his temples. He tries again to stand. The thing around his ankle tightens in silent reprimand.

He sinks back into the chair with a choked noise.

The boy’s calm is like a noose around his neck.

“You – you can’t be –”

“Can’t be what?” the boy asks, pleasantly. “Alive? Animate? Sitting here in front of you with no talismans, no chains, no incense?” A soft laugh. “That does make things awkward for you, doesn’t it.”

Wu Shifeng grips the table, knuckles white. “This is impossible. I – I drugged you. You – you couldn’t have gotten out –”

“I didn’t.” The boy’s voice hardens, all measure of pleasantness gone in an instant. “No thanks to you, I spent the last few nights in the company of the worst kind of bunkmate – the kind that doesn’t even wash between his ass cheeks, mind you.”
He says it flippantly, derogatively, like he’s tasting something mildly sour left to grow stale in his mouth.
“No, the only reason I’m sitting in front of you now is because of your sweet A-Lian. She’s the one who broke me out.”

Wu Shifeng’s gaze flicks briefly to the girl, still standing behind the boy as though to use him as a shield between herself and… him. She looks at him in a way she never has before –

Like he’s a bug under her shoe she would very much like to squash.

“I can’t say much for your skill in cultivation,” the boy continues, “but your ability to fashion your own demise by pissing off just the right people? Truly unmatched.”

Wu Shifeng rallies, grasping at pride like ripples in running water. “My talismans held you for five nights. Five. You never even moved.”

Another smile touches the boy’s lips – thin, humorless.

“Five nights,” he echoes. “Five nights where I couldn’t stand. Couldn’t think. Could barely breathe without choking on the incense you all but shoved down my throat.”

His eyes lift, bright and sudden as a lantern catching flame in the dark.

“You didn’t contain me,” he says. “You contained an injured child you’d already drugged into oblivion.”

A pause.
Then, dry as bone:

“Congratulations. Masterful work.”

A-Lian clamps both hands over her mouth.

Wu Shifeng flushes in anger, but the boy’s not done with his rather eviscerating assessment.

“If I’d woken in a stronger body… you wouldn’t have lasted one incense stick’s time. But I suppose mediocre men must cling to their small victories. Even the accidental ones.”

He leans forward, chin in hand.

“You fake power the way children play at flight – arms outstretched, eyes squeezed shut, pretending it’s not obvious to everyone, even themselves, that they’re still just running blind on the ground.”

That shadow that holds him down has begun to creep higher.

Wu Shifeng recoils so hard that his chair skids back more than a hand’s breadth. The shadow follows, dragging along the floor like it’s tasting him through the wood. It looks like it would have a shape – a form – if he dared to look more closely.

He doesn’t.

He reaches for the talisman hidden in his sleeve.

The boy watches his hand move with calm amusement.

“By all means,” he says warmly, “try it.”

Wu Shifeng yanks the talisman free, slaps it down on the table, and forces resentful energy through it –

– nothing.

Not a spark.

The paper doesn’t warm.
Doesn’t glow.
Doesn’t even crinkle.

It lies limp and lifeless on the table like a dead moth.

The boy’s smile widens in sympathy.

“Oh, Wu Shifeng, Wu Shifeng,” he sighs. “You poor thing.”

Wu Shifeng’s voice rips out of him, high and shaking: “Y-you’re not A-Tong. You – you’re –”

“Careful...” the boy murmurs.
“You’re about to get it right.”

His eyes flash –
and they are red.
Wet, dark, gleaming red, like eyes that have drowned in resentment so deep no sunlight could ever reach the bottom.

Wu Shifeng forgets how to breathe.

“Wh – what do you want?” he rasps.

“Want?” The boy – Wei Wuxian – taps his chin thoughtfully. “Hm. Nothing, really.”

The shadows stir like a nest of serpents waking.

“Sheng’er didn’t ask for anything elaborate,” he continues, unconcerned. “He didn’t know you. Didn’t hate you. You were just… another bad man in a house already full of them.”

A-Lian trembles visibly.

Wei Wuxian leans in a fraction, and every lantern flame in the room bends toward him like reeds in the wind.

“A child’s death deserved more than what was given,” he says softly. “It deserved to be noticed. To be mourned. To be kinder than just a fading slip into the dark. But yours?”

He offers a tiny shrug.

“No.”

Something skitters up Wu Shifeng’s leg – cold, boneless, wrong.

He knocks over his cup trying to beat it off. Wine spills across the table and freezes mid-drip, arrested in a slick of black shadow.

Wei Wuxian’s bloodred eyes bear down on him.

“You won’t have found this in my notes,” he says, as if confessing to his Xiansheng about his poor study habits. “I really wasn’t all that meticulous in writing everything down.”

The shadows yank.

Wu Shifeng chokes –
not from strangling, not from crushing –

but from nothing.

From the sudden absence of every breath, every thought, every heartbeat.
As if his life were a candle flame that someone simply… snuffed out.

No scream.
No spectacle.
No satisfaction.

Just a man extinguished.

His body slumps forward onto the table, cheek landing in the spilled wine.
The room continues around him – oblivious, untouched, as though he were only drunk and sleeping it off.

The boy rises.

A-Lian grips the railing, shaking so hard she looks ready to faint. She stares hard at Wu Shifeng’s body, just daring the man to rise again.

“We should go,” Wei Wuxian says, smoothing his sleeve with quiet precision.

That’s three.

“The night’s not over yet.”

He steps down the stairs, bare feet padding softly.

A monster wearing a child’s skin.
A slip of a shadow heading deeper into the dark.

Chapter Text

A-Lian stumbles through the brothel’s back entrance with a sharp, breathless cry.

“Madam! Madam, I found him!”

The warm dusk air of the courtyard swallows the sound, then shatters it as doors slide open one after another. Faces appear – painted, half-dressed, curious, annoyed. Lanterns sway with the commotion, throwing light across the small, limp body slung over A-Lian’s back.

Wei Wuxian lets his head hang forward, cheek pressed against her shoulder. His breath comes thin and uneven. His arms dangle lifelessly. A convincing portrayal of a boy who dragged himself almost to freedom and collapsed before he could grasp it.

A-Lian – understandably weary after the day she’s had, the things she’s witnessed – struggles under his weight, nearly dropping him as she crosses the courtyard tiles. She lets him down just before the back step, making a show of steadying him when he tilts on the spot.

“He was outside. By the back gate –” Her voice cracks in perfect imitation of panic. Truly, her life has taught her well how to play a part. “He must’ve wandered out in a daze. He… he couldn’t even stand –”

The quick slap, slap, slap of silk shoes on wooden floors announces Madam Gu before she appears.

She bursts through the inner doors like a storm, robe half-tied, hair hastily pinned. Relief flashes across her face for the span of a single breath.

Then the rage hits.

“You –!”

She seizes A-Lian’s arm, shoving her aside to clamp Wei Wuxian’s chin between two clawlike fingers.

“What were you thinking? Where were you trying to go, eh?” Spittle flies. “Do you any idea – any idea – how long he’s been kept waiting for you?!”

Wei Wuxian lets his eyes roll toward her, unfocused. A small tremor runs through his limbs – deliberate, controlled.

Madam Gu exhales sharply in greedy relief.

“Good. Still fogged.” She shakes his face once more, pats his cheek as though testing the pliancy of dough. “Saves me some trouble.”

A-Lian bows low, biting her lip hard enough to whiten it. “Madam, forgive me, I – I only went out to get more incense. I found him curled up in the bushes –”

“Save it,” Madam Gu snaps. “Make yourself useful and find an errand boy to fetch Wu Shifeng at once. Tell him I want him here tonight. If the boy falters, if anything goes wrong –”

“But Madam, Wu-laoye said he wouldn’t be back until next –”

“Just go!” Madam Gu shouts, shoving her.

A-Lian stumbles backward, bowing and fleeing from the courtyard.

To the attendants clustering in the doorway, she says, “Get him washed and presentable. Quickly. Shen-laoye has already started pacing holes in my floor. If he’s left unsatisfied on the final night of his visit, I –” Her voice fractures under the strain; even she can’t seem to put that particular horror into words.

A frightened servant edges closer, hands wringing. “Madam, should we give the boy another dose of –”

“There’s no time.” She slices the suggestion in half with a flick of her fan. “Besides, it doesn’t seem necessary. Look at him. He’s barely conscious. If anything, he’s too dull. We’ll dose him later if he starts whining.”

Two male attendants hurry forward, each grabbing one of his thin arms.

“Bring him in,” Madam Gu orders. “And don’t you dare bruise him. He’s worth more than both your pathetic lives combined.”

They haul him toward the baths, his bare feet scuffing the floorboards with every dragging step.

~

In the washroom, steam curls past wooden screens. The attendants strip him of his dirty robe with clinical disinterest, lifting his arms and tilting his head as if handling a doll.

One mutters under his breath, “He’s even more sluggish than usual.”

Wei Wuxian nearly breaks character, worried he’s laid the act on too thick.

Then, “Of course he is,” the other whispers back, harshly. “She’s got him on enough sedatives to drop a horse.” He swipes a wet cloth across Wei Wuxian’s back.

He relaxes.

A third servant slips into the alcove, speaking quietly but urgently.
“Did you hear? Two bodies were found in an alley not far from here. Right where the celebrations are in full swing.”

The first snorts, picking apart Wei Wuxian’s messy braid with quick, practiced fingers. “Festival drunks killing each other again.”

“No,” the newcomer says. “Not like that. Apparently one’s face was torn apart. Ripped like wet paper.”

A hush falls.

Even the cloth pauses mid-swipe on Wei Wuxian’s chest.

“What would do something like that? A yao? A rogue spirit?”

“The other one’s eyes were punctured and sucked dry right in their sockets.”

“Sucked dry?”

A hand clamps down on the speaker’s mouth.
“Shush!”

A shrug. “Just what I heard.”

They shudder collectively, crossing wrists, muttering little street charms for warding.

Wei Wuxian sits perfectly still while hands scrub him clean, his soft skin turning pink. While they lift him from the bath and pat him dry.
He watches their silhouettes tremble in the steam and listens to the fear in their whispered voices.

One leans closer, inspecting a collection of faint, finger-shaped bruises near his ribs, frowning in a way that might imply guilt – or pity.
“Should we wait for Wu Shifeng to get here? Madam might want –”

The other servant scoffs. “Wu-laoye is probably celebrating the last night of the festival, wasted in some teahouse. Just do as Madam says and get the boy done up neat and tidy.”

He lifts Wei Wuxian’s chin to fasten the new robe.

The boy’s eyes meet his – dark, still, faintly shining red under the lantern glow.

The servant startles, then forces a laugh.

“…creepy little thing, aren’t you.”

They finish the braid – crooked, rushed. Ying-jie is busy with a customer and can’t be spared.
His feet are forced into soft slippers.

“Up,” someone grunts, pulling him by the elbow. “Laoye’s waiting.”

~

Madam Gu intercepts them in the hallway, arms spread like she’s herding livestock.

“There you are! Bring him – quickly now. Quickly. Shen-laoye is asking for more wine.”

She inspects him with brisk, greedy hands, smoothing his robe, checking him for blemishes.

“Honestly, look at that face,” she murmurs, breathing a sigh of satisfaction. “Worth every ounce of trouble you cause me.”

She cups his cheek and he lets his head tilt ever so slightly into her palm.
She reads it as submission.

It is anything but.

“Upstairs,” she commands. “Now. Before Shen-laoye grows even more impatient.”

Wei Wuxian lowers his gaze as they lead him toward the private room, paper doors glowing with lamplight from within.

Behind it, Shen-laoye is waiting.

And for the first time in his miserable, gluttonous life –

he is about to learn what it means for predator to become prey.

~

The room beyond is warm and dim. Soft lamplight pools over silk curtains, drawn low. Wine steams faintly on a lacquered tray. The air reeks of expensive incense – thick, perfumed, cloying.

The same purifying incense he was forced to breathe for nearly a week.

It has no real effect on him now, though.
Before, when he was drugged and the talismans were active, it may have worked to subdue him. But now… now Wei Wuxian doesn’t care if hell itself scrubbed clean of resentment.

Tonight, nothing is beyond his reach.

Shen-laoye doesn’t bother to stand when the door opens. Irritation pinches his mouth.
His second chin wobbles grotesquely as he snaps, “There you are,” the words heavy with practiced entitlement. “Madam Gu was beginning to test my patience.”

The servants deposit Wei Wuxian just inside and withdraw with hurried steps, sliding the door shut behind them.

Shen waves a petulant hand. “Come here, boy.”

Wei Wuxian sways a little, keeping his steps small. Deliberately uncertain.
Shen sinks deeply into his chair as if settling in for a performance.

“Closer,” he says. “No need to dawdle. It’s not like this is our first time together, is it.”

Wei Wuxian lifts his head.

The lamps flicker.

Something shifts under the floorboards – soft, like a collective, inhaled breath.

Shen doesn’t notice.

He reaches out, fingers curling in invitation, the other hand patting his thick thigh. “Why don’t you sit here on my lap while I finish this wine? Then we’ll –”

His voice cuts off.

Because Wei Wuxian reaches him first.

Not with touch, no –
with shadow.

A smear of darkness curls around Shen’s wrist, then up his fleshy forearm, settling there like a cold hand. Shen jolts, the chair legs scraping. He yanks his arm back instinctively.

The darkness does not detach.

“Wh – what is this?” Shen splutters.

Wei Wuxian’s expression barely changes. He speaks with a calm that sends the man shivering.

“You’ve been so diligent in teaching me how to please you, Shen-laoye,” he murmurs, “I thought for our last night together… I could show you what I’ve learned.”

The room exhales –

– and the bodies peel from the floor.
The walls.
The ceiling.

No, not bodies. The impressions of them.
Warped and weightless.

Too many hands at the ends of too-long limbs.
Faces with no eyes or noses, only lipless mouths forming gummy, gaping holes.
Long hair tangling at blackened feet.
Cracked nails scratching, scrabbling at thin, emaciated forms.

Breaths sweep down the back of Shen’s neck, cool as a grave.

He shudders violently.

“Stop – stop that,” he snaps, looking wildly around him. He doesn’t see them yet. Can’t – the lanterns have all gone out, the room plunged into darkness.
“Who’s there? Who’s –”

Another touch on his arm.

Pinning it to the chair.

He tries to stand, but the darkness presses him back into the cushion, gentle as a lover, merciless as a vice.

Wei Wuxian steps forward, slow, deliberate. His small slippers make no sound against the polished floor.

Shen’s breath turns shallow.

“Boy – stop this. You stop this right now.”

Wei Wuxian folds his hands behind his back. “Why? You didn’t.”

The incense thickens, scent sweetening, then souring. Shen’s eyes water as if drunk on something heady and wrong.

One by one, the incense burners topple – from stands, from tables, from the window’s ledge. They hit the floor with sharp clangs, making the large man jerk in fright.

Burning embers scatter, red pinpricks in the dark. Ash smears. The burners roll and disappear into shadowed corners.

The formless bodies surge, clammy skin brushing across his throat, over his shoulders, down his chest – holding him with an insistence he can’t shake off.

A whisper curls through the room – dozens of whispers, layered and overlapping.

Longing.
Hunger.

The echo of desire.

Shen squeezes his eyes shut, sagging cheeks quivering.

“Don’t – don’t –”

“Don’t what? Touch you?” Wei Wuxian stops just out of reach. His face, child-soft and pale, reveals nothing. “That’s not fair. Why are you the only one who gets to touch?”

“You think this is funny, you worthless brat –?”

“Worthless?” Wei Wuxian frowns slightly. “You didn’t think I was worthless when you paid for me.”

He lifts one hand.

The darkness reacts instantly.

It comes together, swirling around Shen like ribbons in a storm, pulling at the air, twisting it. Shen gasps as the temperature drops – a sudden winter cold that strikes through silk, skin, bone.

“What – what is happening? What are you doing to me?”

Wei Wuxian watches him with a terrible stillness.

His voice comes out low and echoing – no longer the voice of a boy, but of something… other.

“Giving you what you paid for, Laoye.”

And all at once, the lanterns flare back to life – the flames burning a sickly green, casting everything in sharp, unnatural relief.

Shen screams his throat bloody when he sees the things that hold him.

One of them drags itself closer, joints bending in ways joints were never meant to bend. Its hair hangs like drowned weeds. Its head lolls. Its mouth opens too wide, no teeth inside – only a black tunnel where breath goes to die.

He lets out a strangled wheeze. “No – no, get away. Get them the fuck away from me!”

A cold limb – nothing more than bone wrapped in the idea of flesh – strokes tenderly down his cheek.

He nearly vomits from terror.

Shen thrashes, but the ghosts hold him firm, crushing him beneath the weight of his own perverted wanting. Every place he used to seize, command, control… now pinned by fluid, unappeasable hunger.

He’s stripped as quickly as it takes a caidao to slice flesh from bone, leaving every heaving bit of his wobbling mass exposed to the pale caresses of his new admirers.

They crush down on him, a many-headed weight – a pile of the things shunted into the corners of the brothel, the things that crawled out of graves, out of resentment thick as tar.

The things he’s spent his life insisting don’t exist, because men like him can’t afford to believe in consequences.

Shen writhes beneath them, but every attempt at movement only pulls the ghosts tighter to him. They cling like a hundred suitors starved for affection, their breathless mouths opening and closing over the vast expanse of him, their bony fingers gripping as if to pull him into the dark.

He gulps down air like a fish on a hook.

“I can’t –”
“I can’t breathe –”
“Stop it – stop it – please –!”

“Just close your eyes and bear it,” Wei Wuxian says softly. “It’ll be over before you know it.”

“You little bast –”

A ghost’s mouth clamps down on his face in an unholy imitation of a kiss.

Shen jerks so violently the chair skids half a span across the polished floor. His scream is swallowed – dragged down into that cavernous, lipless maw until it becomes nothing more than a wet, choking gurgle.

The temperature drops further.
The green light sputters.
The shadows swell.

They drag him.

His body thumps from the chair to the floor. The walls shudder. His sweat-soaked skin clings to the floorboards, limp flab stretching, adding a trailing weight that means nothing to the determined, collective dead.

Before long, they have him on the bed, the soft surface of it becoming a platform of intertwining, decayed limbs, knotted hair, toothless mouths – Shen, a juddering mound beneath it all.

Wei Wuxian observes with a deadpan expression.

“You liked it when I begged you,” he says flatly. “You liked hearing me plead. Cry. Break.”

His gaze sharpens.

“So beg.”

A strangled, warbling noise escapes the man – nothing like language, nothing like the words he once used to demand obedience.

The ghosts hush him with the gentleness of lovers, pushing him deeper into the mattress until the wood of the bedframe groans.

Shen’s chest heaves.
His eyes bulge, rolling white as the air is pressed out of him by bodies that have no lungs,
no breath,
no limit to their hunger.

Wei Wuxian lets the silk curtains fall, blocking out the sight.

There’s nothing about that he wants to see.

But he hears it.

The bedframe creaking. The mattress dipping. Shen choking on what little breath he has left. The soft, wet sounds of the ghosts taking their fill. Feeding on fear, vitality,

lust.

Wei Wuxian closes his eyes, inhaling once through his nose, steady and silent.

Yunsheng’s memories of that first night slide through him like cold oil.

The man pulling him close,
forcing him down,
becoming rougher when he cried.

Make it stop. Please, gods, make it stop.

Behind the curtains, Shen’s thrashing weakens.

“That’s enough,” Wei Wuxian says quietly.

The stillness is instant.

Silence blooms.

A moment later, the mass of bodies peels away from the bed, slipping from the mattress like water retreating from shore. They spill across the floor in ribbons of shadow and bone, withdrawing into corners, pulling back into walls, sinking through cracks in the wood as if the building itself were drinking them in.

Wei Wuxian lifts the curtain.

Shen lies sprawled across the ruin of the bedding.

Purple-faced.
Open-mouthed.
Glassy eyes staring at nothing.

He’s not marked or torn or bloodied.

No.

Instead, he looks to have been sucked hollow.

His great, round belly, his padded cheeks, his drooping arms – now nearly flat, nothing but a crumpled heap of loose skin and jutting bone.

With a tired sigh, Wei Wuxian reaches out and, with two fingers, closes Shen’s staring eyes.

“Even in death,” he says, “you don’t deserve to look upon this face ever again.”

He turns his back on the corpse.

The lanterns light with bright, orange-red warmth.

The door slides open of its own accord – waiting, inviting.

Outside the room, laughter drifts up from the main hall.
Madam Gu’s laughter – shrill and triumphant.

A woman celebrating profit.
A woman who has never once had to consider the cost.

She thinks Shen-laoye is in here enjoying himself, that the night will end with his coin in her hand and a child broken in another room, out of sight, out of mind.

Wei Wuxian’s small hand closes on the back of Shen’s chair.

The wood cracks under his touch.

The shadows around him gather – loyal, hungry, waiting for the word to begin…

“That’s four,” he whispers.

And the brothel – its beams, its stairs, its walls soaked in pain – shivers in anticipation.

~

Madam Gu laughs as she refills her own cup, waving carelessly at two girls lugging heavy wine jars from the storeroom.

“Move faster! Shen-laoye will drink us dry tonight, the stubborn boar. But let him – I’ll bill him double!”

She grins, wide and greedy. Unguarded in her moment of success.

Around her, the hall is alive with noise. Clients drink, gamble, flirt, and paw at attendants. Dice clatter. Laughter ricochets off the beams. A courtesan tunes a pipa lazily beside a raised platform, preparing her next song.

The boy descends the stairs in silence.

No one notices him at first. Why would they?
Small boys don’t make noise when they walk.
Small boys disappear.

That’s what makes them profitable.

But the shadows notice.

In the corners where lamplight falters, the darkness shifts as if breathing. It slithers down the walls after him like spilled ink, gathering at his heels. The air thickens with whispers only he seems to hear – murmurs rising from the brothel’s bones, sighs folded into smoke caught beneath lanterns.

Madam Gu finally looks up.

Far too late.

“You!” she screeches, leaping to her feet. “What are you doing down here?! You should be upstairs with – with –
You… You – how are you –?”

The boy stops at the bottom step.

Then, slowly, his slippered foot touches the floorboards.

The brothel wakes.

It becomes a humming hive – everything once lying still within its walls now stirring.

Silk curtains rustle where no breeze passes.
Drawers rattle; coins clink sharply against one another.
And the ledger on the counter – her beloved ledger where she’d just been calculating the blissful significance of her windfall – opens with a violent slap that draws the eye.

Pages flip so fast they hiss.
Faster, faster – turning themselves in a furious flutter until they land on an entry labeled:

YUNSHENG – SOLD

The seller, Su Qiang, residing in Lanling, has received from the buyer, Madam Gu Min, a sum of twenty taels of pure silver. This is for the voluntary sale of one individual, male, named Yunsheng, aged nine years…

Below that –

Training begun. Seventh month, ninth day.
Third year of bondage.

And below that –

Tallies.
Seven of them.

Madam Gu’s smile dies in an instant.

“What is –?”

A flame ignites at the corner of the page.

Not red.
Not orange.

Green.

A shrieking, blistering green.

The fire races down the column of letters, numbers, and tallies, devouring them in a single inhalation. The drawer beneath the ledger rattles – the coins inside clinking sharper, harder – until one drawer bursts open entirely.

A stream of molten copper spills onto the floor.

It pools like blood.

Madam Gu stumbles backward with a strangled cry.

“No – no, no, you stop that! Stop!”

Wine jars begin to tremble. Hairline fractures spiderweb across clay, and then –

Crack.

One bursts, splashing wine across the floor in a cloudy white wave.

Then another.
And another.

Madam Gu flails, slipping in the spreading mess.

“You useless brats!” she shrieks at her terrified workers. “Don’t just stand there – do something! Move!”

And the room erupts into chaos, like a hundred chickens set loose in a yard, everyone scrambling at once. Customers shout, leaping from their seats. One man overturns a table; another rushes toward the exit. A young girl screams as she’s shoved aside, dropping her tray of wine cups.

Every door in the brothel slams shut in unison.

The sound shakes the building.

Courtesans cry out in alarm.
Customers pound on doors that will not budge.
Servants cower by the back stairs, looking to make a quick escape to the house’s second floor.

Curtains drop from hooks, draping the hall like burial shrouds.
Shutters swing and lock themselves with violent thunks.

“Stop this!” Madam Gu shrills. Her voice climbs to a pitch that makes the ceramics vibrate. “Stop it, you evil little –”

The lanterns go out.

Then reignite.

Every flame burns green.

Something flickers behind her.

She freezes.

One of the older workers – long dead – stands half-visible in the middle of the hall.

Except “stands” is charitable; she hangs there, suspended at a slight tilt. Her outline wavers like a blown candle wick. Her eyes are pits – empty, sinking, rimmed in the gray-blue of water-rot. Her arms dangle too long, thin as soaked reeds.

Her mouth stretches open in a soundless scream, jaw unhinging just a fraction too wide, as if trying to pour out the last breath she took before the river filled her lungs.

Madam Gu slips on her skirts and hits the floor hard, palms skidding through spilled wine. She scrambles backward on all fours, skirts bunched around her waist, face twisted in something between rage and terror.

“No – no, that’s not – you died. You died. You threw yourself in the river, you ungrateful – !”

The air behind her folds.

Another figure forms.

Then another.
Then seven.
Then fifteen.

More come.
They don’t appear cleanly.

Each one drags itself into existence as though forcing its way through a too-narrow crack in the world, snapping into focus in lurching, shuddering bursts. Limbs stutter. Heads twitch. Clothes hang crooked on deformed bodies.

Young women.
Young men.
Children.

Courtesans who once smiled on command.
Servants bought to silence and lost the same way.

Each new face is warped by the manner of their dying – water-logged skin, bruised wrists, ligature marks that bloom like blackened fingerprints. Some mouths gape in perpetual protest. Others are stitched shut by resentment alone. Their bony fingers scratch grooves into the floor, scrabbling, scraping, as though dragging themselves from their graves.

All the ones who vanished quietly.
All the ones this place swallowed whole.

Bodies she bought and broke.

Their heads turn.
Not together – in sequence.

First one.
Then another.
Then another.

A slow, creeping chain reaction of attention snapping toward Madam Gu, like a row of lanterns catching flame one by one.

Their hollow eyes sharpen.
Focus.
Recognize.

They lean forward, just a fraction.
Just enough for instinct to scream predator.

Mouths open, not in pain now, but in the quiet, terrible anticipation of something owed.

Madam Gu backs into a wooden pillar.

“Stay back! Stay away from me! You worthless – you were all worthless without me –!”

The pillar cracks.

A deep, thunderous sound rolls through the frame of the brothel, like ribs snapping under pressure.

The floorboards rupture beneath her, splitting wide enough to swallow a foot. She wails, tugging, tearing at her leg, but the wood clamps around her ankle tightly as iron.

“Help me!” Her wild gaze sweeps the room, landing on the wide-eyed living workers pressed against the walls alongside their drunken, tousled patrons. No one utters a sound, too horrified by the scene unfolding, too terrified to draw attention to themselves.

“You stupid little whores, help me!”

No one moves.

Not a single servant, courtesan, or client.

The ghosts do.

Not to attack her –
to surround her.

Staring at her with those flat, flickering, hungry eyes.

“Get away, get away, get away! What do you want?! You – y-you should be grateful to me, you foul, greedy wastes! I fed you! I clothed you! You’d have died in the street like dogs without me! You owe me!”

She lunges backward – her trapped leg stretching to its limit – but her hands slip, her arms and back slapping into something hot.

Something boiling.

She jerks upright, shrieking, ripping off her smoldering jacket. Her screams rasp into a broken, ragged noise. She stares at her scorched hands –

Copper.
Molten, sticky copper.

The coins keep pouring from the drawers, dripping onto the floor like the building itself is bleeding her profits out.

“You –” She whirls toward the boy, baring teeth, glimpsing him through the shifting gaps between ghosts. “You did this! What are you?!”

Wei Wuxian steps forward.

The ghosts lower their heads as he passes.

He looks at her without pity.

“A bad investment.”

Around him, the spirits of the dead tilt their heads in eerie unison, appraising her the way she once appraised them.
Considering her for death.

For replacement.

“No – no – stay away from me! Stay away –!”

The floor splits wider beneath her.

She plunges waist-deep into the gap with a renewed scream that rakes the air raw. She scrabbles for purchase, hands slipping on spilled wine and bubbling metal, but the wood tightens around her hips, gripping like jaws.

“Let go of me! Let go –!”

The brothel groans – its beams, its pillars, its supports –

The whole structure shudders with a long, satisfied exhale.

She claws at the floor.
Nails split, skin tears, blood smears across the boards.

She howls at the walls.
At the ghosts.
At the living workers who refuse to come near her.

“You are mine! All of you! You. Belong. To me –!”

The house finishes swallowing her.

The floorboards snap shut with a brutal, echoing crack.

In the absence of her screams, only the sounds of a house forever haunted remain.

Coins continue dripping.
Wine continues running.
Curtains shift and rustle.
The lantern flames rise, warm and clean – blinking innocently.

Wei Wuxian breathes out once, long and quiet.
He glances down at his bare forearm.

Fully healed.

“That’s five.”

The ghosts drift behind him, but do not follow as he moves toward the door.
With their madam bound to this place in their stead, their resentment will ease.

It’s only a matter of time.

The living watch the boy they know as A-Tong step lightly across the ruined floor, too stunned to speak.

As he passes the raised musicians’ platform, something catches his eye –
a simple reddish-brown dizi, lacquer chipped, abandoned beside a low stool.

The boy bends, picks it up, and turns it once in his palm. The way his fingers curl around it so naturally, it seems as if the instrument has always belonged to him.
He doesn’t say a word as he tucks it into his waist sash, carrying it with quiet certainty as he moves forward.

The doors and shutters burst open at his bidding.

He walks into a street swollen with celebration, the night folding around him, breath loosening for the first time in days.

He doesn’t see the two cultivators approaching the brothel at the same moment, pausing midstride, their gazes locking on the boy wreathed in violent, resentful energy.

They exchange a single, sharp look –
and start toward him.

Chapter Text

[Half a shichen earlier]

Lanling is bright tonight. And lively.

Lan Xichen commented on it once already – how the lanterns seem to float lighter than usual, how the laughter rippling up and down the festival street feels almost… cleansing.

Jin Guangyao doesn’t disagree. He simply smiles and pours them both another cup of the jasmine tea they purchased from the vendor’s stall, savoring the relaxed atmosphere of the outdoor seating even though the night remains a touch too warm.

It isn’t often the two of them manage an outing like this, with no political obligations, no letters demanding immediate attention, no elders beckoning for counsel, no meetings to rush back to.

“Is the tea too hot, Er-ge?” Jin Guangyao asks, glancing over with quiet concern. “If it isn’t to your liking, I can find something else. Something cooler?”

“The tea is fine, San-di.” Lan Xichen’s voice carries a soft chuckle. “You needn’t worry yourself so much over my comfort. I have no complaints.”

Jin Guangyao’s cheeks warm faintly. “It’s only… with your sect leader duties, you rarely get a chance to visit Lanling. I want to be sure you’re enjoying your time here.”

“I have already accomplished what I came here to do,” Lan Xichen says, sincerity threading through every word, “in seeing you faring so well. Anything beyond that is an added pleasure. I am content.”
He nods to the bench. “Now sit and relax, A-Yao. I insist.”

Jin Guangyao’s cheeks turn from warm to unmistakably red, which only makes Lan Xichen’s smile widen.

“Then allow me to purchase some cakes to go with our tea,” Jin Guangyao says quickly, rising to cover his embarrassment. “I insist.

And Lan Xichen, soft-hearted to a fault, lets him go – amused and fond.

Nights like this are rare.
Nights when his sworn brother smiles without effort are rarer still.

And then the screaming starts.

Jin Guangyao freezes mid-step.

Lan Xichen is already standing, cup set aside, settling into the calm alertness of a man trained since childhood to respond to crises before he understands their cause.

Another scream follows – sharper, closer.

“Oh, gods… that’s – they’re –”

Lan Xichen moves first, weaving through festival-goers who instinctively part for a cultivator in white. Jin Guangyao catches up quickly, steps precise, hand drifting toward Hensheng’s hilt not out of fear, but habit.

They reach the mouth of a narrow alley.

Two men stand there wringing their hands, pale as paper. A woman clutches her sleeve over her mouth to hold back a sob. “They’re dead,” she whispers. “They’re… gods, that’s awful.”

Lan Xichen steps past them.

The stench hits first – metallic, sharp, wrong.

Two bodies lay slumped on the alley floor like discarded puppets.

The wounds tell a story all on their own – a violent one. One man’s face looks as if it’s been torn apart from the inside out. The other’s eyes are sunken, hollow, the sockets caved as though something sucked the life straight out of them.

“Resentful energy,” Lan Xichen murmurs. The cold of it clings to his skin.

“It’s fresh,” Jin Guangyao adds quietly. His eyes track the shadows on the alley walls, the way they seem to pulse, almost breathe.

Lan Xichen straightens, reaching for his xiao with a steady hand. “The perpetrator must still be close.”

Jin Guangyao rises as well. “And skilled. This is… deliberate. It appears to be…”

Lan Xichen finishes the thought.
“Demonic cultivation.”

The words hang between them, grim and heavy.

Jin Guangyao turns to the nearest bystander. “Sir, do you know these men?”

The man jumps at being addressed. “I – I don’t know. It – it’s hard to say, what with their –” He gestures toward the ruined faces. “I can’t say I recognize them.”

He looks around as though someone else might speak up, but no one steps forward. Those who dare to look into the alley do so with a blend of revulsion and horrified fascination.  

“I see,” Jin Guangyao says gently. “Then please inform the local magistrate. Have them send someone to identify the bodies and notify any family. Someone from Jin sect will arrive later to oversee the proper rites.”

“The patrolman’s already gone to fetch help,” a bystander supplies timidly.

“Good luck to him,” mutters another. “The magistrate’s men are already tied up with that other murder down the street.”

Lan Xichen’s brows furrow.
“…Other murder?”

~

The teahouse is in chaos.

A ring of people stands just inside the doorway, murmuring in rising panic. A magistrate’s constable, flushed and sweating, tries to keep them calm with limited success.

Jin Guangyao steps forward. “Pardon. May we speak with the officer in charge?”

The constable startles at the sight of them.
Of course he does. Jin Guangyao is well known in Lanling, and as for Lan Xichen, well… even among strangers he needs no introduction. If his white robes and cloud embroidered forehead ribbon didn’t give him away, the face certainly would. No one mistakes one of the Twin Jades of Lan.

The constable bows deeply, words tumbling out, “Lianfang-Zun! Zewu-Jun! Yes – yes, of course. Please, go on up. The investigator just arrived.”

