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Chapter Text

The night was quiet. Too quiet for a war camp.

Wei Wuxian sat cross-legged beside the small brazier in Lan Wangji’s tent, clutching a jar of Emperor’s Smile. His borrowed white robes—generously provided after his own were torn to shreds during the last skirmish—seemed to glow in the dim light. Outside, the distant sounds of cultivators tending to the wounded barely filtered through the thick canvas.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian drawled, swirling the jar. “Have you ever wondered what happens after death?”

Lan Wangji paused his careful maintenance of Bichen, golden eyes lifting to study the man before him. The war against the Wens had been raging for months now, and Wei Wuxian had grown thinner, his eyes shadowed with dark circles that no amount of mischievous smiles could hide.

“Unnecessary thoughts,” Lan Wangji replied, though his voice lacked its usual firmness.

Wei Wuxian laughed, the sound hollow even to his own ears. “Everything with you is always ‘unnecessary.’ But think about it—we could die tomorrow. Any of us.” His voice dropped, vulnerability bleeding through. “Shijie, Jiang Cheng… you.”

Lan Wangji’s hands stilled.

“Wei Ying.”

Just two words, yet they carried a weight that made Wei Wuxian’s heart stutter. He looked up, finding Lan Wangji’s gaze fixed on him with an intensity that both thrilled and terrified him.

“Second Master Lan,” Wei Wuxian teased, trying to defuse the tension with humor as he always did. “Are you worried about me? How touching.”

“Mn.”

Wei Wuxian nearly choked on his wine. “What? Did the great HanGuang-Jun just admit to worrying about me? The world must be ending.”

Lan Wangji set Bichen aside with deliberate care, then moved closer to Wei Wuxian. They sat facing each other, separated only by the small brazier whose flames cast dancing shadows across their faces.

“The war…” Lan Wangji began, then seemed to reconsider his words. “Wei Ying, you have been… reckless.”

“When am I not?” Wei Wuxian grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“More so. Since the…” Lan Wangji’s jaw tightened. They both knew what remained unsaid: since he’d begun experimenting with demonic cultivation.

Wei Wuxian took another swig from his jar. “Everyone’s been saying I’ve changed. Maybe they’re right.” He laughed bitterly. “The great Wei Wuxian, turning to cultivation methods that make everyone look at him with suspicion.”

“I do not fear you.”

Wei Wuxian’s gaze snapped up to meet Lan Wangji’s. There was no hesitation there, no doubt, just pure, unwavering certainty that made something in Wei Wuxian’s chest ache.

“You should,” Wei Wuxian whispered. “Everyone else does.”

“They are wrong.”

“And you’re right?”

“Mn.”

Wei Wuxian stared at him for a long moment, then burst into genuine laughter. “Lan Zhan! Still so few words! Some things never change, I suppose.”

A comfortable silence fell between them, punctuated only by the occasional crackle of the brazier. Outside, the camp had grown quieter still, with most cultivators retiring for the night. Tomorrow would bring another battle, another desperate fight for survival.

“Do you remember,” Wei Wuxian said suddenly, “that day in the Cave of Immortal Yi? When we found the Yin Iron piece?”

“Mn.”

Wei Wuxian smiled, remembering. “Immortal Yi was so grateful when we freed her. I wonder how she’s doing.”

“She is free now, she will be happy.”

“Always so confident,” Wei Wuxian teased. He paused, his expression becoming more thoughtful. “That day in the cave…why did she looked pleased at the end? and what was that thing of her taking our hands and muttering something?”

Lan Wangji’s gaze grew more intense, watching Wei Wuxian carefully. “I remember.”

Wei Wuxian laughed softly. “I never did ask you properly what that was all about. Some kind of Lan sect ritual of thanks?”

The silence between them grew charged, heavy with unspoken words. Wei Wuxian found himself holding his breath, heart pounding in his chest as Lan Wangji seemed to wage some internal battle.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji finally said, his voice low and intense. “That was—”

A sudden commotion outside interrupted them—shouting, the clash of weapons. Both cultivators were on their feet in an instant, reaching for their swords.

“Wen ambush!” came a distant cry.

Wei Wuxian cursed. “So much for a peaceful night.” He grabbed Chenqing, fingers tightening around the familiar bamboo flute he’d begun using with his experimental cultivation techniques. “Ready for another dance, Lan Zhan?”

Lan Wangji’s expression hardened as he lifted Bichen. “Stay close.”

They burst from the tent into chaos. The Wen forces had somehow penetrated their defenses, and cultivators from various sects were engaged in desperate combat throughout the camp. Wei Wuxian immediately spotted several Jiang disciples surrounded by Wen soldiers and rushed to their aid, Chenqing already at his lips as he prepared to call forth his resentful energy.

But before he could play a single note, a familiar voice called out.

“Wei Wuxian!”

Wen Chao stood at the edge of the camp, a smug smile on his face as he held a struggling figure in his grasp—a young Lan disciple, barely more than a boy, with a sword at his throat.

“Surrender yourself, or watch this one die,” Wen Chao called.

Wei Wuxian’s eyes narrowed. Without hesitation, he started forward, ignoring the shouts from the Jiang disciples behind him.

“Wei Ying!” Lan Wangji’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp with alarm. “Do not.”

“I can’t let him kill an innocent,” Wei Wuxian replied, not breaking his stride.

Lan Wangji moved swiftly, placing himself between Wei Wuxian and Wen Chao. “We will find another way.”

Wei Wuxian’s expression softened. “Always so righteous, Lan Zhan.” Then, in a move too quick for Lan Wangji to prevent, he sidestepped around him and continued toward Wen Chao.

“I’m here,” Wei Wuxian called out. “Let the boy go.”

Wen Chao’s smile widened. “The great Yiling Laozu, willing to sacrifice himself for a mere disciple? How touching.” With a cruel laugh, he shoved the young Lan forward. “Take him.”

Too late, Wei Wuxian realized it was a trap. As the boy stumbled forward, multiple Wen cultivators emerged from the shadows, talismans already glowing in their hands. They flung them simultaneously, and Wei Wuxian found himself caught in a binding array, unable to move.

“Wei Ying!” Lan Wangji’s voice rang out, filled with a desperation that Wei Wuxian had never heard before.

Wen Chao laughed again, victorious. “The great HanGuang-Jun comes to rescue his friend? How fortunate. We can eliminate both of you at once.”

Wei Wuxian struggled against the binding talismans, feeling the resentful energy inside him surging in response to his rage. “Run, Lan Zhan! Get the others!”

But Lan Wangji was already moving, Bichen a blur of bright light as he cut through Wen cultivators with deadly precision, making his way toward Wei Wuxian. There was a fierceness in his expression that Wei Wuxian had never seen before—not merely the controlled precision of a skilled cultivator, but raw emotion driving every strike.

“Interesting,” Wen Chao mused, watching Lan Wangji’s desperate advance. “Could it be that the Second Jade of Lan harbors feelings for the Yiling Laozu? How disappointing for your sect.”

Wei Wuxian froze at the words, his eyes finding Lan Wangji’s across the battlefield. For a moment, everything seemed to slow—the fighting, the shouting, even time itself. There was something in Lan Wangji’s eyes, something vulnerable and exposed that made Wei Wuxian’s breath catch.

Could it be true?

The momentary distraction cost Lan Wangji. A Wen cultivator appeared behind him, sword raised.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian screamed, renewing his struggle against the binding array with such force that his skin began to tear where the talismans touched him. Blood trickled down his arms, but he barely noticed the pain.

Lan Wangji turned just in time, deflecting the blow but taking a deep cut to his shoulder in the process. He staggered briefly, then continued fighting, his movements slightly less fluid but no less deadly.

Wei Wuxian felt something inside him snap. The resentful energy he had been experimenting with erupted, shattering the binding array in an explosion of dark power that sent the nearest Wen cultivators flying backward. Chenqing was in his hands in an instant, and he played a furious melody that summoned a handful of fierce corpses from the surrounding area.

“Get them,” he commanded, voice cold and hard as he directed the corpses toward the Wen forces. He could feel the shocked stares of the cultivators around him, witnessing his forbidden technique that he’d only recently begun to master.

The tide of battle turned quickly after that. Between Wei Wuxian’s fierce corpses and reinforcements from the Lan and Jiang sects who had heard the commotion, the Wen ambush was soon repelled. Wen Chao, seeing his advantage lost, beat a hasty retreat, but not before calling out a final threat.

“This isn’t over, Wei Wuxian! Your days are numbered!”

As the last of the Wen forces disappeared into the night, Wei Wuxian dismissed his fierce corpses and rushed to where Lan Wangji stood, one hand pressed to his bleeding shoulder.

“Lan Zhan! Are you alright?” Wei Wuxian’s hands hovered over the wound, afraid to touch and cause more pain.

“It is nothing,” Lan Wangji replied, though his face was paler than usual.

“Nothing? You’re bleeding! Come on, let’s get you back to the tent.” Without waiting for a response, Wei Wuxian slipped an arm around Lan Wangji’s waist to support him, ignoring the surprised looks from the other cultivators.

Back in the tent, Wei Wuxian gently helped Lan Wangji remove the outer layer of his robes to expose the wound. It was deep, still bleeding steadily.

“I need to clean this,” Wei Wuxian murmured, reaching for the medical supplies that every cultivator kept in their quarters.

Lan Wangji watched in silence as Wei Wuxian worked, his practiced hands cleaning and bandaging the wound with surprising gentleness. The war had given Wei Wuxian plenty of experience treating injuries, both his own and others’.

“You should not have done that,” Lan Wangji finally said.

Wei Wuxian didn’t look up from his task. “Done what? Saved your life?”

“Put yourself in danger.”

“I could say the same to you,” Wei Wuxian retorted, finally meeting Lan Wangji’s gaze. “What were you thinking, charging in like that? You could have been killed!”

“You were in danger.”

“So? I can handle myself!”

“Wei Ying.” Lan Wangji’s voice was softer now, but no less intense. “I cannot lose you.”

Wei Wuxian’s hands stilled on the bandage. “What Wen Chao said out there…” he began hesitantly. “About you having feelings for me. Was there… is there any truth to that?”

The silence that followed was deafening. Wei Wuxian could hear his own heartbeat, rapid and uncertain, as he waited for Lan Wangji’s response.

“Yes.”

One simple word, delivered without hesitation, and yet it changed everything. Wei Wuxian stared at Lan Wangji, searching for any sign that he had misunderstood.

“You… have feelings for me? Romantic feelings?” Wei Wuxian needed to be certain, needed to hear it explicitly.

“Mn.” Lan Wangji’s ears had turned pink, but his gaze remained steady, unwavering in its certainty.

Wei Wuxian sat back on his heels, stunned. “Since when?”

“Since the beginning.”

“The beginning? You mean… all this time?” Wei Wuxian’s mind raced through their shared history—their first meeting at Cloud Recesses, the night hunts, their time in the Cave of Immortal Yi, all the arguments and shared moments. “But you always seemed so annoyed with me!”

“I was… uncertain how to express myself.”

A laugh bubbled up from Wei Wuxian’s chest, slightly hysterical. “Lan Zhan! All those times I thought you were irritated with me, you were actually… what? Pining?”

The flush spread from Lan Wangji’s ears to his cheeks, but he nodded, a single dignified motion.

“Why didn’t you say anything sooner?” Wei Wuxian asked, his voice softening.

“The time never seemed right. And you…” Lan Wangji hesitated. “You never showed interest in men.”

Wei Wuxian laughed again, shaking his head in disbelief. “Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan. For someone so observant, you can be incredibly blind.” He reached out, tentatively placing his hand over Lan Wangji’s. “I’ve been flirting with you since Cloud Recesses.”

Lan Wangji’s eyes widened slightly. “What?”

“All those times I teased you, tried to make you laugh, dragged you into trouble… didn’t you wonder why I always sought you out specifically?”

“I thought… you enjoyed provoking me.”

“Well, yes,” Wei Wuxian admitted with a grin. “But not just because it was fun. Because I liked seeing you react. I liked being the one who could make the perfect Second Jade of Lan show emotion.”

“Wei Ying…” Lan Wangji’s voice was barely above a whisper.

Wei Wuxian’s smile softened as he leaned forward, bringing their faces closer together. “Lan Zhan, I like you too. Have for a long time. I just never thought someone like you could possibly be interested in someone like me.”

“Someone like you?”

“You know—chaotic, rule-breaking, trouble-making me.”

Lan Wangji’s free hand came up to cup Wei Wuxian’s cheek, the touch so gentle it made Wei Wuxian’s heart ache. “I like you precisely as you are.”

Wei Wuxian leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. When he opened them again, there was a mischievous glint there. “Does this mean I can finally kiss you? Because I’ve been wondering what that would be like since the first time I saw you.”

Instead of answering, Lan Wangji leaned forward, closing the remaining distance between them. His lips met Wei Wuxian’s in a kiss that was both gentle and firm, tentative yet certain. Wei Wuxian made a soft sound of surprise before melting into it, his hands coming up to tangle in Lan Wangji’s hair.

When they finally parted, both slightly breathless, Wei Wuxian pressed his forehead against Lan Wangji’s. “If I had known kissing you would be this good, I would have done it years ago.”

“Shameless,” Lan Wangji murmured, but there was no censure in his tone, only fondness.

Wei Wuxian laughed, bright and genuine. “You say that now, but you like it.”

“Mn.”

They stayed like that for a moment, in their own world, safe within the confines of the tent while the camp outside settled back into an uneasy peace. But reality couldn’t be held at bay forever, and Wei Wuxian’s expression gradually sobered.

“Lan Zhan… we’re in the middle of a war. People are dying every day. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me, with the path I’ve chosen.”

“We will face it together.”

Wei Wuxian pulled back slightly, searching Lan Wangji’s face. “You don’t understand. The demonic cultivation… it’s changing me. I can feel it. Everyone can see it. What if one day I become something you can’t recognize anymore?”

“Impossible.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I know you,” Lan Wangji said with simple conviction. “You may practice something that changes your body, but your heart remains the same.”

Wei Wuxian wanted to believe him, wanted it so badly that it hurt. But doubts lingered, shadows that not even Lan Wangji’s light could fully dispel.

“Lan Zhan, this path I’m taking with resentful energy… I know it worries you. I know it’s dangerous. If I ever go too far… if I ever become something that threatens others… you have to stop me.”

“Wei Ying—”

“Promise me,” Wei Wuxian insisted, gripping Lan Wangji’s hands tightly. “Promise that you won’t let me hurt innocent people, even if it means hurting me.”

Lan Wangji’s expression grew troubled. “I will not harm you.”

“Then promise me you’ll try to save me first. But if you can’t…” Wei Wuxian’s voice broke. “I couldn’t bear it if I became a monster.”

After a long moment, Lan Wangji nodded once. “I promise to save you. Always.”

It wasn’t exactly what Wei Wuxian had asked for, but it was enough for now. He leaned forward, claiming Lan Wangji’s lips in another kiss, this one tinged with desperation and need, as if he could imprint this moment into his very being.

When they parted, Wei Wuxian smiled, though his eyes remained serious. “Now that I know you like me… I feel like I should have realized it sooner.”

“Mn?”

“The way you’ve always looked at me,” Wei Wuxian mused. “The way you always come for me when I’m in trouble. It makes sense now.”

Lan Wangji’s expression softened in a way few had ever witnessed. “I will always come for you.”

For a moment, Lan Wangji was silent, simply taking in the sight of Wei Wuxian before him. Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached up and removed his forehead ribbon again, the sacred symbol of the Lan clan that was never to be touched by others.

“Do you understand now what this means?” Lan Wangji asked, holding the white ribbon between them.

Wei Wuxian nodded, throat tight with emotion. “It means ‘restraint, discipline, forbearance.’”

“It means more,” Lan Wangji said softly. “For a Lan, it can only be touched by oneself, family and one’s fated person.”

Wei Wuxian’s breath caught. “So…”

“Mn. I knew then what you meant to me.”

With trembling fingers, Wei Wuxian reached out to touch the ribbon. It was softer than he had imagined, warm from Lan Wangji’s skin. “I accept,” he whispered. “But what does this mean exactly?”

Lan Wangji’s eyes softened. “Do you remember in the Cave of Immortal Yi, when I bound our wrists together with this same ribbon?”

Wei Wuxian nodded, confusion evident on his face.

“That day, I performed the Lan clan marriage ritual,” Lan Wangji said quietly. “We have been married in the eyes of my clan since that day.”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes widened in shock. “Married? All this time? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I… was not certain you understood. Or if you would want it, once you knew.”

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian exclaimed, half laughing, half crying. “You married me without telling me?”

“Mn. I apologize.”

Wei Wuxian shook his head in disbelief. “Only you, Lan Zhan.” Then his expression softened. “Well, since we’re already married… perhaps we should renew our vows. Properly this time, with both of us knowing what’s happening.”

Lan Wangji took Wei Wuxian’s hand in his, then carefully, reverently wrapped the ribbon around their joined hands, binding them together again. “Wei Ying,” he said, his voice solemn. “You are my husband, and I am yours.”

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian responded, matching his solemnity despite the tears that threatened to spill. “You are my husband, and I am yours.”

With their hands still bound by the ribbon, they sealed their vows with a kiss that felt like a promise, a continuation, and a prayer all at once.

Outside, the war continued but just for tonight, it let those boys love in peace.

Later, as they lay together on Lan Wangji’s pallet, Wei Wuxian traced patterns on his husband’s chest, mind still reeling from everything that had happened.

“Lan Zhan,” he murmured.

“Mn?”

“If we survive this war… what happens then?”

Lan Wangji’s arm tightened around him. “We return to Cloud Recesses. Together.”

Wei Wuxian smiled, though doubt lingered. Would the Lan clan accept him, especially with his growing reputation for using unorthodox cultivation methods? Would Lan Qiren ever approve of his nephew marrying someone like Wei Wuxian? A man?

“And if your uncle objects?” he asked lightly, trying to mask his concern.

“It does not matter. We are already married.”

Wei Wuxian propped himself up on one elbow to look at Lan Wangji properly. “You would defy your uncle for me?”

“Yes.”

The simplicity of the answer, delivered without hesitation, made Wei Wuxian’s heart swell with emotion. “Lan Zhan,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss him softly. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Ridiculous,” Lan Wangji murmured against his lips. “Wei Ying deserves everything.”

Wei Wuxian smiled into the kiss, allowing himself, just for tonight, to believe in a future where they could be happy together. Tomorrow would bring what it would, but tonight belonged to them alone.

As Wei Wuxian drifted toward sleep in the arms of his husband, he made a silent promise to himself: he would find a way to survive this war, to control the resentful energy he was learning to harness, to be worthy of the love Lan Wangji had given him so freely.

Chapter Text

Thunder cracked across the sky as Wei Wuxian led the small group of Wen refugees through the forest. The rain had begun as a light drizzle when they fled, but now it poured mercilessly, soaking through their thin clothes and turning the ground beneath their feet to slick mud. Behind him, elderly Wens struggled to keep pace, supporting each other as they trudged onward, eyes downcast and filled with resignation.

Wen Qing walked beside him, her face a mask of determination despite the exhaustion evident in her every movement. Her brother, Wen Ning—or what remained of him—followed silently, his movements stiff but purposeful. The fierce corpse’s eyes, once filled with gentle kindness, now glowed with an eerie light that only dimmed when they rested on Wei Wuxian.

“We’re almost there,” Wei Wuxian said, his voice barely audible over the storm. “The Burial Mounds. It’s not much, but it’s the only place they won’t follow us.”

Wen Qing’s gaze was sharp when she turned to him. “You’re certain?”

“No one willingly enters the Burial Mounds,” he replied with a hollow laugh. “Not even the bravest cultivator.”

Except perhaps one, he thought but did not say. One cultivator who had never feared him, even at his worst. One who had sought him out even when everyone else turned away.

His hand unconsciously drifted to his abdomen, a gesture that had become habit in recent weeks, though he barely noticed it himself.

As they approached the ominous boundary where living forest gave way to dead, blighted land, Wei Wuxian’s mind drifted back to what had brought them to this point. Back to the moment when everything changed…

six days earlier

The grand halls of Koi Tower glittered with opulence that felt obscene after months of war. Wei Wuxian strode through them with purpose, ignoring the whispers that followed in his wake. The Jin sect disciples who guarded the corridors stepped aside rather than confront him directly—his reputation had grown since the war’s end, and few were willing to test whether the rumors about the demonic cultivator were true.

He found Jin Zixun in one of the inner courtyards, surrounded by sycophants who laughed too loudly at his jokes and refilled his wine cup too eagerly.

“Jin Zixun,” Wei Wuxian called, his voice cutting through their chatter like a blade. “I’m looking for Wen Ning. Where is he?”