The second floor of the teahouse looks as though celebration turned to horror in an instant. Cups overturned. Chairs shoved back. The few patrons who didn’t flee downstairs linger in uneasy clusters, whispering behind their hands.

Lan Xichen and Jin Guangyao are led to the edge of the pavilion. There, the bamboo blinds have been lowered, blocking the sight from the street below of a man’s lifeless body slumped over a corner table.

This one is untouched – physically. No torn flesh. No gouged eyes.
No outward signs of violence at all.

And yet…

Lan Xichen feels the resentful energy the moment he steps near.
Thick. Clinging. Coiling under the rafters like trapped smoke.

“Chaiye.” Jin Guangyao bows politely to the investigator, introducing himself and Lan Xichen rather needlessly – he knows who they are. “May we ask what you’ve learned so far?”

“Not much, I’m afraid,” the investigator sighs. “Everyone here tells me the same thing: one moment he was fine, the next he was like this. They thought he was just sleeping off his drink until one of the servers came to check on him. Said his body was already cold as a grave.”

Lan Xichen brushes two fingers against the dead man’s wrist – not to check for life, but to confirm the spiritual residue.

The resentful energy clings to his skin like frost.

“This man did not die naturally,” he says.

“Thought as much,” the investigator mutters. “Was about to send for a cultivator right before the two of you showed up.”

“Do you know anything about him?” Jin Guangyao asks.

“Name’s Wu Shifeng. Rogue cultivator. No sect affiliations that we know of. He wasn’t well-liked. Made trouble. Practiced some… unorthodox techniques.”

Jin Guangyao lifts a brow. “Unorthodox?”

“Unsavory,” the investigator corrects, lowering his voice. “Wasn’t shy about it, either. Praised the Yiling Patriarch like he was some sort of god.” A derisive huff. “Always Grandmaster this, Grandmaster that.”

“You knew him?”

“We crossed paths a few times. He frequented one of the brothels in the area. Madam Gu’s place. Spent a lot of time there after he took a liking to one of her girls. More recently I heard he’s been looking after a –”

A runner bursts in, breathless.

“Sir –” His eyes widen at the sight of Lan Xichen and Jin Guangyao, “– apologies. The patrol from East Lantern Street just sent word. They’ve identified the two bodies found in that alley. Wang Bao and Li Hong.”

The investigator blanches. “Madam Gu’s boys?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Madam Gu – the proprietor of the brothel you just mentioned?” Lan Xichen asks.

“That’s right.”

Lan Xichen and Jin Guangyao exchange a glance.
The conclusions spiral quickly and dangerously.

Two separate murder scenes.
Three resentful-energy deaths.

All with one place in common.

The investigator exhales shakily. “Anyway, I suppose I’m glad you’re here. I reported Wu Shifeng’s activities a few weeks ago, so I was expecting someone to show up, but not anyone so – well.” He clears his throat. “Your efforts are much appreciated, Lianfang-Zun, Lan-zongzhu.”

“If I may,” Jin Guangyao says mildly, “to whom did you report this? If it took this long for the Jin sect to respond, there is clearly some issue with the efficiency of our internal communications.”

“Ah, well, that is – I –” The investigator glances away, flustered. “I didn’t report to the Jin sect.”

“Oh?” Jin Guangyao’s brows hitch, the reaction just delicate enough to be believable. “But this is Jin territory. Who else would you report to?”

The investigator clears his throat again, visibly uncomfortable under Jin Guangyao’s polite attention.

“I – well, you see, it’s like this – everyone knows the Jiang sect is handling most of the demonic cultivation clean-up these days. Ever since the war ended, Sect Leader Jiang –” He winces. “Well, he hasn’t exactly been discreet about it, if you take my meaning.”

Jin Guangyao’s surprise is perfectly measured.
“Is that so?”

The investigator rushes on, unrestrained now that he’s committed.

“It’s clear he’s made it a priority, stamping out anything connected to that sort of practice. Especially, ah… anything tied to the Yiling Patriarch’s methods. There was a case in Xinze a few months back – don’t know if you’ve heard – but apparently the demonic cultivator they caught had Jiang-zongzhu convinced he was Wei Wuxian back from the dead. Can you believe it? Didn’t stop him from whipping the man bloody, though. Killed him – with pleasure, I was told. Anyone who ever said he had a soft spot for the Yiling Patriarch because of their history is eating their words now, aren’t they? You should have seen the look on my brother’s face when –”

“And this Wu Shifeng,” Jin Guangyao prompts without raising his voice, simply cutting off his words with a gentle smile, “was well known for such techniques.”

“He – yes, sir. Yes.”

Lan Xichen’s expression tightens almost imperceptibly.

“We were told,” the investigator continues, “by word of mouth, mostly, passed through magistrates and their aides, that if we ran into anything that smelled of demonic cultivation, we should report it straight to the Jiang sect. Their people sweep through faster than the Jin, anyway. No offense.”

“None taken,” Jin Guangyao assures him smoothly, though his smile holds a sharper edge now.

Lan Xichen steps forward. “You said you reported Wu Shifeng a few weeks ago.”

“That’s right.”

“To the Jiang sect?”

“To whoever they’ve assigned to take those reports in the region. They move around. Hard to pin down. But I sent word. Figured they’d come deal with him sooner or later.”

Jin Guangyao looks down at the body. “But they didn’t.”

“Not in time, no.”

A beat of uncomfortable silence settles, heavy as the resentful energy still clinging to the rafters.

Lan Xichen straightens. “We should inspect Madam Gu’s establishment. If all three deaths trace back there, it’s likely our perpetrator has some sort of connection with the place.”

“I agree,” Jin Guangyao says quietly.

But for the briefest instant – just a breath – something flickers across his face.
A hesitation.
A shadow of a shadow.

The kind of reaction trained into a man who spent his childhood navigating brothel corridors, quickly hidden, smoothed away.

He inclines his head to the investigator.

“Thank you for your diligence. When my sect’s disciples arrive, please ensure the proper rites are observed.”

“Of course, Lianfang-Zun. Lan-zongzhu.”

They leave the teahouse in the care of the magistrate’s men and make their way toward the brothel.

“Do you find it troubling,” Lan Xichen says, “that demonic practices seem only to be gaining in popularity? Even with how strictly the sects are addressing them?”

Jin Guangyao makes a thoughtful hum, though truthfully, his mind is already racing ahead.

“If Wu Shifeng was bold enough to praise Wei Wuxian openly,” he says, “others may feel encouraged to imitate him. It sets a dangerous precedent.”

Lan Xichen’s expression darkens. “Those methods should remain buried.”

“Indeed.” Jin Guangyao’s smile is faint, unreadable. “One hopes such power never resurfaces – least of all in the hands of those who might put it to such terrible misuse.”

They turn onto East Lantern Street.

Here, the noise of the ongoing festival seems to thin. Not entirely, but enough that the silence bears weight. A few patrons drift by, wine-soaked and laughing, but something about the atmosphere feels strained.
Not dangerous.
Just…

Wrong.

Madam Gu’s brothel sits halfway down the street.

Beautifully kept, lacquered doors gleaming beneath the lanternlight. Every window shuttered neatly; silk curtains drawn. Not a single tile out of place.

Lan Xichen slows.

Jin Guangyao senses it too. The faintest ripple brushes against his spiritual perception. Not quite resentful energy. Not quite spiritual disturbance. More like the echo of something being forcibly held in place.

“Do you feel that?” Lan Xichen murmurs.

“I do,” Jin Guangyao replies softly.

A brothel on Zhongyuan’s final night should be noisy. Lanterns should sway from passing bodies, shadows dancing behind curtained windows. There should be laughter, footfalls, music – the thrum of human presence.

Instead, the building feels sealed. Airtight. Expectant.

A single lantern flickers nearby, shifting oddly in color.

Lan Xichen lifts his gaze to the upper windows. “The place is fully lit, but there’s no movement.”

“It’s odd, certainly.” Jin Guangyao resumes walking, thinking to take a closer look. “Perhaps –”

Lan Xichen suddenly grips his arm, drawing him back.

“A-Yao –”

The brothel bursts.

Not physically.
Not in splintered wood or shattered beams,
but in sound and force.

Every door and window slams open in the same instant, curtains whipping outward like startled birds. Lantern flames gutter violently, some flaring and bending sideways as if pulled by an unseen force, some snuffed out entirely.

Cold resentful energy surges outward in a single, suffocating wave, winding into the night as though eager to escape confinement.

Several people on the street yelp and stumble back.

Liebing is already in Lan Xichen’s hand.

Jin Guangyao shifts subtly forward, posture lowering, calculating.

A thin figure appears in the doorway, casting a shadow twice as long as he is tall.

A boy. Scarcely more than twelve.
Face pale, eyes wide and raw, breath stuttering like he’s come up from drowning.

A dizi hangs at his waist.

He looks impossibly fragile, yet the resentful energy clinging to him curls and twists like smoke reluctant to let him go.

Lan Xichen freezes.

Jin Guangyao goes still as a string pulled taut.

The boy pauses just outside the door, blinking, wary, exhausted – as though he has stepped out of a battlefield and into a cheerfully lit festival by mistake.

~

The night air hits his skin like a blessing. Warm, alive, vast.
But Wei Wuxian barely feels it. His legs tremble beneath him. His breath comes thin and ragged, his senses still ringing with the echo of Madam Gu’s screams.

He steps forward, just enough to clear the threshold.
And halts.

Two cultivators stand several paces away, framed by lanternlight. White robes. Gold embroidery. Perfect posture. Twin silhouettes carved from his past.

Wei Wuxian’s heart slams against his ribs so hard he nearly doubles over.

It isn’t them.
It can’t be them.
But the sight is so sudden, so sharp, it slices through him like a blade of memory.

A courtyard drenched in moonlight.
A dark cave, flickering firelight.
Crisp white robes snapping in a breeze above rooftops.
A rigid back, always turning away from him, always leaving.

A haughty sneer, prideful words exchanged like daggers.
A-Li is still waiting for you…
The metallic tang of blood, vibrant red spreading across shimmering white and gold.
Eyes wide with confusion and betrayal, light dimming, arrogance utterly gone…

Replaced by the final, silent stillness of an irreversible mistake.

He staggers back a step, breath collapsing in his chest.

Not here. Not now. Not like this. I can’t – I can’t see them now –

Lan Xichen takes one cautious step forward, and the movement tears the illusion apart.

It’s not him. This face is gentler, the gaze slightly darker, warmer.

And beside him…

That is certainly not Jin Zixuan. The man’s poise is sharper, smile more polished, the resemblance faint if not for the robes and the eyes…

Wei Wuxian meets them.

The world seems to stop.

Those eyes… Meng Yao’s – no, Jin Guagshan’s – they widen by the smallest fraction. A single, quiet rupture under years of practiced serenity.

Recognition.
Shock.
Panic.

Even something akin to guilt.

It flickers too fast for any ordinary observer to catch.

But Wei Wuxian, raw and stripped open after days of surviving the worst kind of treatment, sees every crack.

Jin Guangyao, though, sees the boy.

Yunsheng.

His pulse kicks once, violently.

He looks… whole. Untouched. How? How did he escape? Did they fail? Did someone intervene? Is he… Just when did he become so proficient in demonic cultivation techniques? If he’s shown a talent for this – if he’s begun practicing – if Father finds out –

He forces his expression smooth again, only a heartbeat after it nearly fractures.

Lan Xichen steps forward, calm but alert, eyes softening at the sight of the trembling boy.

“Young one,” he says, gentle in a way that nearly undoes Wei Wuxian entirely, “you may lower your weapon. We will not harm you.”

Weapon.

Wei Wuxian looks down.
The dizi is held tightly in his fist – a ghost of Chenqing, cold against his fingers.
He’d reached for it without realizing.

Lan Xichen’s gaze remains warm. Concerned. Sincere.

Jin Guangyao’s gaze is sharp, layered. Veiled.
But his thoughts take on the resemblance of a startled horse galloping free.

If he speaks, what will he say?
If he survives, what problems does that create?
If he dies here –

No. Not with Lan Xichen watching.
Not here.
Not now.

Wei Wuxian swallows hard, breath shaking. The two men blur and resolve again as he tries to pull himself together.

Lan Xichen takes another smooth, careful step toward him.

“Child,” he says, soft as a prayer, “are you able to speak?”

Wei Wuxian’s throat tightens. He doesn’t trust himself to open his mouth. Not in this situation. Not in front of two of the cultivation world’s most politically influential men alive.

And certainly not with Jin Guangyao looking at him – at Yunsheng – like he’s a problem that shouldn’t exist.

The realization hits him so fast it nearly knocks him over.

I’m going to be arrested.

A twelve-year-old murderer.
A demonic cultivator caught at the scene.

If they take him in –
If he’s interrogated –
If he’s detained, contained, sealed –

I have to get out of here. Right now.

Lan Xichen moves first, slow and composed, palms open in a show of peace.

“Young one,” he says softly, “whatever happened in that building, you do not need to fear us. Please, lower your dizi. We only wish to help.”

Wei Wuxian’s pulse spikes. He steps back.

Lan Xichen’s eyes sharpen almost imperceptibly.

Jin Guangyao tilts his head just slightly – the smallest shift, but the muscles in his neck go taut.
A warning.
Readiness.

Wei Wuxian snatches at the scraps of resentful energy drifting loose from the brothel – weak, dissipating, but still responsive to him, if only at a level that he can manage in his current state. The dizi sounds shrilly, his fingers pressing so hard against its surface they’re likely to bruise.

The shadows under the lanterns twist. A faint, skeletal shape begins to form.

Lan Xichen lifts his sleeve.

“Stand down!” he says, urgent now. “Child, don’t –”

His voice carries genuine worry, and for a split second, something in Wei Wuxian stutters.

That tone.
So much like someone else when he tried – gods, tried – to pull him back from the brink.

That split second of hesitation costs Wei Wuxian dearly.

Lan Xichen lunges forward in a blur, trying to intercept him before the ghost coalesces, and he lashes out instinctively.

A bone hook erupts from the darkness pooling at his feet, arching straight for Lan Xichen’s chest – fast enough that Lan Xichen’s eyes widen.
Fast enough that another heartbeat and –

That face flashes before his eyes once more, expression strained, bracing against a wave of corpses. Shouting his name.
An echo –

Wei Ying, return to Gusu with me.

Another face, the life draining from his eyes –

A-Li is still waiting for you…

The ghost – and Wei Wuxian with it – recoils so hard it nearly shatters.

He gasps, yanking the technique back, reigning it in before it can do the irreversible once more, chest seizing in something between pain and grief.

The dizi’s song shifts, changes. Quieting. Calming instead of riling.

Pacifying.

Soft.

It’s enough.
The opening Jin Guangyao needs.

A coil of spiritual energy whips around his arm, threads shimmering gold, binding his upper body in full. And before he can recover his balance, Jin Guangyao moves – not with the same power as Lan Xichen, but with a physician’s precision. Soft, apologetic, calculated.

He strikes the pressure point in Wei Wuxian’s shoulder. Not to knock him out, but to weaken him.
To destabilize.

His knees buckle.

Lan Xichen catches him by the upper arm, brows knit.

“He’s frightened,” Lan Xichen says. “And exhausted. A-Yao, restraining him further might harm him. Please, be careful.”

“I agree,” Jin Guangyao says, already kneeling beside the boy. “Don’t worry, Er-ge. He’s no threat in this state. We just need to keep him calm until we decide –”

A low, resonant growl cuts him off.

Wei Wuxian’s entire body locks.

No. No –

A spirit dog pads into the lanternlight, its eyes glowing faintly, followed closely by –

Wei Wuxian’s blood runs cold.

Jiang Cheng.

He’s breathing hard, like he’s been tracking something at speed. His hair is wind-tossed. But his eyes –

His eyes are fixed entirely on Wei Wuxian.

The dog snarls again, hackles rising, and Wei Wuxian can’t hide it. The jolt of terror, the backward flinch. The way his breath breaks on a pitiful whine of fear.

Jiang Cheng’s gaze narrows dangerously.

Then he spots the dizi in the boy’s hand and his gaze narrows further.

Lan Xichen feels Wei Wuxian tense. “Easy, easy,” he murmurs reassuringly. “You’re safe.”

Wei Wuxian’s breath catches as the spirit dog pads forward. It growls a second time, louder, teeth bared, eyes fixed on the boy steeped in resentment.

“No,” Jiang Cheng says, voice flat enough to pass for a blade. “He isn’t.”
He looks carved from the same cold dread as the dog. Shoulders tight with purpose. Jaw clenched. Eyes sharp enough to cut straight through him.

Nausea sweeps up Wei Wuxian’s throat.
He knows. He knows. He knows.

But Jiang Cheng’s expression when he finally lifts his gaze to Lan Xichen and Jin Guangyao is smooth. Controlled. A perfect sect leader’s scowl.

“He isn’t safe,” he says, not looking at Wei Wuxian now, but at the two men handling him. “You should know better than to make false promises, Zewu-Jun.”

Lan Xichen straightens, concern knitting with caution.
“Jiang-zongzhu,” he says, “this child is no longer a threat. He should be –”

“Child?” Jiang Cheng sneers. “Open your eyes. You can sense that resentful energy as well as I can.” He jerks his chin toward the open brothel, still bleeding faint strands of resentment into the street. “Have you checked inside yet? Want to take a guess what you’ll find, or should we just count the other bodies found brutalized on the street to be enough evidence against him?”

Lan Xichen’s brows pinch. They’re still not sure if the boy himself is responsible for the murders of Wang Bao, Li Hong, and Wu Shifeng, though the trail of resentment certainly does implicate him.

Jin Guangyao bows with impeccable politeness, masking the spark of interest – and calculation – igniting behind his eyes.

“Jiang-zongzhu,” he says smoothly, “your arrival is quite timely. We were just discussing what should be done with him.”

Jiang Cheng’s gaze flicks to Wei Wuxian, who – thanks to the presence of a certain teeth-baring canine – has disengaged from the conversation entirely. He doesn’t dare take his eyes off it, suppressing a squeak of terror every time it so much as twitches.

Jiang Cheng turns sharply back to Jin Guangyao.

“There’s nothing to discuss,” he says coldly. “This falls under Jiang sect authority.”

A beat of silence hangs heavy in the air.

Lan Xichen breaks it with care. “Due respect, Jiang-zongzhu – this is Jin territory.”

“And demonic cultivation cases,” Jiang Cheng counters, “have been handled by the Jiang sect since the war ended. You know that. Everyone knows that.” His lips curls. “Lanling’s own investigators reported directly to us.”

“Of course,” Lan Xichen says, tone mild. “But surely, for propriety’s sake, we must –”

“It’s alright, Er-ge,” Jin Guangyao says. “Jiang-zongzhu makes a fair point. And besides, given the boy’s identity, I think it might be… problematic, taking him into Jin custody at this time.”

“His identity?” Lan Xichen’s brows rise. “A-Yao, you know this boy?”

Jin Guangyao sighs, a light exhale of regret that looks perfectly genuine.

“I do. His name is Yunsheng. He was a servant at Golden Carp Tower some years ago. But he was expelled for thievery.” His tone is gentle, almost sorrowful. “He grew up there from infancy, raised by one of the seamstresses. It was… a difficult situation for all involved.”

Wei Wuxian feels his stomach twist.
He can’t tell if it’s anger at the injustice Yunsheng experienced, or disbelief at the fact that Jin Guangyao is using the incident to wash his hands of this whole demonic affair.
Or maybe it’s just the fact that Jiang Cheng’s dog seems to have moved a bit closer than before.

Jin Guangyao continues:

“If we bring him back to Golden Carp Tower, even as a prisoner awaiting judgement, it will cause an immediate stir. The servants talk. The outer disciples gossip. Once word spreads that a former ward of the Jin sect was found practicing demonic cultivation on the streets of Lanling –”

He spreads his hands, an apology embodied.

“– the political damage will be considerable. And unnecessary, in this case.”

Lan Xichen’s frown deepens. “A-Yao… regardless of his past, he is a frightened child. Surely public reaction should not determine his treatment.”

“Of course not,” Jin Guangyao agrees fervently. “But it’s not just the concern of the thievery that gives me pause. There were also… certain rumors circling the child that would give my father a significant amount of trouble if this were to become public knowledge.”

He doesn’t have to say much more than that.

A child raised in the Jin sect from infancy.
Rumors that could put Jin Guangshan in an uncomfortable spotlight. Again.

“Obviously the claims have already been proven false, but we cannot pretend that appearances have no consequences,” Jin Guangyao finishes solemnly. “And this situation… is volatile.”

He lowers his voice slightly.

“It would be kinder for all parties – including A-Sheng – if the matter were to be handled quietly. Discreetly.”

Lan Xichen understands the subtext immediately.

Handled discreetly. Removed from Jin territory. Out of Jin hands forever.

But before he can respond, Jiang Cheng cuts in.

“Yeah, I don’t give a shit about any of that.”

Both men turn to him.

He stands stiff and grim, the spirit dog pressed alert at his heel, its glare fixed on the boy. His tone is cold, clipped, all business:

“The Jiang sect is already responsible for tracking and containing demonic cultivation. Whatever your reasons for pawning him off don’t matter. I’ll be taking him regardless.” Zidian sparks where it sits on his finger. “And I won’t have to explain myself to anyone.”

Lan Xichen’s jaw tightens. “Jiang-zongzhu, forgive me, but your sect’s handling of these matters has been –”

“Efficient,” Jiang Cheng snaps.

“– harsh,” Lan Xichen finishes, steady but not unkind. “And often fatal.”

“He killed people,” Jiang Cheng says flatly. “Harshness is not the issue here.”

Lan Xichen’s first instinct – the one he feels in his bones – is to gather the boy behind him and say, Come to the Cloud Recesses. You will be safe there.

But the thought doesn’t survive more than a breath.
Because in the next heartbeat, another face flickers into his mind:

His brother’s.

White robes torn.
Back split open.
Breath thin and shaking as the discipline whip carved into him again and again.

His brother, still in seclusion, still recovering from wounds inflicted because he dared to protect someone connected to this same corrupt, dangerous path.

Lan Xichen’s throat tightens.

He cannot drag the echo of that chaos into the Cloud Recesses again. He cannot place this trembling, resentful-energy-soaked child anywhere near his brother’s healing.
He cannot risk a setback.

Not now.

Not after everything he suffered for someone else’s choices.

The selfishness twists in Lan Xichen – sharp, shameful – but real.

I will protect him from this, even if I must turn the boy away.

So, he swallows the impulse to intervene, even as Jin Guangyao soothes his guilty conscience by saying, “Er-ge… if the boy were to go anywhere else, the scandal alone would ruin him, as well as those around him.” A sorrowful sigh. “Better that he passes quietly through Jiang hands, where no one will ask his name or spread tall tales.”

Let the boy be swallowed by Jiang Cheng’s authority, by Jiang Cheng’s anger, by Jiang Cheng’s secrecy.

Jin Guangyao sees the unwilling acceptance in Lan Xichen’s eyes. He steps aside with a serene inclination of his head, triumph and relief hidden so deeply even Lan Xichen cannot see it.

Lan Xichen’s remaining protests falter.

He looks down at the trembling boy whose arm he still loosely supports.

“He does not seem malicious,” he says softly, pained. “Only frightened. Exhausted. Perhaps even coerced.”

He straightens slowly.

“Jiang-zongzhu.” His words are resigned but firm. “You must give your word that the boy will not be harmed unnecessarily.”

Jiang Cheng’s expression doesn’t soften, but it shifts – tightening with something bitter and old.

“He won’t be harmed.”

A lie.

Lan Xichen accepts it.

Jiang Cheng steps forward and reaches for Wei Wuxian who flinches so violently that Lan Xichen reacts without thinking, his hand coming down protectively on the boy’s narrow shoulder.

He warns, “Gently –”

“I am being gentle,” Jiang Cheng snaps. “Let him go.”

Lan Xichen only hesitates a moment more. Then –

He releases him.

Jiang Cheng grabs the boy’s arm – not cruelly, but with intent – and jerks him upright.

Wei Wuxian sways, dizzy, head cranking to the side in order to keep the dog in sight.

“Come on,” Jiang Cheng mutters under his breath, low enough that only Wei Wuxian hears it. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

He turns, pulling Wei Wuxian with him. The spirit dog follows, silent now, but Wei Wuxian still can’t breathe normally while remaining in such close proximity to the thing.

He stumbles after Jiang Cheng, unable to maintain his footing as he struggles to keep up with Jiang Cheng's long strides, which now nearly double the length of his own.

Jiang Cheng steadies him almost instinctively – a hand at his shoulder, a grip at his elbow.

It isn’t kindness.
And it isn’t cruelty.

It’s inevitability.

And Lan Xichen watches them disappear into the lanternlight with a heaviness in his chest he will not be able to name for years.

~

A-Lian slips out the brothel’s side gate before the cultivators can start asking questions. Her eyes are bright; her pulse wild with something that feels almost like laughter.

She’s free.

Madam Gu is gone.
Wu Shifeng is gone.
The little boy she fed to his own despair – gone too.

And A-Lian? She bowed, wept, groveled, played the pitiable girl so convincingly that even the Yiling Patriarch spared her.

A clean escape.

She ducks into a narrow alley to catch her breath, the lanternlight thinning behind her. The humid night air drapes over her shoulders like damp silk.

Then something taps the ground behind her.

Light. Bare. Child-sized.

She freezes. Slowly turns.

Nothing there.
Only shadows and a few drifting incense ashes from the festival.

Her breath shivers out of her lungs, half-relief, half-annoyance at her own nerves. “Enough,” she mutters. “He’s gone. The cultivators got him. You’re just imagining things now.” It’s to be expected, really, after the frightful things she saw today. No one in their right minds would be able to forget something like that so quickly.

She steps forward.

The shadows step with her.

Not shapes. Not figures. Just the faint, impossibly harmonized shift of darkness at her heels. When she stops, it stops with her. When she turns, it waits.

Her skin prickles.

She reaches the end of the alley and passes by a water basin left outside someone’s door, surface still and moonlit. She kneels to splash her face –

A reflection ripples on the surface.
A reflection of something standing behind her.

Small. Blurred.
A boy’s silhouette, head bowed as though leaning over her shoulder.

She jerks upright so fast she nearly tips the basin. She spins.
Nothing.

She forces a shaky laugh. “You’re tired. That’s all. Just tired.”

But when she looks back down, the water hasn’t settled. The silhouette becomes something more, features sharpening, a face blooming across the surface as though it might rise from the depths –

She shoves the basin over, water splashing, sloshing over her shoes, soaking them through.
She doesn’t care.

She backs away into the street.
And into another lantern’s light.

Her shadow stretches long in front of her.

And stitched to one side of it, barely there but unmistakable, is another shadow.
Smaller.
Thin-armed.
Clinging to her like a frightened child clutching a sleeve.

Cold sweeps down her spine.

She can’t breathe.

She stumbles into the crowd, desperate for the noise, the people, any witnesses at all.
But when she glances to the side next to a cosmetics stall, her reflection shows clearly in the bronze mirror there, polished to a high sheen.

And at her shoulder, just for a blink, the faint suggestion of a boy looking up at her, watching her with patient, unblinking attention.

Her knees almost buckle.

Behind her, the air stirs. A breath not her own brushes her neck.

Wei Wuxian had given the ghost a simple command:
Stay close. Remind her. Never let her forget.

The reflection smiles.
A-Lian runs.

The shadow runs with her.

Chapter Text

The journey back to Lotus Pier doesn’t take nearly as long as Wei Wuxian hoped it would.

He is half-led, half-dragged through the crowded streets of Lanling, past patron-swarmed stalls and revelry and the fading strains of festival music. People part easily for the purple of Jiang robes and the low rumble of the spirit dog at Jiang Cheng’s heels. No one looks too closely at the boy in restraints stumbling along at his side, eyes unfocused.

Another demonic cultivator for the Jiang sect dungeons.

Nothing more to see.

The spirit dog’s presence sours the air in Wei Wuxian’s lungs. Every time it brushes his leg, his vision whites out at the edges. The world blurs, too bright, too loud – the festival’s leftover joy scraping against the raw panic lodged under his ribs. His body belongs to Yunsheng – small, underfed, tremoring from exhaustion – but the terror it now contains is older, deeper, and very much his own.

He can’t scream.
He can’t bolt.
He can’t even breathe properly.

Jin Guangyao and Lan Xichen fall behind in the chaos, swallowed by the magistrate’s men arriving on the scene and the crowd. There’s no farewell, no parting words. Just one last glimpse – Lan Xichen’s worried gaze tracking them a heartbeat longer than propriety requires, Jin Guangyao’s polite half-smile fixed in place as though he’s already filing this entire incident away under “no longer my problem.”

Then the street bends, and they’re gone.

They take a carriage first, which delivers them to the riverfront where a boat sits waiting – all of which is quite odd given the fact that Jiang Cheng surely would have preferred to travel by sword, especially given Wei Wuxian now coming in a much smaller, neater package than the last.
Practically transport ready.

Jiang Cheng sees the questioning glance the boy – Wei Wuxian – levels at Sandu, and he grunts.

“You fucking passed out the last time we took swords,” he grumbles. Then, louder, “Just be grateful I don’t string you from Sandu’s hilt and let you dangle over half the Jianghu for the bullshit you’ve caused here.”

The disciples quickly avert their eyes as Jiang Cheng steps aboard with his prisoner, faces carefully blank. Of course, they know who their sect leader thinks he’s caught. It’s the same with every demonic cultivation case they encounter.

They receive the news; they report it; their Jiang-zongzhu sets out immediately, personally, with a group of disciples in tow; he returns with a prisoner accused of being Wei Wuxian, the Yiling Patriarch – or somehow connected to him in some nefarious way; the prisoner is tortured, usually to death; Jiang-zongzhu spends the next few weeks in a foul mood, storming about the training grounds as though the sky itself has offended him.

The only slight departure from this now-predictable routine is that over the past several months Jiang-zongzhu has started taking a spirit dog with him on every new case.

Not a single one of them has plucked up the courage to ask why.

They write it off as a simple change in tactic.

Nothing wrong with a cultivator taking his spirit dog along to sniff out malevolent creatures and negative energies every now and then.

And as for this little boy, well… none of the disciples here truly believe he’s the Yiling Patriarch in disguise. But again, no one would dare to contradict the sect leader.

The ‘little boy’ is bundled into the rear cabin and shoved down onto a low bench. The bindings cinched around his upper arms are spiritual, not physical. Jiang Cheng’s own energy threads through them like barbed wire. Every time Wei Wuxian shifts, they bite against his circulation, a constant reminder of where the power sits in this arrangement.

Jiang Cheng closes the cabin door and glares down at him.

For a few blessed heartbeats, there is only the sound of water against the hull and the faint creak of wood.

Wei Wuxian stares at the floorboards, throat working. He can feel Jiang Cheng’s gaze on him like a hand on the back of his neck.

No dog.
No audience.
No need to pretend anymore.

He doesn’t risk being the first one to speak.

Jiang Cheng stands in silence for so long it feels like an accusation all on its own. His spiritual sense brushes over Wei Wuxian – not probing, not gentle. Taking stock.

The resentful energy is sunk into the bones of the boy’s body like dark marrow.

He sucks a breath through his teeth.

“You’re an idiot,” he says finally.

Wei Wuxian flinches. The voice is the same as it was in the dungeon – hoarse, edged, layered over old hurt – but tighter now, coiled with something brittle. Less angry, more calculating.
The change is frightening. Wei Wuxian has seen Jiang Cheng furious a hundred thousand times, but he’s only seen him thoughtful on the eve of catastrophe.

He tries, uselessly, to arrange his face into something vaguely childlike. Innocent. Confused. Frightened.

Jiang Cheng’s lip curls.

“Don’t make me hit a kid,” he snaps harshly.

“I don’t know –”

Jiang Cheng’s hand lashes out, fingers closing around Wei Wuxian’s chin, jerking his head up. The motion is rough, but not cruel. He tilts the boy’s face this way and that, studying his eyes as if the answer is written there. Obvious. Familiar.

Golden-brown, not grey, but the same weary stretch at the corners. The same stubborn light that refuses to be put out no matter how much damage the soul inside of it takes.

Different mouth, but the same impetuous set to it, like his frown is half a moment away from shifting into a crooked grin.

Different body, different face.
The same brand of stupid self-destruction.

And Jiang Cheng hates it all. That flicker – that damned insolent spark. It survives every death, every rebirth, every body. It’s the one part of Wei Wuxian that never learned to bow, never learned to stay down, never learned to stop blazing even when Jiang Cheng begged him to – for his sake. For the sake of their family. Their home.

Seeing it again is like being mocked by a ghost.

“What is this, anyway?” he sneers. “Is it really so hard for a ghost to find good, able-bodied hosts to possess, or are you just particularly incompetent?” His next breath snorts out of him. “This one’s still got fucking baby teeth.”

His spiritual pressure tightens, subtle but unmistakable. A warning drawn tight around the boy’s ribs. Not an attack. Just a reminder that whatever he chooses to say next will determine how long this conversation lasts.

Wei Wuxian licks his cracked lips. “I told you. I’m not –”

“Possessing them, I know.” He drops Wei Wuxian’s chin like it burns. When he steps away, Wei Wuxian is forced to look up. And up, and up. Tilting his head back to meet his eyes. His body is so small, the difference in height feels obscene. Standing, the topmost part of Wei Wuxian’s head would scarcely reach the tip of Jiang Cheng’s sternum.

“But even if I wanted to believe you, you already said it yourself – you’re only inhabiting these bodies temporarily.”

Wei Wuxian blinks. “I did?”

Jiang Cheng grits his teeth, seeming… almost embarrassed of the next words out of his mouth. “That man in Xinze – Luo Ming…” He clears his throat. “He said you referred to Zhang Fu as your landlord. Wouldn’t that imply you think of these bodies as being rented? Their original owners offering you some perverted form of a short-term lease?”

“Oh, that.” Wei Wuxian lets out a tiny, half-hearted chuckle. “At the time, I suppose it was. But now that I’ve completed the ritual requirements, I –”

Wei Wuxian clamps his mouth shut in horror.

“Ritual?” Jiang Cheng crosses his arms, catching the slip with a single brow raised, almost like he’d been expecting it.

Like something has been confirmed.

“It’s not important,” Wei Wuxian mutters. “Anyway, this body is mine, just as Zhang Fu’s was. Bought and paid for. I’m officially its new owner and full-time occupant.”

Jiang Cheng eyes him skeptically. “I don’t think that’s something you should be proud of.”

Wei Wuxian’s mouth quirks, bitter. “I didn’t say it was ideal. It’s not like I asked for this. They called me.”

“Then you shouldn’t have answered,” Jiang Cheng snapped.

It lands like a slap.

Wei Wuxian forces his gaze back to the floorboards. His chest hurts in a way that has nothing to do with his body’s physical pain.