The laughter died immediately. Jin Zixun’s face twisted with contempt as he rose to his feet, swaying slightly from the wine. “Wei Wuxian. Who let you in?”

“Answer my question.”

Jin Zixun’s lip curled. “Why would I know anything about some Wen dog?”

“Because he was under Jin sect supervision,” Wei Wuxian replied coldly. “Until he mysteriously disappeared two weeks ago.”

“Perhaps he ran away,” Jin Zixun suggested with a mocking smile. “Like the coward he was.”

“Wen Ning was many things, but never a coward.” Wei Wuxian stepped closer, and several Jin disciples instinctively reached for their swords. “I’ll ask one more time: where is he?”

“Why do you care?” Jin Zixun sneered. “Have you become a Wen sympathizer now? First, you criticize how we handle the Wen prisoners, now you come demanding answers about one specific Wen… People might start to talk, Wei Wuxian.”

“Let them talk,” Wei Wuxian replied. “I owe Wen Qing and Wen Ning my life. Now, where is he?”

Jin Zixun exchanged glances with his companions, then laughed. “You’re too late. That Wen dog made trouble. Had to be put down.”

The words hit Wei Wuxian like physical blows. “You killed him?”

“He was a Wen,” Jin Zixun said, as if that explained everything. “The world is better without his kind.”

Something dark and cold unfurled inside Wei Wuxian’s chest. “Wen Ning never harmed anyone. He was gentle. A healer.”

“He was the enemy.”

“The war is over.” Wei Wuxian’s voice had gone dangerously quiet.

“Not until every Wen is wiped from existence,” Jin Zixun declared, raising his cup as if in toast. His companions murmured in agreement. “You should understand that, Wei Wuxian. Or has living after the war made you soft?”

Wei Wuxian’s hand moved to Chenqing, fingers wrapping around the familiar bamboo. “Where is his body?”

Jin Zixun’s smile turned cruel. “You think we’d waste ground burying Wen trash? They burned him. Scattered his ashes.”

The lie was obvious, but its implication was clear: even if Wen Ning’s body existed somewhere, they would never tell him where to find it.

“You will regret this,” Wei Wuxian said softly, his voice barely more than a whisper but carrying to each person in the courtyard.

“Is that a threat?” Jin Zixun’s hand fell to his sword.

Wei Wuxian smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “A promise.”

He left without another word, ignoring the guards who followed him at a safe distance to ensure he exited Koi Tower. Outside, Wen Qing waited, her face falling as she read the answer in his expression before he could speak.

“They killed him,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

Wei Wuxian took her hands in his. “I will find him, Wen Qing. Whatever it takes.”

“But if he’s dead—”

“Death,” Wei Wuxian said quietly, “is not always the end.”

For days, Wei Wuxian searched. He bribed servants, threatened minor Jin disciples, tracked every rumor of secret burial grounds where the Jin sect disposed of inconvenient bodies. Wen Qing remained hidden in an inn outside Lanling, her existence unknown to the Jin sect who believed she had perished in the final battles of the Sunshot Campaign.

When he finally found what remained of Wen Ning, it was in a forgotten storage cave at the edge of Jin territory—a place where the Jin sect disposed of bodies they wanted no one to find. Wen Ning had been tortured before death, his body broken and discarded like refuse among dozens of other Wen corpses.

Wei Wuxian carried him back to Wen Qing with his own hands, refusing to let anyone else touch him. The sight of her brother’s broken body made even the composed Wen Qing collapse in grief.

“I can bring him back,” Wei Wuxian told her that night, as they sat beside Wen Ning’s prepared body. “Not as he was. But enough that he will remember you. Remember himself.”

Wen Qing looked up at him, her eyes red-rimmed but clear. “As a fierce corpse?”

“As something more,” Wei Wuxian replied. “A conscious fierce corpse. He would retain his memories, his personality… but he would not be alive. Not truly.”

“Will he suffer?”

“I don’t know,” Wei Wuxian admitted. “This has never been done before.”

Wen Qing was silent for a long moment, her physician’s mind no doubt weighing the ethical implications against her sister’s heart that simply wanted her brother back in any form. Finally, she nodded. “Do it. Please.”

That night, on a remote mountaintop far from watching eyes, Wei Wuxian performed the ritual. The resentful energy he commanded was stronger than ever before, fueled by his rage at Wen Ning’s treatment and his own determination. As Chenqing’s haunting melody filled the air, resentful energy swirled around Wen Ning’s body, seeping into cold flesh, binding shattered bones, and rekindling the spark of consciousness in eyes that had grown dull in death.

When Wen Ning opened his eyes, recognition flashed in them as they landed on his sister.

“A-Ning?” Wen Qing whispered, reaching out with trembling hands.

Wen Ning’s mouth worked silently for a moment before he managed a single word: “Jie.”

Wen Qing threw herself into her brother’s arms, sobbing as he awkwardly patted her back. His movements were stiff, unnatural, but the gentleness behind them was unmistakably Wen Ning.

Wei Wuxian watched them, exhausted by the ritual but satisfied. Whatever came next, he had kept his promise.

What came next, however, was worse than he could have imagined.

Three days later, Jin Zixun and a party of Jin cultivators cornered them in a small town where they had stopped to rest. Wei Wuxian had known they were being hunted—news of a demonic cultivator traveling with a fierce corpse spread quickly—but he had hoped for more time to get Wen Qing and her brother to safety.

“There he is!” Jin Zixun shouted, pointing an accusing finger at Wei Wuxian. “The traitor who stole the corpse of a Wen criminal and performs heretical cultivation!”

The villagers scattered as the Jin cultivators advanced, swords drawn. Wei Wuxian pushed Wen Qing behind him, while Wen Ning moved to his side, his body tensing for battle.

“Leave us be,” Wei Wuxian warned. “We’re simply passing through.”

“You’ve gone too far this time,” Jin Zixun snarled. “Necromancy? Allying with Wens? The Jin sect has declared you a criminal, Wei Wuxian.”

Wei Wuxian laughed bitterly. “For what crime? Helping those who helped me? Bringing justice to a man who was murdered without cause?”

“That thing is an abomination,” Jin Zixun pointed at Wen Ning. “And you will both be destroyed.”

The fight was brief but brutal. Wei Wuxian had not intended for bloodshed, but when one of the Jin disciples aimed an arrow at Wen Qing, something in him snapped. Chenqing’s melody changed, becoming sharper, darker. Wen Ning moved with inhuman speed, tearing through the Jin disciples like paper.

Jin Zixun escaped, barely, but six of his men lay dead in the village square. As Wei Wuxian lowered Chenqing, he saw the fear in the eyes of the villagers who had witnessed everything from hiding places in surrounding buildings.

That night, as they fled, Wei Wuxian knew there was no going back. News would spread. The cultivation world would hunt them. And he had just given them every reason to fear him.

Two days earlier

“Come with me.”

Lan Wangji’s voice was soft but urgent as he stood in the doorway of the small cottage where Wei Wuxian had been hiding with Wen Qing and Wen Ning. Over the days since the incident at the village, more Wens had found their way to them—elderly, children, those deemed too weak to be useful as laborers for the Jin sect but who had somehow survived the purges.

“How did you find me?” Wei Wuxian asked, though he wasn’t truly surprised. If anyone could track him, it would be Lan Wangji.

“I have always found you,” Lan Wangji replied simply.

Wei Wuxian smiled despite himself. “Ah, Lan Zhan. Always so direct.”

They sat outside the cottage, watching the stars emerge in the evening sky. The Wens kept their distance, still wary of any cultivator wearing a sect uniform, even one who was married to their protector.

“The Jin sect has issued an arrest warrant,” Lan Wangji said after a comfortable silence.

“They claim you murdered Jin cultivators without provocation.”

“Of course they do.” Wei Wuxian’s laugh was hollow. “Did they mention that those same cultivators were trying to kill an unarmed woman?”

“No.”

“And you? Do you believe their version?”

Lan Wangji’s golden eyes met his. “I believe you.”

Something tight in Wei Wuxian’s chest eased slightly. “The other sects?”

“They follow Jin Guangshan’s lead. Even Jiang-zongzhu…”

Wei Wuxian’s smile turned bitter. “Even shidi believes I’m a murderer? Well, I suppose I should be grateful Jiang Cheng doesn’t know where to find me, or he’d drag me back to Lotus Pier himself.”

“Come to Cloud Recesses,” Lan Wangji said. “My brother will listen. We can explain—”

“Explain what, Lan Zhan?” Wei Wuxian gestured to the cottage where Wen Ning sat motionless, guarding the Wen elders. “That I raised a man from the dead? That I’m harboring Wens? That I killed men from the most powerful sect in the cultivation world? There’s no explanation that will satisfy them.”

“We will find a way.”

Wei Wuxian reached out, placing his hand over Lan Wangji’s. “There is no way. The cultivation world has made up its mind about me. About what I’ve become.”

“Then we leave. Together. Somewhere far from here.”

The offer was tempting—so tempting that Wei Wuxian had to close his eyes against the sudden burn of tears. To run away with Lan Wangji, to leave behind the politics and grudges of the cultivation world, to simply be together… it was everything he wanted.

And everything he couldn’t have.

“I can’t abandon them,” he said softly. “The Wens. They have nowhere else to go, no one else to protect them. If I leave, they die.”

“Then I stay. With you.”

Wei Wuxian shook his head. “No, Lan Zhan. I won’t drag you down with me. Your reputation, your sect… you would lose everything.”

“You are everything.”

The simple declaration made Wei Wuxian’s heart ache. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Lan Wangji’s. “Always so stubborn.”

They stayed like that for a long moment, breathing the same air, savoring each other’s presence. When Wei Wuxian finally pulled back, his decision was made.

“Go back to Cloud Recesses, Lan Zhan. At least for now. I need time to find a safe place for the Wens, somewhere the Jin sect can’t reach them. Once they’re settled, then… then we can talk about our future.”

Lan Wangji’s expression remained impassive, but Wei Wuxian could see the disappointment in his eyes. “You promise to send word?”

“I promise.”

They spent that night together, a brief moment of peace in the growing storm. When dawn came, Lan Wangji reluctantly prepared to leave.

“Two weeks,” Wei Wuxian said as they stood at the edge of the forest. “Give me two weeks to establish a safe haven, then I’ll send word.”

Lan Wangji nodded, then reached up to remove something from around his neck—a small jade pendant carved with the cloud motif of the Lan clan. He placed it in Wei Wuxian’s palm, closing his fingers around it.

“For protection,” he said.

Wei Wuxian smiled, tucking the pendant inside his robes, close to his heart. “I’ll keep it safe until we meet again.”

What neither of them knew was that within those two weeks, everything would change again. The Jin sect would close in, forcing Wei Wuxian and the Wens to flee once more. Rumors would spread through the cultivation world of Wei Wuxian’s growing powers, his army of fierce corpses, his defiance of natural law. Even that he is eating babies and young women which made him genuinely laugh.

And Wei Wuxian would discover something that would both terrify and amaze him—something growing inside him that should have been impossible.

Present

The Burial Mounds loomed before them, a desolate landscape shrouded in mist and resentful energy. Most cultivators would feel immediate discomfort here, their golden cores rejecting the malevolent forces that permeated the air. But for Wei Wuxian, there was something almost welcoming about it—a familiar darkness that resonated with the power he now wielded.

“We’ll make camp there,” he said, pointing to a relatively flat area where the misty ground gave way to rocky outcroppings. “The resentful energy will keep most pursuers at bay, and I can set up talismans for additional protection.”

The Wens looked around with apprehension, but no one complained. They had nowhere else to go, and even the Burial Mounds were preferable to what awaited them if captured by the Jin sect.

As they began to set up what meager shelters they could manage with their limited supplies, Wen Qing pulled Wei Wuxian aside.

“You’re not well,” she said bluntly. “You’ve been hiding it, but I’m a healer. I can see the signs.”

Wei Wuxian attempted a dismissive laugh, but it came out weak. “Just tired, Wen Qing. We’ve been running for days.”

Her sharp eyes narrowed. “It’s more than that. You’re pale, you barely eat, and I’ve seen you vomiting in the mornings when you think no one is watching.”

Wei Wuxian fell silent, unsure how to respond. But then he just chuckled.

“I’m tired, so let’s finish everything here and go to sleep, we have a lot of work to do.”

And so they did. A week after they already had some small houses build for Wens while he slept in a cave.

Wei Wuxian stared at the rock ceiling of the cave, unable to sleep despite his exhaustion. The Burial Mounds were quiet at night, eerily so compared to the bustle of Lotus Pier or even Cloud Recesses. He turned to his side, pulling the thin blanket tighter around his shoulders, trying not to think about the warmth of another body that should be beside him.

But as always, when the night grew deepest, his thoughts wandered to Lan Wangji.

“Wei Ying.”

The memory came unbidden—Lan Wangji’s deep voice whispering his name in the secluded spring behind the Jingshi, steam rising around them as Wangji’s hands traced reverent patterns across his skin. Wei Wuxian closed his eyes, allowing himself this small indulgence.

Lan Zhan had pulled him close that night, golden eyes intense with barely restrained emotion. “Mine,” he had whispered against Wei Wuxian’s neck, making him shiver despite the heat of the water. “Always mine.”

“Yours,” Wei Wuxian had agreed breathlessly, arching into his husband’s touch. “Lan Zhan, I’m yours.”

Wei Wuxian pressed his face into his pillow, trying to muffle a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. How cruel his mind was, to replay such vivid memories when he had chosen to leave it all behind. When he had walked away from the one person who had chosen him, again and again.

Another memory surfaced—the two of them in the quiet of early morning, tangled in Lan Wangji’s immaculate sheets. Wei Wuxian had awakened first for once, taking the rare opportunity to study his husband’s sleeping face in the gentle dawn light.

“What are you looking at?” Lan Wangji had asked without opening his eyes, startling a laugh from Wei Wuxian.

“You. Always you, Lan Zhan.”

Lan Wangji had pulled him down then, kissing him with surprising hunger for someone who had just awakened. “Never leave,” he had murmured against Wei Wuxian’s lips. “Stay with me.”

“I’m sorry,” Wei Wuxian whispered into the darkness now. “I’m so sorry, Lan Zhan.”

He had broken that promise. Left without a word, convinced that distance was the only gift he could give the man he loved. Everyone who got too close to Wei Wuxian ended up hurt or worse. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—let that happen to Lan Wangji.

So he endured the nights alone, with only memories for company, telling himself it was better this way.

A week passed, then another. Wei Wuxian threw himself into work, helping the Wens establish their small settlement. There were shelters to build, fields to plant, defensive talismans to draw. He worked until he was too exhausted to dream, too tired to remember.

It started subtly. A persistent fatigue that he attributed to overwork. A strange aversion to foods he normally enjoyed. Dizziness when he stood too quickly.

“You need to rest more,” Wen Qing told him sternly after catching him leaning against a tree, eyes closed against a wave of vertigo.

“I’m fine,” Wei Wuxian insisted with his usual grin. “Just didn’t sleep well.”

But he wasn’t fine, and deep down, he knew it. Something was different. Wrong. His spiritual energy fluctuated wildly, making cultivation nearly impossible on some days. And then came the mornings when he could barely keep down water, rushing outside to empty his stomach before anyone could see.

He hid it well, or thought he did, until the night everything came to a head.

The Wens had gathered for their evening meal, a simple affair of rice porridge with vegetables they’d managed to grow. One of Wen children sat beside Wei Wuxian, chattering happily about a frog he’d found that day. Wei Wuxian smiled, ruffling the boy’s hair, when suddenly the smell of the food hit him differently—overwhelmingly strong, cloying.

His stomach lurched violently. Wei Wuxian barely managed to set down his bowl before bolting outside into the cool night air. He made it just past the tree line before retching painfully, one hand braced against a rough trunk.

When he finished, he became aware of a presence behind him. Wen Qing stood there, arms crossed, expression unreadable in the moonlight.

“How long has this been happening?” she asked quietly.

Wei Wuxian wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “It’s nothing. Just something I ate.”

“Don’t lie to me,” she said sharply. “I’ve been watching you. The fatigue. The nausea. The dizziness. Come with me now.”

It wasn’t a request. Wei Wuxian followed her to her small hut, where she gestured for him to sit on the examination pallet. She took his pulse with professional detachment, asked pointed questions that he answered reluctantly, and finally placed a hand on his abdomen, sending in a careful thread of spiritual energy.

Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly.

“Well?” Wei Wuxian asked, trying to sound unconcerned. “What strange illness have I managed to contract this time?”

Wen Qing stepped back, regarding him with an expression he couldn’t quite interpret. For a moment, she looked almost… sympathetic?

“It’s not an illness,” she said slowly. “You’re with child.”

Wei Wuxian stared at her, certain he’d misheard. “I’m… what?”

“Pregnant,” she said more firmly. “About six to eight weeks along, I’d estimate. It’s rare, but not unheard of among powerful cultivators with compatible golden cores. Or in your case…” She hesitated. “With your unique cultivation method and energy, combined with what I assume is Hanguang-jun’s extremely powerful spiritual energy…”

Wei Wuxian’s mind went blank. He felt as though he were floating, disconnected from his body.

“That’s not possible,” he finally managed, though even as he said it, he knew it was. He and Lan Wangji had spent many nights together before he left. And everything Wen Qing described—the symptoms, the timing—it all fit.

“I assure you, it is not only possible but happening,” Wen Qing replied. She sat beside him, her clinical demeanor softening slightly. “Wei Wuxian… you should send word to Hanguang-jun. He deserves to know.”

The mention of Lan Wangji snapped Wei Wuxian back to reality. He shook his head vehemently.

“No. No, he can’t know. No one can know.” His hand moved unconsciously to his stomach. “I’ve already brought enough chaos into his life. This would only…” He trailed off, unable to even articulate what this news would mean for Lan Wangji’s reputation, his standing in his clan.

Wen Qing watched him, her expression grave. “This isn’t something you can hide forever.”

“I don’t need forever,” Wei Wuxian said, his mind already racing ahead. “Just… time. Time to figure this out. Please, Wen Qing. Don’t tell anyone yet.”

After a long moment, she nodded reluctantly. “As your healer, I’ll respect your wishes for now. But Wei Wuxian…” Her eyes held his firmly. “You cannot run from this. Sooner or later, you will have to face it—and him.”

Wei Wuxian looked away, his thoughts turning to Lan Wangji. His Lan Zhan, who had already endured so much because of his association with the Yiling Patriarch. No, he couldn’t add this burden too. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

As he left Wen Qing’s hut and walked back toward his own small dwelling, Wei Wuxian gazed up at the crescent moon hanging in the night sky. Somewhere, under this same moon, Lan Wangji might be thinking of him too.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again to the night air. “But this is for the best. You’re better off without the chaos I bring, Lan Zhan.”

His hand rested lightly on his still-flat stomach. He would protect this secret, this impossible miracle, as fiercely as he protected the Wens. One more reason to stay away, to keep his distance from the man he loved.

Even if it broke his heart a little more each day.

Chapter Text

It had been six months since Wei Wuxian last laid eyes on Lan Wangji. Six long months of waiting, of waking up to the howling wind against stone and soil, of rebuilding a home from the ashes of war in the forsaken Burial Mounds. Six months of carrying a quiet, steady heartbeat inside him.

The morning was typical—dull gray light spilling into the carved-out cave that Wuxian now called home. He stirred awake at the same time he always did now, sometime around the seventh hour. Once upon a time, he would have laughed at the idea of becoming an early riser. Now, he smiled to himself, rubbing a hand against the round swell of his stomach. Madam Yu, wherever she might be, would probably approve—though she’d have a lot more to say if she knew why he was rising early.

He washed quickly with cold water, threw on his outer robe, and stepped into the cold air of the Mounds. Children’s laughter rang faintly in the distance, and the scent of radishes hit his nose. The older Wen survivors were already up and working in the makeshift fields, tilling soil and building newer, stronger huts. The youngest ones had begun a morning lesson with Granny Popo, nestled in a wide cave filled with books, old scrolls, and cushions.

Peaceful. As peaceful as the Burial Mounds could be.

Which is why the sudden crack in the far ward hit him like a thunderclap.

Wei Wuxian dropped the bucket of radishes he’d been carrying and bolted, Chenqing already lifted to his lips. His mind raced—no one, no one would be foolish enough to walk into the Burial Mounds unless they had a death wish. Or unless…

No. Not him. It couldn’t be—

Lan Zhan?

Had he grown tired of waiting?

His heart galloped in his chest as he sprinted toward the boundary. But when he reached the entrance, it wasn’t pristine white and pale blue robes that met his eyes.

It was green. Deep green with gold trim. And a very familiar, very angry fan slapping across his face.