The boat creaks. A disciple calls out something faint through the wall – a course correction. All of it feels like it’s happening very far away.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Jiang Cheng says. His tone shifts back to Sect Leader Jiang, voice like cold steel. “I’m taking you back to Lotus Pier. We’ll get you nice and cozy in your cell, and then you’re going to tell me exactly how you’re doing this.”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes snap upward.
Doing… this?

“You’re going to tell me about those stupid books.”

Wei Wuxian’s blood runs cold.

“The ones with all your rituals and spells outlined so carefully. I know that’s how you’ve been spreading your methods – how you’ve been choosing your victims.”

“Jiang Cheng –” he rasps.

“After that, you’re going to tell me all about whatever it is you used last time to break yourself out of my sealing array. If you took any preventative measures before capture, I want to know about them. Talismans, transportation arrays, preexisting seals – whatever it is. I’ll have it out of you in the end, no matter the cost.”

He leans in close again. Close enough for Wei Wuxian to feel the breath against his face.

“And then,” he says, “we’re going to make sure I never have to track you down like this again.”

Wei Wuxian lets the silence sit for a moment.

Then, softly:

“You’re going to kill me.” He tries to make it a statement, but it comes out a half-question, instead.

Jiang Cheng’s eyes flicker.

“You’re already dead, remember?” he bites out. “Besides, simply killing you doesn’t seem to do the trick. You just crawl right back like a stubborn little cockroach.” He shakes his head, eyes hardening. “No, I have something else in mind. Something you won’t be able to escape, even in death.”

He straightens again, pulling away as if the closeness itself is particularly painful.

“I can’t have you popping up in random corpses for the next decade leaving a trail of resentful carnage just because some desperate idiot found your notes.”

Wei Wuxian grimaces.

“Okay…” he says slowly, “okay, you don’t have to believe me when it comes to the techniques used, but… can you at least trust it’s the truth when I say those people deserved it? Every single one of them.”

Jiang Cheng stiffens, Luo Ming’s words from all those months ago coming back to haunt him.

We paid the price for it.

He forces a laugh – more of a huff.

“Save it,” he mutters, voice low. “Whatever justification you think you have for using demonic methods to murder in cold blood, save it. You can explain yourself when we get there.”

“When we get there…” Wei Wuxian repeats, hollow. “Back to Lotus Pier.”

“Right,” Jiang Cheng snaps. “No need to act like it’s some kind of homecoming.”

He turns away, yanks the cabin door open, already barking an order at the disciples on deck. The river wind gusts in, tugging at Wei Wuxian’s hair – loose from its braid again.

The door shuts.
The cabin goes silent.

Wei Wuxian stares at the spot where Jiang Cheng stood a moment ago. Then he lets his head drop back against the wall and closes his tired eyes. The bindings around his arms pulse once, a warning not to try anything.

He doesn’t.

He has nothing left to try.

~

Lotus Pier rises out of the mist at dawn on the third day.

The sky is pale, streaked with pink and gold. The water glows around the docks, lotus leaves floating thick as carpet.

The boat is secured at the private docks of the complex. It’s quiet, the only sounds coming from the disciples as they disembark, tugging ropes, carrying wares, speaking in hushed tones as though afraid to disturb the morning’s peace.

Wei Wuxian is hauled from the cabin and onto the dock as casually as any box of produce.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t bother with show in front of his disciples. He pulls Wei Wuxian forward with a curt, “Keep your head down and your mouth shut.”

Wei Wuxian obeys.

What other choice does he have?

The air in Lotus Pier tastes like damp wood and lotus pollen and things he can no longer name without choking on them. The buildings are familiar, rebuilt in a way that honors their original layout. Even the courtyard stones feel the same beneath his feet.

A few early risers come to greet their sect leader.

No one asks who the boy is.

No one has the nerve.

They all pretend not to see the way Jiang Cheng’s hand clamps just a little too tightly down on the prisoner’s thin shoulder.

They go, not to the main hall, but down.

Steps.
Cool air.
Stone walls closing in.

Wei Wuxian’s vision swims with memory. Zidian’s cracking sting. His own flesh burning. Blood thick in his mouth.

Jiang Cheng’s grip tightens.

“Stay conscious,” he growls under his breath. “You don’t get to faint your way out of this.”

Wei Wuxian focuses on that anger like a hook, hangs onto it instead of the rising panic. It works, barely. His knees still buckle on the last step.

The dungeon itself is much as he remembers it, but this time he’s led into a different cell. Only walls, no bars. Different chains. Different arrangement.
Same talismans, same purifying incense. Same damp chill.

Same echo when the door shuts behind them with a heavy, final thud.

Jiang Cheng pushes him down onto a low stone platform. The spiritual bindings around his arms dissolve, only to be replaced by physical shackles at his wrists and ankles, carved with talismanic script that makes them nearly impossible to break out of – especially for a twelve-year-old demonic cultivator sealed in a room cleansed of all resentment.

At least there’s no neck shackle this time. Wei Wuxian doesn’t want to read too much into it, but where Jiang Cheng is concerned, it feels almost like… an apology.

“These are unnecessary,” Wei Wuxian says, twisting a bony wrist within a shackle that’s been tightened as much as the clasp allows.

“Is it?” Jiang Cheng’s tone is flat. “Just last night you tried to gut Lan Xichen in the street. Forgive me for not trusting your self-control.”

Wei Wuxian winces.

Honestly?
Fair.

The shackles settle. Jiang Cheng steps back to appraise his work with a critical eye.
Something in his face flickers, some memory, some echo of a moment that rubs him raw –

He crushes it down.

He turns toward the door.

Wei Wuxian’s heart kicks, hard enough to jar his ribs. Panic spikes sharp and hot.

“Wait,” he blurts.

Jiang Cheng stops with one hand on the latch.

“I… this body,” he says, the words clumsy, tumbling over each other. “I’m… it’s… hurt. Badly. Madam Gu didn’t exactly take good care of her wares.” He wets his lips. “If you want me to answer your questions, it’s probably best not to let me die of infection before you get the chance.”

Jiang Cheng’s hand tightens on the door. He looks Wei Wuxian up and down, not seeing any visible injuries on the boy’s body.

“Hurt how?” he asks gruffly. “Where?”

Wei Wuxian hesitates. “That’s… um.”

Then the words process fully.

Infection.
Madam Gu – the brothel owner.
Not taking good care of her wares.
Wares.

Oh, gods.

Every muscle in Jiang Cheng’s body seems to lock in place as the implications settle.

“Before or after?” he chokes out.

Wei Wuxian knows exactly what he’s asking.
Was this body assaulted before or after he came to be inside of it?

“Does it matter?” he asks, his voice catching slightly.

Jiang Cheng stares, eyes wide and wild, his fingers flexing once as though resisting the urge to grab Wei Wuxian and shake the answer out of him.

“Both,” Wei Wuxian whispers.

Both.

Wei Wuxian makes himself smile – a brittle, jagged thing. “You said you wanted answers,” he quips, though the words come out a little thick.

Jiang Cheng makes a sound that’s not quite a groan, not quite a curse. His hand falls from the latch. For a long, taut moment, he only stands there, shoulders rigid, back to Wei Wuxian, breathing like someone choking down bile.

They deserved it, he’d said.

And Jiang Cheng had laughed.

Laughed.

When he finally turns, his expression is carefully blank. He looks Wei Wuxian over, slower this time. The jut of collarbones. The too-thin wrists. The hollows at narrow shoulders and throat.
It isn’t the kind of assessment a sect leader gives a prisoner. It’s clinical. Horrified.
Furious at someone who isn’t in the room to receive it.

“Did a physician see…” he forces out. “After you – after you got there.”

Wei Wuxian swallows. “No.”

“No…”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, sucking air through his teeth. When he drops his hand, his eyes are hard again, the softness scorched out.

“I need you alive,” he says flatly. “For now. That’s all this is.”

He yanks the door open and bellows up the corridor, voice cracking.

“Someone fetch the healer. Now. And tell her the patient is a child.”

There’s a scramble of footsteps, startled affirmations. The door slams again, shutting out the noise. Jiang Cheng turns back, the lines at the corners of his mouth carved deeper.

“You’re going to let the healer treat whatever damage there is,” he says. “And then you’re going to give me everything I need, doing exactly as I say.”

Wei Wuxian forces his eyebrows up, the shadow of a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “I’m a patient now, Jiang Cheng,” he huffs, the child’s voice adding to the whine of his words. “Don’t you think that’s a bit much? How could a sect leader’s bedside manner be so atrocious?”

Jiang Cheng’s jaw tightens. “Shut up.”

He doesn’t move closer, doesn’t offer comfort, doesn’t even sit. He waits in stiff, miserable silence until the healer arrives – a middle-aged woman with sleep-mussed hair, pulled out of bed by a panicked disciple.

Her eyes widen when she sees the shackles, the talismans, the boy on the platform.

“This is…?” she begins.

“You don’t need to know,” Jiang Cheng snaps. “You just need to keep him from dying before I’m finished with him.”

The healer’s gaze flicks between them, reading much more than she should. But whatever she thinks, she only bows respectfully to the sect leader, then kneels by the stone slab, setting down her case.

“I’ll need the restraints loosened,” she says carefully. “At least enough to examine him. And privacy, Zongzhu.”

Jiang Cheng hesitates. His eyes go back to Wei Wuxian, to the smirk that isn’t really a smirk and the shadows under those golden eyes.

“Try anything,” he tells him quietly, “and I’ll chain you to the floor by your spine.”

Wei Wuxian snorts. “That sounds a little demonic, Zongzhu. How would you accomplish it? Your dungeon is so very feng shui now – not even a bit mild disgruntlement to pull from.”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t dignify that with an answer. He nods once at the healer, then steps back toward the door.

“I’ll be right outside,” he says. A clear warning.

The shackles at Wei Wuxian’s ankles fall away with a muttered incantation from Jiang Cheng, freeing up his legs. The wrist shackles loosen – but not enough for escape. Just enough to allow the healer to roll up sleeves, press gentle fingers along thin arms.

She asks softly probing questions, coaxing out of him the nature of his injuries.
She doesn’t bat an eye when he tells her, simply lifts the hems of the boy’s robes to check the bruising and marks mottling the skin beneath, some nearly a week old, others still painfully fresh.

Wei Wuxian stares up at the ceiling and retreats as far as he can into himself, counting his own breaths until she’s done.

When the door opens again, the healer’s face is pinched, tight around the mouth.

“He’ll be fine,” she says to Jiang Cheng. “Physically,” she amends crisply. “If the wounds are cleaned properly and he rests. I’ve applied a salve and given him a draught for the fever. But he shouldn’t be pushed too hard for a few days, Zongzhu. The strain could –”

“I understand. Thank you for your time, Elder Lu.”

She hesitates. “I would recommend at least –”

“I’m not asking for recommendations. He won’t live long enough to benefit from them, anyway.”

A beat.

Then, softly but very clearly,
“Then why did you call me at all, Zongzhu?”

The question hangs in the air like incense smoke. Jiang Cheng flinches as if struck, then waves her away with a sharp, jerky motion.

“Leave the medicine with whoever is standing guard outside,” he bites out. “And tell the disciples no one comes down here without my order.”

She bows again, deeper this time, but there’s something like pity in her eyes when she glances back toward the cell – toward Wei Wuxian.

Once she’s gone and the echo of her steps fades, Jiang Cheng drags a hand through his hair and stalks over to his prisoner, restraining him thoroughly once more.

“Two days,” he says, more to himself. “Today and tomorrow. That’s enough time to prepare.”

Wei Wuxian’s fingers curl loosely around the edge of the stone.

“Prepare for what?” he asks, though he thinks he already knows. Or at least the shape of it. Jiang Cheng mentioned the books – the copies of his notes somehow being spread throughout the Jianghu.

Jiang Cheng lifts his head. His eyes are dark.

“You wanted to play with rituals,” he says. “You wanted to drag souls around like kites on strings. Congratulations.” He bares his teeth in something that is not even close to a smile. “You get to be the test subject now.”

A chill spiders down Wei Wuxian’s spine.

“You don’t… know what you’re dealing with,” he says quietly. He stumbles over the words a little, his tongue feeling oddly thick. “The ideas in those books… weren’t meant to be –”

“Spare me the lecture,” Jiang Cheng snaps. “You wrote the damn things. And I’m done chasing you across the cultivation world every time a graveyard twitches. I’m ending this. Properly. And you’re going to help me do it.”

He turns away before Wei Wuxian can answer, adding sharply, “I was going to start right away, but seeing you’re in no shape to be of any use, we’ll have to wait.”

He’s right.

The healer’s draught has begun to drag at his limbs, heaviness creeping through him like fog. Wei Wuxian has a brief moment of panic as the effects echo the sedatives given to him by Wu Shifeng and Madam Gu, but even that has a dulled edge.

He can’t bring himself to care.

The dungeon door slams shut, the talismans humming faintly with renewed force.

He’s alone again.

Wei Wuxian stares at the walls until the lines of ink there start to crawl and blur. He tries to think – tries to recall his jumbled notes and diagrams, to pinpoint which of them would be of interest to someone like Jiang Cheng.

But his mind is too muddled.

He closes his eyes.

The restraints pulse once around his ankles, the script etched into the shackles burning briefly warm before cooling again.

He doesn’t pull against them.

Doesn’t fight.

For the first time since he was shoved forcefully back into the world after his original body’s death, he has the sick, quiet thought that maybe this time – just maybe – he’s exhausted enough not to want to run.

Where would he run to, anyway?
There’s nowhere left for him to go.

From now until the rest of eternity trapped within this cycle of death and rebirth.

There is no one to turn to.

No place that feels safe.

He allows the medicine to pull him softly into oblivion.

~

[The Cloud Recesses: two days ago]

The Jingshi is dim when Lan Xichen pushes the door open with a quiet breath of spiritual energy. Dawn hasn’t reached this part of the Cloud Recesses yet; the windows are still washed in blue shadow, the air faint with sandalwood and old incense.

Lan Wangji sleeps on his side, back toward the door, white robes pooling like fallen snow around him. Even from the threshold Lan Xichen can see the way pain shapes his posture – shoulders tight, breaths shallow. The discipline whip leaves wounds that heal excruciatingly slowly, even with careful tending.

Even for someone as strong and resilient as his brother.

Lan Xichen sets the covered dishes on the table. The soft clink of porcelain doesn’t stir Lan Wangji. He must have exhausted himself in the night.

He hesitates only briefly, then reaches for his xiao. Liebing sits comfortably in his hands, familiar as breath. He lifts it to his lips and begins to play a gentle melody – one meant for calming pain, easing restless dreams.

The notes hum through the room. The Jingshi softens around them. Lan Wangji’s breath evens out.

Lan Xichen lets his eyes drift half-shut.

And then, without thinking, without meaning to, his fingers shift.

The melody curves. Deepens. Slides into a pattern he did not invent, could not have invented.
Something that came to him like a bird landing in his palm and leaving its song behind.

A boy, thin and trembling, a dizi lifted with perfect familiarity; a circle of resentful spirits surging at the first clear note; the lingering tune that followed, delicate and sure and impossibly pure.

Before he fully realizes he’s doing it, Lan Xichen is playing that tune now.

The one the child played in Lanling.
The one that called off his ghosts from the brink of slaughter.

The one that’s been echoing in the hollow of Lan Xichen’s mind since he heard it.

It feels like snow falling around an open, hopeful hand raised to catch it, fleeting as a whispered prayer. Haunting, melodic – inspired by longing.

Beautiful.

Then –

A shift in the room.

A rustle of linen.

Lan Xichen turns his head as Lan Wangji pushes himself upright, bracing on shaking arms. His hair spills loose around his shoulders, and for a moment he looks so very young – young and wounded and afraid to speak.

His eyes are fixed on Lan Xichen’s hands.

Or rather, on the notes that had been drifting from them.

His voice is a cracked breath of disbelief.

“…That song.”

Lan Xichen blinks, lowering Liebing slightly. “Wangji?”

Lan Wangji’s breath stutters. His fingers clutch at the bedding like it’s the only thing grounding him.

“How,” he says thickly. “How do you know that song.”

It isn’t a question so much as an accusation. Soft and aching.

Lan Xichen’s mouth opens. Closes. Seeing his brother’s unusually distinct reaction – it’s just like back then, just like with – 

Very few things in this world could get Lan Wangji’s expression to hold such… intensity.

Wei Wuxian was one of them.

He feels the sudden vise of dread settle low in his stomach. He didn’t expect – didn’t think –

“I heard it from a boy I came across just yesterday, during my visit with A-Yao. He had a dizi. He played only a few bars of it, but it remained with me. I found my hands drifting into it now, without thought. I’m sorry if I disturbed your rest.”

Lan Wangji is already trying to stand.

He’s exhausted, trembling, breath catching in his throat – but he pushes himself upright, pushes past the pain like it’s nothing, like pain has never mattered to him at all.

“Wangji – sit. Your wounds. You know what the healer said. You shouldn’t be moving about like this for at least another few months. You’ll –”

“Where.” His voice cracks, but it doesn’t waver. “Where.”

Lan Xichen is on his feet, reaching out, but Lan Wangji steps back from his hand with an expression that borders on feral.

“Wangji –”

“Where is he,” he demands again. Each word comes out clipped, like he’s bitten it off. “The boy. Where.”

There is a kind of madness in his amber-bright eyes – not chaotic, not uncontrolled. More like something frozen that has just begun to thaw, painfully, violently.

Lan Xichen swallows. “…He was in Lanling.”

Lan Wangji’s breath leaves him like a blow. For a moment he looks as if the floor has dropped from under his feet.

“But he’s not there anymore, Wangji. He was taken –”

“Taken.”

Lan Xichen bites his lip. He can’t. He can’t explain to Lan Wangji the circumstances of the boy’s arrest. It will bring back too many harsh and painful memories. Memories that are not conducive to healing, and given his state right now, he’s even more reluctant to tell his brother the truth.

“Wangji…”

“Taken where.”

“I don’t know,” he lies. “It was a brief, inconsequential encounter. How should I know where the boy is now –?”

“Bring me my guqin,” Lan Wangji says, voice raw. “Bring it. Now.”

His knees buckle; he catches himself on the wall. Lan Xichen moves toward him at once, hands hovering rather than touching, like he’s approaching a wounded animal that will bolt or bite if handled wrong.

“Wangji, you cannot leave the Jingshi like this. You are injured. Your qi is still unstable. You can hardly sta –”

Lan Wangji straightens with visible effort. The joints of his legs tremble beneath him. His breath hitches once, sharply, as if something tears along his spine.

But he stays upright.

“Bring me my guqin,” he says again, unrelenting.

Lan Xichen feels his throat tighten. He knows these next words will hurt – will hurt them both – but they need to be said anyway.

“It’s not him, Wangji.”

Lan Wangji’s breath shatters out of him, the barest choke of a sound. His fingers curl hard against the wall until his knuckles whiten.

“That melody,” he whispers. “I wrote it. No one else – no one alive – knows it.”

Lan Xichen closes his eyes for a heartbeat.

“Then it can’t be the same song. You must have heard it wrong.” He adds, gentler, “You want it to be him. I understand. But Wangji… it can’t be. He’s gone. We couldn’t even summon his –”

“Play it.”

The request lands like a command.

“Wangji –”

“Play it,” Lan Wangji repeats, and though his voice is soft, there is a crackling edge beneath it – an urgency that makes the air itself feel taut.

Lan Xichen has half a mind to refuse – or at least to play the tune differently from before, in case there is some kind of incomprehensible connection.
But Lan Wangji would notice the change.
And the look in his eyes brooks no refusal, so…

He lifts the xiao with a quiet inhale and begins the melody exactly as he remembers it: faint, trembling at first, the way the child had played it while his hands shook from exhaustion and fear.

But then the melody flows. Effortless, haunting, blooming into the full pattern.

Lan Wangji closes his eyes.

The world inside him collapses.

And so does he.

His knees go slack, and Lan Xichen lunges forward just in time, catching him under the arms before he falls.

“Wangji –!”

Lan Wangji clings to his sleeve with trembling fingers. His voice is a rasp dragged from the bottom of a grave.

“That is him.”

Lan Xichen’s heart twists painfully. “Wangji, you can’t –”

“He is alive.”

Lan Xichen tries to ease him back toward the bed. “You don’t know that,” he insists, now painfully regretting his actions in allowing the boy to be dragged away by Jiang Cheng, of all people. “Even if – if somehow –” He grits his teeth. “You mustn’t let your mind cling to gho –”

Lan Wangji stops moving.

Utterly.

His face lifts, inches from Lan Xichen’s. There’s something terrifying in his eyes. Not wildness, but clarity. Purpose sharpened to a point he hasn’t seen since before that dreaded day at the Burial Mounds.

“He is alive,” Lan Wangji says again.

His voice drops.

“I am going.”

“Wangji, you can barely walk.”

“Then I will crawl.”

Lan Xichen grips his brother’s arms tightly. “You are in seclusion. Your body is healing from wounds that nearly destroyed your core. You cannot travel. You cannot leave the Jingshi, let alone the Cloud Recesses. If you collapse on the steps, no one will find you until morning. Wangji, you will kill yourself chasing an impossibility.”

Silence.

Lan Wangji’s expression does not change, but something in him goes terribly still. Iron-hard resolve settles into his bones.

“If he is suffering,” he murmurs, “I must go.”

Lan Xichen falters, the protest dying on his tongue.

Because he knows it’s the truth – an unchangeable, irrevocable fact.

He remembers this look from the war.
From the Burial Mounds.
From the moment Lan Wangji stumbled back into the Cloud Recesses with an unconscious, feverish child in his arms, refusing to speak of his origins.

The look of someone who has lost everything once and will not, cannot, let it happen again.

“Wangji…”

Lan Wangji pulls gently out of his hold. He sways, but remains standing.

“Bring me my guqin.”

Lan Xichen shuts his eyes.

“Wangji –”

“Please.”

It’s the softest word Lan Wangji has spoken in months. Maybe years.

It undoes him.

Lan Xichen opens his eyes. Slowly, reluctantly, he nods – not agreement, but acknowledgement that he is powerless in the face of… this.

“I will bring it.”

Lan Wangji’s breath shudders out, relief and pain tangled into one. He leans against the wall, head bowed, as Lan Xichen moves to do as asked.

“Where…” Lan Wangji takes a fortifying breath. “Where was he taken?”

Lan Xichen freezes, eyes flickering with guilt.

“…To Lotus Pier.”

Lan Wangji’s expression darkens like storm clouds gathering on the horizon.

“Bring me Bichen.”

Chapter Text

He wakes to the taste of bitterness on his tongue and the scrape of a bowl against stone.

“Eat,” Jiang Cheng says curtly.

Wei Wuxian blinks blearily. The world swims. His body aches in strange, distant ways where the healer’s salve has sunken into bruises and torn skin. A spoon is shoved into his hand, and he has to force his fingers to uncurl enough to hold it.

The porridge is plain, barely salted, cooling fast. He swallows mechanically until the bowl is emptied. Only when Jiang Cheng takes it back does he realize there are fresh talismans on the walls. New ink.
New objectives.

His stomach sinks.

“Good,” Jiang Cheng says. “You’re awake enough to answer questions.”

Wei Wuxian kicks one of his ankle chains loose from where it twisted painfully around his leg while he slept.

“I liked you better when you were just threatening to kill me,” he mutters, rubbing the sensation back into the limb.

“First question,” Jiang Cheng says, ignoring that. A stack of papers lands on the floor between them, untidily bound, slapping down with cruel accusation. “These books. The copies of your notes. How did you distribute them?”

Wei Wuxian eyes the book with tightening dread. “You should’ve burned that the moment you found it. Nothing good can come from keeping it around.”

Sounds familiar, he thinks bitterly.

“Besides, that’s the work of the evilest man in all the cultivation world,” he adds, eyebrows slightly raised. “I wouldn’t recommend it as light bedtime reading.”

“How did you distribute them?” Jiang Cheng asks again, not allowing for any kind of digression.

Wei Wuxian’s eyes slide half-shut. “It wasn’t me.”

Jiang Cheng barks out a humorless laugh. “Try again.”

“I’m serious.” Wei Wuxian drags in a breath, irritation giving him a tiny jolt of clarity. “Exactly when do you think I had the time? Can’t say I was too concerned with the thought of spreading my theories around the Jianghu, what with being torn apart by my own undead army and dying.”

His young voice roughens. “You were there. You watched it happen. Did you see me take anything to the underworld with me?”

Jiang Cheng’s jaw works. “Then after.”

“After what? After the Burial Mounds burned? Along with everything and everyone in them?”

His heart clenches.

A-Yuan.

“Then before the siege, I don’t know! Give me a straight answer or so help me –”

“It wasn’t me,” he repeats firmly. Really, how much straighter of an answer can he possibly give? “I wasn’t the one who turned my late-night scribbles into a handbook for aspiring butchers. Okay?”

“Then who?”

“I don’t know.” He shakes his head, the movement small and frustrated. “The manuscripts would have been taken from the cave at some point during the siege. By someone who had the time that I didn’t.”

Jiang Cheng’s eyes narrow. “Convenient.”

Wei Wuxian huffs. “If I were lying, I’d at least come up with something flattering. Getting robbed in the moment of death paints a rather pathetic picture. Insult to injury, and all that.”

There’s a beat of silence. Jiang Cheng looks away first.

“Fine,” he grinds out. “Second question, then. The soul-sacrificing ritual. How do you choose your hosts?”

Wei Wuxian sighs. “There’s something wrong with your question. I don’t choose.”

“Who does?”

He smiles grimly. “The resentment, of course. I am both master and slave to it. The body’s resentment draws me in, tells me where to aim. I wield it in a way it finds satisfactory – usually until people are dead.”

Jiang Cheng shudders inwardly at the way the bitter words are spoken so casually from a child’s mouth.

He’d studied the ritual at length after getting his hands on the book. He knows the basics: the structure of the ritual, the sacrifice of the summoner’s soul, the requirements demanded of the summoned. It explains seamlessly how Wei Wuxian has been coming back in these bodies – not as a ghost possessing, but as a soul being offered a new, unoccupied vessel once the original soul is self-sacrificially scattered. Which is exactly the reason Zidian won’t work on him.

It doesn’t explain why the ritual works for some and not for others.

According to one recently captured and interrogated demonic cultivator still in custody, an acquaintance of his attempted the ritual and got nothing from it. No answer. No Yiling Patriarch risen from the depths of hell to mete out the ultimate vengeance.

“He died,” the cultivator said. “Soul scattered. Just like that.”

Jiang Cheng had assumed it was because Wei Wuxian was being choosy with his vessels, passing over the more unsavory ones like an indecisive woman in a dress shop with an abundance of options.

But now, looking down at this scrawny boy in front of him wincing at every minute shift of his lower body, he’s forced to think otherwise.

“What happens if you don’t complete the requirements of the ritual?”

The book wasn’t clear on that. Wei Wuxian, in his sloppy script, had simply written:

Failure to comply with the summoner’s demands results in excruciating annihilation (underlined thrice).

Then, in smaller, untidier script:

Closest approximation: having my temperamental shidi howling directly into your soul for all eternity.

Jiang Cheng had called him a bastard, posthumously, for that one.

“Something unpleasant, I’m sure,” the current Wei Wuxian says, unhelpful as ever.

Jiang Cheng studies him, expression unreadable. But really, he’s suppressing the urge to roll his eyes as he would have done – had done, often – whenever the teenaged Wei Wuxian said something particularly flippant in regard to a potentially catastrophic threat to his own person.

“Last question,” he says at length. “After you – Zhang Fu – after his body died, you broke out of my sealing array. That should have been impossible. I fed that array with Lotus Pier’s spiritual veins, and your soul still ripped free of it and vanished. How.”

Wei Wuxian laughs, short and hoarse.

“You think I had some kind of counter-ritual prepared? Some miracle talisman hidden up Zhang Fu’s sleeve?”

“Stop deflecting. Tell me what you did.”

Wei Wuxian shifts stiffly in his chains.

“Nothing,” he says dryly. “Not one single thing that’s happened to me since my death has been done of my consent.”

Jiang Cheng stares at him for a long moment, then exhales slowly through his nose, as if trying to steady himself against a headache.

“Rest,” he says abruptly. “We’ll continue this conversation later.”

Wei Wuxian is too tired to argue.

The next time he drifts under, he dreams of ink bleeding off the pages of his own notes, spreading like spilled resentful energy across the world.

~

The second day blurs.

He surfaces to questions – to the scratch of Jiang Cheng’s brush as he copies lines from the book; to the sting of talismans pressed too close to the skin, testing for reactions. He’s asked to clarify phrasing. To explain why this character was chosen instead of that one, whether or not the array would require living anchors, or if spiritual items would suffice.

He answers some. Refuses others. Jiang Cheng’s patience frays with every deflection.

Wei Wuxian recognizes the structure of what Jiang Cheng is trying to create the moment he’s forced to sit up and look at it.

His stomach drops.

“This ritual –” he swallows painfully “– it demands a heavy price.”

He watches with growing trepidation as Jiang Cheng flips a page and frowns down at the consequent diagram.

“Human sacrifice,” he clarifies, hoping the reminder will elicit a rational reaction. Horror. Revulsion… discomfort, at the very least. “You know… death.”

“It wouldn’t be your first,” Jiang Cheng says, turning another page.

“That’s not the point,” Wei Wuxian whispers.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t answer.

Eventually, he drags in a gaunt-looking man with sunken eyes trailing the stale scent of one who’s been imprisoned underground far too long. He clearly hasn’t seen the sun, or a proper meal, in months.

“The original owner of that gods-awful book,” Jiang Cheng offers in brief introduction.

“Jiang-zongzhu,” the man quavers, bowing so low his forehead nearly brushes the stone.

“Read this,” Jiang Cheng orders, shoving a copied page into the man’s hands. “Tell me what you understand.”

The man’s eyes flick over the characters. His fingers twitch.

“T-this is… high-level, Zongzhu,” he says, voice dry. “I have only dabbled. A few spells, small things. I’ve never tried anything like…” His gaze darts toward Wei Wuxian, chained on the platform. “…this.”

“Then consider today your opportunity to be useful for once,” Jiang Cheng says coldly. “Help me ensure there are no surprises. If he’s lying to me, I want to know about it before we begin.”

Wei Wuxian sees the man shudder.

~

By the end of the second day, the dungeon doesn’t feel quite so ‘clean’ anymore.

The purifying incense has been snuffed out. The cleansing talismans that once lined the walls lie in shreds in a corner, their ash smeared into new sigils ground into the stone. Lines of fresh ink knot the floor in intricate patterns, weaving around the low stone platform like a demonic net.

Jiang Cheng slits his own palm with a dagger and lets the blood fall in a slow, steady line along the outer circle of the array.

The demonic cultivator he’s brought in as his rather unwilling consultant kneels at the edge of the formation, hands shaking as he double-checks the strokes of each character.

“Is it correct?” Jiang Cheng demands.

The man licks his lips. “As far as I can tell, Zongzhu, using the Grandmaster’s notes as a guide, th-the results match what was written. The blood will anchor it to you. The boy’s soul…” His gaze skitters to Wei Wuxian and back again.

“Good,” Jiang Cheng says.

Wei Wuxian is adjusted to lay more securely on the platform, his chains tightened, shortened on every side until all movement is condensed to little more than a twitch of his pinky finger.

He doesn’t resist as new talismans are pasted over his heart, his throat, his brow – each one a point on a map being redrawn.

Jiang Cheng steps into the circle long enough to lift Wei Wuxian’s head and bring a cup to his lips, hand bracing that scrawny little neck.

“Drink,” he says.

The liquid inside is hot and metallic and bitter.

Wei Wuxian chokes, eyes watering. “Is this –”

“It’s mine,” Jiang Cheng says. He flexes his injured hand once. “If you’re to be tethered to anything, it’s going to be me.”

He presses the cup to Wei Wuxian’s lips more insistently.

Wei Wuxian swallows, because he has no choice. The warmth of Jiang Cheng’s blood slides down his throat like a brand.

He clenches his eyes shut, resisting the urge to gag.

“I hope,” he coughs when the cup is emptied and taken away, “you never accuse me of being dramatic again.”

“Begin,” Jiang Cheng says to the demonic cultivator.

The man hesitates at the edge of the circle, sweat beading at his temples.

“Zongzhu,” he says, voice thin, “this is… to do this to a child… I – I have never – this is not what –”

Jiang Cheng’s gaze slices into him.

“You’ve already been arrested for demonic cultivation,” he says, voice like ice. “That alone is worth a death sentence. Fail in this, and I’ll feed your corpse to the dogs.”

The man flinches.

Wei Wuxian watches him, feeling oddly distant from his own body.

“It won’t work if he doesn’t mean it,” he says quietly. “You can’t force intent.”

“Shut up,” Jiang Cheng says, not taking his eyes off the cultivator.

For a long, trembling moment, the man just stands there.

Then –

He steps into the circle. He kneels opposite Wei Wuxian, hands hovering uncertainly over the first inked sigil.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, not quite looking at him.

Wei Wuxian huffs out a ghost of a laugh. “You’re not the first to kill me,” he assures the man wryly. “But you are the first to apologize for it. So, thanks, I guess.”

The man blinks, confused.

“Get on with it,” Jiang Cheng orders.

The man begins to chant.

The words are familiar – sickeningly so. Syllables Wei Wuxian had once shaped in the back of his own throat in a different life, on a different night, in a different body, trying and failing in one of his many attempts to locate Wen Ning’s soul, hoping to revive him.

The human sacrifice part had been the catch.
He’d endeavored to circumvent it, with little success.

Not that it matters now. He found a different way eventually. He succeeded, revived a dead man, and now he’s being punished for it – along with so many other things.

It seems, though, when it comes to the darker side of the Demonic Path, Jiang Cheng has no such misgivings. Especially not where Wei Wuxian is concerned.

Resentful energy stirs under the stone, like something long-buried waking up.

The air grows heavy. Cold. The lines of the array begin to glow a deep, ugly, purple-black, fed by Jiang Cheng’s blood and the lingering stains of old pain bruising the dungeon walls.

Wei Wuxian feels it the moment the formation catches hold of him.

His heart stutters. His breath jerks.

His soul strains against his body like a trapped animal seeing a door crack open.

Not yet, he thinks in a senseless, numb kind of way. Wait –

The cultivator’s voice rises, shaking but steady enough to carry the words through.

The inner circle flares.

Pain lances through Wei Wuxian’s chest.

Yunsheng’s body – thin and battered and already cracked – simply can’t take it. It seizes around him, a too-small vessel forced to hold boiling water.

The last thing he feels of the body is the way the lungs struggle uselessly for breath, and then –

The world tears.

~

He is nowhere.

He is everywhere.

For a moment, he thinks he’s back in the god’s array – the cold, blinding space he has come to hate, the one that smells of nothing and sounds like silence sharpened to a blade.

But this time, there’s something else.

A snap of power from below. A crack of violet lightning.

Zidian.

It whips around him – not around a body, but around the shape of him, clamping down like a hook sinking into flesh that isn’t flesh.

Wei Wuxian screams soundlessly as two forces grab hold of him at once: the cold, inexorable pull of the god’s array, and the raw, furious tug of Jiang Cheng’s whip.

For a moment, he’s stretched between them, soul drawn thin, tenuous, on the verge of coming apart.

It feels like a sick game of tug-of-war played at either end of his existence.

Trust Jiang Cheng to find a way to ensure I can’t slip his grasp, he thinks wildly. Even the gods aren’t allowed to have me without his say-so.

Then, there’s a final, vicious yank.

Something snaps.

Wei Wuxian is wrenched toward the stronger force, away from the bloody, humming array buried deep under Lotus Pier.

Zidian burns through him as he rises, leaving something behind – threads of lightning, of Jiang Cheng – woven through the already-fragmentary structure of his soul.

When he hits the center of the formation, the impact shudders through both realms at once.

Beneath him, the god’s array, with its bright and merciless sigils spinning overhead in intricate, divine perfection, flickers. Then stabilizes. One pattern missing a piece it can no longer claim as its own.

He doesn’t have breath to scream. He doesn’t have a body to convulse. All he has is the sense of something closing around him – a cage, a tether – chains made of blood and lightning to pair with the god’s chains of golden light.

Wei Wuxian folds himself into as small a shape as he can manage and weeps –

– or, rather, the tearless, bodiless-soul equivalent of it that’s all he’s ever going to get.

~

When it’s over, when the ritual’s glow fades and the resentful energy seeps back into the cracks of the stone, Jiang Cheng stands alone in the circle, Zidian smoking faintly in his hand, chest heaving.

On the platform, the boy’s body lies still.

No breath.
No pulse.

Soul gone.

But the tether –
Jiang Cheng can feel it.

A faint, electric thread humming beneath his ribs, burrowed into the same place Zidian lives. Not a voice. Not a presence. More like a distant pressure, a song he can’t quite hear, vibrating just outside the range of mortal senses.

Wei Wuxian is not here.

Jiang Cheng closes his eyes and reaches instinctively for the connection he created – violent, deliberate, fueled by fury and intent.

But the thread leads nowhere.

Or worse –
it leads somewhere Jiang Cheng can’t follow. A place that is not in the mortal world, as he’d come to expect despite Wei Wuxian’s many insistences that he was not masterminding any kind of elaborate trick or secret technique to wrench his soul free of Jiang Cheng’s grip.

He feels him, yes.
But he can’t locate him.

Like standing on the edge of a vast lake at night, knowing something moves beneath the surface but seeing nothing but black water.

Jiang Cheng’s breath snags.

Everything Wei Wuxian said earlier returns to him, one line after another.

Not by choice.
I didn’t want this.
It wasn’t me.

It wasn’t me.

He had dismissed them as lies, excuses – the pretty little manipulations Wei Wuxian excelled at spinning in his youth.

Now, in the cold aftermath of the ritual, they strike him differently.
Not as defenses –
but confessions he was too angry to hear.

Jiang Cheng turns, ignoring the demonic cultivator kneeling and rocking on the floor, a sniveling mess as he stares up at the boy’s lifeless body, muttering repeatedly “What have I done, what have I done, what have I done…”

His gaze drops to the open book lying abandoned on the floor. The stolen, dog-eared compilation of Wei-Wuxian’s theories – ink smudged, margins crowded with the infuriating notes of a man who treated the boundary between life and death like his own personal training grounds.

The page with the soul-binding ritual’s annotations is still open. That damned line written in Wei Wuxian’s crooked hand:

…my temperamental shidi…

Jiang Cheng’s throat closes.

He picks up the book and snaps it shut.

With shaking hands, he gathers the papers, the notes, the copied diagrams. Every trace of Wei Wuxian’s mind on the page. Every scrap of ink that had seemed so valuable moments ago.

He lights a talisman.

The blue flame rolls over the parchment with hungry ease, curling the edges, devouring theories and snarked warnings alike.

Jiang Cheng watches until the last page blackens and folds in on itself.

Only then does he speak.

Quietly.

“…Where are you, Wei Wuxian?”

Chapter Text

Lan Wangji barely waits for sunrise.

The moment his guqin’s strings are secured across his heavily bandaged back and the healer’s warnings are still echoing faintly from the Jingshi doorway, he steps onto Bichen with a grim determination carved into every line of him.

He lasts little more than half an incense stick.

Lan Xichen catches him before he slides off the blade entirely, heart lodging somewhere in his throat.

“Wangji –!”

Lan Wangji’s fingers clutch at his brother’s supporting arm, white-knuckled, breath shuddering so hard it rattles. His face is the color of frost.

“…I’m fine.”

He can barely speak, his voice a mere ghost of itself.

Lan Xichen doesn’t dignify that with a response. He tightens his grip around his brother’s waist and they descend.

Once on the ground, Lan Wangji, relentless, comes up with a new plan:

“Carry me.”

Lan Xichen blinks. “What?”

“On Shuoyue,” he says, jaw clenched. “You carry us both.”

There is no room for negotiation in his tone.
Only desperation, taut and vibrating like an overstretched string.

So, Lan Xichen does.

He steps onto his own sword and gathers Lan Wangji against him, holding him steady as Shuoyue lifts into the sky once more. His brother’s weight is nothing. After nearly a year in seclusion, barely eating, barely moving – he feels fragile as rice paper, as if any strong wind might tear him apart.

For the first elongated stretch, Lan Wangji stays awake, breath hitching, fingers digging into Lan Xichen’s robes. His gaze is fixed southwestward, willing the land to pass beneath them faster.

Then his eyes slip closed.
His head sags.

Lan Xichen feels the tremor that runs through him.

“Wangji,” he murmurs.

No answer.

He brings them down immediately.

~

The pattern repeats for two days:

Lan Wangji tries to stand on his own. He fails.

Lan Xichen offers an arm. Lan Wangji refuses the arm, takes a few steps, collapses, and then begrudgingly accepts the arm anyway.

They fly for only twenty minutes at a time, each ending in an obligatory landing when Lan Wangji begins to sway, trembling from pain or weakness. Lan Xichen forces medicine on him, which Lan Wangji drinks without complaint – only because he must maintain what little strength he has in order to reach Yunmeng as quickly as possible.

By the end of the third day, they’ve made it nearly three-quarters of the intended distance.

Lan Wangji’s legs buckle every time he tries to climb back onto the sword.

Lan Xichen has had enough.

“No more sword travel.”

Lan Wangji looks ready to argue, but his knees choose that moment to give entirely. Lan Xichen catches him, lowering him gently to the ground.

A carriage is procured.

Lan Wangji says nothing for a long time. He sits in silence as the road beneath them jolts the wheels, his eyes half-lidded, breath shallow, fingers clamped so tightly around the sheath of his sword that they tremble.

Lan Xichen watches him, worry eating grooves into his expression.

~

The slow land journey stretches on.

Every passing moment their progress is hindered is a jagged edge drawn across Lan Wangji’s nerves.
Every delay is another strand of hope pulled tight enough to fray.

Several times he tries to force them back into the air, but he can’t stand for longer than a heartbeat. His legs shake. His qi stutters dangerously, flaring and fizzling in rhythm with his pain.

Lan Xichen holds his ground.

“Wangji, if you destroy your core on the road, you will never reach him.”

That alone is enough to calm him, to coax him back into the carriage – to be patient.

~

The sun is barely cresting the horizon when Lotus Pier comes into view.

Lan Wangji leans forward in the carriage seat, gripping the window frame until tendons stand stark against his skin.

He is shaking.

Lan Xichen touches his wrist gently. “We’re here.”

They are greeted at the gates.

A Jiang disciple bows stiffly. Nervously. Asking their purpose for visiting unannounced, then looking stricken at how such a question might be received, stutters a quick apology, saying of course the esteemed Gusu Lan sect leader and Hanguang-Jun are welcome any time, but unfortunately…

“Jiang-zongzhu left Lotus Pier early yesterday morning.”

Lan Xichen’s brows pinch. “Left? For what purpose?”

“Sect business,” the disciple replies, sweat gathering at his hairline. “We – we don’t know when he’ll return. Could be weeks from now.”

Lan Wangji’s eyes sharpen – not bright, but cold.
The kind of cold that comes after fire, when all that’s left is ash.

The disciple cowers.

Lan Xichen quickly comes to his aid. “About a week ago, your sect leader returned with a child. A demonic cultivator. Do you know what became of him?”

The disciple swallows.

“He… he died during interrogation. Two nights ago.”

Lan Wangji stops breathing.

His chest doesn’t rise.
His eyes do not blink.

For one horrifying moment, Lan Xichen thinks he’s about to collapse – truly collapse – in a way even he cannot prevent.

But instead –

Lan Wangji inhales sharply, once, like someone pulling air after being held underwater. He closes his eyes for a brief moment, and when he opens them again, the decision is carved in stone.

He bows his head just enough to acknowledge the disciple’s information, then turns to Lan Xichen.

“We are going to Lanling.”

There is no anger in his tone.
No grief.

Just purpose.

Lan Xichen nods reluctantly, watching his brother walk stiffly back to the carriage.

Lan Wangji clambers inside, eager to be on the move again.

~

Lanling rises out of the river mist three mornings later.

The boat ride is mercifully steady, though Lan Wangji spends most of it half-conscious against the cabin wall, jaw clenched, breath choppy. Lan Xichen pretends not to notice each time his brother’s fingers dig crescent dents into his own thigh to stay awake.

When they disembark, Lan Wangji moves first.

He doesn’t wait for guidance.
Doesn’t pause.
Doesn’t speak.

He simply walks – straight through the riverside market, straight into the avenues that funnel toward the wealth of Golden Carp Tower.
Until Lan Xichen has to catch his sleeve to redirect him.

“Wangji. Not there.”

Lan Wangji freezes mid-step.

Lan Xichen lowers his voice. “No one outside our elders knows the extent of your injuries.” A hesitation. “Not even A-Yao. If we try to move about the city like this while accompanied, they’ll be sure to notice you are not well.” He sighs softly. “Either way, I am sure our inquiries will be reported. I will find an excuse to give A-Yao later, but for now… we should do this quietly.”

Lan Wangji gives one short nod. The agreement costs him balance; his knees nearly buckle before he regains himself. He says nothing about it and neither does Lan Xichen.

They turn toward the brothel district.

~

The street Madam Gu once claimed for her own is shuttered and silent. Half the establishments are boarded up, the timber still bearing faint scorch marks where talismans were burned to purify the hauntings. The air carries the stale bite of old incense and extinguished ghost-wards.

A single Jin disciple stands guard at the entrance to the empty house. He blanches when he sees who approaches.

“Lan-zongzhu – Hanguang-jun – what brings –?”

“We’re here seeking information,” Lan Xichen says with a polite bow. “Your sect handled the aftermath of the incident here. We would be grateful for your guidance.”

The disciple swallows thickly. “O-of course. The demonic cultivator case… has been cleaned up thoroughly. The bodies were… handled.”

Lan Wangji’s gaze sharpens.

Lan Xichen probes gently, “Properly?”

“Yes, zongzhu. Shen Zhitong was, well, easy enough to move given all his inside were –” He makes a crude hand gesture and a sucking sound, then flushes violently when he remembers who he’s talking to. He straightens quickly, assuming a perfect disciple’s posture. “Anyway, it was much easier than what had to be done for Madam Gu Min.”

“How so?”

“Her remains had… somehow fused with the foundation stone. We had to cut the floor away in sections, then chisel her out. It…appears as though the foundations liquified and entered… into her, so it was difficult to make a distinction.” He clears his throat, finishing, “Still feels as though we conducted a burial ceremony over mostly rubble, but the proper rites were observed regardless.”

A faint tremor runs through Lan Wangji’s hand. It is the only reaction he allows.

Lan Xichen continues the questioning, though feeling slightly queasy himself, “What of the brothel occupants? Do you have records of where they were relocated?”

The disciple nods quickly, grateful for the practical question. “Most were reassigned to other houses in Lanling. One who was especially helpful in the aftermath goes by A-Ying. She was placed in a reputable singing hall down the street. She may know more.”

~

A-Ying welcomes them with deep bows and a look of startled awe at the sight of the Twin Jades of Lan in their pristine white robes. She appears nervous at first – hands tugging at her voluminous sleeves, eyes flicking between them – but warms quickly when she learns why they’ve come.

“A-Tong…” Her voice goes thin and trembling. “That poor child.”

She ushers them inside a private room draped in embroidered silk, fragrant with expensive incense – the kind used for entertainment stages, not brothel halls. The luxury casts a painful contrast against the memories she begins to describe.

“He should never have been sent to that place,” she says fiercely. “Three years there, a child being gawked at by oily old men like he was something they could pluck off a plate if they were only patient enough.”

A visible shiver wracks her.

“Madam Gu… that Shen monster –” Her lip quivers. “They used him until there was nothing left to use. Little Tong’er deserved so much better.”

Lan Wangji absorbs every word in silence, though a muscle ticks sharply along his jaw.

A-Ying folds herself onto a cushion, twisting her hands. “You want to know about that last week at the brothel.”

Lan Xichen inclines his head.

She nods, gaze clouding.

“That week, before everything got… shut down, something changed. I didn’t understand it then, but looking back…” She trails off, shaking her head. “The night Shen Zhitong first arrived, A-Tong was chosen immediately. Of course he was. Pretty little face, quiet demeanor. And the laoye was so rich that Madam Gu barely even pretended to hesitate.”

Her eyes grow watery.

“I braided his hair for him that night. Tried to soothe him. He asked –” Her voice breaks. “He asked if it would hurt very much.”

Lan Xichen feels the color slowly draining from his face.

“I told him it would be quick,” she whispers. “It was a lie. A comfort. But I couldn’t bear the injustice of it – him, so small, and the world so damned cruel.” Her fists clench in her lap. “In that moment I wanted to overturn Heaven itself.”

She exhales tremulously and presses on.

“The next night… something happened in his room. An incident. Madam Gu made sure to keep it quiet, but servants talk, you know.” She leans closer, voice dropping to a hush. “They said when they went to clean, the room looked… wrong. Like something out of a nightmare. Strange symbols drawn in what looked like blood. Burnt paper everywhere, stuck to the walls. Ash ground into floorboards. The air so thick you could choke on it.”

Lan Xichen’s brows knit in slow, dawning horror.

Lan Wangji’s fists are clenched so tightly, it’s a wonder he hasn’t drawn blood from his palms.

“After that,” A-Ying says, “Madam Gu had A-Tong locked in the private room where Shen Zhitong stayed during his… nightly visits. Wu Shifeng kept going in and out at odd times when no clients should’ve been there – carrying expensive incense and stacks of talisman paper.”

“Talisman paper,” Lan Xichen repeats, voice low.

A-Ying nods grimly.

“They kept A-Tong in that room for a whole week. That was how long Shen Zhitong was supposed to be in Lanling, doing business during the Zhongyuan festival. The poor boy never even got to move from the bed that beast of a man spent himself on every night, except to bathe and to let them change the sheets.”

Rage coils under Lan Wangji’s ribs, so fierce he nearly rises before Lan Xichen’s hand rests lightly at his sleeve – a grounding reminder.

A-Ying doesn’t notice the storm gathering in the man before her.

“And that final night?” Lan Xichen prompts gently.

“Oh, yes, well. That night... there was some kind of commotion before our doors opened. Apparently A-Tong had disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

“Escaped, more like,” she says. “Left his room while no one was looking. Madam Gu went into a complete tailspin, as you can imagine. Screaming her head off for someone to find him before Shen-laoye arrived. Then, just before the lanterns were fully lit, he returned. A-Lian brought him in, said she found him passed out in the courtyard or something. I guess he tried to run but hadn’t made it very far because of all the drugs they’d been feeding him.”

Lan Wangji seems half-ready to boil over.

Lan Xichen hurries the conversation along. “And the rest of the night’s events?”

She hesitates, voice dropping low once more. “I wasn’t in the main hall when it happened. I was working in another wing. But the others told me afterward, how Madam Gu died – dragged under the floorboards by the ghosts of those she tormented to death. They said the lamps turned green. That the shadows moved on their own. And just when they thought it was all over and done with, the men on the upper floors started screaming.”

Her throat clicks as she swallows.

“When the servants finally dared to go up, they found… they found what was left of Shen Zhitong. They said his body wasn’t even recognizable.”

“A-Tong did that?” Lan Xichen asks.

She lifts her chin, defiant.

“They deserved it. Every last one of them. A-Tong’s vengeance… if it was vengeance… it was justified. I hope he’s somewhere happier now, like me.”

Lan Wangji’s gaze is dark – quiet, fathomless, charged.

Lan Xichen asks, “Do you know of anyone else who might know more? About the boy’s condition? Or the first night the odd things began?”

A-Ying bites her lip.

“A-Lian,” she says finally. “She was with him that night. The night with the… symbols on the floor. They were in his room together when it happened. Madam Gu had her flogged for it afterward. Said A-Lian must’ve ‘encouraged’ him somehow.” A-Ying frowns. “Whipped her legs bloody with a willow branch until she could barely walk.”

“Where is she?”

It’s the first time Lan Wangji has spoken since their arrival, and the suddenness of it, the severeness of it, makes A-Ying startle.

She shakes her head helplessly.

“I don’t know. When the brothel shut down, they sold us off like furniture. Scattered us to every corner of the city. I haven’t seen her since.”

Lan Xichen nods slowly.

Lan Wangji steps forward and bows once – deep, solemn.

“Thank you,” he says, voice low, “for taking care of the boy.”

A-Ying blinks at him, eyes filling instantly.

“But I didn’t,” she whispers, as though admitting to some horrible crime. “I didn’t do anything but give a fleeting word of comfort to a trapped and suffering child. I braided his hair and told him a lie. That’s all. I should have done more. The fact that I didn’t… that will haunt me to the last of my days.”

Lan Xichen answers softly, “You were trapped and suffering yourself. You did what you could. I’m certain A-Tong is grateful to you.”

Tears spill freely now.

“If you find him,” she says thickly, “tell him his Ying-jiejie misses him very much.”

“We will,” Lan Xichen assures her.

Lan Wangji turns sharply, already striding toward the door.

Lan Xichen gives a final nod of farewell to A-Ying before hurrying to follow.

~

Within the next incense stick, they reach the magistrate’s hall.

Lan Xichen handles the formalities – names, titles, reason for visiting – while Lan Wangji stands perfectly still beside him, the picture of polite composure to any who do not look closely.

But Lan Xichen knows him.

He recognizes the subtle tremor in his brother’s fingers.
The shallow drag of breath.
The way his gaze flicks to every shadow like he expects them to part ways for the man who once commanded them with such ease.

They are sent to the prison house.

The jailer looks up at them with a grimace. “Oh, her? Yeah, had her in here for several days now. Caught her trying to run. Doesn’t matter if the brothel closed – she’s still property until the paperwork says otherwise, right?”

He waves them inside.

“’Sides that,” he continues as they walk, “she’s too unstable to sell. Screaming at shadows, babbling on about spirits. Faces in corners. Voices in the dark and the like. She’s not right in the head, you see. The guards have to take turns sitting outside her cell just so she doesn’t claw herself bloody.”

He unlocks a heavy iron door.

Inside, the girl huddles in a corner, knees to chest, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her hair hangs in snarled ropes around her face. She rocks gently, muttering to someone – or something – not in the room.

Her skin is mottled with yellow bruises, her bare arms covered in barely healed scratches.

She flinches when the door opens. The kind of flinch that comes from expecting a blow.

Lan Xichen steps forward first, speaking in the softest voice the Gusu Lan teaches.
“A-Lian?”

She lifts her head.

Lan Xichen suppresses a flinch.

It’s not the madness that hits him first. He has seen possessed men, the mentally fractured, soldiers broken by war.

It’s the emptiness. The way her eyes seem to look at him from somewhere far, far behind her own skull.

He kneels, palms visible, gentle but unwavering.

“We’re here to understand what happened to the boy. To A-Tong.”

At that name, A-Lian convulses like she’s been struck. Her breathing accelerates. Her fingers dig into her arms until fresh blood beads.

But she’s looking at them – in an oddly vacant sort of way.

Then –
She smiles.
A thin, wrong little curve of the mouth.

“What happened to the boy?” she echoes softly. “What happened...? Nothing. Nothing happened. A-Tong is here.” Her eyes flick wildly to a shadowed corner. “A-Tong is always here, always watching, always with me.”

Lan Xichen and Lan Wangji exchange a sharp glance.

She begins muttering faster.

“It wasn’t my fault. He was already dead. Already dying. Noose around his neck. Gave him a stone, stop – stop looking at me what are you looking at don’t look at me like that don’t look at me don’t look – leave me alone leave me alone –!”

She slams her forehead into her knees, sobbing.

The jailer sighs. “See? She’s always like this. Gets worse by the day. Never makes a lick of sense.”

She’s still whispering something.

Lan Xichen and Lan Wangji lean close to hear.

“He wants it to stop. I’ll help him. I’ll help him make it stop. Made it stop, I helped, I helped. Freed him. He’s free. No more pain, A-Tong, no more pain. It doesn’t hurt anymore, does it. The hurt went away. No more nights with that man crawling all over you. I made a better way. It’s better, isn’t it. Say thank you, A-Tong, don’t just grin at me like that, you awful little boy say thank you to your jiejie. Say it –”

She lashes out, striking empty air, jerking swiftly back like she’s avoiding the bite of a coiled snake.

Lan Xichen grimaces, reaching toward her with a gentle touch that she flinches away from.

“That’s right. A-Tong’s not hurting anymore,” he says, trying to soothe the fitful girl. “He’s free. Can you tell us… what you did to help him?”

“Sold his soul,” she blurts, looking horrified. Then laughs – a jagged, cracked sound. “No, no I didn’t. That’s wrong. That’s the wrong part – you weren’t listening. He chose. His choice. Didn’t force him, didn’t force. Never forced. Tied the rope himself and jumped. Sold his soul to summon a monster.”

Her voice drops several octaves.

“A monster. Doesn’t answer to me. Doesn’t answer to anyone. Room for one more, he said. There’s room for one more. Room for me. Room for A-Lian.”

She’s rocking more insistently now, her eyes frozen wide, gazing at a single spot in the corner like she can see the monster crouched there.

“The book. He burned the book. The monster burned it. Can’t do it again. Can’t. Won’t. Won’t do it again. Never again, I swear. I swear.”

“What book?” Lan Xichen probes carefully.

“Wu Shifeng. Wu Shifeng that bastard. Bad, bad man. The bad man had the book. I stole it. I stole it. It’s mine now. My book. Mine. But he burned it.” She sniffs. “Bad monster. Bad, bad monster. Shouldn’t have burned my book.”

“What did you summon, A-Lian? What monster?”

She stiffens like a string pulled too tight.
Her pupils shrink to pinpricks.

“A-Tong,” she whispers. Then, “Not A-Tong. He’s not A-Tong. Wearing A-Tong’s body. Wearing A-Tong’s face. That monster –”

She dives for the floor, covering her head with shaking hands.

Her voice becomes shriller.

“Don’t kill me, don’t kill me. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please don’t kill me. It’s my fault. It’s all my fault. I killed him. Killed A-Tong. Sheng’er. That’s his name. Should’ve known his name first. Gave him a stone. Watched him drown. Killed him, killed him, kill –”

She breaks off mid-wail.

Her head snaps up, and for a moment – just a moment – her gaze cuts through the fog of madness and lands on Lan Wangji with sharp, eerie clarity.

“You,” she says. “Lan Zhan.”

Lan Wangji goes rigid.

A-Lian leans forward and utters her first coherent sentence since they arrived:
“That’s what it sounds like when he calls your name in the empty space.”

Lan Wangji’s heart lurches painfully.

“Lan Zhan,” she says, like a parrot mimicking words in the exact cadence she’s heard them. “I’m still here.”

“Where,” he demands, voice raw.

She tilts her head, listening to something only she can hear, still staring straight at Lan Wangji.

Then, softly:
“…He’s gone.”

A beat.

“No… not gone-gone. Little ghost told me so. Don’t know where he is.” She taps her temple and gives a small, broken laugh. “Doesn’t stay. Can’t stay. Lost. Pulled apart. Put back together. Dragged here, dragged there. Again, again, again.”

Her voice spirals upward, notes bending out of tune.
“Doesn’t know where he is. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. No one knows where he is.”

Then the singsong starts.

Whispered first. Bits and pieces barely audible.

“Floating lantern…”

She laughs, eyes burning as though possessed.

“Rise once more…”

Louder. Voice rasping with strain.

“Here he comes…”

Then doubled, as a second voice – a young boy’s voice – seems to chant along.

“Floating lantern, blow it out.
Light the next one, leave no doubt.
Rise once more, the screams begin.
Here he comes –

Wei Wuxian.”

She cackles, curling in on herself, muttering nonsense wrapped around that chilling verse, her fingers clawing at the cell floor as if she could dig herself out.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please don’t kill me Laozu, Wei-laozu, Yiling-gongzi. Ahahaaa.”

Lan Xichen feels the cold all the way to his marrow.

Lan Wangji doesn’t move.
Doesn’t breathe.

Lan Xichen touches his sleeve once, but there is no response.
Only a hollow stillness where Lan Wangji should be.

“Wangji,” he murmurs.

Nothing.

The jailer clears his throat, uneasy. “If you’re done – I don’t think she’s got much else. Never does, really.”

Lan Xichen takes the cue. He bows to the girl with a sorrow she won’t see, then guides Lan Wangji from the cell with a light pressure at his back.

Outside, the corridor is dim and smells of damp stone. The door shuts behind them with a heavy, metallic finality.

And that –
That is when Lan Wangji sways.

Lan Xichen catches him before his knees can hit the floor.

“Wangji –”

Lan Wangji drags in a breath. His fingers grip Lan Xichen’s sleeve, not out of panic but out of something deeper and far more poignant: devastation.

“They hurt him,” he whispers, voice shredded thin. “They hurt him.”

Lan Xichen closes his eyes. “We do not know that –”

“He was suffering.” A fresh, ragged breath.
“He is suffering still.”

Lan Xichen grips his shoulders. “Wangji, listen to me. We do not know that. Nothing yet has been confirmed. We will do what we can to find the truth, but for now we should not trust –”

“He is lost.”
The words drop like stones.

Not dead. Not gone.

Lost.

Lan Xichen’s heart twists. He has never heard his brother sound like this – not after the war, not after the discipline whip.

Not even after he told him of the siege at the Burial Mounds.
How it ended. How Wei Wuxian had died.

Grief, yes.

But this?

This is fear.

The kind of fear that never came before, when Lan Wangji could at least hope Wei Wuxian’s soul had found peace in the afterlife. 

But now he knows – knows that Wei Wuxian is trapped in endless suffering –
and there is nothing he can do.

Nothing he can do to help.
To save him.
To ease his pain and loneliness.

“Wangji,” he tries again, gentle but firm. “You are still recovering. We should –”

“He can be summoned.”

“The sects have tried,” Lan Xichen reminds him. “If it is truly possible, the method eludes us.”

Lan Wangji’s eyes lift to show the gaze of a man burning alive from the inside out.

“We will find it.”

The book. He burned the book. The monster burned it. Can’t do it again.

His grip steadies. His breath evens. His posture straightens, as if a single thread of purpose is enough to hold him upright where his body cannot.

Lan Xichen sees it. Swallows.
“Wangji…? What are you resolving to do?”

Lan Wangji closes his eyes, as if orienting himself in a darkness he refuses to be afraid of.

In the silence, A-Lian’s rhyme rattles faintly through the corridor like a many-echoed curse:

Rise once more, the screams begin –
Here he comes…

“Wei Wuxian.” Lan Wangji opens his eyes. The tremor in his hands has stopped.
“I will find him.”

The fear has not vanished.
Only crystallized into something sharp. Unwavering.

He turns for the door, an unspoken question settling into his core like a blade driven into stone:

…Where are you, Wei Ying?

Chapter Text

As usual, there is no breath, no heartbeat, no weight.
Just the unbearable silence of the god’s array, polished so clean it reflects nothing back at him – not even the shape of his own soul.

He hates it here.

He hates the white light. Hates the cold. Hates how long it takes for his scattered pieces to knit themselves into something vaguely resembling the old Wei Wuxian instead of a smear of pain and memory.

And he hates – most of all – the silence.

Silent rooms? Fine.
Silent forests? Fine.
Silence in his own head?

Absolutely not.

He tries to listen for resentment, for the pulse of something calling him back into the world of the living – but the only thing that answers is that new, unsettling crackle under his ribs.

Zidian’s mark.
Jiang Cheng’s tether.

Great. Wonderful. Exactly what he’s always dreamed of: being spiritually imprinted on by his temperamental shidi from now until one or both their souls disperse.

Wei Wuxian drags a hand over his face. Or the soul-memory of a hand and a face.
The details aren’t really important when you’re dead.

“Well,” he mutters to the nothingness, “looks like it’s just you and me again.”

The nothingness neither agrees nor disagrees.

He sits. Or floats. Hard to tell. The array gives him just enough sensation to stay sane and not one ounce more. It’s like being trapped in the world’s most condescending meditation cave.

And when it comes to meditation… well, he’d always been a bit of an underperformer.

For a while – ten minutes? A year? – he tries to stay quiet.
Really, he tries.

“This is miserable,” he announces aloud. “Truly. Exquisitely. If Heaven had a suggestion box, I’d file a complaint.”

The silence swallows the words whole.

He scowls. “Not even an echo? Really?”

Fine.

If the void won’t talk, he will.

He casts around in his mind for something, anything, that makes the silence hurt less.

He tries to think of his Shijie – too painful.
Jiang Ch – gods, no.
The Wens – worse.

And then there’s the name he has very deliberately avoided saying, even thinking, since –

He can’t remember. 

His soul actually flinches at the thought, as if touching a bruise that never healed.

“No,” he says to himself firmly. “No, That’s… that’s pathetic. I am not that lonely.”

Five breaths-that-aren’t-breaths pass.
Ten.

The silence presses in, cold fingers around his throat.

He caves.

“…Lan Zhan?”

Nothing answers.

Which, honestly, is exactly the Lan Wangji experience.
Perfect.

Wei Wuxian sighs. “You know, if anyone ever finds out I resorted to this, I’ll throw myself into the Burial Mounds. Again.”

He shifts, folding his knees up, resting ethereal arms atop them. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to say anything. Wouldn’t want to disrupt the great tradition of Lan Wangji staring at me disapprovingly while I make very reasonable points.”

Still nothing.

He smiles a little. Bitter. Fond. Both.

“This doesn’t count,” he tells the empty air. “I’m not talking to you. I’m just talking, and you happen to be the… the best option available.”

But it’s a lie, and they both know it – even if ‘both’ is generous, given only one of them exists in this space.

“Lan Zhan,” he says again, quieter. “I’m still here. I just… don’t know where ‘here’ is.”

His voice cracks. Barely.

He clears his throat. “But don’t worry. I’ll figure it out. I always do.”

And for the first time since arriving…
he feels oddly comforted.

~

Wei Wuxian props his chin on his hand – an imaginary hand, on an imaginary chin, inside an imaginary body that Heaven insists is “technically intact,” as if that makes any of this acceptable.

“Alright,” he says to the empty light. “Since you refuse to participate in conversation like a normal person –”

Silence.

“– I will do the talking for both of us. Like always.”

Still silence.

He hums. Shifts again – sits, floats, coils into something that resembles relaxation. The god’s array doesn’t allow true rest, only the idea of it.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, “I have a theory.”

Nothing answers.

Wei Wuxian nods solemnly. “Yes. I agree. It doesn’t bode well for me either.”

He stares into the blank, bright void, and the void stares back with the kind of patient disinterest usually reserved for insects.

“You know what the strangest part about Sheng’er’s story was?” he asks.

He drums phantom fingers against a phantom knee. The tapping makes no sound. He imagines it does anyway.

“The strange part was Jin Guangyao,” he admits.

Because Jin Guangyao’s face had been too controlled.

Too smooth.

Not the usual polite mask of a man who has learned to survive in poisonous environments. Not the soft smile of the loyal little sworn brother. Not even the gentle concern he shows when he wants others to trust him.

It had been something else, for a fraction of a moment.

A rupture.

Wei Wuxian had watched it happen like watching a hairline fracture crawl across glass.

Recognition.

Shock.

Panic.

And then, so fast it almost didn’t exist, an impulse.

Erase it.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian says, and tries to make it a joke, tries to make it a performance, tries to make it anything other than what it is, “what was he so afraid of? Me? Sure. Everyone’s afraid of me. That’s the world’s best-loved pastime these days.”

He snorts. The sound dies so quickly it’s like it never existed.

“But he wasn’t looking at me, obviously.” His mouth twists. “He was looking at the boy.”

At Yunsheng.

A child with Jin eyes and a face that could become scandal if it grew into adulthood.
A child who had been raised at Golden Carp Tower and then expelled for a convenient crime.
A child who had been – if Wei Wuxian had to guess – disposed of, the way powerful men dispose of inconvenient pieces.

Wei Wuxian’s fingers curl.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, “if I were the sort of person who made wagers in the afterlife, I’d put good joss paper on the fact that Jin Guangyao didn’t just let our little Sheng’er end up in that brothel.”

He pauses, and the pause feels like teeth.

“I think he put him there.”

Silence.

Wei Wuxian’s smile disappears.

He stares directly into that infuriating light and feels the new crackle under his ribs – Zidian’s lingering imprint, Jiang Cheng’s tether – like a distant shackle that never quite stops biting.

“Maybe it was just politics,” he says, trying to talk himself down. “Maybe Yunsheng was a stain. A rumor. An inconvenience. And Jin Guangyao… does what he does. Smooths things over. Cleans things up. Keeps the tower shining and pristine.”

Still.

Wei Wuxian leans back and looks upward, as if the sky here has direction.

“But then,” he says slowly, “why was he so eager to shove the mess into Jiang Cheng’s hands?”

He sees it again: Jin Guangyao stepping aside with that mild, reasonable little tilt of his head. Letting Jiang Cheng take the boy. Letting Jiang Cheng be the blade.

It wasn’t Yunsheng that scared him. Not really.

Initially, maybe.

But then it turned. Twisted. Became a visceral need to see the boy far, far away from Jin hands.

So much so that he was willing to sacrifice Jin sect pride by giving Jiang Cheng dominion.
On Jin ground.

Let the Jiang sect leader swing Zidian where Jin authority should have stood.

Let the mess end, quick and violent, instead of being studied too closely.

Wei Wuxian exhales, slow.

“You didn’t want to deal with him,” he murmurs. “You wanted him gone.”

Gone where your father wouldn’t think to look.
Gone where questions get answered with blood instead of curiosity.