“WEI WUXIAN! SIX MONTHS! SIX DAMN MONTHS OF NOTHING FROM YOU! HOW DARE YOU?!”

“Nie-xiong—” Wei Wuxian barely had time to protest before Nie Huaisang hit him again with his fan.

“Nothing! Not a single letter! Not even a rumor about your ghost! I’ve been worried sick, Wei-xiong!”

Ah. That was it.

Wuxian laughed, caught between surprise and a fond ache. He hadn’t realized how deeply he’d missed this.

“I’m sorry, Nie-xiong. It’s not like I could just waltz into Qinghe and say hi. Your brother would have me skinned.”

“True,” Huaisang sniffed, but he wouldn’t let go of his dramatic entrance. “But a letter? A message via ghost? A post-it note on a passing corpse? Nothing! I’m offended!”

“Truly? I offer my deepest apologies, my lord.” Wuxian gave a theatrical bow.

Their eyes met—and then they were laughing. Loud, genuine, ridiculous laughter that startled nearby crows.

For the first time in a long while, Wuxian felt like himself again. For a moment, he could forget the heavy weight of the past and future both.

But then the laughter quieted. His smile faded.

Lan Zhan…

The ache in his chest returned. Nie Huaisang caught the shift immediately, but before he could say anything, two small bodies launched themselves at Wuxian’s legs.

“Xian-gege!”

Mei and Liu, two of the youngest rescued children, clung to him tightly. Right behind them came two older teens—Wen Zeyu and Wen Tianlei—both panting and clearly exhausted.

“Ah, so you ran again,” Wuxian said, crouching down slowly to meet the children’s eyes.

“Sorry, Zeyu-ge. Sorry, Lei-ge,” the children said in chorus, their eyes big and guilty.

“It’s okay,” Zeyu sighed. “But you still have to take a bath. No escaping that.”

“Come on,” Tianlei added with a grin. “I’ll help you. Afterward, we can play.”

The kids cheered and dashed back to the hut. The teens gave respectful bows before following them.

Wuxian turned to Huaisang, expecting amusement—but instead, Huaisang looked like he’d seen a ghost.

“There are children,” Huaisang whispered. “There are children in the Burial Mounds.”

Wuxian blinked. “Of course? Who did you think I brought here? Wen Chao?”

“But… they said… war criminals… cultivators…”

“There are no warriors. No soldiers. Only children, elders, women—those who had no say in the war.”

Huaisang staggered slightly. “But my brother… he said—”

Before he could finish, Granny Popo approached, holding a small tray.

“A-Xian, will you eat with us today?”

“Not today, Oma Po. Nie-xiong came to visit. We’re catching up.”

She turned to Huaisang and offered him a kind bow before tottering away. Her smile was like sunlight through leaves.

Huaisang watched her go, stunned.

“Wei-xiong,” he said at last, “we need to talk.”

They retreated into Wuxian’s cave, where a low fire warmed the space. Wuxian poured tea—properly, which Huaisang noted with raised brows—and they talked.

They talked for hours. Of battles and regrets, of survival and secrets. Wuxian told him about the rescue. About finding broken people in the ashes, and piecing together something that resembled a life.

Huaisang listened. Cried. Laughed.

And when the third cup of tea was drained, he reached into his sleeve.

“Something for the road,” he said, revealing a bottle of Emperor’s Smile.

Wuxian grinned. “You came prepared.”

“Always,” Huaisang said, pouring a cup. “Ready to drink, Wei-xiong?”

Wuxian shook his head. “Not today.”

Huaisang stared. “You never say no to Emperor’s Smile.”

“I have a reason now.” Wuxian’s voice softened. “I’m going to be a father.”

Huaisang choked, wine spraying out of his mouth. “You what?! Who—what?! Did you get over Lan Zhan already?!”

“No! I mean—I didn’t get someone pregnant. I’m the one who’s…”

He trailed off. Cheeks red.

Huaisang gaped.

Then burst out laughing. Until he realized Wuxian wasn’t joking.

“Oh… no.”

Wuxian told him everything.

And when the story was over, Huaisang simply said:

“Well, finally.”

Wuxian laughed in relief—until the fan came down on his head again.

“Ow!”

“You didn’t tell Lan Wangji?! What is wrong with you?!”

“I was going to! But I didn’t want to drag him into this, not yet. Not until it’s safe. I’m not losing him, Huaisang. I won’t.”

Huaisang sighed. Then smiled gently.

“I’m not going to say anything. Your secret is safe with me. But you will tell him eventually. Understood?”

Wuxian nodded. “Of course.”

Half an hour later, Huaisang lay on his stomach, chatting with Wuxian’s belly like it was already a full-grown toddler.

“And then, I’m going to teach you the most important things: how to paint, how to sneak dessert, and how to avoid your uncle’s death glares.”

Wuxian laughed until his eyes stung.

He had his best friend. He had his family. He had hope.

Now, all that remained was the man he loved.

And one day, one day soon, he’d come back for them.

All of them.

Nie Huaisang returned to the Burial Mounds two weeks after his initial visit. This time, he arrived not with righteous indignation or dramatic flair—but with two full carriages of supplies.

The Nie sect had always prided itself on strength, but Huaisang, as its heir, had grown into his own kind of strength—gentle, observant, and deliberate. The carriages contained more than necessities. There were salted meats, dried fruits, cloth rolls in soothing colors, packets of herbs, warming salves, calligraphy brushes, paper, and even sweets for the children. But most of all, there were gifts for Wei Wuxian’s unborn child: soft linen robes embroidered with lucky clouds, tiny booties the color of dawn, and a thick, padded blanket stitched with ducks and lotus blossoms.

Nie Huaisang, for once, looked a little tired when he arrived, windblown and dust-covered but beaming regardless.

“Wei-xiong!” he called, waving from his seat atop the cart like a village merchant.

Wei Wuxian, now more visibly pregnant, stood with one hand on the curve of his stomach, eyes squinting against the afternoon sun. When he saw Huaisang, a smile immediately spread across his face.

“Nie-xiong, what did you do? Rob a whole market?”

“Nothing illegal,” Huaisang sniffed dramatically as he jumped down. “Well, nothing you wouldn’t approve of.”

Mei and Liu came running first, as always, chasing the clatter of hooves and the promise of something new. Behind them trailed Haoran and Meilin, and, more steadily, Zeyu and Tianlei who had taken to acting like second parents to the younger children.

“There’s candy!” Liu shouted.

“Yay!” Mei echoed.

“Later!” Zeyu said sternly, even as he lifted Liu by the waist to stop him from climbing into the cart.

“Help me unload?” Huaisang called to the older boys.

“Yes, Nie-gongzi,” Tianlei replied, already reaching for the larger bundles.

Wei Wuxian stepped aside to give them space, hand still resting on his belly. The baby had been active lately, especially when people were nearby. As if it knew voices. As if it wanted to join them already.

He was smiling when he heard footsteps behind him, steady and quiet.

“Wen Ning,” Wei Wuxian greeted without turning.

“Xian-ge,” the soft voice replied, just as a cooler hand pressed lightly to his back.

And then, firmer footsteps. Wen Qing.

“Sit down, you idiot,” she said without ceremony.

Wei Wuxian turned, raising his hands. “Ah, Qing-jie! You wound me. At least let me greet my saviors first.”

“You want to greet us, sit down. That belly of yours isn’t just decorative.”

Wei Wuxian chuckled and obeyed, settling onto the smooth stone slab they’d turned into an outdoor bench. Wen Ning hovered next to him like a protective shadow.

“I’m not that fragile.”

“You’re seven months pregnant and still trying to haul water buckets. You are.”

Wen Ning gave a shy nod of agreement.

Wei Wuxian glanced between them. “You two are starting to sound like Lan Zhan.”

That got Wen Qing to raise an eyebrow. “Good. Someone has to, since he isn’t here.”

There was no venom in her voice, but Wei Wuxian still looked away. Nie Huaisang, who had just finished setting out the last basket with Zeyu and Tianlei’s help, wandered over.

“Did I hear something about our very precious Xian-ge trying to do labor again?”

“Tell him, Nie-gongzi,” Wen Qing said, sitting beside Wei Wuxian and pulling out a bundle of wrapped instruments.

Wei Wuxian gave them all an exaggerated sigh but let her roll up his robes and press cool hands to his belly. Her touch was professional, efficient, and familiar.

The children, having gotten their share of sweets (under the supervision of Tianlei), ran around nearby. Mei was trying to braid Haoran’s hair while Meilin helped Liu gather sticks for a game of pretend tea ceremony. Nie Huaisang watched them with interest, occasionally smiling to himself.

Wen Ning knelt beside his sister, observing carefully, always learning.

“You’re growing well,” Wen Qing finally said. “The child is strong. Probably takes after you in stubbornness.”

“I’d say he gets it from Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian said softly, tracing the rise of his belly.

Wen Ning offered a rare smile.

“Do you want to feel?” Wei Wuxian asked him.

Wen Ning blinked, stunned, and then nodded slowly.

Wei Wuxian took his hand gently, guiding it. “Just here—oh, he’s moving again.”

Wen Ning’s eyes widened as he felt the faint nudge beneath his fingers.

“There,” Wei Wuxian said proudly. “Little Yuan is saying hello.”

“Yuan,” Wen Ning repeated, his voice reverent.

“Lan Yuan,” Huaisang added quietly, sitting on the other side.

Wen Qing glanced up. “So you did pick a name?”

Wei Wuxian nodded. “I wanted something from both of us. Something… soft.”

“It’s a good name,” Wen Qing said. “And he’ll have a good family.”

They lapsed into a comfortable silence.

The sun filtered in through the mist, making the air shimmer golden. The laughter of children rang out like wind chimes. Nearby, Zeyu had taken to reading a book aloud for Tianlei, who was mending a tunic. Huaisang watched them with a subtle, wistful look. For all his complaints about hard work, he admired this peace, even if it was carved from the bones of a painful past.

“I want to come back next month,” he said suddenly. “And the month after. Maybe help with the spring planting.”

Wei Wuxian raised an eyebrow. “You? Manual labor?”

“I’ll supervise,” Huaisang said smugly. “Zeyu and Tianlei clearly have enough muscles between them. I’m the brains.”

“We’ll welcome you,” Wen Ning said, still looking down at Wei Wuxian’s belly.

Wen Qing began packing her tools again.

“Don’t work too hard, a-Ying. We’ll be checking more frequently now. You’re entering your final months. Everything matters now.”

“I’ll be good,” he said, mock solemn. “Promise.”

She gave him a look that said she’d believe it when she saw it.

Wen Ning stood, brushing off his robes. “I’ll check the water stores.”

“I’ll go with you,” Tianlei called, standing up and grabbing a bucket. He always seemed to sense when Wen Ning needed quiet company.

As they walked away, Huaisang leaned back on his elbows.

“Can I be his uncle?” he asked.

Wei Wuxian blinked. “Whose?”

“Yuan. Your baby. I know you’ve got enough chaos with everyone claiming him already, but I think I qualify.”

Wei Wuxian laughed. “Of course. Uncle Huaisang. I like the sound of that.”

“I’m going to spoil him so much,” Huaisang said dreamily. “Toys, robes, everything. Just wait until he’s born.”

“You’ll have to share the spoiling,” Wei Wuxian said, watching the children. “They’ve all decided he’s their baby brother. Mei keeps singing to him in the mornings.”

“Meilin tried to knit him socks,” Zeyu added as he returned with fresh water. “We helped.”

Huaisang shook his head in mock despair. “Already stealing my role. How am I supposed to be the favorite?”

“You’ll find a way,” Wei Wuxian said with a warm smile.

The wind carried laughter again. Wen Qing stood silently behind them, arms crossed, eyes soft. The children ran past, pretending to be fierce cultivators and ghosts, shouting incantations from Granny Popo’s stories.

And Wei Wuxian, hand on his belly, felt something close to peace. He looked up at the sky, imagining Lan Zhan’s hand over his. If only the world was nicer, maybe then they would have been together. Not in the ground of dead but in Gusu, in Jingshi together while their son is running around.

Maybe in another life, but not in this one.

‘I love you, I miss you’

and

‘I’m sorry’

Chapter Text

The small wooden calendar on Wei Wuxian’s desk showed that eight months had passed since his life had changed forever. His slender fingers traced the edge of the parchment before him, slightly trembling as he dipped his brush in ink once more. The soft glow of a single candle illuminated his face, accentuating the gentle curve of his now-prominent belly.

Lan Zhan,

The baby moved again today. It was different this time—stronger, more purposeful. Wen Qing says our child will arrive in less than a month. Our child. Strange how two simple words can feel so heavy with both joy and sorrow.

I’ve started talking to the baby about you. About your rigid principles that somehow never wavered even when faced with my chaos. About your music that could calm the most restless soul. About your eyes that saw me—truly saw me—when no one else bothered to look beyond what they wanted to see.

Sometimes I wonder if our child will inherit your stoic expression. Will they furrow their brow in that particular way you do when mildly annoyed? Will they stand with perfect posture from the moment they can walk? Or will they be cursed with my inability to stay still, my penchant for mischief?

Wen Qing says I need to remain calm in these final weeks. She doesn’t understand that memories of you are both my greatest comfort and my deepest anguish.

Wei Wuxian paused, brush hovering over the parchment as a wave of movement rippled across his abdomen. He placed his free hand there, feeling the strong kicks beneath his palm.

“Settle down, little one,” he whispered, his voice soft in the quiet of his simple room at the Burial Mounds. “Are you practicing sword forms already? Your father would approve.”

The thought brought both a smile and a pang of longing. He returned to his letter.

I dreamt of Cloud Recesses last night. Of that ridiculous wall of rules and the look on your face when I suggested we could simply fly over it. Of cold springs and warm sake, of arguing beneath the moonlight and silent understanding in the library pavilion.

I dreamt of your hands, Lan Zhan. How they moved with such precision whether wielding a sword or playing guqin or…

Wei Wuxian bit his lip, memories flooding back unbidden. He shook his head and continued writing.

I know these letters will never reach you. Perhaps that’s for the best. What would you even do with them? What would you think of me now? The feared Yiling Patriarch, master of demonic cultivation, waddling around with swollen ankles and strange cravings, waiting for a child neither of us could have imagined possible.

But in another life, in some kinder world, I’d like to think you would have been here. That you would place your hand on my belly to feel our child move. That you would play your guqin each night to soothe both of us to sleep.

Until tomorrow’s letter, 

Wei Ying.

He stared at the finished letter for a long moment before carefully folding it and adding it to a small wooden box beneath his bed. It joined dozens of similar letters—a chronicle of his pregnancy that no one but him would ever read.

“Drink this. All of it,” Wen Qing commanded, thrusting a steaming cup toward Wei Wuxian.

He wrinkled his nose at the bitter smell. “What’s in it this time? The last one tasted like something scraped from the bottom of a tomb.”

“Medicinal herbs to strengthen your blood and prepare your body,” she replied, unmoved by his dramatics. “The birth will require all your strength.”

Wei Wuxian accepted the cup reluctantly. “You’ve been saying that for weeks now. I’m starting to think you enjoy torturing me.”

“If I enjoyed torture, I would have let you continue eating those spicy dishes that were giving you heartburn,” she countered, watching carefully as he drank the medicine. “Now finish that and we’ll continue with the breathing exercises.”

Wei Wuxian drained the cup with a grimace and handed it back. “Qing-jie… do you think—” he hesitated, suddenly vulnerable. “Do you think I can do this? Be a parent?”

Her expression softened almost imperceptibly. “You already are one. You’ve been making decisions with this child’s welfare in mind for months. That’s what parenting is.”

“But what if I’m terrible at it? What if I don’t know what they need? What if—”

“Wei Wuxian,” she interrupted firmly. “You rebuilt an entire settlement from nothing. You created cultivation techniques no one had ever imagined. You saved what remains of my clan. If anyone can figure out how to care for one small child, it’s you.”

He smiled wanly. “When you put it that way, it almost sounds easy.”

“It won’t be,” she said bluntly. “But nothing worthwhile ever is.”

Later that afternoon, Wei Wuxian walked slowly around the perimeter of the Burial Mounds, one hand supporting his lower back. Wen Qing had insisted daily movement was essential, though he tired more easily now. The winter sun cast weak light over the transformed landscape. Where once there had been only desolation, now stood simple homes, small gardens protected from the harsh elements, and paths worn smooth by the feet of the remaining Wen clan members going about their daily tasks.

His contemplation was interrupted by Mei’s excited voice. “Xian-gege! Look what I made!”

Wei Wuxian turned to see the small girl proudly holding up a crudely carved wooden rattle.

 Wen Ning stood behind her, looking slightly anxious.

“Xian-ge, I helped her with the sharper cuts, but it was Mei’s idea,” Wen Ning explained.

Wei Wuxian took the rattle, turning it over in his hands. The craftsmanship was simple, but he could see the care that had gone into it. Small dried seeds inside created a gentle sound when shaken.

“It’s for the baby,” mei explained seriously. “So they can play with it when they come out.”

Emotion tightened Wei Wuxian’s throat. “Thank you, Mei. The baby will love it.” He ruffled the girl’s hair affectionately.

A sudden sharp pain made Wei Wuxian wince and press a hand to his side.

“Xian-ge?” Wen Ning stepped forward anxiously. “Should I get my sister?”

“No, no,” Wei Wuxian forced a smile. “Just this little one practicing their sword forms again. They’re going to be quite the warrior.”

Mei looked at Wei Wuxian’s belly with wide eyes. “Can they hear me if I talk to them?”

“I think so,” Wei Wuxian replied, the pain subsiding. “Would you like to say hello?”

The girl nodded solemnly and approached, placing a small hand on Wei Wuxian’s rounded abdomen. “Hello, baby. I’m Mei. I’m going to be your big sister and teach you everything I know.”

The simple, heartfelt declaration nearly undid Wei Wuxian completely.

Lan Zhan,

I had another dream of you last night. We were by that cold spring in Cloud Recesses—you remember the one where I first saw your forehead ribbon untied? In the dream, you were teaching our child to swim, those strong hands that once drew Bichen now keeping our little one safely afloat.

When I woke, I could almost feel the impression of your presence beside me on the bed, as if you had just risen moments before I opened my eyes.

The baby has dropped lower, Wen Qing says. Any day now. I find myself both desperate for this waiting to end and terrified of what comes next. How did we get here, Lan Zhan? How did I end up alone at the moment when I most wish you were by my side? I know it’s my fault, but i would choose this every time if it means to protect you.

I’ve been trying to imagine what you would say if you were here. Probably “Ridiculous” in that tone that somehow manages to contain both exasperation and fondness. You might tell me to rest more, to stop pushing myself so hard. You always did see through my pretenses.

I wonder sometimes if you ever think of me. If you ever look up at the night sky and somehow sense that I’m looking at the same stars, wondering about you.

I’ve decided on a name. It’s a boy, and his name is Yuan. I remember how much you admired the golden light of sunset reflecting on the water. I love you and I’m sorry.

Until tomorrow, 

Wei Ying

The incident occurred three weeks before the baby was due. Wei Wuxian had been reaching for a jar of preserved fruits stored on a high shelf—a craving that couldn’t wait—when the wooden chair beneath him wobbled precariously.

Time seemed to slow as he felt himself losing balance, one hand instinctively moving to protect his belly as the other grasped desperately for support that wasn’t there. The fall itself was almost graceful, a slow-motion descent that ended with a startled cry and the clatter of the chair toppling beside him.

The commotion brought running feet and panicked voices.

“Wei-xiong!” Nie Huaisang was the first to reach him, having arrived only days before to assist with the birth. His normally composed face was pale with fear. “Don’t move!”

Wei Wuxian blinked up at him, momentarily dazed. “I’m fine, just—”

“What happened?” Wen Qing demanded, pushing past Nie Huaisang to kneel beside Wei Wuxian. Her clinical hands were already moving, checking for injuries.

“The fruit,” Wei Wuxian explained weakly, gesturing toward the shelf. “I wanted—”

“You climbed on a chair? In your condition?” Wen Qing’s voice was sharp with fear disguised as anger. “Have you lost your mind completely?”

“Possibly,” Wei Wuxian admitted with a sheepish smile. “But in my defense, the baby wanted those preserved peaches very badly.”

“And did the baby suggest you climb on an unstable chair instead of asking for help?” Wen Qing retorted, helping him to sit up slowly.

Wen Ning hovered nearby, his gentle face creased with concern. “Are you hurt, Xian-ge?”

“Only my dignity,” Wei Wuxian assured him, allowing himself to be helped to his feet. He placed both hands on his belly, concentrating on the movements within. “The little one seems fine—in fact, I think they’re scolding me too.”

Nie Huaisang fanned himself rapidly, color slowly returning to his face. “Wei-xiong, you nearly stopped my heart! What would I have told… everyone… if something had happened to you?”