It wasn’t the boy’s identity that concerned Jin Guangyao.
He wasn’t just afraid of a bastard child returning like an inconvenient ghost.
Not this time.

It was the demonic cultivation.

He was afraid of the method.

Wei Wuxian’s gaze hardens.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, “I think the Jins are doing something stupid.”

Then he nods once, as if Lan Wangji has nodded in return.

“Good,” Wei Wuxian says. “Then we’re in agreement.”

He leans his head against his knees and closes his eyes.

“If I’m right,” he murmurs, voice softer now, “I’m going to have to be careful. Next thing I know I might be waking up in some contrived resurrection with a grinning Jin Guangshan looming over me.”

He shudders at the thought.

“And if I’m wrong…”

His lips twitch.

“…then I’m just having a very useless conversation with a hallucination in the afterlife. Which, honestly, would not even make the top ten strangest things that have happened to me.”

Silence presses in again, patient and clean and merciless.

Wei Wuxian cracks one eye open.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, as if remembering something after the fact, “if this is the part where you say ‘ridiculous,’ now would be a great time.”

Nothing.

He sighs.

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll do it myself.”

He clears his throat solemnly and produces a perfect imitation of Lan Wangji’s most disapproving sound:

“Ridiculous.”

He pauses, listening to the echo that doesn’t exist.

Then he smiles again, helplessly fond.

“Thank you,” he says to the void. “That helps.”

~

Wei Wuxian is mid-rant when it happens.

“– and another thing, Lan Zhan, if you’re going to give me the silent treatment, at least have the decency to look judgmental while you –”

The next word fractures on his lips as the god’s array shivers beneath him, the light around him thinning into strands of gold before coiling tight.

Too tight.

He doesn’t even get the chance to groan before the chains snap into place – around arms he doesn’t have, ribs that don’t exist, the center of him that’s barely knit together after the last round of dying.

The world tilts.
The pressure spikes.

And then, the familiar, hated sensation – a hook catching deep, wrenching him downward, into weight and breath and pain.

The array yanks.

That white emptiness tears apart in one swift, merciless motion, and he is dragged through.
The indifferent works of divine design doing what it does best:
tossing him where resentment calls.

He hits flesh hard.

The body seizes around him like a shutting trap. Strong muscles clamp tight, lungs convulsing as if to expel before they’ve even accepted him. His awareness slams against the inside of a ribcage that feels too broad, too unfamiliar, too alive.

His first breath nearly chokes him.
The second burns.
The third is barely a breath at all – more a gasp scraped raw through someone else’s throat.

As per usual, everything is wrong.

His limbs don’t respond at first. His fingers twitch like broken marionette strings. His vision flickers black and red, like the eyes don’t know how to cooperate with the soul inside them.

And somewhere deep – behind this new heartbeat, beneath the weight of unfamiliar muscle –
A tether thrums.

Distant.
Discomfiting.

And unmistakably Jiang Cheng.

Wei Wuxian grimaces. Not now, he pleads internally – because internal is all he can manage at the moment. Later. Maybe. Possibly. Hopefully Never.

He tries to lift an arm.
The arm moves half a beat late, jerky and uncertain.

He tries to sit up.
The room slants sharply, his new heart knocking arrhythmically against his ribs like it hasn’t decided yet if he should be allowed to live.

Good body, he senses vaguely through the mild queasiness. Healthy, whole, grown thank the gods – 

But that thought drowns under the disorienting surge of the vessel’s raw strength pressing against his consciousness, like a stranger shoving him back.

And then –

The memories hit.

Not as a flood this time. As a blade.
Straight through the center of him.

A man screaming.
A brother kneeling.
Long months of comforting rage that had no place to go.
A bloodied knife on the floor –  
A wail –

Silence.

Grief. Fury. Helplessness.

Resentment.

It all slams into Wei Wuxian hard enough that his borrowed lungs stutter.

And buried at the core of it, the cold, deliberate intent.

Wei Wuxian inhales shakily.

“So that’s how it is,” he says, a stranger’s voice rough in a stranger’s throat.

He looks down at his arm – at the ritual mark.

Only one.

One grudge.
One target.
One person he must destroy in order to satisfy his new landlord’s demands.

“Lan Zhan…” he says hoarsely, “I think I’ve been kidnapped.”

~

Lotus Pier sits in the stillness of late autumn.

The lotus fields have thinned to pale stalks. The evening wind carries the cold snap of coming winter. Inside the sect leader’s residence, lanternlight glows over meticulous brushwork – Jiang Cheng’s fourth attempt at drafting a disciplinary policy that no one will read unless he nails it to their foreheads.

Behind him, a soft sound interrupts the stillness, just louder than the whisper of his brush on the paper.

A tiny huff. Then a heavier, wobbling step.

“Zongzhu…” the nurse murmurs apologetically, “I’m sorry. Young Master Jin wouldn’t sleep –”

Jiang Cheng looks up just in time to see a toddler barrel across the threshold with all the unstoppable force of a rolling melon.

He stands, moving to catch the reckless child before he fa –

Jin Ling runs directly into his shin and clings.

“…You,” Jiang Cheng mutters, scooping him up with practiced ease. The boy sticks two fingers in his mouth and stares at the lantern like he’s studying a rare beast.

The nurse bows and slips away, grateful for the reprieve.

Jiang Cheng tucks the child against one arm and returns to his paperwork. Jin Ling hums softly, content – babbling the usual nonsense, this time a little rhyme he must have picked up from the nurses.

“Fwo’y wan’uhn… bowy ow… lie’a ness’uhn… wee’no dow… riii’s mo… skees agin… hee he come… Weh-shan.”

Jiang Cheng bounces him a little, smoothing a hand over his soft hair in an absent, reflexive gesture.

It would be peaceful.
Almost.

Until the tether stirs.

A tremor – a shock –
But a sensation Jiang Cheng has been waiting for.

The connection under his ribs, forged with blood and lightning, has rested in a steady state for more than a year now. When it finally flares – a sudden tightening like a hooked line snapping taut –

Jiang Cheng goes utterly still.

The tether pulls again. A deliberate tug, sharp enough that Jiang Cheng’s breath leaves him in a short, controlled exhale.

His free hand curls once, involuntarily, around nothing.

So.
There it is.

At last.

Jiang Cheng stands abruptly. Jin Ling squeaks but doesn’t protest, simply clinging tighter to his robes.

Another pulse, radiating like a spiritual flare through Jiang Cheng’s core.

But… directionless.

Wei Wuxian has emerged disoriented, not yet grounded in a location.
That first thrash of a newly-summoned soul.

Jiang Cheng, entirely against his will, recalls that look from last time, the one Wei Wuxian tried so hard to hide –

Not one single thing that’s happened to me since my death has been done of my consent.

– saying it so casually, so unconcernedly. And Jiang Cheng, blinded by hatred and rage, allowed himself to be fooled.

When really it was so fucking obvious –

Wei Wuxian was scared.

Jiang Cheng’s jaw tightens.

Someone has dragged him back into the world.
Again.

He’s being used.
Again.

Jin Ling whimpers at the rising spiritual pressure. Jiang Cheng forces his qi down immediately, steadying the child with a firm hand against his back.

“I know, I know,” he says. “Your uncle’s an idiot.”

Another pulse.
Strong. Clear.

Alive.

Jiang Cheng exhales once – sharp and decisive. The kind of breath taken before drawing Zidian.

Not relief. Not anger.

Purpose.

Because this time, he will reach Wei Wuxian first.

Before anyone from the other sects can sniff him out.
Before Wei Wuxian, the lunatic, tries to handle things in the worst possible way – his way.

Jin Ling sniffles, rubbing his face against Jiang Cheng’s collar.

Jiang Cheng is already planning.
Small team. Prepared supplies. Fast departure.

Whatever mess Wei Wuxian has been dragged into this time, he’ll be there to put an end to it.

And, when he finds him – because he will – he’ll haul him back to Lotus Pier and keep him here. No more chasing him halfway across the world just to lose him to mysterious powers, distant arrays yanking his soul into the ether.

This time…

He won’t let him go.

The tether hums again. Soft. Relentless.

Jiang Cheng’s eyes narrow, a new fire lighting behind them.

A promise.
A warning.

“I’m coming, Wei Wuxian.”

Jin Ling kicks his feet once and cheerfully echoes, “Weh-shan!”

~

The tether drags Jiang Cheng through the narrow, lamplit streets of Pingyang like a blade hooked under bone. Every street he crosses, every turn he makes, the line pulls sharper. Insistent.

His disciples hurry to keep pace behind him, silent and tense. They know that look.
It’s the look that says: move or be trampled.

Jiang Cheng turns a corner.

Another tug.
Closer.

A tavern squats at the end of the lane, lanterns swaying, the air thick with cheap wine and music. Rowdy laughter spills out the doorway, loud enough to rattle windows. A few drunkards bicker by the front steps, waving clay cups, breath thick with rice wine.

The tether jolts.

Jiang Cheng’s pulse jumps with it.

He rounds the corner with Zidian already warming in his fist, qi flaring –

And stops dead.

Slumped against the tavern wall, legs sprawled, hair sticking up in at least four directions, is a young man in dark robes that sit crooked and half-open at his chest. He’s broad-shouldered, but with a soft, unrefined face, paired with the vacant bliss of someone who has absolutely emptied the establishment’s cheapest bottle.

He’s holding that empty bottle upside down, squinting at it in betrayal.

His head lolls.
His gaze slides lazily upward…

…and lands on Jiang Cheng.

The stranger’s eyes brighten with immediate recognition.
A familiar tilt to his smile.

And a soul humming so unmistakably against the tether that Jiang Cheng’s breath stutters.

Wei Wuxian.

His entire face lights up.

“Jiang Cheng!” he calls, delighted and absolutely hammered. “Jiang Cheng, you’re – hic – you’re here!”

He tries to stand.

Tries.

He hits the wall shoulder-first, winces, and then brightens again almost instantly.

“Oop – nope – hah! The ground moved,” he announces, nodding wisely. “I’m not drunk. Can’t be. Only had two –” he looks down at the jug still cradled in his arms. “– three bottles. Takes twice that to get me – hic – tipsy.”

He peers up at Jiang Cheng, leaning dangerously forward.

“You’re taller,” he observes after a moment. “Or… wait. No. ’S me again. Shorter. Not as short as last time, though.” He looks down at himself, feet shuffling unsteadily. Then, he shrugs, “’Least I’ve got both hands. For now. Ahahaa.”

Jiang Cheng can feel his eye twitching.

Behind him, someone chokes on air.

“Yao Mingyu?” one of the disciples blurts.

Wei Wuxian pauses, still swaying.

“You know him?” he asks, pointing at himself.

“I – yes? I’m – it’s Lu Ziheng. Is… is your brother not with you?”

“My brother? My brother…” His eyes wander toward Jiang Cheng, who stiffens. Then, as if clarity strikes in the last moment, “Ah – ah, him! No, he’s dead.”

Lu Ziheng recoils. “I – I’m sorry!”

Wei Wuxian waves it off. “Mm. Happens.”

He takes a step that nearly sends him careening into the wall again.

“Wow,” he mumbles, patting his own cheek. “Why’m I so drunk? I didn’t even try to be drunk. This body’s a lousy lightweight.”

He blinks, then startles suddenly, reaching into his already disheveled robes, muttering, “Where’re my snacks? I should have snacks…”

Jiang Cheng inhales through his nose, very slowly, just when Wei Wuxian angles himself toward them conspiratorially, breath sweet with wine.

“Don’t tell anyone, hm? ’S embarrassing. I really didn’t mean to get drunk. Only came for one bottle – one drink.” He gestures at the empty wine container like it’s the one at fault. “Nex’ thing I know – bam! Everything spinning. Where’d all my tolerance go?”

Jiang Cheng glares at him, somewhere between fury and disbelief.

“You’re in a borrowed body, you idiot,” he grinds out. “Obviously its constitution is different.”

Wei Wuxian gasps dramatically, hand to chest. “So… so I am a lightweight now?”

“Congratulations. To alcohol, you’re as mortal as the rest of us.”

He looks devastated. Crushed. A man betrayed by Heaven.

“…Even for punishment, that’s just cruel,” he mutters pitifully.

Jiang Cheng pinches the bridge of his nose.

The tether pulses – undeniably Wei Wuxian.

Alive.
Non-hostile.
And drunk enough to start problems with a tree.

Wei Wuxian finally manages to stand upright. Mostly. He wobbles forward with open arms.

“Jiaaang Cheeeng,” he croons warmly, swooping in like he intends to hug him.

Jiang Cheng slaps a hand to Wei Wuxian’s forehead.

“Absolutely not.”

Wei Wuxian, still wobbling like a baby deer on an iced-over pond, props himself up on Jiang Cheng’s blocking hand.

“Stop leaning,” Jiang Cheng snaps.

“I can’t,” Wei Wuxian says earnestly. “The ground’s slanted. Someone slanted it.”

“No one slanted anything.”

Wei Wuxian grumbles, “Jiang Cheng – did you slant the ground?”

“Get up.”

“I am up.”

“You’re sideways.”

He blinks at this, then nods gravely, as though Jiang Cheng has revealed a profound truth of the universe. “Ah.”

Jiang Cheng sighs sharply and hooks his arm under Wei Wuxian’s, hauling him upright.

“Come on. We’re leaving.”

Wei Wuxian plants his feet.

“Nooo,” he whines. “Not Lotus Pier again. You were mean last time. Very mean. You made me drink blood.” He grimaces.

Jiang Cheng freezes.

Wei Wuxian pokes him in the chest. “Your blood.”

“Stop that.”

“You stop first.”

His disciples stare like they’ve just walked in on the weirdest family argument they’ve ever witnessed – one they want absolutely no part of.

Jiang Cheng, on the verge of snapping, resorts to mentally reciting what he can remember of the Gusu Lan Sect rules to keep his temper in check.

Do not be loud.
Do not display arrogance.
Do not harbor resentment.
Do not engage in meaningless conflict...

Xiansheng, this disciple is struggling.

This – this – is not the Wei Wuxian he had braced for.

Not a violent specter. Not a cornered animal. Not even a vengeful cultivator riding the crest of resentment.

Just a drunk man, warm and pliant, talking without filters.

And talking…

Jiang Cheng lowers his hand by degrees.

Talking is information.

He studies Wei Wuxian – glassed-over eyes, sloppy smile, no defense in sight.

This could work.

Wei Wuxian is talkative enough for ten when sober.
But when he’s drunk – which happened rarely, given his previous immortal-like tolerance – he’s talkative…
and honest.

If Jiang Cheng can press the right angles without spooking him…

He could finally get answers about the ritual. The array. About why the hell Wei Wuxian keeps getting dragged back into the world, supposedly with no control over where he ends up.

So instead of yanking him bodily toward the boats, Jiang Cheng adjusts his grip on his collar.

“Fine,” he says, voice cooling into something deceptively calm. “Not Lotus Pier.”

Wei Wuxian brightens instantly. “Really?!”

“We’re getting a drink first.”

Wei Wuxian gasps, delighted. “Like old times?”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t answer that.

He steers him down the street toward a nearby inn, ignoring the curious looks from townsfolk who spot the sect leader half-dragging a giggling man across the cobblestones.

Inside, he deposits Wei Wuxian onto a stool at the corner table – the one with good cover and a clear sightline to the door.
Instinct.

Wei Wuxian sways. The stool sways.

“Snacks,” Wei Wuxian demands. “I lost mine.”

“You didn’t have any.”

“Yes I did. Somewhere. I think.” He pats down his sleeves, searching. “Ah! I left them at the tavern. Wait –”

Jiang Cheng shoves him back down. “Don’t move.”

His patience has finally reached a boiling point. He raises a hand to the innkeeper. “Wine,” he orders. “The strong kind.”

“Snacks,” Wei Wuxian whispers loudly.

“And snacks,” he adds through clenched teeth. “Whatever you have.”

The disciples begin to file through the doorway, but Jiang Cheng stops them with a sharp look.

“All of you. Out.”

“But – Zongzhu –”

“Out.”

They scatter, gone to find rooms to settle into, or another place to drink and unwind while their sect leader indulges himself for the first time in a long while – strange company and all.

Jiang Cheng sits across from Wei Wuxian, the table between them. The wine arrives. Jiang Cheng pours – one cup for himself, one for Wei Wuxian.

Wei Wuxian grabs his cup like a man dying of thirst.

Jiang Cheng catches his wrist.
“Not yet.”

A drunk blink. “Why not?”

He lets him go, settling back on his stool.
“Because,” he says, “we need to talk.”

Wei Wuxian beams. “About what?”

Jiang Cheng lifts his cup. “Everything. Start from the beginning. The Burial Mounds.”

“Oh.” Wei Wuxian plants both elbows on the table, heavily. His chin misses twice before finally landing in his hand.

“That’s easy,” he says. “I died.”

Jiang Cheng’s fingers tighten around the cup. “And then?”

Wei Wuxian twirls his wine cup.

“Well, after the first time…” he begins cheerfully, as though recounting a funny story, “I thought, ‘Great, that’s that! No more suffering, no more corpses, no more –”

Jiang Cheng deals with this by drinking.

Wei Wuxian continues, oblivious.

“– but no! Turns out, death? Not fun. No rest, no peace. Not even oblivion, which – kind of what I was aiming for. Didn’t work, obviously.” He pouts. “No, instead I get Heaven being all nitpicky about things and saying I’m their resentment mop now and an endless blank box I get stashed in between bodies where I have to talk to myself so I don’t slowly go insane.”

Jiang Cheng sets his cup down harder than necessary.
“Spare me the dramatics.”

“It’s true,” Wei Wuxian insists, adopting an exaggerated stoic pose. “‘Wei Wuxian, you’re the Yin Tiger Tally now –’”

Jiang Cheng chokes on his next sip, glancing around as if someone might overhear.

“‘– rise where resentment gathers thickest.’ Blah, blah, blah. So! The ritual. The soul-sacrifice thing. Very important. Won’t work without a vessel, you know. My soul. It’s in too many pieces. So it needs a – hic – container. Channel the resentment and the like, or else I’ll just…” He blows air out of his mouth, making a bursting motion with his hands. “Poof.”

Jiang Cheng downs his drink.

Wei Wuxian beams.

“Anyway, every time I’m summoned,” he says, “someone has to die! Well, not die, die. I come in to take their place, and their soul scatters into the void – actually, I kind of envy them how easy it is –”

“The ritual,” Jiang Cheng cuts in tightly.

“Right, right. So I’m in the god’s array –”

The… what.

A god’s array?

Jiang Cheng’s mind stalls, like a blade hitting bone where it expected air.

A god.

The actual Heavens.

His fingers tremble where they rest against the table. He curls them slowly, deliberately, until the shaking stops.

That… explains a great deal, actually.
Explains why every summoning failed.
Explains why no sealing array ever held.
Explains why every attempt to retrieve Wei Wuxian’s soul felt like shouting into a storm and getting laughed at for the effort.

They hadn’t been fighting demonic cultivation.

They’d been trying to pry something straight from the hands of a fucking god.

“– and the resentment grabs me like –” Wei Wuxian makes a vague clawing gesture. “– and then the array just sort of slurps me up and drops me into a body. Not my choice. I don’t get a map or a warning or anything, I just wake up in whatever state the last guy left behind. Missing limbs, brothel children, gambling debt, horrible hygiene – awful hygiene –”

Jiang Cheng silently finishes another cup. Pours a third. Drinks. Doesn’t taste it.

“And then there’s the ‘what if,’” Wei Wuxian continues.

“The ‘what if?’”

“Yeah, the what-if-I-don’t-obey-the-ritual’s-resentment part of the deal. Read a few books on it – no one knows for sure what happens, but the consensus – awful. Like, makes the worst court of hell look like a summer retreat kind of awful. I only got a taste of it in Zhang Fu’s body. There was a moment –” He shudders. Genuinely. “– a really brief moment where I’d considered refusing…”

Jiang Cheng goes still.
Very still.

“And that –” Wei Wuxian sways forward, tapping the table for emphasis. “– was all I needed to know! Now I just do the tasks and get it over with before things get… unpleasant.”

“Unpleasant,” Jiang Cheng echoes hollowly.

“Mn! Tortuous. Agonizing. Hic. Existentially horrifying in every way.”

Jiang Cheng finishes his… fourth cup?

“Was Zhang Fu the first?”

“Mn.”

“And the second?”

“Yunsheng – the boy.” Wei Wuxian’s head is tilted so far sideways that his cheek lies squished against his hand. “And here’s good ol’ Yao Mingyu, number three. You found me every time. Very efficient of you.”

He frowns suddenly, something having just occurred to him.

“And now,” he grumbles, “with this gods-awful tether between us, you’ll find me no matter what…”

Jiang Cheng gives up and knocks back the entire jug.

“I really hate that you did that, by the way,” Wei Wuxian murmurs.

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t about to lose you again just to have to trek all over the gods-damned –”

“Because now you’ll show up every time,” Wei Wuxian cuts in softly, “and you’ll have to choose.” He sniffs, eyes struggling to focus.

“You’ll have to choose between letting me do what the resentment wants… or dooming me forever to some unknown – hic – worse-than-hell kind of torment.”

Jiang Cheng stares.

For a moment, the words don’t land.
They just hover there, stupid and impossible.

Wei Wuxian frowns blearily at him, as though he’s the one being slow.

“That’s why I’m mad,” he mutters. “Not about the tether. Not about you… you know –” He pats his chest where he feels the subtle tension of the soul-tether. “– branding me like a runaway cow.”

Jiang Cheng’s jaw clenches. “I didn’t –”

“I’m mad,” Wei Wuxian continues, suddenly solemn in the lopsided way of the truly drunk, “because you’re going to blame yourself. Again and again and again.”

Jiang Cheng’s fist clenches on the empty wine jug. He’s not drunk enough for this.

Wei Wuxian taps the table with one limp finger.

“If I hurt someone,” tap.
“If resentment forces my hand,” tap.
“If the body I’m in wants vengeance,” tap.
“Or if I just try not to do it and end up…” He waves a hand vaguely. “Soul pulp.”

The clay jug creaks, hairline fractures appearing around the shape of Jiang Cheng’s hand.

Wei Wuxian lifts his head just enough to look at him – really look at him.
The wine has stripped away every mask, every joke, every deflection.

“You’ll think it’s your fault,” he says quietly. “You’ll think you should’ve stopped me. Or saved me. Never knowing which – hic – or if you made the right choice in the end.”

Jiang Cheng swallows hard.

Wei Wuxian smiles faintly, tiredly. “And I don’t want that for you.”

There it is.

Wei Wuxian’s stupid way of always placing himself last.
Of measuring the cost by what others could bear, never by what it did to him.

Jiang Cheng has hated it for as long as he’s known him. Hated how naturally it came. Hated how it never once occurred to Wei Wuxian to want the same grace for himself.

Hated how it made his own instincts feel small and ugly by comparison.

It’s so typical. And so stupidly, obnoxiously him that Jiang Cheng doesn’t know if he wants to reach out and strangle him or –

It hits suddenly.

Grief.

Sharp and real and late. Because this is what he’s been missing – this familiar warmth. This infuriating kindness that used to be… right beside him. Always.

“Why –” He has to stop and re-start. His voice rough. “Why the hell would you care what I have to live with?”

Wei Wuxian blinks like the answer’s obvious.
“Because you’re Jiang Cheng.”

As if that explains everything.

As if the world just made sense that way.

Jiang Cheng barks out a laugh that sounds more like a wound tearing open. “Never made a difference to you before.”

Wei Wuxian considers that with deep, drunken seriousness.

Then, he smiles – a little crooked, a little sad.
“Ah, Jiang Cheng, Jiang Cheng. If I had a copper for every time you said I didn’t care, I could – hic – buy myself out of Heaven’s servitude in an instant. But –” He reaches for his cup again and misses by a wide margin, hand smacking the table uselessly. “– that’s the real joke, huh. We both care. Too much. Maybe more than the other realizes. And it just… I dunno, it just seems to make things worse.”

He finally manages to get his hands on his drink, but instead of tipping it toward his own mouth, he moves it across the table to sit in front of Jiang Cheng.

“You’re my shidi,” he says with a decisive, overexaggerated nod that sends his stool swaying again. “My brother. Always. Even when you’re furious and yelling. Even when you hate me. Even when you hurt me.” He frowns, like he’s trying to puzzle something out. “Even when I deserve it. To me, you’ll always be Jiang Cheng.”

The words hit like a blade drawn across old scar tissue.

Something in him buckles.
A silent collapsing inward pull of every flimsy excuse he’s ever used as armor.

His throat is thick. His vison blurs as he stares down at the table, fists clenched, tendons straining.

Wei Wuxian watches him, head tipping sideways.

A whisper. “Don’t be sad.”

“I’m not,” he snaps, but it comes out strangled.

Wei Wuxian smiles, warm and guileless. “Liar.”

And Jiang Cheng – sect leader, Sandu Shengshou, man who has outrun every single emotion he didn’t like – looks away.

“Shut up.”

Wei Wuxian beams. “Okay!”

Then immediately starts talking again.

“Ah, I can’t believe I got so drunk. Really didn’t mean to. Very irresponsible body I’m in. Absolutely no tolerance. Tragic, really –”

Jiang Cheng drinks.

Wei Wuxian rambles.

They order more wine.

In the deep haze of drink, latent grief weaves quietly between louder quips and familiar ribbings.

Time blurs.

The night runs long, wine pooling in their thoughts like fog.

Eventually Wei Wuxian slumps sideways on the table, mumbling something about missing snacks and how Jiang Cheng should loosen his shoulders more or he’ll end up dying young, too.

Jiang Cheng faceplants into his own sleeve.

The world folds.
Silence.

~

A pounding at the door.

Jiang Cheng jerks awake, head splitting, stomach roiling, mouth tasting like cheap spirits.

“Z-Zongzhu!” a disciple calls from outside. “It’s urgent!”

Jiang Cheng groans, straightening. “What.”

“Mingyu-xiong is missing!”

Jiang Cheng blinks.

And then –

The tether slams tight, yanking like a hooked blade.

Wei Wuxian is gone.

Again.

~

Dawn is little more than a gray smear over the horizon when the tether tugs sharply, growing insistent.

Jiang Cheng follows it into the mist-heavy outskirts of Pingyang, the fog swallowing the shape of his disciples behind him. The air is cold enough to bite. The world is quiet enough to feel wrong.

The pull increases.

Jiang Cheng pushes through the thinning trees –

and there he is.

Wei Wuxian stands at the edge of a neglected graveyard, pale stones jutting from the earth like broken teeth. The ground is uneven, sunken in places where coffins have long since collapsed. Mist coils low, clinging to his ankles as if reluctant to let him go.

A faint flush still lingers on his cheeks – the last remnants of far too much wine. His hair is mussed, his borrowed robes crooked on his shoulders, and one hand rests at his hip where a flute hangs loosely from his fingers. A faint curl of resentment twists around the slender instrument, as though he’s just finished playing it.

He turns as the group approaches, blinking through the haze. His expression lifts with familiar, infuriating mischief.

“Well,” he calls, voice hoarse but bright, “look at you, Jiang-zongzhu. Didn’t even buy me breakfast after taking advantage of a poor, hapless drunk. No sense of responsibility whatsoever.” He clicks his tongue. “And you call yourself a sect leader.”

“Shut up,” Jiang Cheng snaps, striding forward. “What exactly do you think you’re doing out here?”

Wei Wuxian lifts the flute.

“Exactly what I’ve been instructed to do.”

The joking tone evaporates. That single tendril of resentment curls like smoke, slipping, drifting – and disappears into the ground at Wei Wuxian’s feet.

Every disciple goes still.

Jiang Cheng moves closer, his voice dropping. “Wei Wuxian. Look at me.”

Wei Wuxian does.

Jiang Cheng sees it immediately.

The tremor.
The way those fingers squeeze around the flute as if it’s the only solid thing left in the world.
The way his breath stutters – not in fear, but in awful resignation.

“What instructions,” Jiang Cheng growls.

Wei Wuxian smiles faintly. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t interfere.”

“Interfere in what.”

The tether throbs between them – agitated. Jiang Cheng’s grip tightens on Zidian.

He takes one step closer. “Tell me what you’re about to do.”

Wei Wuxian opens his mouth – 

– but the ground answers first.

A low, wet sound vibrates up through Jiang Cheng’s boots.

A shift.

The earth beneath the nearest grave marker caves in with a dull collapse. Dirt spills inward. Stone tilts. Something pale presses up from below, fingers breaking through soil black with rot.

A corpse drags itself free of the ground with a sound like tearing cloth.

Then another.

And another.

The disciples recoil as graves begin to rupture all around them – rotted hands clawing up through packed earth, skulls forcing their way past cracked stones.

Someone swears. Another chokes back a scream.

“Positions!” Jiang Cheng barks, Zidian flaring to life in his grip.

The small team scrambles into formation, blades flashing – but the corpses don’t charge the line.

They don’t even spare the readied cultivators a glance.

They haul themselves up and stagger forward, dirt still sliding from their ribs and jaws, ignoring every raised sword as they turn –

– all of them –

toward Wei Wuxian.

Dozens of corpses converge on him, drawn with single-minded hunger, their movements jerky, uncoordinated, their mouths opening in wet, broken snarls.

“Wei Wuxian!” Jiang Cheng roars, Zidian cracking the morning air like thunder.

Wei Wuxian doesn’t move.

He just shakes his head, eyes wide, pupils dilated – terrified and resigned all at once.

“Jiang Cheng,” he breathes, barely audible over the sound of breaking earth and dragging limbs –

“Don’t.”

The ground shudders beneath his feet.

And the dead do not stop.

Chapter Text

Yao Mingyu had stood on these stones once before – the night Wen Ruohan fell, the night the Sunshot Campaign ended in fire and triumph.

A year has passed since then.
A year of rebuilding, peace, stories of the campaign’s heroes spreading far and wide, the war’s horrors gradually left buried and forgotten.

Now he’s back in Nightless City again, but this time the mood is nothing like victory.

The great clans pack the plaza shoulder to shoulder. Banners snap in the wind. Spiritual pressure rolls thick across the square like storm air before lightning. The atmosphere doesn’t hum with anticipation –

It bristles.

Yao Mingyu stands beside his older brother, Yao Mingze, both armored, both solemn.

Until Yao Mingze leans slightly closer, just enough that no one else hears as he murmurs, “You’re standing like you’re about to be inspected.”

Yao Mingyu doesn’t look at him. “We are being inspected.”

“By who?” his brother asks lightly. “Half the sect leaders on that platform can’t tell a left stance from a right. You really think Jin Guangshan would recognize the sharp end of a sword if it’s pointed at him?”

Despite himself, Yao Mingyu huffs a quiet breath through his nose.

Yao Mingze’s shoulder bumps his – brief, familiar, the way it always has been. “Relax,” he says. “If anyone’s looking for heroes tonight, they won’t be looking at us.”

“That’s not comforting.”

Yao Mingze grins anyway. “It is to me. Means we get to go home afterward without anyone asking for speeches.”

Yao Mingyu finally glances at him. “Of course that would be your main concern. You hate speeches.”

“I hate giving them,” Yao Mingze corrects. “Listening is fine. Especially if you’re there to suffer through it with me.”

Someone shushes them.

Yao Mingyu shakes his head, but he shifts his weight, standing a little easier – close enough that if the crowd surges, they won’t be separated.

Despite his older brother’s relaxed manner, they had come to Nightless City in all seriousness, their sect answering the summons without hesitation.
They had seen what came of letting enemies survive.

The Wen remnants should have been eradicated, not sheltered.

And the one man arrogant enough to defy every clan and shield those monsters?

Wei Wuxian.
The Yiling Patriarch – a man who, like Wen Ruohan before him, had grown too powerful, too unstable.

Too dangerous.

Everyone here knows it.

A row of ceremonial cups is brought out by Jin Guangyao, each filled with wine. The sect leaders step forward, pouring their cups out upon the ground, speaking ritual words Yao Mingyu barely listens to. They’re all the same anyway. Oaths to the dead. Promises to uproot evil. Righteous declarations of unity.

Then Jin Guangyao presents his father with a black metal box.

Jin Guangshan holds it high with a triumphant smile.
“Here,” he proclaims, “are the ashes of the surviving Wen leaders!”

Yao Mingyu feels a thrill go through the crowd around him – satisfaction, approval, blood-deep vindication.

Jin Guangshan pours spiritual energy into the metal.

The box cracks,
shatters,
and the ashes burst forth in a cloud of gray that scatters over the stone.

The plaza erupts into cheers.

Yao Mingze grins. “About time.”

“Serves them right,” Yao Mingyu mutters.

Jin Guangshan raises both hands for silence.
“The ashes scattered tonight were those of the final two Wen leaders. Tomorrow, it will be those of the remaining Wen dogs – and of the Yiling Patriarch, Wei Wu –”

A low chuckle cuts him off – one that echoes through the otherwise respectful silence of the clans.

A ripple passes through the crowd, sharp as a blade.

Yao Mingyu jerks his head up.

A long figure sits on the roof ridge of Scorching Sun Palace, black robes draped loose, flute resting casually in one hand. He perches among the eight carved divine beasts like a ninth statue, his posture is relaxed, almost bored.

Wei Wuxian.

The entire plaza rings with outrage.

Shouts.
Condemnation.
Accusations spat like spears.

Even Yao Mingyu’s distant uncle, his sect leader, steps forward to speak sharply against him – “Wei Wuxian! Do you not have a shred of sympathy or remorse?!”

Wei Wuxian only smiles. Small and cutting.

Words are exchanged that Yao Mingyu can’t fully catch over the roar of the crowd. He sees Wei Wuxian gesture toward the ashes at their feet; sees Jin Guangshan sneer in response; sees cultivators bristle at every mocking tilt of the Yiling Patriarch’s voice.

The atmosphere teeters on a knife’s edge.

Then someone looses an arrow.

Not a warning shot – a kill shot.

It strikes Wei Wuxian cleanly in the ribs.

The crowd gasps – shocked.
Triumphant.

And then the arrow spins in midair
and shoots straight back.

Straight through the chest of the man who fired it.

Chaos ignites.

“Formation!” Jin Guangshan bellows. “Do not let him leave here alive!”

Wei Wuxian stands, expression flat, eyes unreadable.

He lifts Chenqing.

One note.
Just one.

The stone beneath Yao Mingyu’s boots cracks.
The ground heaves.

And fierce corpses – dozens – burst forth, shrieking, clawing, latching onto the nearest living bodies.

Yao Mingyu’s ears fill with screaming.

He draws his sword, cutting downward as a corpse lunges at him. Yao Mingze shouts orders beside him; someone else’s spiritual weapon explodes in a flare of light; cultivators scramble into defensive lines that dissolve instantly under the horde.