The unspoken name hung in the air between them. Wei Wuxian placed a reassuring hand on his friend’s arm. “Nothing happened. We’re both fine.”

Later, confined to bed rest by Wen Qing’s stern orders, Wei Wuxian found himself restless. He fidgeted with the jade token he wore around his neck—one of the few possessions he still carried from his previous life. Its cool surface was worn smooth from his frequent handling.

“You know,” Nie Huaisang remarked, sitting beside the bed and watching him, “for someone so brilliant, you can be remarkably foolish.”

“So I’ve been told,” Wei Wuxian replied with a wry smile. “Many times, by many people.”

“He would be furious if he knew,” Nie Huaisang said quietly.

Wei Wuxian didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Then it’s fortunate he doesn’t know.”

Nie Huaisang studied him with uncharacteristically serious eyes. “I could—”

“No,” Wei Wuxian interrupted firmly. “We’ve discussed this. The decision is made.”

“Decisions can be unmade.”

“Not this one.” Wei Wuxian turned the jade token over in his hands. “The cultivation world has just begun to stabilize after everything that happened. The Lan clan is rebuilding. Bringing this to light now would only create chaos.”

“And when the child asks about his other father?”

Wei Wuxian’s expression grew distant. “I’ll tell them the truth. That his father is the most honorable man I’ve ever known. That he stands for justice and righteousness in a world that often lacks both. That his music can heal the soul and his sword can vanquish any darkness.” He smiled faintly. 

Nie Huaisang sighed, opening his fan with a practiced flick. “You always were stubborn.”

“Another quality many have pointed out,” Wei Wuxian agreed. “Now, will you please fetch me those preserved peaches? I did nearly break my neck for them, after all.”

The labor began on a night when the wind howled around the Burial Mounds like restless spirits. Wei Wuxian had been dozing fitfully when the first sharp pain cut through him, different from the practice contractions he’d experienced in recent weeks. He gasped, curling instinctively around his belly.

When the second pain came minutes later, he knew. It was time.

Wen Qing had prepared meticulously for this moment. The small room had been transformed into a makeshift medical chamber, with clean linens, sterilized instruments, and medicinal herbs laid out in precise order. When they brought Wei Wuxian in, she was already washing her hands in a basin of hot water.

“How far apart are the contractions?” she asked without preamble.

“About… five minutes,” Wei Wuxian managed, gripping the edge of the bed as another wave of pain washed over him.

She nodded. “This will likely take some time. Try to rest between contractions if you can.”

As the night wore on, that advice became increasingly impossible to follow. The pain intensified until each contraction left Wei Wuxian gasping, sweat soaking his robes. Wen Ning stayed by his side, a silent, steadfast presence, offering his hand to grip when the pain became overwhelming.

“Talk to me,” Wei Wuxian pleaded during a brief respite. “Distract me.”

“What—what should I talk about?” Wen Ning asked, startled.

“Anything. Tell me about… tell me about the rabbits. Are they still at Cloud Recesses?”

Understanding dawned in Wen Ning’s gentle eyes. “Yes, I believe so. When I last… before everything happened, they had multiplied. There were small white rabbits everywhere in that meadow.”

Wei Wuxian smiled through his pain. “He’ll be taking care of them, I’m sure. He always was… responsible.”

Another contraction hit before Wen Ning could respond, this one so intense that Wei Wuxian cried out, squeezing Wen Ning’s hand with supernatural strength.

Nie Huaisang paced outside the room, wincing at each sound of pain from within. Occasionally he would peer anxiously through the doorway, only to be shooed away by Wen Qing’s fierce glare.

“The baby is not positioned correctly,” Wen Qing announced after examining Wei Wuxian several hours into the labor. Her voice was calm but her eyes betrayed her concern. “And your body… it wasn’t designed for this. I need to perform surgery.”

Wei Wuxian, exhausted and in agony, nodded his understanding. “Do what you must. Save the baby.”

“I intend to save you both,” she replied firmly. She began preparing a medicinal draught. 

“This will help with the pain, but you’ll remain conscious. I need you to be very still.”

Wei Wuxian laughed weakly. “For once, I don’t think staying still will be a problem.”

As Wen Qing prepared for the procedure, Wei Wuxian found his thoughts drifting to Lan Zhan. What would he say if he could see Wei Wuxian now? Would he be appalled at the circumstances, at the primitive medical conditions? Or would those usually impassive eyes betray concern, perhaps even fear?

“Lan Zhan,” he whispered, too softly for anyone to hear as the medicine began to take effect. “I wish you were here.”

The cutting began, and despite the medicine, pain unlike anything Wei Wuxian had ever experienced tore through him. He bit down hard on a strip of leather Wen Ning had placed between his teeth, refusing to scream. He had endured the lashes at the Burial Mounds; he would endure this.

Time lost all meaning, stretching into an endless moment of agony and determination. Wei Wuxian focused on breathing, on staying conscious, on the thought of finally meeting the child he had carried for so long.

And then, cutting through the haze of pain, came a sound—thin and indignant, a cry announcing a new life’s entry into the world.

“Well done,” Wen Qing announced, her voice thick with an emotion Wei Wuxian had never heard from her before. “You have a son.”

She placed the tiny, squirming bundle on Wei Wuxian’s chest as she continued working to close the incision. The baby’s cries immediately softened at the contact with his father’s skin.

Wei Wuxian stared down at the small, perfect face. The resemblance to Lan Zhan was unmistakable—the elegant features, the perfect bow of his lips. But when the baby’s eyes fluttered open briefly, Wei Wuxian saw his own eyes looking back at him. And when the tiny mouth quirked in what might have been a reflex but looked remarkably like a smile, it was Wei Wuxian’s smile.

“Yuan,” he whispered, tears flowing freely down his face. “Lan Yuan”

Outside the room, Nie Huaisang heard the baby’s cry and stopped his pacing, listening intently. When the crying subsided and no sounds of distress followed, he allowed himself to sink to the floor, fan clutched to his chest, silent tears of relief streaming down his face.

When Wen Ning finally invited him in, Nie Huaisang approached the bed with uncharacteristic hesitancy. Wei Wuxian lay propped against pillows, pale and exhausted but with a glow of joy illuminating his features. In his arms lay a small bundle wrapped in simple but clean white cloth.

“Wei-xiong,” Nie Huaisang breathed, eyes wide as he gazed at the infant. “He’s beautiful.”

“Would you like to hold him?” Wei Wuxian asked, voice hoarse from exertion.

Nie Huaisang’s eyes widened in panic. “I—I’ve never held a baby before.”

“Neither had I until a few minutes ago,” Wei Wuxian pointed out with a weak laugh. “It’s not so difficult. Here.”

With gentle guidance, Wei Wuxian transferred the tiny bundle into his friend’s trembling arms. Nie Huaisang stood frozen, terrified of making any wrong move, staring down at the infant’s face with wonder.

“He looks like—” Nie Huaisang began, then stopped, glancing anxiously at Wei Wuxian.

“Like his father,” Wei Wuxian finished softly. “Yes, he does.”

“But he has your eyes,” Nie Huaisang added, as the baby’s eyelids fluttered briefly. “And I think he’ll have your smile as well.”

“Poor child,” Wei Wuxian joked feebly. “Cursed with my eyes and smile but blessed with his father’s beauty.”

Wen Qing, cleaning her instruments nearby, spoke without looking up. “He’s strong. His spiritual energy is exceptional for a newborn.”

“Of course it is,” Wei Wuxian murmured proudly. “With parents like his, how could it be otherwise?”

As Nie Huaisang carefully returned the baby to Wei Wuxian’s arms, the infant yawned widely, tiny fists stretching up toward his father’s face. Wei Wuxian caught one perfect miniature hand between his fingers, marveling at the delicate perfection of the tiny nails, the creases of the knuckles.

“Welcome to the world, A-Yuan,” he whispered. “I’m sorry your father can’t be here to meet you. But I promise you this—I will tell you stories of him every day. I will teach you everything he would want you to know. And someday, perhaps, you will meet him and he will be as proud of you as I am in this moment.”

Outside, the fierce wind that had accompanied the baby’s birth had calmed. The first light of dawn broke over the Burial Mounds, casting a gentle golden glow through the window—the color of Jin, the color of hope in the darkness.

Wei Wuxian held his son close, feeling the rhythm of the tiny heartbeat against his own. In that moment, the ache of Lan Zhan’s absence, while not forgotten, was softened by the miracle of the new life in his arms—a life that was part of them both.

“We did it, Lan Zhan,” he whispered to the morning light. “We created something beautiful.”

‘I love you, and I’m sorry’

Chapter Text

Wei Wuxian never expected his life to take such turns. As he watched A-Yuan, now just over two years old, toddle around the small clearing outside their modest home in the Burial Mounds, he couldn’t help but feel both pride and a deep, persistent ache.

“A-Yuan, don’t go too far,” he called, his voice gentle as the boy chased after a butterfly, giggling with delight.

Uncle Four sat nearby, whittling a small wooden toy. “The boy grows stronger every day,” he remarked. “Just like his father.”

Wei Wuxian smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Which one?” he asked softly, more to himself than to Uncle Four.

Tomorrow they would make their monthly trip to the market. Wei Wuxian both anticipated and dreaded these excursions—necessary for supplies but dangerous for the notorious Yiling Patriarch and his small household. The whispers and frightened glances bothered him less than the outright lies: that he consumed the souls of children, that he seduced and sacrificed widows, that he was amassing an army of fierce corpses to overthrow the great sects. Each rumor more ridiculous than the last, yet devoured eagerly by those who feared what they didn’t understand.

Yet the trips were their only connection to the outside world, to news of the cultivation sects, to whispers of the Second Jade of Lan.

To whispers of Lan Zhan.

The market bustled with activity, voices calling out wares, the scent of street food hanging in the air. Wei Wuxian kept his face partially hidden beneath a wide bamboo hat, A-Yuan’s small hand clutched tightly in his own. Uncle Four walked slightly behind them, vigilant as always.

“A-Yuan, stay close,” Wei Wuxian reminded, squeezing the boy’s hand gently. “The market is busy today.”

“Want sweet,” A-Yuan declared, pointing toward a candy seller’s stall.

Wei Wuxian smiled. “Let’s get the things we need first, then we’ll see about sweets, alright?”

At a stall selling fabric, Wei Wuxian began examining bolts of cloth, calculating what they could afford for winter clothes for the growing child. He released A-Yuan’s hand just briefly to inspect a particular weave, trusting Uncle Four was watching.