Through the chaos, Yao Mingyu catches flashes of movement on the roof:

Hanguang-Jun – sword drawn, descending in a streak of white and steel.

He and the Yiling Patriarch clash briefly. Too quick, too fluid for Yao Mingyu to follow. But Wei Wuxian keeps playing, keeps directing, the corpses surging in rhythm with every twitch of his fingers, every breath of the ghost flute.

Mingyu loses track of it all in the crush of bodies and gnashing teeth. The battle blurs into blood and bone and uncontrolled frenzy.

But he sees this part clearly:

The Jiang sect leader striking Wei Wuxian across the face.
Hanguang-Jun grabbing him by the collar.
The corpses dropping to their knees under a single razor-edged note.

Just long enough for Jiang Yanli to stagger into view.

Just long enough for Yao Mingyu to see a young cultivator – panicked, trembling – thrust his sword into her throat.

Wei Wuxian makes a sound Yao Mingyu will remember for the rest of his life –

Not a sound of rage.
But of something tearing loose.

Then he snaps the boy’s neck with his bare hands.

Everything dissolves.

Condemnations become meaningless noise.
Reason evaporates.

Wei Wuxian raises the two halves of the Yin Tiger Tally.

They lock into place.

The world breaks.

What follows isn’t a battle.
Not something humans can claim to have fought.

It’s slaughter.

The Nightless City Massacre, they’ll call it later – a night where three thousand cultivators died screaming under an ocean of resentful energy and fierce corpses, while the Yiling Patriarch walked untouched through the carnage, laughing maniacally, eyes glowing a bloody shade of red.

Yao Mingyu thinks he’ll die here too.

Instead, he hears his brother scream.

He turns – just in time to see Yao Mingze dragged down beneath a wave of corpses.

Everything in Yao Mingyu shatters.

He hacks a path toward him, slashing every corpse in reach, but he’s too slow.
Too far.
Too human.

By the time he reaches his brother, Yao Mingze is barely recognizable – torn apart, missing limbs, one eye staring sightlessly upward.

“Ge –!” Yao Mingyu drops to his knees, hauling him close, pouring spiritual energy into his broken body. Shouting for help.

The massacre rages on.

And through it, in the far distance, he catches a final glimpse of Hanguang-Jun dragging a limp, bleeding Wei Wuxian away from his own destruction.

Then the Yiling Patriarch is gone.

~

The world after the massacre is all wrong.

Too still.
Too clean.

Yao Mingyu sits beside the pallet where his brother lies, though “lies” is a generous word for it. Yao Mingze is propped in a half-sitting posture by a dozen cushions, the healers insisting that lying flat will cause fluid to pool and put pressure on his lungs, which are already in a weakened enough state as is.

A white curtain billows faintly in the draft. The pavilion smells of crushed herbs and iron.

His brother does not move.

Yao Mingyu’s armor is still sticky with corpse-blood and smoke. He hasn’t washed. Hasn’t slept. Hasn’t unclenched his fists since they guided him to this tent.

The Yao sect healers and physicians had spent hours working over his brother – hours of sutures, salves, frantic spiritual stabilization techniques. Hours of telling Yao Mingyu to stay back, he’s in the way, no, we don’t know if he’ll wake, yes, he’s alive, no, you may not come in until we’re certain he’s stable.

He doesn’t miss the look in their eyes – the look that says they’re not so sure they should bother. Even if he does survive this… what kind of life would he be able to live after?

Yao Mingyu hates that look.

Hates that it might be right.
That death would be the better alternative…

A healer approaches him again. “Yao Er-gongzi,” she says gently. “Your brother is… going to be fine.”

Fine.

Yao Mingyu stares at what’s left of him.

Yao Mingze’s right leg ends mid-thigh.
The left ends below the knee.
His left arm is gone below the elbow.
His right hand trembles, the two outermost fingers missing, spasming without purpose.
One eye is wrapped in bandages; the other stares, unfocused, at the tent roof.

Fine.

“Does he feel pain?” Yao Mingu asks, though his throat barely works.

“He –” The healer hesitates. “Yes, Er-gongzi. He feels everything.”

Yao Mingyu’s jaw locks. “Then why isn’t he screaming?”

“His dantian has suffered… catastrophic disruption,” she murmurs. “He may not have the strength to –”

A thin, animal sound cuts her off.

Yao Mingyu jolts. His brother’s hand claws weakly toward him, fingers curling into his sleeve. His breaths come sharp, uneven, panicked.

“Ge,” Yao Mingyu whispers, leaning in instantly. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

Yao Mingze’s lips move. No words, only a rasp of air that might once have been his name.

Yao Mingyu grabs a passing physician by the arm. “Help him –!”

“We are,” the physician says, voice strained. “We’re doing everything we can for him. This… this is what survival looks like, I’m afraid.”

The words hit him harder than any blow on the battlefield.

Yao Mingyu folds forward, forehead touching Yao Mingze’s, gripping his bandaged hand – this one remaining hand – as though sheer force of will can anchor his brother to the world.

He remembers the way Yao Mingze laughed during night watch.
How he always carved a portion from his rations to slip to Yao Mingyu when the younger one complained of hunger.
How he bragged to anyone listening that his didi was going to be the pride of the Yao sect someday.

Now that same brother is a shaking ruin who can’t even close his surviving fingers around Yao Mingyu’s hand.

And the one responsible…

Yao Mingyu’s breath burns.

The healers and physicians do their work. Night becomes dawn. Dawn becomes afternoon.
Yao Mingyu doesn’t move.

Finally, Yao Mingze drifts into a restless sleep.

Only then do the healers urge Yao Mingyu aside so they can re-sanitize the wounds, rewrap the shredded flesh, adjust the splints.

Every time they lift a bandage, Yao Mingyu’s stomach turns.
Every time his brother twitches in pain, his fingers curl into fists.

This wasn’t a battle, he thinks bitterly. This was punishment.

Punishment for the righteous who attempted to defy a man turned malicious god of death.

Punishment for every soldier who fought honorably, only to be torn apart by a monster who should never have been allowed to live.

When they finally order him out, to take a break, Yao Mingyu reluctantly steps away from the pavilion.

The sky over Nightless City glows soft and washed-out, as though even the heavens are exhausted from the slaughter.

Others mill about, bandaged, stained with blood, murmuring names and losses.
But when someone mentions Wei Wuxian, a ripple of fury passes through them all.

“Three thousand,” someone whispers. “He killed three thousand.”
“No – he butchered them.”
“These weren’t casualties of war.”
“This was the act of a demon.”

Yao Mingyu doesn’t add to the whispers, but he doesn’t disagree with them either.

He saw the corpses pile like driftwood.
He saw Wei Wuxian laughing – actually laughing – as if reveling in the kill.

He saw his brother disappear under clawing hands and gnashing teeth.

And in that moment, everything righteous, everything disciplined, everything taught to him by his sect, calcifies into something harder.

Something colder.

Something almost like clarity.

Wei Wuxian did this.
Wei Wuxian destroyed his brother.
Wei Wuxian left him alive only so Yao Mingyu could suffer watching the aftermath.

The thought settles into him with the relief of certainty.
Blame, at last, with a shape.

When he steps back into the pavilion, Yao Mingze’s one eye tracks him for a moment before drifting again. Pain, confusion, or fear – Yao Mingyu can’t tell.

He sits. He takes his brother’s ruined hand again.

“We’ll go home soon,” he promises quietly. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll… I’ll make sure you’re looked after. Safe.”

But it already feels like a lie.

Because there is no “safe” in a world where the Yiling Patriarch walks free.

And in that moment – in the dim light of the healer’s lanterns, beside what remains of his brother – a seed of resentment roots itself so deeply inside Yao Mingyu that it will take another two years for him to recognize it for what it is.

The kind of resentment that one day will be strong enough, sharp enough, consuming enough…

to call a soul back from the dead.

~

The return journey to Pingyang takes three weeks.

Three weeks of creaking carriage wheels, of jolting roads, of stopping every li so the healers traveling with them can check Yao Mingze’s wounds. Three weeks of low moans in the dark. Three weeks of Yao Mingyu waking to his brother’s ragged breaths and reaching, uselessly, for medicine bowls he can’t refill fast enough.

Pingyang’s main gates open for them like a wound splitting.
Their sect pours out to greet the returning warriors – and then falls silent when they see Yao Mingze.

Word spreads before dusk falls. By night, the Yao sect burns paper offerings in the courtyard, muttering prayers for vengeance, for justice, for a reckoning that has not yet come. Members of allied families arrive with food and gifts and tightly-lipped horror, all saying the same variations:

“How could the cultivation world allow such a monster to live?”
“What kind of creature uses corpses like that?”
“He should have been put down long ago.”

No one says anything about his brother’s condition.
No one needs to.

Their collective outrage against Wei Wuxian is the only balm Yao Mingyu needs.

~

Recovery, they call it.

There is no recovery.

Only adaptation.

Yao Mingyu helps the physicians clean the wounds every morning. Helps the healers transfer spiritual energy.

Yao Mingze does not speak.
He does not cry.
He only winces when the cloth touches raw tissue, and sometimes jolts without warning, as if feeling phantom blows.

They fit him first with a wooden support frame so he can sit upright without collapsing. When that proves too heavy, they rig padded corners around the bed to keep him from falling sideways. They remake the house: slopes added to doorways, lines of soft rope put along walls, herbs burned to keep infections from creeping back in.

Yao Mingze sees none of it.

His one eye tracks movement, sometimes.
But he does not recognize Yao Mingyu.
Not always.

One afternoon, when Yao Mingyu places a bowl at his brother’s lips, Yao Mingze’s lone hand comes up suddenly –

– to shield his throat.

The gesture is so full of terror, so instinctive, that Yao Mingyu drops the bowl, clay cracking, warm broth splashing across the floorboards.

“Ge?” he whispers.

Yao Mingze’s breathing stutters. His hand shakes. The bandages at his wrist darken where old blood has seeped through.

He is remembering the corpses.
Remembering teeth.
Remembering limbs torn from sockets.

Yao Mingyu knows this – and he still finds himself saying it:

“You’re home now, Ge. We’re home. You’re safe. Nothing can hurt you here.”

It’s a lie.
They both know it’s a lie.

~

The seasons shift.
Autumn passes cold and wind-scoured as winter takes its place.

Yao Mingyu becomes an expert in tasks he never wanted:

Washing his brother’s hair.
Feeding his brother by the slow spoonful when trembling fingers fail.
Changing his brother’s linens when night terrors leave him sweating and heaving, clothes and bedding soiled.
Supporting his brother’s taut, broken body over a chamber pot.

He learns to assist where his brother can no longer assist himself.

He even learns to read his brother’s silences – the slight tightening of his jaw that means pain is worsening; the way his eyes shut when voices become too loud; the way he sometimes turns away from the window, as if the sight of the world moving on without him is too cruel.

Their sect offers comfort. But comfort is useless.

Comfort cannot grow back limbs.
Comfort cannot mend a ruined core.
Comfort cannot give Yao Mingze back the life he lost.

And then, three months after Nightless City, the news breaks.

Wei Wuxian is dead.
The Burial Mounds have fallen.

Messengers arrive breathless from the siege.
The Yiling Patriarch, they say, was finally cornered – overwhelmed by righteous cultivators who stormed his stronghold in the name of vengeance and justice. His demonic army turned on him. He was ripped apart by the very corpses he once commanded.

It is everything the cultivation world has demanded for months.

Retribution.
Closure.
Victory.

The Yao sect celebrates.
Their elders drink to the end of a menace, saying, “Good riddance.”
Their disciples cheer, relieved, vindicated, ready to consign Wei Wuxian’s infamy to the darker side of history.

But Yao Mingyu watches his brother.

He waits for the relief.
He waits for even the slightest easing of that hollow, carved-out look in Yao Mingze’s eyes.

It never comes.

Yao Mingze only turns his face away and shuts his eye.

And Yao Mingyu understands something then – something he never dares say aloud:

Wei Wuxian died too quickly.

The thought startles Yao Mingyu with its calmness.
He doesn’t recoil from it. That frightens him more.

A horde of corpses tearing the man apart.
A brief moment of terror and then nothing.

Wei Wuxian should have lived.

He should have been forced to live with everything he’d done – to rot inside the ruined shell of a body, to carry the memory of the screams, to bear the teeth marks of his corpses for the rest of his damned life.

Instead, he escaped.

He drifted peacefully into the afterlife, while Yao Mingze remained trapped in the world, not even a shadow of his former self, forever exiled from the warmth of living things.

It feels wrong.
Unbalanced.
Unjust.

The world calls it victory.

To Yao Mingyu, it feels hollow as the grave Wei Wuxian left empty.

~

Winter passes, but spring does not bring any warmth.
Blossoms press against the closed shutters of their residence, growing wild.

And Yao Mingze speaks for the first time in months.

Yao Mingyu is changing his robes when his brother’s fingers twitch weakly and he whispers:

“Why didn’t you let me die?”

He nearly drops his brother’s arm as he’s helping it into the sleeve.

Fine, the healers had said. He’ll be fine.

“You should have let me die.”

The words break something in Yao Mingyu. “Ge – Ge, no, don’t say that.”

Yao Mingze turns his face away.

His voice is hoarse, cracked from disuse. “What difference does it make, not saying it? I’m as good as dead already.”

“You’re alive,” Yao Mingyu insists. “You’re alive, and you’re here, and that matters –”

Yao Mingze laughs.

It isn’t a sound that Yao Mingyu recognizes.

It isn’t human.

“Better to have gone like Wei Wuxian than to live like… this.”

He doesn’t gesture.
He doesn’t need to.

The healers said recovery was possible.
The elders said time would help.
Their uncle promised resources, curriers, attendants, talismans, continued medical care –

None of it matters.

Yao Mingze no longer fights.

He’s alive, but he no longer lives.

His spirit broke somewhere along the way. Maybe it was on the battlefield, maybe on the physician’s table, maybe in the long nights afterward when he stared at the stumps where his limbs should be and realized this is all there is left of him.

Weeks later, when Yao Mingyu asks him why he’s not eating –

“It tastes like nothing.” A pause. “Everything tastes like nothing.”

Yao Mingyu swallows hard. “Ge, if you’re in pain, I can –”

“It’s not pain,” Yao Mingze murmurs. “Pain would be better.”
He looks blankly at the wall. “This is… emptiness.”

A chill travels down Yao Mingyu’s spine.

He leans forward, trying to reach him.

Then – barely audible – Yao Mingze says:

“I wish I could make him feel it. Everything I felt. Everything I still feel.”

Yao Mingyu looks at his brother’s ruined body – the hollowness in his eyes, the tremble in his few remaining fingers, the way he seems already halfway gone.

This can’t be it.
This can’t be how it ends.
His brother can’t be allowed to simply waste away while Wei Wuxian escapes into a clean death.

No.

If the heavens will not balance the scales, then someone else must.

Yao Mingze closes his one eye, and Yao Mingyu knows.

He knows.

Something irrevocable is about to break.

~

It’s a slow, downward spiral. There are days when Yao Mingze seems to be doing better. He talks – mutedly, soberly – but talking. Usually about mundane everyday things. Safe subjects. Nothing that could potentially trigger one of his “episodes,” as the healers like to call them, when he slips into a panic so severe he spends the next week nearly catatonic.

He shuts down.

But worse are the days when his anger boils over and he has nowhere to put it but outward.

“Enough,” he snarls once, when Yao Mingyu tries to help him drink. His hand jerks, knocking the cup away. Porcelain shatters. Tea spills across the floor and down his front. “Stop fussing over me like I’m a child.”

“You’re soaked,” Yao Mingyu says, forcing his voice calm. “Let me change your robes before you get chilled.”

“Don’t,” Yao Mingze snaps. “Don’t touch me.”

The next time, he throws the cup at Yao Mingyu’s head. It misses by a hand’s width and smashes against the wall.

On other days it’s anything within reach – pillows, bowls, the nearest book. Whatever his fingers can close around, he hurls. Sometimes he screams at Yao Mingyu until his voice breaks. Sometimes he just stares at him with a hatred that clearly isn’t meant for him at all.

Yao Mingyu takes it.

He lets the shards cut his hands when he cleans them up.
He lets the words lodge under his skin and fester.
He tells himself he deserves it – that this is the least he can do, stand here and absorb the collateral damage of the life that should have belonged to his brother.

When Yao Mingze quiets again, slumping back against his cushions, shaking with exhausted fury, Yao Mingyu wipes his face with a damp cloth and says, every time:

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Yao Mingze never answers.

~

The seasons grind past.

On a morning in late winter, the light is thin and gray when Yao Mingyu returns from drills earlier than usual. Snowmelt drips from the eaves. His breath fogs in the cold.

The house is too quiet.
Unnervingly quiet.

There should be the faint clink of bowls, the soft murmur of the attendant moving about the rooms, the rustle of a book’s turning pages, the rough catch of Yao Mingze’s breathing.

There is… nothing.

“Ge?” he calls, pushing the door open with his shoulder. “Ge, I brought –”

He stops.

The chair near the bed is overturned.
The quilt is half-slid to the floor.
And Yao Mingze sits slumped against the wall, chin on his chest, head tilted at an unnatural angle.

For a heartbeat, Yao Mingyu’s mind refuses to make sense of what’s immediately in front of him.

Then he sees the knife.

It lies where it fell, just beyond Yao Mingze’s reach. His remaining hand is sticky with half-dried blood, smeared along his neck where a deep, decisive cut runs from one side of this throat to the other.

Yao Mingyu drops to his knees so hard it jars his teeth.

“Ge,” he croaks. His voice doesn’t sound like his. “Ge, no. No –”

He reaches for the wound automatically, as though he can press it closed, as though he can shove the blood back in. As though he isn’t already far, far too late.

Yao Mingze is still warm.
He’s not breathing.

Yao Mingyu pulls him into his arms anyway.

He rocks there on the floor, cradling what’s left of his brother, making a sound that echoes a familiar cry from a battlefield so far away now…

He begs, his voice a hoarse broken thing ripped out of the center of him. He bargains. He promises everything and nothing to gods who have already made their stance very clear.

Nobody answers.

No miracle comes.

At some point, his voice gives out. The sobs dry up. The shaking stops.

What’s left is silence.

~

The attendant arrives later, breathless, clutching a small bundle to her chest – herbs she hadn’t been able to find in the first two shops, soap that smells faintly of citrus.

She screams when she sees the blood. The body.

Later, when the elders demand answers, when the healers press her, when voices rise and tempers flare, she only shakes her head and repeats the same words until they lose all meaning.

“I don’t know. I don’t know. He asked me to go. We were running low on a few things. Household items. Unimportant. I – I should have waited for Er-gongzi to return – I – he said he would be fine – wanted to be alone… for a while.”

Where the knife came from, she can’t say.

How long he’d had it, she doesn’t know.

Whether he had hidden it away days ago, weeks ago, waiting – no one ever learns.

All she knows is that when she left, he was alive.

And when she returned, he was not.

The Yao sect mourns loudly, publicly.
They burn offerings, hold prayer rites, petition the cultivation world for justice – though the justice is hollow now, reactive rather than preventative.

Wei Wuxian is gone, and his soul refuses to be summoned by any of the great sects.
Or so it’s been reported.  

Yao Mingyu doesn’t weep again. Not like before.

He sits, silent and alone beside his brother’s grave until the freshly dug earth begins to harden.

Grief doesn’t end. It just… relocates. Sinks deeper. Spreads out like roots beneath the surface of a field that no longer grows anything worthwhile.

Life in Pingyang resumes around him with systematic indifference.

The sect trains. Merchants shout in the marketplace. Families gossip. Children run past the practice grounds laughing – high, bright sounds that feel grotesquely out of place in a world that took his brother apart piece by piece.

Everyone else goes about their lives.
Yao Mingyu functions.

He wakes. He eats when people put food in front of him. He drills because his body knows the motions. He participates in sect meetings when spoken to. He tries to pretend he doesn’t feel hollowed out.

Spring passes.

Summer arrives with oppressive heat. Cicadas scream in the trees. The world smells of river mud and rain.

And then the rumors begin.

At first, it’s a joke told by passing traders, shared with the same tone a person uses when recounting a ghost story to scare children.

“Did you hear?” one says, nudging the other with a sack of grain. “Someone in Xinze claims Wei Wuxian came back from the dead.”

The other snorts. “Impossible.”

“Impossible,” Yao Mingyu agrees aloud as he passes.
He keeps walking.

But the words cling to the wall of his skull long after the traders disappear around the bend.

Came back from the dead.

He tells himself it’s nonsense. Superstition. People will believe anything when the harvest is poor and the wolves come down from the mountains.

But then he starts to hear it in the streets.

High. Sing-song. Perfectly, unnaturally rhythmic.

The children skip through busy markets, hands linked, feet kicking dust in the air. Their voices rise and fall together, bright and careless, threaded with laughter.

A silly game.
A simple verse:

“Floating lantern, blow it out.
Light the next one, leave not doubt.”

Yao Mingyu slows at the edge of the street, letting them pass.

“Rise once more, the screams begin.
Here he comes – Wei Wuxian.”

His breath catches.
His body stills, every hair along his arms standing on end.

The children skip faster, giggles breaking the rhythm as one trips and another lets go, the chant collapsing into nonsense.

“Again!” one demands.
“No, it’s too scary,” another whines.
“Is not,” a third says confidently –  

“He only eats bad people.”

Yao Mingyu turns away before the argument can continue.

After that, the rumors arrive in full force – this time from traveling cultivators with mud on their boots and fear behind their eyes.

“A merchant and his son, slaughtered in their own home. You really haven’t heard? It’s been well over a year now. Gruesome as hell. Done by some mad, one-handed beggar people swear was the Yiling Patriarch in the flesh.”

“He cut off the arms of every man in a gambling den, too,” another adds eagerly. “One by one. Like he was collecting them.”

“No, no,” someone else interrupts. “He stole a one-armed man’s soul and used his body like a puppet. Carved demonic talismans into the floor of a great shrine. The whole place is cursed now.”

“Idiot, that wasn’t in Xinze. That was in Laoling.”

“No, he showed up there too!”

“Wait,” a fourth voice says, lowering to a whisper, “wasn’t it Lanling? I heard he shut down the entire brothel district. Murdered everyone in sight. Some say you can still hear the screams of his victims walking the streets at night.”

“Oh please, I was in Lanling just a few months ago. The brothel district is running perfectly well from what I saw. But there was this one building…” A thoughtful hum. “Used to be a brothel, I was told. Closed down about a year ago. No one goes near it. Haunted, they say.”

“That’s it! That was him!”

“Don’t be absurd – Wei Wuxian is dead.”

“That’s what makes it bad,” the traveler murmurs. “The dead are supposed to stay dead, aren’t they.”

Another voice enters the conversation from the corner of the teahouse.

“My cousin swears he saw him,” a man in dusty robes insists. “Tall as a demon, eyes red as fresh blood. Said the earth shuddered when he took a step.”

“You cousin is a drunkard.”

“Doesn’t mean he can’t be sober every once in a while.”

Silence follows.

Someone clears their throat. “Anyway… they say he doesn’t walk anywhere. Just appears. Like a shadow pulled out of your own spine.”

“Nonsense.”

“Is it?”

“Have you heard about the merchant in Baling?” another asks, voice low. “Went to burn offerings for Qingming. Unlucky bastard. When they finally found his body, it was hollowed out. All his insides –” A sound like a drainpipe emptying out accompanies the indelicate gesture he makes. “– sucked dry, limp as a used rice sack. The Yiling Patriarch did that.”

A collective shiver. 

Someone nods emphatically. “He’s like a broken god now. Rises wherever, whenever he pleases. Can’t be killed. Comes back different each time.” Then, leaning in, “Comes back worse.”

“Shut up,” a man snaps, unsettled. “That’s just tavern talk.”

“So was the Blind Ghost of Qizhou,” another retorts, “until six bodies turned up without eyes.”

Yao Mingyu forces himself not to react.

He knows most of it is exaggeration.
He knows stories grow fangs in the mouths of frightened men.

But still –

The more the rumors spread, the less they sound like stories of a dead man.

They sound like omens.

~

The heat drags on.

Talk of demonic cultivation spreads like mold: in teahouses, in traveling caravans, in drifting conversations between cultivators on night-hunts who lower their voices out of superstition.

“People are experimenting with resentful energy again.”

“Someone’s been selling manuals, I hear – say they’re copied from the Yiling Patriarch’s own writings.”

Most are fake. Yao Mingyu knows this immediately.
Pages filled with talismanic scrawls even a novice could tell are nonsense.
Sutras copied by hand from any common prayer book.

He flips through them when someone inevitably tries to sell him one, expression unmoved.

Another charlatan capitalizing on the hysteria, peddling empty promises for a handful of coins.

The first time, he tosses the book into a wok fire. Right there on the street.

The second he doesn’t bother opening before throwing it right back into the seller’s face.

The third… he pays for it anyway.
Takes it home.
Reads it in the quiet of the night.

Not this either.

But he keeps it.

Not because he believes the rumors – but because something inside him refuses to let the possibility go.

The real one finds him when he’s stopped looking.

It’s late summer when a peddler rolls into Pingyang – a man with a warped cart, one milky eye, and the easy smile of one accustomed to lying for coin.

Yao Mingyu would normally ignore him.

Except the man’s cart is lined with books.

Notebooks with cracked spines, weathered edges, and pages that look like they’ve been touched by smoke.

The peddler approaches him first – careful, respectful.

“You look like a cultivator, Gongzi. Might I interest you in some rare texts? Old cultivation theories? Ritual records?”

Yao Mingyu nearly walks away.

Nearly.

The peddler lowers his voice.

“I have one – straight from the Burial Mounds, if you’re curious.”

Yao Mingyu stops.

The man sees his reaction – too quick, too sharp – and backtracks smoothly like a man who has tested many people with the same bait.

“Well, who can say where it came from, really? A friend of a friend salvaged most of my wares from a burned house near the Qinghe region. Rumor is what it is though, you know. I’m only telling you what I heard –”

“Show me.”

Yao Mingyu knows he shouldn’t bite. It’s likely another scam. A desperate man milking coin from hungry idiots. A lie wrapped in a bigger lie.

He holds out his hand.

The peddler hesitates. Real hesitation – not an act. He knows what happens to those accused of demonic cultivation. Too many bodies have disappeared inside the walls of Lotus Pier for a man like him not to be afraid. Even the slightest hint to a cultivator that he might be spreading the Yiling Patriarch’s unorthodox theories could land him in some very muddy water, indeed.

Then, he reaches into the bottom of the cart and produces a bound stack of papers. Rough, uneven. Script sharp, messy, written in a hand that had no discipline, only blazing intent.

Yao Mingyu opens the first page.

His breath catches.

This isn’t a fake.

This is resentful cultivation theory written by someone who didn’t care about presentation, only results. The diagrams follow no orthodox structure. The spiritual annotations contradict established cultivation principles. The notes are frantic, layered, scribbled over themselves.

This is the mind of someone inventing a path no one should have walked.

He flips a page.

And there – drawn in rough ink – is the array.

A ritual diagram.

A soul exchange.

A method for calling the dead into the living.

His stomach drops.

But before he can look further – the book is snatched out of his hands.

“Payment first, Gongzi,” the peddler says, smiling with all the charm of a businessman who knows he’s got a buyer on the hook.

Yao Mingyu gives the peddler a hard look. “Where did you get this.”

The man shrugs. “A house fire, Gongzi. Leftovers from a rather nasty incident, truth be told. Could be authentic, could be rubbish. Hard to say.”

It isn’t rubbish.

Yao Mingyu knows it with the certainty of a man hearing his name in a crowded room.

He pays for it.

~

He studies the ritual in private.

Night after night.

He learns that in order to summon a vengeful spirit, he must give up his soul.

But even that doesn’t scare him off his path.
Yao Mingyu already lost half his soul long ago.

And for this, half a soul is but a small price to pay.

So, he copies the array onto fresh parchment. Practices the strokes. Learns the incantations – not the exaggerated chants from the fake books, but the real marrow-deep cadence of something forbidden.

He doesn’t tell anyone.

The resentment – his resentment – answers him.

Slowly at first.
Then eagerly.

By mid-autumn, the leaves falling around Pingyang feel like hourglass sand counting down the days.

Mingyu prepares the room.

He sketches the circle.

He hangs the talismans.

He slices his arm open. One cut. One target. One damning, bloody line that the summoned vengeful spirit will have no choice but to obey.

He barely feels the pain.
Pain has long since lost its authority over him.

He kneels at the center and recites the words, calling on the name of the Yiling Patriarch.

When the array ignites –

When the air tears –

When the tether of resentment pulls an unsuspecting soul straight through the cracks in the world –

Yao Mingyu is ready.

I wish I could make him feel it. Everything I felt. Everything I still feel.

He will grant his brother’s wish – shape it into reality with his very last breath, grief honed into purpose.

He will make Wei Wuxian face what he took.
He will make him feel everything his brother felt.
He will make him suffer for what he did.

And Wei Wuxian, dragged once more from the silence of death, has no idea what waits for him on the other side.

Chapter Text

Wei Wuxian lifts the flute –

– and doesn’t play it.

That alone is wrong enough to make Jiang Cheng’s blood go cold.

The first corpse doesn’t come at him from the side.

It erupts.

The earth beneath Wei Wuxian’s left foot collapses inward with a wet, sucking sound, soil giving way as a rotted hand punches up through the ground and clamps down around his ankle. He stumbles, barely catching himself as another grave caves in behind him, ribs and spine forcing their way up through packed dirt like something being birthed from a hell pit.

A corpse slams into him shoulder-first, a full-bodied impact that knocks the breath from his lungs. Another clamps onto his forearm with rotten teeth, jaw working violently, shaking like a dog worrying meat. Fingers tear at his sleeve, hooking cloth and skin together, yanking hard enough that something pops in his shoulder.

Wei Wuxian grunts – sharp and involuntary – and his knees buckle an inch before he catches himself.

He looks at Jiang Cheng through the fog like he’s trying to apologize with his eyes, even as he shouts, “Don’t! Not yet!”

“What the fuck do you mean not yet?!”

Jiang Cheng watches in horror as Wei Wuxian tries to defend himself against a feral chomping mouth and it closes on his hand, biting through tendons, separating fingers from knuckles.

“Move!” he barks at his disciples, but they’re already moving, blades flashing –

– and the corpses don’t care.

Steel bites into rotten flesh. Heads roll. Arms sever. A torso collapses back into the hole it crawled from.

It doesn’t matter.

The dead climb over the fallen like water finding the lowest point, slick and relentless, all of it flowing toward one place.

Wei Wuxian.

A corpse hooks its finger into the corner of his mouth and yanks his head sideways. Another grabs his hair, wrenching his neck back. Teeth sink into his collarbone – deep enough that Jiang Cheng hears it, a wet crunch that sends Zidian shrieking in response.

Wei Wuxian makes a sound that isn’t a scream yet.

It’s only the start of one.

He finally staggers, boots sliding in churned mud and grave-soil, and finally the flute slips –

“Jiang Cheng,” he chokes, voice breaking around blood. “Wait –”

The ground gives way beneath him.

A corpse slams into his back and takes him down.

He hits the earth. Hard. The breath leaves him in a ragged cough, dirt forced into his mouth. And then they’re on him – hands, teeth, weight – pinning him like carrion, dragging him half into the open grave beneath him.

Jiang Cheng freezes.

It’s only a heartbeat.

A single, impossible beat where his mind betrays him by going calm, replaying the night before – Wei Wuxian’s solemn voice in the dark.

You’ll have to choose.

Let him fulfill the resentment.

Or stop him –
and condemn him to something worse than hell.

I don’t want that for you.

Jiang Cheng’s fingers tremble around Zidian.

His chest tightens until it feels like breathing glass.

Then Wei Wuxian’s head jerks up from the pile – half his face smeared red, eyes blown wide with reflexive terror – and for one bright, sickening instant Jiang Cheng sees it.

The Burial Mounds.
The swarm.
The tearing.
The way he’d stood there and –

“No.”

The word rips out of him like a snarl.

“No!”

Zidian cracks.

Lightning explodes through the fog, white and violet, a whip made of wrath and decision. It cleaves through the first corpse like paper, then the next, and the next – spines snapping, limbs shearing, rotten torsos bursting apart in sprays of dark ichor.

Jiang Cheng wades in like a storm given human shape, spiritual pressure slamming outward hard enough to make nearby grave markers – what few are still standing – shudder.

“Get off him!”

His disciples surge behind him, emboldened by the command, cutting down anything that twitches. Blades flash. Corpses fall back into the earth that spat them out.

The swarm thins.

Jiang Cheng’s breathing is too loud in his ears.

He lashes Zidian again.

And again.

And again –

until the last corpse collapses in a twitching heap and the graveyard goes still, broken only by the drip of blood from sword tips into disturbed soil and the wet, animal rasp of someone struggling to breathe.

Jiang Cheng drops to his knees.

For a wild second, he expects Wei Wuxian to roll over with a grin. To complain. To make it a joke.

He doesn’t.

He lies where he fell, half on his side, half swallowed by the ruined grave beneath him. The grass is flattened and blackened by resentful filth. His robes are shredded open.

His body is…

Torn in too many places. Not clean injuries – ragged ones. Places where flesh has been pulled apart instead of cut.

One shoulder hangs at an angle that makes Jiang Cheng’s stomach lurch.
But that’s nothing compared to the other arm, which is… missing.
Gone at the joint, the limb lost in the tangle of rotting bodies that surround them.

As are most of his legs – what remains twisted, mutilated, bone peeking out through ribbons of flesh. There is no clean line where they end.

His ribs –

Jiang Cheng can see his ribs.

Bite marks overlap bite marks.
Deep. Stacked. Hungry.

Wei Wuxian’s face is pressed into the mud. Blood runs in slow lines from his mouth and nose.

A thin, shuddering inhale.
A worse exhale.

Still breathing.

“Zongzhu –” a disciple starts, voice shaking.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t look up.

He reaches for Wei Wuxian’s neck with two fingers, precise despite the tremor in his hand. He finds a pulse.

Weak. Fast. Panicked.

Alive.

Jiang Cheng’s throat tightens painfully.

Still too late, a voice whispers.

Wei Wuxian twitches.

One eye cracks open, unfocused, glassy with pain.
His lips part.
A wet sound drags out.

“…ng.”

No voice. Just blood and breath.

Jiang Cheng leans closer anyway, like an idiot. Like words might still be coaxed out of a body that’s been mauled into little more than butchered meat.

Wei Wuxian’s eye finds him for half a second.

There’s terror there.
There’s apology.

And under it – a faint, stubborn, infuriating –

Relief.

Jiang Cheng’s jaw locks until his teeth ache.

“You –” he starts, and nothing usable follows.

Wei Wuxian’s remaining fingers twitch weakly in the mud.
The hand that held the flute.

Then he makes the smallest sound – half laugh, half sob.
And Jiang Cheng understands with cold clarity:

This was never about fighting them.

This was about letting it happen.

Letting the ritual carve its first demand into his borrowed flesh.

Jiang Cheng’s grip tightens on Zidian until the weapon bites into his palm.

“Pick him up,” he snaps, voice flint-hard. “Carefully. If you jostle him, I’ll break your –” He cuts himself off, eyes flicking – unwilling – to what’s left of Wei Wuxian’s legs.

His disciples move instantly, pale-faced, hands hovering as if he might shatter if touched.

Wei Wuxian exhales. A thin, cracked thing.

His eyes slide shut.

And just before whatever fragile thread of consciousness he’s clinging to snaps, Jiang Cheng hears it – more breath than sound.

“…make him…”

Jiang Cheng goes still.

“…feel every… thing…”

The words are swallowed by blood.

~

They fly back to Pingyang, Wei Wuxian’s lump of a body slung between them, a ruined, blood-soaked weight that refuses to stop bleeding despite the layers of cloth pressed tight against him.

The town gates blur past.

Someone shouts ahead. Doors are thrown open. The Yao sect’s outer halls erupt into motion at the sight of them.

Healers rush forward –
and then stop.

Still.
Breathless.

The courtyard fills with a sound Jiang Cheng doesn’t recognize at first.

It’s not shouting. Not screaming.

It’s mourning.

“Oh gods,” someone whispers.

“That’s – no –”

“Is that… Yao Er-gongzi?”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t slow. He doesn’t stop. He barrels straight through them, fury sharpening his breath into knives.

“Out of my way,” he snarls. “Now.”

They part instinctively, training overriding shock. But their eyes never leave the body in his arms. Hands rise, hesitate, hover uselessly.

The head healer shakes herself from her stupor and snaps out orders, summoning a team to receive the patient. They take Wei Wuxian from Jiang Cheng’s grip carefully, reverently, as if afraid to lose any more pieces of him.

“How – how could this have happened?” a Yao disciple whispers, voice cracking.

Another murmurs, devastated, “Just like his brother…”

The words slip into Jiang Cheng’s ears like poison.

He whirls on them so fast it startles even his own disciples.

“What did you say.”

No one answers.

They exchange glances – tight, uncertain, threaded with grief.

Zidian crackles faintly on Jiang Cheng’s wrist.

“I asked you a question,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “Someone had better start explaining before I lose my patience.”

The disciple swallows. “Er-gongzi’s brother,” she says quietly. “Yao Mingze. He… he was gravely injured two years ago. At Nightless City.”

Jiang Cheng’s chest tightens.

Nightless City.

“Go on,” he says.

Her mouth opens, nervously –

But his disciple, Lu Ziheng, speaks first.

“Zongzhu,” he says hoarsely.

Jiang Cheng turns on him, eyes wild.

Lu Ziheng blanches but continues, haltingly, “Th-the Yao brothers fought together during the Sunshot Campaign. That’s where I first met them – and again at Nightless City. When Wei– w-when the fierce corpses attacked, Yao Mingze was nearly killed in the first wave. He survived, but…”

His gaze flicks down, unwillingly, to the broken body on the pallet.

“He lost most of his limbs. His core was ruined. He… he never truly recovered.”

Jiang Cheng stares at him.

Lu Ziheng’s hands clench at his sides. “Mingyu-xiong took him home. Cared for him himself.” A pause. “I’d heard there were difficulties, but it… it wasn’t until last night that I learned Mingze-xiong had… passed.”

The courtyard seems to tilt as something clicks.

Not loudly.
Not all at once.

Just a soft, terrible alignment of facts sliding into place.

This wasn’t a summoning meant to unleash destruction.

This wasn’t Wei Wuxian being loosed as a weapon.

This was –

Punishment.

Jiang Cheng stumbles back a step, dizziness crashing through him hard enough that he has to brace himself against a pillar.

The healers are whispering again, softer now.

“Fate can be so cruel…”

“To lose one brother that way, only for the other to –”

Jiang Cheng’s vision swims.

So – Yao Mingyu learned the truth.

Learned that Wei Wuxian’s soul could be called back.
Learned the ritual.

And instead of using it to kill –

He used it to replicate. To carve suffering into flesh.

And Jiang Cheng –

Jiang Cheng has the sudden, nauseating realization that he can’t even summon anger for the man.

Not real anger.

Because he can see himself in it –
The same shape of righteousness, the same hunger for cruelty that feels like control.

Because he’d wanted it once, too.

He’d wanted Wei Wuxian bound, restrained, punished –
reduced to something pitiful and… manageable.

He’d even accomplished it – in more ways than one.

The ground feels unsteady beneath his feet.

He hears himself breathing too fast, too shallow, the edges of panic creeping in.

And then –

“His injuries are beyond extensive,” a physician murmurs. “Even if we stabilize him… the quality of life –”

Another replies, carefully, “It may be kinder to let him pass. To spare him the same fate as his brother.”

The words hit Jiang Cheng like a slap.

He snaps.

“No.”

The courtyard goes silent.

Jiang Cheng rounds on them, eyes blazing, spiritual pressure flaring sharp enough to make several healers flinch back instinctively.

“You will not let him die,” he says, voice shaking with barely restrained violence.

“Jiang-zongzhu –” someone starts.

“Keep him alive,” Jiang Cheng snarls. “No matter what it takes. If his heart stops, you start it again. If his breathing falters, you force it. If he screams, you endure it.”

His gaze sweeps them, cold and absolute.

“Do it,” he finishes. “Or answer to me.”

No one argues.

They move at once, scrambling into action, hands flying, orders shouted, talismans activated.

Jiang Cheng stands there, shaking, watching Wei Wuxian disappear behind a screen of bodies and frantic effort.

He presses his palm hard against his head to keep it from spinning.

This will save him.

Wei Wuxian had told him to wait.

Wait for the right moment, not to intervene too early.
Wait for the damage to be done.
Wait for the fierce corpses to tear him apart –

– just enough.

Enough to satisfy the resentment. Enough to fulfill the ritual’s demand. Enough to keep Wei Wuxian from failing in his task and dooming his soul to something worse.

Alive.

But broken.

This will save him.

The lesser evil.
The kinder torment.

But it doesn’t save Jiang Cheng from the truth that settles in his bones like rot.

Wei Wuxian… was never the monster they believed him to be.

Jiang Cheng has always known it. Known it in the way one knows a knife is sharp – by slicing himself open and bleeding out anyway.

Even when he rallied the sects. When he led the siege. When he cornered him –

He’d known.

But he’d been desperate for somewhere to put the blame.

So he put it where everyone else did.

On Wei Wuxian.

And now the consequences have come full circle.

Yao Mingyu didn’t summon a monster.

He summoned a man –
and built a cage out of his sins.

~

Wei Wuxian does not wake.

For three days, he exists only as a wreck of a body that stubbornly refuses to cross the line everyone keeps waiting for him to cross.

He breathes – shallow, uneven, often with help. His pulse wavers between frantic and frighteningly faint. The healers keep him submerged in layers of sedatives, pain-dulling draughts thick with bitterness and metallic tang, careful not to let him sink too deep. Not again.

Jiang Cheng does not leave.

Neither do his disciples.

By the second day, it becomes clear they are not visiting.

Rooms are requisitioned without ceremony.

Jiang disciples are quartered in the inner halls, rotations established, watches posted. The Yao sect’s servants move around them with rigid politeness, providing everything requested.

No one says the word occupation.

No one needs to.

Sect Leader Yao confronts Jiang Cheng on the fourth morning.

“This is highly irregular, Jiang-zongzhu,” he says, voice stiff, beard bristling with restrained offense. “You bring armed disciples into my sect without invitation, seize quarters, issue orders, and make demands of my own nephew –”

“Distant nephew,” Jiang Cheng cuts in flatly.

Sect Leader Yao’s mouth tightens. “Blood is blood.”

“Then you should have watched him more closely,” Jiang Cheng replies. His voice is calm. Too calm. “Because he was caught practicing demonic cultivation. Or did you miss that detail when we brought him in?”

The words land like a dropped blade.

“What,” Sect Leader Yao says slowly.

Jiang Cheng does not raise his voice. He doesn’t need to.

“How do you think he came to be so terribly injured? Resentful energy. Fierce corpses. If we hadn’t been tracking him already, we wouldn’t have gotten there in time to keep him alive.”

Shock ripples across Sect Leader Yao’s face, quickly followed by disbelief.

“That doesn’t sound like my nephew,” he snaps. “Yes, he became a little withdrawn after the death of his brother, but Mingyu was always a disciplined cultivator. Upright. Dutiful.”

“So was Wei Wuxian,” Jiang Cheng says coldly.

The silence that follows is brittle.

Sect Leader Yao exhales sharply through his nose. “Even if what you say is true – look at him. He is barely clinging to life. Does he truly need further punishment?”

Jiang Cheng’s eyes flick, briefly, toward the inner rooms where Wei Wuxian lies unmoving beneath layers of talismans and cloth.

Does he truly need further punishment?

Jiang Cheng’s fists clench at his sides.

“I’m not punishing him,” he says tightly. “I’m detaining him.”

A pause.

“And when he is stable enough to travel,” Jiang Cheng continues, “he will come with me.”

Sect Leader Yao bristles. “You presume too much.”

Jiang Cheng finally looks directly at him.

“Stop me.”

They stare at one another for a long moment.

Sect Leader Yao looks away first.

“…When he is able,” he mutters. “When the healers allow it.”

Jiang Cheng inclines his head once.

~

It takes another two days.

By the time they move Wei Wuxian, his body is bound in stabilization arrays and wrapped so thoroughly he barely resembles a person anymore. The healers protest. Jiang Cheng listens, then overrides them with curt efficiency.

The journey back to Lotus Pier is quiet.

Wei Wuxian does not wake.

~

Lotus Pier receives him like a ghost returning home.

Jiang Cheng places him in the old rooms – rebuilt after the fire stone by stone, beam by beam, and furnished in near-exact replication of what once was. The bed is new. The walls are new. The layout is memory.

Jiang Cheng stands there longer than he intends, staring down at the man who once sprawled across that floor, laughing too loudly, complaining about chores.

Now he lies in a different body.
A broken body.
And he does not move.

Days pass.

Jiang Cheng splits his time between sect duties and the sickroom. He does not linger unnecessarily. He does not touch unless required. Sometimes he leaves the care to healers and attendants. Sometimes he dismisses them all and sits alone in the chair by the bed, listening to the uneven breathing and the faint hum of talismans.

Wei Wuxian remains unresponsive.

Until, one morning – more than two weeks after his arrival – his breathing changes.

Not abruptly. Not dramatically.

Just enough.

His bandaged fingers twitch.

His brow creases.

Jiang Cheng looks up from the report in his hands just in time to see Wei Wuxian’s lashes flutter.

Once.

Twice.

His eyes open

They’re unfocused. Glassy with pain and medicine. But they open.

He stares at the ceiling for a long, quiet moment.

When his gaze drifts – slow, heavy –

– it lands on Jiang Cheng.

Recognition takes a second.

Then –

He smiles.

Not wide. Not bright. Just a small, exhausted curve of his mouth.

Relieved.

Jiang Cheng’s throat tightens sharply.

Wei Wuxian exhales, voice barely more than a breath, cracking like thinned shale underfoot.

“I was expecting hell.” His eyes drift, unfocused. “This is… familiar.” A pause. “So either I was wrong about what waited for me in the end…”

A faint, huff of a laugh.

“Or Jiang Cheng chose to save my damned soul.” He closes his eyes again. “I’m not sure which is harder to believe.”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t respond to the joke.

For a long moment, he doesn’t speak at all.

Wei Wuxian’s lashes tremble faintly, as if even that smile took more strength than he has to spare. His breathing is shallow, carefully measured. The talismans hum softly around the bed, a low, constant pressure meant to keep what’s left of him stitched together.

Jiang Cheng stands.

The chair scrapes harshly against the floor.

Wei Wuxian flinches.

That does something ugly to Jiang Cheng’s chest.

He steps closer, stopping just short of the bed. Close enough to see the faint sheen of sweat along Wei Wuxian’s temples. Close enough to see how the bandages swallow him whole.

“You knew.”

His voice comes out flat. Controlled. Too controlled.

“You knew I would follow you there. You knew it would come down to –” His words cut off, despite himself. “And you just let it happen.”

Wei Wuxian exhales slowly. “Let is a strong word.”

Jiang Cheng slams his hand down on the edge of the bed.

The talismans flare in alarm.

Wei Wuxian winces, breath hitching – but he doesn’t cry out.

“Don’t play games with me,” Jiang Cheng snaps. “Did you or did you not expect me to swoop in and save your ass before those corpses could finish you off?”

Wei Wuxian opens his eyes. No defense in them. No pride.

Just a tired, steady acceptance that makes Jiang Cheng want to scream.

“I did,” he says quietly.

You selfish bastard, Jiang Cheng wants to say.

But he can’t.

Because whatever sits between them now refuses to be ignored.

Wei Wuxian is not innocent – there’s no denying that. Jiang Cheng knows what happened at Nightless City. Knows what Wei Wuxian unleashed when he lost control. He knows how many people died screaming, how many never walked again.
Intention does not erase consequence.

Wei Wuxian committed countless unthinkable wrongs.

…But he paid for it.

He paid for it when Lotus Pier burned and he stood in the ashes with blood on his hands and nowhere left to belong.
He paid for it when he defected, when he became something the world could point at and fear.
He paid for it at the Burial Mounds – when he lost everything and everyone.
He paid for it when he died, in a manner so gruesome it tore not just his body but his very soul to pieces.

And he has been paying for it ever since.

Over and over.

In bodies that are not his.
In deaths that do not stick.

In fact, Jiang Cheng is certain he doesn’t even know the half of what Wei Wuxian has suffered in reparation for his mistakes.

Which means, this – this – is not justice.

This is not balance.

This is cruelty dressed up as righteousness, and Jiang Cheng sees it now with a clarity that makes his stomach churn.

Wei Wuxian did not deserve to be broken like this.

Not again.

And the worst fucking part – the part Jiang Cheng can’t escape –

Wei Wuxian didn’t push him into having to make that gods-damned choice.

Jiang Cheng pushed himself.

With the soul-tether. With the hunt. With the demand that Wei Wuxian stay, that he be watched, that he be contained.

Jiang Cheng would never have been at that graveyard if he hadn’t forced his way into Wei Wuxian’s existence first.

The god’s array.
Yao Mingyu’s resentment.
Jiang Cheng’s tether.

None of it was Wei Wuxian’s doing.

None of it was his choice.

All he did was get sloppy drunk and stand at the edge of a graveyard with too much guilt and not enough hope that his shidi – his Jiang Cheng – would even feel inclined to save him, to make the right call, after everything…

I don’t want that for you.

The words come back to haunt him with sudden, vicious clarity.

Not as a plea.

As a fact.

A warning.

The damage was already there, long before he became trapped in this body – waiting, unavoidable, sharpened by the decisions of others. Wei Wuxian had only stepped into it because there was nowhere else for him to stand.

Because when the world built a corner around him, eventually he was going to hit a wall.

And Jiang Cheng –
with a sourness settling deep in his gut –
knows that Wei Wuxian didn’t let this happen because he wanted to suffer –

He let it happen because suffering was the only option he had left.

Jiang Cheng swallows something hot and violent and useless.

And finally –

He looks away.

“Why,” he says. Not loudly. Not angrily. This time. “Why is it still there.”

The wound.

The long, ugly gash carved deep into borrowed flesh, edges livid and dark despite days of treatment. It should have faded. Should have closed.

It hasn’t.

“The ritual mark,” Jiang Cheng says. His fingers curl at his side. “Why hasn’t it disappeared?” His gaze snaps back – to Wei Wuxian’s only remaining arm.

For a moment, something like apology flickers across Wei Wuxian’s face.

“Because it’s not finished,” he says.

“Not finished,” Jiang Cheng repeats. “What do you mean, ‘not finished.’”

Wei Wuxian swallows. It looks painful.

“Yao Mingyu didn’t want me dead,” he says.

“I know that,” Jiang Cheng says, frustrated. “He wanted you to survive it, to suffer –”

“To suffer and live. Just like his brother did.”

Jiang Cheng’s breath stutters.

“To wake up every day trapped in a body that no longer listens,” Wei Wuxian continues, staring up at the ceiling. “To feel the absence of limbs before remembering they’re gone. To be fed. Cleaned. Watched.” A pause. “Kept.”

Jiang Cheng’s hands tremble.

“For how long,” he demands.

Wei Wuxian doesn’t answer right away.

When he does, it’s barely above a whisper.

“A year.”

The word echoes.

Jiang Cheng feels dizzy again.

“A year,” he repeats. “Like this?”

Wei Wuxian turns his head slightly. Just enough to meet his eyes.

“Yes.”

The room feels suddenly too small.

“And after that,” Jiang Cheng says hoarsely.

Wei Wuxian studies him for a long moment.

There’s no drama in his expression. No attempt to soften the truth.

“I suppose,” he says gently, “I’ll have to do what Yao Mingze did.”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t dare breathe for fear it will come out strangled and wrong.

“…What,” he grunts.

Wei Wuxian’s mouth curves, just faintly. Not a smile. Not exactly.

“End it,” he says. “That was the final condition.”

Jiang Cheng’s vision goes white.

“No,” he says immediately. “No. That’s not –”

“It is,” Wei Wuxian interrupts, still calm. Still devastatingly calm. “The resentment won’t release otherwise. It has to conclude the story the same way.”

Jiang Cheng spins around, clutching his hair in his fists, gritting his teeth in frustration.

“You think I’ll let that happen,” he snarls. “You think I dragged you back from the brink just to –”

“You already did,” Wei Wuxian says.

Jiang Cheng freezes. Slowly… he turns back, meeting those sad, unfamiliar eyes.

“You let me survive,” Wei Wuxian continues quietly. “You chose the version where I keep breathing.” His gaze is steady, unbearably kind. “This is just… the rest of it.”

The talismans hum, indicating that the patient is in pain.

Jiang Cheng should go get the healers, but he can’t seem to make himself move.

He stares at that wound on Wei Wuxian’s arm.

At the proof.

At the cage.

His voice comes out raw.

“…We’ll find another way.”

Wei Wuxian looks at him, calm, cautious – caught in the moment’s quiet ache.

Then, very gently –

“Okay.”

With that, they both pretend ‘another way’ is a plan, because neither of them would survive the honest version.

Jiang Cheng lets the lie stand.
Some choices, he knows, don’t end –
they just wait.

Chapter Text

Wei Wuxian’s wounds knit slowly.

The healers speak in careful tones about progress and stability. They say the worst is over. They say his qi is finally settling – that he’s fortunate to have survived at all.

Wei Wuxian listens, nods, and makes a face when he thinks no one is looking.

“Fortunate,” he repeats once, under his breath. “Mn. Yep. That’s me.”

Being kept alive is an… intimate thing.

He learns that quickly.

There is no dignity in the hours. No privacy. No pretending. Hands lift him, turn him, brace him while he coughs and retches and grits his teeth through the sharp, tearing pains that come with being moved too fast or not fast enough.

Someone feeds him broth a spoonful at a time while he stares at the ceiling and tries not to count how many he swallows before his throat tightens.

“Careful,” he murmurs once, voice hoarse. “If you keep this up, I’ll start expecting room service.”

The nurse snorts before she can stop herself. “You have attendants for that, Gongzi.”

“Ah,” Wei Wuxian frowns. “Fair point.”

The first time they have to help him relieve himself, he goes red to the ears.

He stares very hard at the wall while they work, jaw tight, breath shallow.

“Well,” he says faintly, once it’s over. “That was… new.”

No one laughs.

He clears his throat. “I’m going to pretend that didn’t happen. You’re welcome to join me.”

The second time, he sighs and says, “At least buy me dinner first.”

That one gets a startled huff.

By the third, he just closes his eyes and chatters about nothing – about the weather, about how Lotus Pier smells different rebuilt, about how unfair it is that he survived a war just to die of embarrassment in a sickbed.

“Honestly,” he tells one of the junior healers, as they adjust the linens, “I’ve been through worse. This barely cracks the top five.”

The healer hesitates. “You don’t… have to joke.”

Wei Wuxian smiles at him. Wide. Easy. “I really do.”

But maybe – maybe – he does talk just a little too much. Like Jiang Cheng always tells him.

Because on a day when it’s Elder Lu attending him, when the room is quiet and his guard is low because of the medicine she’s just fed him, he makes a mistake.

She’s reapplying the salve along his ribs, movements practiced and gentle, when he hisses softly, smiling in a way that’s more of a grimace, and mutters, “Mn. Still not as bad as the last time we were in this sort of situation together, right Shen-yi?”

Elder Lu pauses. Just briefly.

“Last time?” she repeats, neutral.

“Yeah, you know, last time. The dungeons. Me, chained down. You with that awful smelling salve for my – ah.”

Wei Wuxian stops. Blinks. His own words catch up to him all at once.

“…Ah,” he says. “I meant –”

Again, he stops. Not sure how to explain himself out of this one.

Slowly, he turns his head to look at her.

Elder Lu is watching him now. Not his injuries. Not the talismans. Him.

“You should rest,” she says after a moment, smoothing the blanket back into place. Her voice is calm. Professional. “Talking tires the body.”

“Oh,” he murmurs. “Guess that explains why I’m so tired literally all the time.”

“Rest,” she says again, firmly. “And don’t call me Shen-yi.”

“Right. Sorry. Thank you, Langzhong.”

She hums softly and resumes her work. When she’s finished, she gathers her things and moves toward the door.

At the threshold, she stops.

“You were very brave, then,” she says, still not turning around. “Try to be just as patient now.”

She leaves.

Wei Wuxian stares at the ceiling long after she’s gone, his smile nowhere to be found.

Then the door opens again. And again.

People move in and out – working busily around him, leaning over him, hovering beside him. Always.

By the end of the week, the entirety of Lotus Pier’s staff knows him as the one who apologizes too much. The one who thanks them every time. The one who cracks jokes through clenched teeth and only goes quiet when the pain spikes hard enough to steal his breath.

Jiang Cheng watches all of it from the doorway.

He tells himself he’s supervising. That he needs to make sure nothing goes wrong. That this is his responsibility now, whether he likes it or not.

But sometimes he lingers longer than necessary.

Sometimes he watches Wei Wuxian laugh at something stupid and feels a sharp, unwelcome relief twist under his ribs.

He hates that part.

Hates how easily Wei Wuxian adapts to disaster – like it’s second nature.
Like the way water fills whatever shape it’s poured into.
He doesn’t rage. He doesn’t retreat. He just… fits.

“I’ve been worse off,” Wei Wuxian says one afternoon, when a healer apologizes for jostling him “Really. This is fine.”

Jiang Cheng snaps before he can stop himself. “Give it a rest, will you?”

Wei Wuxian blinks, startled. The smile flickers – just for a heartbeat – before it settles back into place.

“Right,” he says lightly. “Sorry.”

Later, when Jiang Cheng helps him shift in bed – hands careful, jaw tight – Wei Wuxian murmurs, “You don’t have to look so grim. I promise I won’t break.”

Jiang Cheng’s hands curl in the sheets.

“You already did,” he says harshly.

Wei Wuxian doesn’t argue.

That’s worse.

That’s what makes Jiang Cheng turn away.

That night, after the healers leave and the talismans hum low and steady and Wei Wuxian is sleeping soundly, Jiang Cheng sits alone – a bedside vigil – and stares down at his hands. Hands that have caused their own share of Wei Wuxian’s breaking.

They’re clean.

They don’t feel like it.

~

By the time winter loosens its grip on Lotus Pier, Wei Wuxian can move on his own.

Not well. Not gracefully. But enough.

He drags himself across the floor with one arm, shoulder and back burning by the time he reaches the window. His stumps leave faint impressions in the mats where he pulls himself forward, methodical and uncomplaining. When he reaches the low table, he hooks a finger around the leg and pauses, breathing through his teeth until the ache settles into something manageable.

“Progress,” he announces to the empty room. “Excellent, really.”

Jiang Cheng finds him like that more than once.

Each time, his first instinct is anger – sharp and immediate.

Each time, it arrives a breath too late, tangled up with something worse.

“Why didn’t you call for someone,” he snaps the second time, already moving to help despite himself.

Wei Wuxian glances up at him, mildly surprised. “I didn’t need to.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It is to me.”

Jiang Cheng bites back whatever he was going to say and finishes helping him anyway, hauling him up with careful efficiency. Wei Wuxian winces once, then smooths it away before it can become anything worth noticing.

“I want to go outside,” he says later that day, as if continuing a conversation that never started.

Jiang Cheng looks up sharply. “No.”

Wei Wuxian blinks. “You didn’t even ask where.”

“I don’t need to.”

“Rude,” Wei Wuxian mutters, then sighs. “I’m sick of these walls.”

The healers back him up, annoyingly. Fresh air would be good for his lungs. Sunlight for his qi. A change of scenery for his… morale.

Jiang Cheng hates that word.

He doesn’t say yes.

He doesn’t say no.

Instead, he has a chair built.

It’s sturdy. Practical. Designed so Wei Wuxian can maneuver it himself, one-handed – the steering rims placed strategically on the same side. No sharp edges. No unnecessary ornamentation. It takes three attempts before Jiang Cheng approves the balance and stability, and another before he’s satisfied it won’t tip if Wei Wuxian leans too far.

When it’s wheeled into the room, Wei Wuxian stares at it for a long moment.

“…Huh,” he says. “You know, I was expecting something more humiliating.”

Jiang Cheng glares. “Don’t push it.”

Wei Wuxian grins anyway.

The first time they take him outside, it’s late afternoon.

Spring has settled in quietly while no one was looking. The air smells of water and new growth, of wet stone and green things pushing stubbornly upward. Wei Wuxian closes his eyes the moment they cross the threshold, head tilting back as he draws in a deep breath.

“Oh,” he says softly. “I forgot about this part.”

People stare.

Of course they do.

A disfigured man in a wheeled chair, robes cut and adjusted to accommodate what’s missing. The Jiang sect leader walking beside him, stiff-backed and alert. Whispers ripple through the courtyard, caught and swallowed by the open air.
Silenced at a sharp glance from Jiang Cheng.

Wei Wuxian doesn’t look at them.

He squints up at the sky instead, sunlight warm on his face, and smiles like he’s been given a gift.

“I always liked this time of year,” he says softly.

Jiang Cheng watches the way his hand tightens on the armrest, the faint tremor that follows the effort of moving himself forward. Watches how he masks it with chatter, with an easy smile that never quite reaches his eyes.

“Don’t go anywhere without supervision,” Jiang Cheng says flatly. “That’s not a suggestion.”

Wei Wuxian wheels himself a careful half-step forward, then stops and looks back at him.

“Yes, Zongzhu,” he says, only somewhat mocking.

They make a slow circuit of the grounds.

Wei Wuxian pauses to watch the koi. To listen to the wind through the reeds. To comment, idly, on how someone really ought to trim that hedge before it gets ideas.

For a while, it almost feels normal.

And that’s the problem.

That night, back in his room, Wei Wuxian stares at the ceiling and frowns.

“Jiang Cheng,” he says suddenly.

“What.”

“I’ve been thinking.”

Jiang Cheng’s stomach sinks. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

Wei Wuxian hums. “You never do. But listen… I don’t think I’m doing this right.”

Jiang Cheng freezes.

“The resentment,” Wei Wuxian clarifies, eyes still on the ceiling. “Mingze wasted away. He hated every second of it. He wanted it to end.” A pause. “I don’t.”

“That’s not a problem,” Jiang Cheng says immediately.

“But what if it is,” Wei Wuxian disagrees. “What if it doesn’t count if I’m not doing it properly?”

Silence stretches between them, thin and dangerous.

Then, Wei Wuxian keeps going, because the silence unnerves him.

“I mean, I might have gotten the injuries all wrong,” he says, conversational. “Yao Mingze was in worse shape. He lost more of his fingers. I’ve still got –” he lifts his hand, squints at it, “– half a finger more on the good hand.”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t look at him.

“Which,” Wei Wuxian adds unhelpfully, “is a funny thing to say about your only hand, now that I think about it.”

No response.

“And the eyes,” Wei Wuxian continues, voice light. “He lost one. I have both. Bit of an oversight on my part. I did lose a bit more leg, though,” he muses. “So maybe it balances out? Still, not complaining. Less of me to lug around when I need to get somewhere. Very practical, really.”

“Stop,” Jiang Cheng says sharply.

Wei Wuxian blinks, then laughs softly. “What? I’m just doing a quality control check.”

Jiang Cheng finally turns on him, eyes blazing. “Do you think this is funny?”

Wei Wuxian’s smile fades a notch.

“Of course not,” he says. “I’m worried. What if I did it wrong from the start? What if I’m not wallowing in my misery enough and everything is ruined?”

Jiang Cheng’s jaw tightens. “Then I’ll make you miserable.”

Wei Wuxian turns his head, startled –

– and laughs.

“How?”

Jiang Cheng pauses, actually thinking. Something that would make the insufferably optimistic, thick-faced Wei Wuxian miserable…

Then, inspiration strikes.

“I’ll force you to hand-copy the Gusu Lan sect rules ten times a day for the next three months.”

Wei Wuxian blinks up at him owlishly.

Then –

“Oh, thank the gods,” he says, hand to his chest. “I was worried you’d go soft on me, but no – a true tyrant. Really, Jiang Cheng, what would I do without you?”

Jiang Cheng snorts, then catches himself before any real amusement can slip through. He stalks out before Wei Wuxian says a word more.

Wei Wuxian watches him go, smile fading just a fraction too fast.

Outside, spring continues on, cheerful as ever.

~

Jiang Cheng notices the dogs first. Hears them – which is odd.

They’re trained better than this.

The spirit hounds of Lotus Pier don’t bark at shadows or sudden noises. They don’t startle at unfamiliar scents drifting in from the river. They are disciplined, loyal, precise.

So when they begin to whine – low and restless, pacing their enclosures with hackles raised – Jiang Cheng feels it immediately.

Something is wrong.

He leaves the records unfinished on his desk and strides across the grounds, irritation sharpening with every step. The dogs’ agitation escalates as he nears the inner residence, their soft whines tipping into loud, warning barks.

“Quiet,” he snaps.

They don’t listen.

That’s when he feels it.

A pressure in the air. Subtle, but unmistakable. Not an attack. Not a surge.

Just… presence.

Jiang Cheng’s pace quickens.

Wei Wuxian’s door is ajar.

“Wei Wuxian,” he says sharply, already pushing it open.

The first thing he sees is the window.

Thrown wide. Shutters swaying softly in the summer breeze.

The second thing he sees is Wei Wuxian – half out of it.

He’s leaned dangerously far forward in the chair, arm braced against the sill, body tipped at an angle that makes Jiang Cheng’s heart lurch. His head is tilted back, eyes half-closed, face turned toward the open sky like he’s drinking in the air.

The third thing –

The ghost.

It hunches in the corner, broad-shouldered, hulking, head bowed in silent attention. Its form is clean, well-shaped. Not feral. Not raging.

Controlled.

Jiang Cheng’s vision goes red.

“What,” he says, voice cutting like a whip, “do you think you’re doing.”

Wei Wuxian startles.

His balance wobbles.

“Ah –!”

The ghost moves instantly, a massive hand shooting forward –

Jiang Cheng lunges.

He crosses the room in a heartbeat and grabs Wei Wuxian around the chest, hauling him back hard enough that the chair scrapes against the floor. Wei Wuxian gasps, fingers clutching at Jiang Cheng’s sleeve as the momentum nearly carries him out of the seat entirely.

Jiang Cheng holds on, grip too tight. Then he shoves him upright again, hands shaking despite himself.

“Are you insane,” he snarls. “You could have fallen.”

Wei Wuxian’s breath comes fast. He looks genuinely shaken – for exactly three seconds.

Then guilt floods his face.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I didn’t mean to – I just –”

“Dismiss it,” Jiang Cheng snaps, eyes on the ghost.

The ghost dissolves instantly, resentful energy unraveling into nothing.

The dogs outside quiet.

The air lightens.

Jiang Cheng rounds on Wei Wuxian.

“You promised,” he says, voice low and dangerous.

“I wasn’t –” Wei Wuxian winces, glancing at the window. “I just needed a little help. It was faster.”

“Faster than what,” Jiang Cheng demands. “Calling someone?”

Wei Wuxian hesitates.

That hesitation is the problem.

“I didn’t think it’d be such a big deal,” he admits softly. “I just had it… lift me into the chair.”

…Didn’t think it’d be such a big deal?

Jiang Cheng laughs once. Sharp. Humorless.

“You know you have attendants for that,” he says. “Living ones. No need to bring your dead into my home.”

Wei Wuxian looks up at him, startled – not defensive, not angry.

Confused.

“It’s not like I’m trying to build an army,” he says. “I just wanted to open the window.”

Jiang Cheng grips the back of the chair hard enough to make it creak.

“You don’t get to decide what it is anymore,” he says. “Not here.”

Wei Wuxian’s mouth opens, then closes again.

For the first time since he came into this body, since he sustained these injuries, he looks… small.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

The word lands too easily.

Jiang Cheng exhales through his nose, dragging a hand over his face. “Do something stupid like this again,” he warns, voice rough, “and I’ll post attendants right here in your room to keep a closer eye on you – day and night.”

Wei Wuxian swallows. “It won’t happen again,” he says. “Really.”

Jiang Cheng turns away before he can say more.

Behind him, Wei Wuxian watches the open window for a long moment.

Then, carefully, he reaches out and closes the shutters himself.

~

Jiang Cheng doesn’t plan the visit.

If he had, it wouldn’t happen.

But Jin Ling is restless that afternoon, cranky from a disrupted nap and unimpressed with every distraction offered. He runs through Lotus Pier with the heedless confidence of a child who has very recently discovered true speed but hasn’t fully grasped stopping. His steps are small, fast, slightly uneven, silk shoes slapping stone as he goes. He clutches a tassel in one fist, swinging it like a weapon, narrating his displeasure in loud, disjointed complaints.

“No – borwing. Don’ want dat,” Jin Ling declares, turning a corner too sharply.

“A-Ling,” Jiang Cheng says, exasperated. “Slow down.”

Jin Ling does not slow down.

He rounds the corner – and stops.

Wei Wuxian is sitting by the window, sunlight slanting across the floor. The chair is angled just so, his elbow on the arm rest, hand cupping his cheek. He’s humming to himself under his breath – a soft, somewhat haunting tune, filled with deep longing.

Jin Ling freezes.

Wei Wuxian looks up.

For a moment, neither of them moves.

Jin Ling’s grip tightens on the tassel. His gaze flicks – face, chair, robe, and then instinctively down, registering something wrong without understanding it. He takes a cautious step back.

Jiang Cheng’s chest tightens.

“It’s alright,” he says quickly. “He won’t hurt you.”

Wei Wuxian stills as recognition finally hits.

He quickly schools his face into something gentle, careful, the way one does around frightened animals and children.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Jin Ling watches him. Head tilted. Assessing.

Then curiosity wins.

He takes a cautious step forward. Then another. Then faster. Confidence building.

Wei Wuxian stays perfectly still.

Jin Ling stops just in front of him, squints up at his face, then reaches out and pats his empty sleeve with an exploratory hand.

Wei Wuxian sucks in a quiet breath.

“Well,” he murmurs. “That’s one way to introduce yourself.”

Jin Ling nods solemnly, apparently satisfied. He pats the sleeve again, firmer this time, discovering there really is no arm there.

“It gone,” he announces, inspection complete.

Then, Wei Wuxian gasps – so dramatically and suddenly that Jin Ling startles a bit, golden-brown eyes widening.

“It’s gone?” Wei Wuxian wails, snatching up the wide sleeve to check for himself, like he’s only just realized. When it’s confirmed – truly, conclusively gone – he tosses the sleeve away in despair. It flops limply back to his side.

“Oh no!” he groans. “Where did it go? I’ve lost it again.”

His hand lands on his forehead with an audible smack as he sighs mournfully, “I swear it was just there a moment ago. Aah, how does this keep happening to me?”

Jin Ling giggles.

The sound hits Wei Wuxian like a blow. He looks at the boy’s grinning face and feels his heart lurch.

He laughs back, startled and genuine.

“Aiya, there it is,” he says softly, playfully poking at one of those deep dimples before he can stop himself. “I’ve seen that smile somewhere before.”

Jin Ling’s grin widens. He catches Wei Wuxian’s hand before he can draw it back, fingers curling with surprising strength.

The boy examines the hand for a short moment – the missing digits, the stumps. His eyes grow round as he tries to smooth over the scarring.

“Is owie?”

Wei Wuxian smiles gently. “No, it’s not owie. This gege’s very strong and brave. It doesn’t hurt one bit.”

“Gege dunnit hab legs,” the child says, pointing.

Wei Wuxian huffs a laugh. “You’re very observant.”

Jin Ling seems proud of the compliment, even if he doesn’t know what ‘observant’ means. Then –

“Up,” he says plainly, tugging on Wei Wuxian’s hand. “Wanna sit wiff you.”

Wei Wuxian’s breath catches, panic flickering as his gaze darts to Jiang Cheng.

Jiang Cheng hesitates – only a moment. Then steps forward and lifts Jin Ling, settling him carefully onto Wei Wuxian’s truncated lap.

Wei Wuxian freezes.

Then, slowly, he relaxes.

Jin Ling chatters happily, words tumbling over one another – about snacks, about birds, about nothing at all. Wei Wuxian listens like each sentence is sacred, murmuring responses where he can.

“Mm. Yeah. Is that so? Gosh, that sounds important, you should inform the sect leader right away.”

Jin Ling grabs the red ribbon in Wei Wuxian’s hair and tugs until it slips free, immediately fascinated. His silk tassel drops forgotten onto Wei Wuxian’s thigh.

Jiang Cheng stands stiffly to the side, watching all of it, heart lodged somewhere uncomfortably high in his chest.

Eventually, Jin Ling grows restless again. He wriggles until Wei Wuxian helps him down from the chair with one-handed clumsiness. Then he trots away, hair ribbon held hostage in a small, clenched fist.

“A-Ling –” Jiang Cheng starts, moving to take it from him.

“Don’t,” Wei Wuxian says, voice a little strangled. “He can keep it.”

A nurse appears moments later and scoops Jin Ling up, cooing as she carries him away down the corridor.

The room falls quiet.

Wei Wuxian does not speak.

He stares at the place where Jin Ling disappeared, smile still on his face – but it’s gone stiff around the edges, like something held too long.

Then his gaze drops, belatedly, to the tassel still resting in his lap.

He doesn’t touch it at first.

Jiang Cheng feels it immediately.

Sees it –

That look.

He steps forward. “Wei Wuxian.”

No response.

“He’s fine,” Jiang Cheng assures him. “You didn’t –”

“I know,” Wei Wuxian says quietly.

His voice is steady now. Too steady.

He gazes down at his hand. Flexes his fingers once – and realizes they’ve closed around the silk tassel.

“He’s just…” He swallows. “He looks like them.”

Jiang Cheng goes still.

“I keep thinking,” Wei Wuxian continues, still not looking at him, “that if I’d made different choices – if I’d been smarter, or more careful, or less…” He trails off, searching for the word.

“Me,” he finishes.

The space seems to close in around them.

“They died because of me,” Wei Wuxian says. Not accusing. Not dramatic. Just stating a fact he’s been circling for a long, long time.

Jiang Cheng’s jaw tightens.

“And seeing him –” Wei Wuxian’s breath stutters. Just once. “Seeing what’s left behind… it makes it harder to pretend I’m not exactly what they all call me.”

Something cold settles in Jiang Cheng’s gut.

“That’s not –” he starts, then stops.

The words crowd his mouth and refuse to come out in any useful order. He knows what he wants to say. What he should say. But everything he reaches for sounds hollow, or false, or like a lie he’s told himself too many times.

Wei Wuxian waits.

Not expectant. Just… still.

Jiang Cheng drags a hand through his hair. “You didn’t kill them,” he says finally. It comes out rough. Unpolished. “You didn’t wake up one day and decide to ruin people’s lives.”

Wei Wuxian’s mouth curves faintly. Not quite a smile.

“I know.”

“That doesn’t mean you weren’t dangerous,” Jiang Cheng adds, because he can’t not add it. Because this is the truth as he understands it. “You lost control. People got hurt. That part’s real.”

Wei Wuxian nods once. “I know.”

“But that doesn’t make you a monster,” Jiang Cheng says, the words stiff in his throat. “It makes you… human. Stupid. Reckless. Too powerful for your own good.” He huffs a short, humorless breath. “You’ve always been those things.”

Wei Wuxian actually lets out a quiet huff of laughter at that.

“Comforting,” he murmurs.

Jiang Cheng shoots him a look. “I’m serious.”

“I know,” Wei Wuxian says again. Softer this time.

Silence stretches between them, heavy but not hostile.

Wei Wuxian’s gaze drifts back down to his lap, to the space where Jin Ling had sat. To the mangled fingers small hands had grabbed without fear.

“They didn’t see me as human,” he says quietly. “The people I hurt. They saw a thing that destroyed whatever it touched.” He swallows. “And now I know what they felt. What they saw. What I looked like as I killed –” He breaks off, closing his eyes. Then, a shaking whisper, “I don’t remember laughing, Jiang Cheng… I don’t remember… that night. After Shijie – I – I don’t remember. Any of it.”

Jiang Cheng’s chest tightens.

“But these memories,” Wei Wuxian continues, voice struggling to remain even, “Yao Mingyu’s memories. They don’t let me forget. They don’t let me argue. They just… sit there.” A pause. “And Jin Ling –”

The name seems to burn in his mouth.

Jiang Cheng waits. Forces himself not to interrupt.

Wei Wuxian exhales slowly. “He’ll grow up without them. And no matter how many reasons there are – no matter how complicated it all is –” His fingers curl more tightly around the tassel. “I can’t look at him and say I had nothing to do with that.”

Jiang Cheng opens his mouth.

Closes it again.

Because for once, there is no anger to hide behind. No command to give. No rule to enforce. Just the terrible understanding that this isn’t the kind of wall he can break down with brute force.

“I don’t think you’re a monster,” he says finally. It’s quieter than he means it to be. “I wouldn’t have let him near you if I did.”

Wei Wuxian turns to look at him.

For a moment, something warm and grateful flickers across his face.

“I know,” he says. And he means it.

But even hearing it – even believing that Jiang Cheng believes it – the weight in his chest won’t lift. The memories won’t loosen their grip. Jin Ling’s laugh will still echo too loudly in his head.

“Thank you,” Wei Wuxian adds, sincere. “For trying.”

Jiang Cheng stiffens at that. “I wasn’t –”

Wei Wuxian laughs, a soft, gentle thing. “I know.”

They settle into quiet again.

Jiang Cheng stays.

Wei Wuxian goes back to looking out the window, humming the same song as before.

~

[The Cloud Recesses]

It’s a small thing. Ordinarily unremarkable.

A serving of rice and steamed mixed greens, a portion of braised tofu, a small bowl of vegetable broth – all laid out with the same quiet care the Cloud Recesses has always shown him.

Lan Xichen sets the tray down and waits.

Lan Wangji doesn’t hesitate.

He picks up the chopsticks and eats with the same measured precision he applies to everything else – no rush, no indulgence – but he finishes the meal. All of it. When he’s done, he sets the chopsticks down neatly, hands folded in his lap.

The tray is empty.

Lan Xichen’s gaze lingers there for half a breath too long before he reaches to collect it.

“You should rest,” he says gently.

“I will,” Lan Wangji replies.

He does not specify when.

He spends the next few hours poring over the books he asked his brother to retrieve from the library. Old case records, fragmented ritual notes, sect correspondence that skirts too carefully around the word resurrection. Margins are filled with careful annotations. Dates. Names. Absences.

Between volumes, he lights a single stick of incense.

The melody he hums is quiet. Measured. Almost too soft to exist.

Inquiry.

A technique he has mastered these past two years for one specific reason.

It does not call a soul back.
It does not command or bind.

It listens.

Lan Wangji closes his eyes, spiritual energy flowing outward in controlled threads, weaving the question into the sound. Wei Ying, where are you? Not as desperation. Not as demand. As certainty.

There is no answer.

There never is.

When the incense burns down, he opens his eyes, expression unchanged, and reaches for the next book.

Then later, in the quiet of the Jingshi’s healing chamber, Lan Wangji endures the exercises without complaint.

His movements are careful, controlled, the lingering stiffness in his limbs evident but no longer crippling. He breathes through the strain, jaw set, eyes fixed somewhere just beyond the present moment.

“Enough for today,” the healer says at last.

Lan Wangji lowers his arms. Stillness returns.

The healer turns away to note his progress.

Lan Wangji resumes.

Just one more repetition. Then another.

Lan Xichen, standing near the door, sees it. Says nothing.

This is not recklessness, he knows.
This is not defiance.

This is preparation.

“We’ll be leaving shortly,” he announces, catching his brother’s attention. “The discussion conference begins tomorrow morning. To reach the Unclean Realm by nightfall, our party will have to set out before the next half shichen passes.”

Lan Wangji nods. “Safe travels.”

Lan Xichen smiles softly. “You may attend the next one, given your rate of recovery. You can look forward to it.”

“Mn.”

“I’ll come visit again as soon as we return.”

“Mn.”

Lan Xichen leaves.

Lan Wangji goes back to his exercises.

~

A week later, the discussion conference party returns from Qinghe long after the last meal of the day has been served.

The Cloud Recesses has settled into its familiar hush. Frost laces the eaves now, the air sharp with the clean bite of early winter. Lantern light pools softly along corridors. Water slips over stone outside windows, steady and unchanging despite the cold.

Lan Wangji sits upright on his bed, back straight against the subtle ache in his spine, when Lan Xichen enters.

“There is news,” Lan Xichen says.

Lan Wangji looks up at once.

His brother enters without knocking.
Without offering his usual warm greeting.

That alone is unusual.

“It comes from Qinghe,” Lan Xichen continues. “From the discussion conference. There was… an argument.”

Lan Wangji waits.

“Between Sect Leader Jiang and Sect Leader Yao,” Lan Xichen says carefully. “Over custody and jurisdiction. Regarding an issue both sects have been keeping quiet.”

Silence stretches.

“Jiang-zongzhu has been holding the Yao sect leader’s nephew in Lotus Pier,” Lan Xichen says at last, “under suspicion of demonic cultivation.”

Lan Wangji’s fingers curl slowly against the bedding.

“As far as I was able to gather,” Lan Xichen adds, “the young man has been in Jiang custody for over a year.”

A year.

“I’m afraid this news comes rather late,” Lan Xichen continues quietly. “The Yao sect was… careful. They did not wish to draw attention to the matter. If Jiang-zongzhu had not lost his temper at the conference, it might never have come to light.”

Lan Wangji swings his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet touching the floor.

“Apart from this incident,” Lan Xichen says, voicing what needs saying, “Jiang-zongzhu has not acted against any other demonic cultivator, as far as we know.” Adding quietly, “Not since what happened in Lanling.”

Not since the brothel.
Not since the boy, Yunsheng. The summoning ritual.
Not since Wei Wuxian resurfaced –
– and then disappeared once more into death.

Lotus Pier.

The pattern snaps into place with ruthless clarity.

Lan Wangji exhales.

Not relief.

Resolve.

“He’s there,” he says.

Lan Xichen studies him quietly. “You’re certain.”

“I am.”

Lan Xichen hesitates, just slightly. “Your wounds are healed, but your strength is not fully restored.”

“I know.”

“And if your assumption is wrong?”

Lan Wangji does not look away.

“Then I will confirm it,” he says. “And return.”

Lan Xichen inclines his head.

Then, more carefully, “Wangji… whatever you find a Lotus Pier – whatever anger you carry with you – exercise restraint.”

Lan Wangji does not respond.

“We do not know the full circumstances,” Lan Xichen continues. “The boy – Wei Wuxian – could have passed for any number of reasons.”

Lan Wangji’s hands tighten.

“During interrogation,” Lan Wangji says.

A short, flat reminder.
The words of the Jiang disciple at the gates of Lotus Pier two years ago.

Lan Xichen exhales softly. “You cannot afford to provoke Jiang Wanyin,” he says. “Not if you wish to earn his hospitality. To learn the truth.”

A pause.

“I will exercise restraint,” Lan wangji says.

It is not a lie.

It is not a promise either.

Lan Xichen has no choice but to accept it for what it is.

“I will leave at first light,” Lan Wangji adds.

The words are not a request.

Lan Xichen lingers for another moment, taking in the way his brother’s posture is no longer folded inward, the way his eyes no longer look empty.

Purpose has done what time could not.

“Be careful,” Lan Xichen says.

Lan Wangji nods.

Outside, winter tightens its grip.

And in Lotus Pier, time is running out.

Chapter Text

Lan Wangji arrives without announcement.

There is no fanfare, no warning bell rung ahead of him. One moment Lotus Pier is moving through its late-morning rhythms – disciples rotating patrols along the docks, servants carrying bundles of dried reeds in from the riverbanks, the low hum of routine – and the next, a Jiang disciple is standing stiffly at the threshold of the main hall, face pale with the strain of delivering unexpected news.

Jiang Cheng is midway through a report when the disturbance reaches him.

“A visitor?” he snaps. “From where.”

The disciple hesitates. That alone is enough to sour Jiang Cheng’s mood.

“…Gusu,” the boy says. “Hanguang-jun has arrived.”

The room goes very still.

Jiang Cheng blinks once, as if the words need time to arrange themselves into sense.

“Hanguang-jun,” he repeats flatly.

“Yes, Zongzhu.”

For a brief, absurd moment, Jiang Cheng thinks it must be a mistake. A rumor. A poorly timed joke.

Lan Wangji has not appeared in public for years.

Irritation flares, hot and immediate.

“Did he announce himself?” Jiang Cheng demands.

“No, Zongzhu. He arrived alone. He requested an audience.”

Alone.

Of course he did.

Jiang Cheng exhales through his nose and straightens, already schooling his expression into something cold and presentable. Whatever this is, it’s political now. Lan Wangji does not travel for sentiment, and he does not arrive unannounced without purpose.

“Bring him to the main hall,” Jiang Cheng says curtly. “I’ll receive him.”

The disciple bows and retreats.

Jiang Cheng remains where he is for a heartbeat longer, staring at nothing. His mind moves quickly, assembling possibilities, discarding them just as fast.

Gusu Lan doesn’t interfere lightly.
And they don’t forget.

When he reaches the hall, Lan Wangji is already there.

He stands alone at its center, hands folded behind his back, posture immaculate. White robes fall clean and unwrinkled, cloud patterns subdued and precise. Bichen rests at his side, untouched.

He looks just as Jiang Cheng remembers him.

Cold. Beautiful. Untouchable.

If there is any change at all, it’s subtle enough to be meaningless – perhaps a sharpness to the lines of his face, a brittleness beneath the stillness – but nothing that suggests weakness. Nothing that suggests absence. Just the fucking Second Jade of Lan, whole and self-contained as ever.

The disciples lining the hall bow hurriedly as Jiang Cheng approaches. He dismisses them with a flick of his hand. Lan Wangji turns at the sound of footsteps, pale eyes lifting to meet Jiang Cheng’s without hesitation.

“Hanguang-jun,” Jiang Cheng says, stopping a measured distance away. His tone is cool, clipped, perfectly polite. “This is… unexpected.”

“Sect Leader Jiang,” Lan Wangji replies.

The title lands cleanly, sharp as a blade placed carefully on the table between them.

Jiang Cheng smiles thinly. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit to Lotus Pier?”

Lan Wangji does not return the smile.

“I have come to inquire about a matter under your jurisdiction.”

There it is.

Jiang Cheng’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. Of course. He folds his hands behind his back, mirroring Lan Wangji’s posture with deliberate precision.

“You’ll have to be more specific,” he says. “Lotus Pier handles many matters.”

Lan Wangji meets his gaze, unblinking. “The Yao sect cultivator currently in your custody.”

The words strike clean and precise.

So it is that.

Jiang Cheng feels something coil tight in his chest.

“I see,” he says coolly. “News travels slowly to Gusu, it seems.”

“I was informed recently,” Lan Wangji says.

Jiang Cheng lets out a quiet, humorless breath. “Then allow me to assure you – since the Lan sect has taken such an interest – that the matter is being handled appropriately.”

“I would like to see him,” Lan Wangji says.

No demand in his tone. No accusation.

That, somehow, makes it worse.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Jiang Cheng replies.

Lan Wangji’s expression doesn’t change, but something tightens in the air between them – a subtle shift, like pressure before a storm.

“I am not questioning your authority,” Lan Wangji says evenly. “Only requesting confirmation.”

“Despite your glowing reputation, Hanguang-jun, you’re not authorized to walk into my sect unannounced and start making requests,” Jiang Cheng says, voice sharpening. “Not here. Not about my prisoners.”

Lan Wangji pauses.

It lasts only a fraction of a second – but Jiang Cheng catches it.

Lan Wangji studies him, gaze steady, searching – not probing, not aggressive, but intent in a way that sets Jiang Cheng’s teeth on edge.

“Then I will be direct,” Lan Wangji says at last.

Jiang Cheng’s stomach tightens.

“Let me see Wei Wuxian.”

The name lands like a physical blow.

The hall seems to contract around them, air drawn tight and sharp. Jiang Cheng feels it hit somewhere deep and unguarded – an impact he does not immediately know how to absorb.

For a heartbeat, the world goes very, very quiet.

Then Jiang Cheng laughs.

Short. Sharp. Absolutely without humor.

“So,” he says softly, eyes hardening as he looks at Lan Wangji anew. “That’s what this is.”

His laughter fades just as quickly as it came.

“You Lans,” he says, voice still soft, still polished, “always so dramatic when you don’t get your way.”

Lan Wangji does not react.

“That name,” Jiang Cheng continues, circling a step to the side, eyes never leaving Lan Wangji’s face, “is not something you should be throwing around lightly. Especially not in my sect.”

“I am not throwing it,” Lan Wangji says. “I am asking.”

Jiang Cheng scoffs. “For a dead man.”

The words are deliberate. Measured.

Lan Wangji’s fingers curl once, subtly, at his side.

“You came to Lotus Pier before,” Jiang Cheng goes on, voice cool. “Asking about a boy. One of my disciples explained the situation to you then.” His smile sharpens. “Now you arrive, again unannounced, and demand to see yet another of my demonic cultivator prisoners, this time claiming him to be Wei Wuxian. Explain that leap for me, Hanguang-jun.”

Lan Wangji meets his gaze without flinching.

“Where is the Yao cultivator,” he says.

Jiang Cheng exhales sharply, irritation snapping into place. “Don’t insult me. You didn’t cross half the cultivation world for the Yao sect.”

Lan Wangji does not deny it.

Silence stretches.

That, too, is an answer.

Jiang Cheng laughs again, harsher this time. “Unbelievable. You vanish into seclusion for years, and the moment you reappear, you’re here – digging up corpses.”

“I did not vanish,” Lan Wangji says, and for the first time, there is something frayed in it.

“You weren’t involved,” Jiang Cheng shoots back. “Not now, not then. Not when he defected. Not when he chose his path. Not when people started dying because of it.” His eyes burn. “You can’t just rewrite history whenever it’s convenient for you.”

“I am not rewriting it,” Lan Wangji says. “I am following it.”

Jiang Cheng’s jaw tightens. “Following ghosts.”

Lan Wangji takes a single step forward.

Not aggressive. Not threatening.

But undeniable.

“You went to Lanling,” Lan Wangji says evenly. “You intervened personally. You removed a boy from Jin custody and claimed jurisdiction over him.”

Jiang Cheng’s expression hardens.

“That was my right.”

“A boy,” Lan Wangji continues, “who knew demonic cultivation methods no child should have known. Methods that had not appeared since Wei Wuxian.”

The air tightens.

Jiang Cheng smiles thinly. “Careful.”

“You interrogated him,” Lan Wangji says. “Harshly.”

Jiang Cheng’s voice sharpens. “And?”

“And he died,” Lan Wangji finishes.

Silence.

It’s heavier now. More dangerous.

Jiang Cheng steps closer, anger burning through the polish. “You’re accusing me of murder now?”

“I am stating what I was told,” Lan Wangji says. “And asking why you refuse to let me see the one person connected to it.”

Jiang Cheng’s patience finally fractures.

“You don’t get to interrogate me,” he snarls. “Not after the way you treated him when he was alive.”

That lands.

Lan Wangji stiffens, breath catching almost imperceptibly.

“When he was alive,” Jiang Cheng repeats bitterly. “You scolded him. Threatened him. Tried to drag him back to Gusu like a criminal when the world was already tearing him apart. You think I didn’t see that?”

“I was trying to protect him,” Lan Wangji says.

“Protect him?” Jiang Cheng fires back. “You spent half your time telling him he was a problem and the other half watching him walk away.”

Lan Wangji’s voice drops, dangerous in its restraint. “And you declared him your enemy.”

Jiang Cheng’s eyes flash.

“I did what had to be done,” he snaps. “I carried the consequences. What, you think it was easy for me? To have to watch him burn every bridge he ever had and walk straight into disaster, and then do nothing? To see him make choices I knew would destroy him and still have to let him go – because stepping in would make me the villain too, right? Standing by his side would make the Jiang sect complicit and I had a responsibility. I had to protect what was left. I couldn’t –”

He breaks off. Eyes wide and wild, like he forgot for a moment who he was talking to.

Lan Wangji doesn’t respond.

Jiang Cheng scoffs then, the sound harsh. “Someone had to draw the line. Someone had to be shameful. Someone had to tell him no when he wouldn’t listen.”

They stand there, breath tight, the air vibrating with years of blame neither of them has ever released.

Finally, Jiang Cheng straightens.

“This conversation is over,” he says coldly. “Wei Wuxian is dead. The Yao cultivator is under my authority. And you will leave Lotus Pier.”

Lan Wangji doesn’t move.

“I will not.”

Jiang Cheng freezes.

“Say that again.”

“I am not leaving,” Lan Wangji says, voice steady, “until I see him.”

Jiang Cheng bares his teeth in a smile that is all warning.

“Then I suggest,” he says softly, “you prepare yourself for disappointment.”

The words are meant to wound.

They don’t.

Lan Wangji inclines his head, slow and deliberate.

“I already have,” he says.

Jiang Cheng’s smile vanishes.

“That wasn’t a suggestion,” he says flatly. “This audience is concluded.”

Lan Wangji does not move. “I told you,” he says, calm as still water, “I am not leaving.”

The words aren’t raised. They don’t threaten.

They simply are.

Jiang Cheng’s temper flares hot and immediate – but he reins it in with visible effort. When he speaks again, it is dangerously controlled.

“You seem to be under the impression,” he says, “that your rank gives you the right to defy me in my own sect.”

“I am under no such impression,” Lan Wangji replies.

“Then explain yourself.”

Lan Wangji meets his gaze, unwavering.

“I am here for Wei Wuxian,” he says. “I will not abandon that purpose.”

Jiang Cheng’s fingers twitch at his side.

“You don’t get to say his name,” he snaps. “Not after everything.”

“After everything.” Lan Wangji’s voice is as hard as it has ever been. “I have as much right to say it as you do.”

Jiang Cheng steps forward, the crack of his boots against the stone echoing loud in the empty hall.

Lan Wangji doesn’t reach for his sword.

But Jiang Cheng –

Jiang Cheng reaches for Lan Wangji’s collar, gripping it in his fist.

Lan Wangji doesn’t stop him.

“You think refusing to leave makes you righteous?” he demands. “You think standing here proves something? What do you want with him, anyway? Why so stubborn? Are you that desperate to seal him under that mountain that you would resort to this?”

“No,” Lan Wangji says.

“Then what the hell are you doing?”

Lan Wangji answers without hesitation.

“Waiting.”

“For what?”

“For the truth,” Lan Wangji says. “For you to stop hiding him.”

“I’m not hiding anything.”

Lan Wangji’s gaze sharpens, just a fraction. “Then let me see him.”

Jiang Cheng’s control finally fractures and he shoves Lan Wangji toward the door, his temper flaring hotter when the man barely stumbles.

“Get out.”

“No.”

The word is softer this time – but it carries more weight.

Jiang Cheng stares at him, breathing hard, lightning practically crackling under his skin. Zidian hums faintly at his finger, sensing its master’s fury.

For a long, terrible moment, it seems like Jiang Cheng might actually strike. Like the cultivation world might fracture right here, in the heart of Lotus Pier, over the ghost of a man neither of them knows how to let go of.

Then –

He steps back. Exhales slowly.

When he lifts his head again, his anger has cooled into something far more volatile.

“You want to wait?” he says. “Fine.”

His eyes are ice.

“You can wait here. Wait forever, for all I care. Wait until the gods-damned walls cave in. Either way, you won’t see him.”

Lan Wangji does not move.

Jiang Cheng leaves him standing alone in the middle of an empty hall.

~

Lan Wangji waits.

He remains where Jiang Cheng left him for several breaths after the man’s footsteps fade, long enough that the emptiness settles around him. The echoes die. The air stills.

Jiang Cheng does not return.

Lan Wangji exhales slowly.

Very well.

If Sect Leader Jiang will not take him to Wei Wuxian, then Lan Wangji will go himself.

He turns and leaves the reception hall without haste.

The corridors of Lotus Pier unfold in unfamiliar lines – wide wooden walkways polished smooth, pillars rising from the water like anchored bones. Winter has stripped the place of its usual vibrancy. The lotuses lie dormant beneath the surface, broad leaves browned and sunken. Thin sheets of ice cling to the shaded edges of the canals, cracking faintly where water still moves beneath.

Lan Wangji walks.

He searches first for what logic suggests.

The dungeons.

Hidden chambers. Holding cells reinforced with talismans and arrays. Places meant to contain.

He follows the lines of power as best he can – wards thickening near certain halls, talismans embedded into beams and doorframes – but none of it resolves into a clear direction. Lotus Pier is not laid out like the Cloud Recesses. Its design favors openness, movement, water and air over rigid hierarchy. Where Gusu Lan is built to guide, Yunmeng is built to flow.

Lan Wangji stops more than one disciple as he passes.

They bow quickly. Too quickly.

Their eyes slide away from him with avoidance, feet angling subtly to carry them elsewhere. No one denies him recognition. But no one offers assistance. No one volunteers information.

Word has traveled faster than he has.

He does not press them.

Forcing answers would only bring Jiang Cheng down on them, and him, sooner – and whatever Wei Wuxian is enduring, Lan Wangji will not worsen it through impatience.

Still.

If Wei Wuxian is not being held below ground, then where?

Lan Wangji stops.

He finds himself in an open courtyard, the space unfolding naturally around a wide pool of water fed by a narrow stream. Stone paths curve through dormant reeds and pruned shrubs, their branches bare but carefully tended. Wooden bridges arch low over the water, their railings darkened with winter damp.

It’s quiet here.

Not abandoned – but deliberately removed from the central traffic of the sect.

Lan Wangji steps to the edge of the water and stands still.

He takes stock.

He does not know what body Wei Wuxian wears now. He does not know where Jiang Cheng would hide him. He does not know what name he answers to – if any.

Inquiry hums at the edge of his awareness, familiar and dangerous all at once. He could try. He could ask the dead.

But this is Lotus Pier.

If Wei Wuxian is alive – if his soul is anchored here somehow – then drawing attention now would be reckless.

Lan Wangji lowers his gaze, thinking.

Then –

Voices. Coming from beyond the far bridge, just out of sight.

Lan Wangji turns his head.

~

Jiang Cheng does not cool off.

He stalks away from the reception hall with lightning simmering, steps sharp against the stone. He tells himself he ended it cleanly. He tells himself Lan Wangji will leave eventually – because what else can he do, really?

He turns toward the inner residence.

If nothing else, he needs to see him.

The door to Wei Wuxian’s rooms is open.

That, immediately, is wrong.

Jiang Cheng slows, irritation sharpening into something more dreadful as he crosses the threshold.

The bed is empty.

The window is closed.

The talismans hum, steady and unbroken.

The smell of herbs and medicine is still fresh, still dampening the smell of the blood.

The room is orderly – too orderly.

Wei Wuxian is not in it.

Jiang Cheng stops short.

For one suspended breath, his mind refuses to catch up to what his eyes are telling him.

Then –

“Where the hell is he?” Jiang Cheng snaps.

The attendants outside the room flinch like struck animals. One of them bows so quickly he nearly trips over his own feet.

“Z-Zongzhu – Yao-gongzi said he wanted some fresh air,” the boy stammers. “He – he took the chair.”

“And you didn’t try to stop him?” Jiang Cheng asks, voice low and lethal. “He’s injured. The healer ordered bedrest. I gave strict instructions that he should not be allowed to leave this room.”

The attendant pales further. “He – he insisted it would be alright as long as we doubled his bandages,” he admits quietly. “But he wasn’t alone!” As if that’s reassuring. “Two escorts –”

“Where.”

“J-just to the gardens –”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t wait to hear the rest.

He turns on his heel and storms back the way he came, anger burning hotter with every step.

The reception hall greets him with silence.

Lan Wangji is gone.

Jiang Cheng stops dead in the doorway.

For a heartbeat, he thinks the man really did just do as he was told and leave.

But, no.

He’s far too stubborn for that.

The realization lands like a fist to the gut.
Jiang Cheng should have left someone here to watch him.

Idiot.

And now –

“Son of a –”

His shout cracks through the hall, echoing off the beams.

“Find him,” Jiang Cheng snarls, spinning on the nearest disciples. “Now. Every courtyard, every bridge, every gods-damned walkway. If Hanguang-jun so much as breathes near the inner residence, I want to know.”

The disciples scatter instantly.

Jiang Cheng stands alone for half a second longer, chest heaving, lightning crawling restlessly along his arm.

Then, he turns sharply toward the gardens, already striding forward as he follows that cursed tether toward its source.

~

As it turns out, it’s only one voice, echoing.

It carries across the courtyard in an unbroken stream – warm and irreverent.

“– I’m just saying, if I were going to make a daring escape, don’t you think I’d do it with a little more flair? Smoke bombs. Dramatic music. At least one scandalized gasp.”

A pause. The faint creak of wood.

“And also, I am absolutely not dressed appropriately for a jailbreak. Look at this. Look at me. I asked for one layer, and you bundled me up fatter than a festival dumpling. A single shove out of this chair and I’d roll away like an overstuffed rice ball. How would you even explain that to your zongzhu, hm?”

Lan Wangji turns fully toward the sound now.

It’s coming closer – approaching along the walkway that curves through the garden. The water below is dark and glassy. Frost clings to the wooden railings, the reeds standing brittle and brown. Everything in the space is quiet, restrained.

Except for that voice.

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate the concern,” the young man continues cheerfully. “I do. It’s just that hovering like this makes it very obvious that you think I’m about to fling myself into the stream the moment you look the other way. Which is quite offensive, I’ll have you know. Also inaccurate. I’d need momentum.”

Lan Wangji steps aside just as the chair comes into view.

Two Jiang disciples flank it, alert and tense, eyes scanning the space ahead of them.

And between them –

The body hits first.

Lan Wangji’s breath stills.

The chair is built low and sturdy, robes arranged carefully over – absence. The shape is wrong. The proportions unbalanced. One arm rests where it can, the remaining few fingers curled loosely against a blanket; beneath it, there is far too much empty space.

The young man looks up, and whatever expression he had been wearing collapses.

For the briefest instant, something raw crosses his face – shock, disbelief, something perilously close to fear.

It is gone almost immediately.

“Oh,” the young man says lightly, a beat too late. “Well. If it isn’t Hanguang-jun.”

His mouth curves into an easy smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“What a pleasant surprise, seeing you here. I would bow in greeting, but as you can see…” He gestures vaguely at himself, then spreads his one hand. “Certain limitations apply.”

Lan Wangji inclines his head anyway. Deep. Respectful.

The young man mirrors it as best he can, carefully, awkwardly.

And then – silence.

The stream of chatter dries up completely.

The young man just stares.

Openly. Unabashedly. As if he needs to be certain Lan Wangji won’t vanish if he blinks.

Lan Wangji feels something twist tight in his chest.

“Your name?” he asks.

The young man blinks, then laughs softly. “Ah. That.”

He shrugs, the motion constrained by the layers wrapped around him. “I’m no one important. Truly. Just a poor cripple being wheeled out for his daily constitutionals. Very thrilling stuff.”

One of the disciples shifts uneasily. “Yao-gongzi –”

“– Yao Mingyu,” the young man supplies easily, smile flashing back into place. “Since we’re being formal.”

Lan Wangji studies him.

The tone. The cadence. The way the humor slides in sideways, covering something sharp beneath it. The way his eyes never quite stop moving – taking everything in, even now.

“I see,” Lan Wangji says.

There is a fragile pause.

“So,” Yao Mingyu says, somewhat haltingly. “You… visiting? Lotus Pier has lovely water features this time of year. Very brown. Very… bracing.”

Another pause.

“I hear Gusu is cold,” he adds unhelpfully.

One of the disciples clears his throat again, more insistently. “Yao-gongzi, you’re not well. Perhaps it would be best if we returned inside –”

Lan Wangji turns his gaze on him.

“Leave us,” he says.

The courtyard seems to hold its breath.

The disciples hesitate – glancing at each other, at the chair, at the path leading back toward the inner residence.

Doing so will cost them dearly.

But so will refusal.

Slowly, stiffly, they bow.