“Excuse me,” he asked the vendor, “how much for three chi of this blue cotton?”

As the merchant quoted a price, Wei Wuxian felt a tug on his robe. “A-Yuan, just a moment—” But when he looked down, the boy wasn’t there.

His heart froze. “A-Yuan?” He spun around, searching desperately. “Uncle Four, where is A-Yuan?”

The older man looked equally alarmed. “He was just here!”

Panic gripped Wei Wuxian as his eyes darted through the crowd. “A-YUAN!” he called, no longer caring about keeping a low profile. “A-YUAN!”

Lan Wangji had not planned to stop in this small town. His night hunt had taken him farther than anticipated, and practical necessity dictated he replenish some supplies before continuing toward Gusu. He walked through the market with his usual grace, his expression impassive despite the whispers and stares that always followed the Second Jade.

“It’s Hanguang-jun…” “So dignified…” “They say he still defends the Yiling Patriarch when others speak ill of him…”

Lan Wangji had become adept at not hearing such comments. Two years, eight months, and fourteen days had passed since he had last seen Wei Wuxian. Not that he was counting.

As he examined a selection of quality ink stones at a merchant’s stall, something collided with his legs. Startled, he looked down to find a small child, no more than two years old, clinging to his white robes with chubby hands.

“Baba,” the child said clearly, looking up at him with bright, familiar eyes. “Baba!”

Lan Wangji froze, staring down at the boy. Something about those eyes… something hauntingly, impossibly familiar.

Market-goers stopped to stare at the scene—the esteemed Hanguang-jun with a child claiming him as father. Murmurs rippled through the crowd, but Lan Wangji barely registered them, captivated by the child’s face.

“A-Yuan!” A frantic voice cut through the crowd, a voice that made Lan Wangji’s heart stop entirely. “A-Yuan, where are you?!”

And then he appeared, pushing through the crowd, his bamboo hat knocked askew, revealing his face—the face Lan Wangji had seen in dreams and nightmares for nearly three years.

Wei Wuxian froze mid-stride when he saw them. His eyes widened impossibly, his face draining of color. For a heartbeat that seemed to stretch into eternity, they simply stared at each other.

“A-die! A-die!” the child—A-Yuan—cried happily, still clutching Lan Wangji’s robes while reaching his other arm toward Wei Wuxian.

Wei Wuxian snapped out of his shock, rushing forward to scoop the boy into his arms, holding him tightly. “A-Yuan, you scared me! You can’t run off like that!” His voice trembled with relief and fear and something else—panic as he dared to meet Lan Wangji’s stunned gaze.

“Lan Zhan,” he whispered, the name falling from his lips like a prayer.

Lan Wangji stood perfectly still, emotions washing over his face in a way they rarely did—shock, confusion, hurt, longing. His golden eyes darted between Wei Wuxian and the child, who was now babbling happily in Wei Wuxian’s arms.

“Found Baba,” A-Yuan declared proudly. “Found!”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji finally managed, his voice hoarse with disbelief.

Before Wei Wuxian could respond, an older man appeared beside him, breathing heavily from running. “Young Master Wei, I’m sorry, he disappeared so quickly—” The man stopped short when he saw Lan Wangji, his expression becoming guarded.

“It’s alright, Uncle Four,” Wei Wuxian said quietly, not taking his eyes off Lan Wangji. “Would you… would you take A-Yuan back to our lodgings? I need to speak with Hanguang-jun.”

Uncle Four hesitated, then nodded. “Come, A-Yuan. Let’s get those sweets now.”

The boy pouted but allowed himself to be transferred to Uncle Four’s arms. “Bye-bye, Baba,” he called to Lan Wangji, waving a small hand.

As Uncle Four carried A-Yuan away, the weight of unspoken questions hung heavy between the two men standing in the marketplace, surrounded by curious onlookers.

“We should…” Wei Wuxian gestured vaguely, unable to finish his sentence under the intensity of Lan Wangji’s stare.

“Mn,” Lan Wangji agreed, though his expression had hardened slightly, something like hurt flickering behind his golden eyes.

The inn room was modest but private, a small blessing for which Wei Wuxian was grateful. They sat across from each other at a small table, a pot of untouched tea between them. Neither had spoken since arriving.

Wei Wuxian darted glances at Lan Wangji, cataloging the subtle changes in his appearance—slightly longer hair, a new scar just visible at his collar, a weariness around his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“The child called me father,” Lan Wangji finally said, his voice carefully controlled.

Wei Wuxian nodded slowly. “He did.”

“Explain.” The single word carried the weight of years of separation, confusion, and hurt.

Wei Wuxian fidgeted with his sleeve. “What have you heard of me these past years, Lan Zhan?”

“Many things. Few I believe.”

A small, sad smile touched Wei Wuxian’s lips. “They say I’m building an army. That I feast on the innocent. That I’ve become a monster.”

“I never believed such things,” Lan Wangji stated firmly.

“I know,” Wei Wuxian said softly. “You were always… you always saw me. Even when I didn’t want to be seen.”

Lan Wangji’s gaze remained steady, waiting.

“The child,” Wei Wuxian continued, “A-Yuan. He’s mine.” He swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet Lan Wangji’s eyes. “And yours.”

A tense silence stretched between them. When Lan Wangji spoke again, his voice was colder than Wei Wuxian had ever heard it. “Do not lie to me, Wei Ying. Not after all this time.”

“I’m not lying!” Wei Wuxian exclaimed, standing abruptly. “Do you think I would lie about this? That I would teach an innocent child to call you father for… for what purpose? What would I gain?”

“It’s impossible,” Lan Wangji stated, though uncertainty had crept into his voice.

“So is transferring a golden core, but we both know that’s possible, don’t we?” Wei Wuxian shot back, then immediately regretted his words. No one knew about that—no one could ever know about that.

Confusion flickered across Lan Wangji’s face. “What do you mean?”

Wei Wuxian waved dismissively. “Nothing. Forget I said anything.” He paced the small room, running a hand through his hair. “Look at him, Lan Zhan. Really look at him. He has my eyes, your brow. The shape of his ears. The way he furrows his brow when he’s thinking… it’s all you.”

Lan Wangji stood as well, moving to block Wei Wuxian’s pacing. “How?” he demanded. “Even if I believed this impossible claim—how?”

Wei Wuxian’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t know exactly,” he admitted. “The best I can figure, it had something to do with the unusual energies in my body, combined with resentful energy and… and what we shared a lot of nights.”

“What nights?” Lan Wangji asked, though something in his eyes suggested he already knew the answer.

“In that inn.” Wei Wuxian’s voice softened. “Before everything fell apart.”

Lan Wangji’s breath caught audibly. “The nights we…”

“Yes,” Wei Wuxian confirmed, a blush touching his cheeks despite everything. “I didn’t know… I didn’t realize until much later. When I was hiding in the Burial Mounds. When my body started changing.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Lan Wangji asked, and the hurt in his voice was palpable.

“Tell you?” Wei Wuxian laughed bitterly. “When, Lan Zhan? Between sect wars and sieges? When half the cultivation world was calling for my head? When your own sect viewed me as a heretic who corrupted their precious Second Jade?”

“I would have protected you both,” Lan Wangji said fiercely.

“I know,” Wei Wuxian said softly, reaching out tentatively to touch Lan Wangji’s arm.

“That’s exactly why I couldn’t tell you. You would have thrown everything away—your reputation, your standing in your sect, everything you’ve worked for—for us. I couldn’t ask that of you.”

“You didn’t ask. You decided.” Lan Wangji stepped closer, close enough that Wei Wuxian had to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. “Two years, Wei Ying. I’ve missed two years of my son’s life.”

Tears welled in Wei Wuxian’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Lan Zhan. I’m so sorry.”

For a long moment, they stood there, so close yet still separated by the weight of secrets and missed time. Then, slowly, Lan Wangji raised his hand to cup Wei Wuxian’s cheek, his touch gentle despite the storm of emotions in his eyes.

“Tell me everything,” he said. “Everything I’ve missed.”

Wei Wuxian talked until his voice grew hoarse, telling Lan Wangji about the strange symptoms he’d first attributed to resentful energy, the panic when he realized what was happening, the fear of being discovered. The Wens helping him just as much as he helped them. He described their son’s first smile, first steps, first words.

Throughout it all, Lan Wangji listened in silence, his expression shifting between wonder, grief, and something deeper, more intense that made Wei Wuxian’s skin warm when their eyes met.

“He knows who you are,” Wei Wuxian said softly. “I’ve told him stories about his Baba, the great Hanguang-jun. I wasn’t sure he’d recognize you, but…” He smiled sadly. “Children are more perceptive than we give them credit for.”

“You raised him in the Burial Mounds,” Lan Wangji said, a hint of disapproval in his tone. “Among resentful energy.”

“I’ve been working on cleansing the area,” Wei Wuxian explained. “And A-Yuan… he’s special, Lan Zhan. The resentful energy doesn’t affect him the way it does others. It’s like… like he has a natural resistance.”

“Because he is part of both of us,” Lan Wangji said thoughtfully.

“Yes. Exactly.” Wei Wuxian hesitated, then added, “There’s something else you should know. About me. About why I can control resentful energy the way I do.”

Lan Wangji waited, his full attention on Wei Wuxian.

“I don’t have a golden core,” Wei Wuxian said simply, the admission freeing something that had been locked tight inside him for years.

Lan Wangji’s brow furrowed. “That’s not possible. You cultivate—”

“Resentful energy, yes. But not with a golden core.” Wei Wuxian took a deep breath. “My core was… given to someone else. Someone who needed it more than I did.”

Understanding dawned in Lan Wangji’s eyes. “Jiang Wanyin.”

Wei Wuxian nodded. “After Lotus Pier fell. When his core was melted. Qing-jie performed the transfer. No one knows, Lan Zhan. No one can ever know.”

Lan Wangji stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head slightly. “You… all this time…”

“It was my choice,” Wei Wuxian said firmly. “I’ve never regretted it.”

In one swift motion, Lan Wangji pulled Wei Wuxian to him, holding him tightly. “Foolish,” he murmured against Wei Wuxian’s hair. “So foolish, Wei Ying.”

Wei Wuxian laughed softly, letting himself melt into the embrace. “That’s me. The most foolish cultivator in history.”

Lan Wangji drew back just enough to look at Wei Wuxian’s face, his golden eyes intense. “No more secrets between us. Promise me.”

“I promise,” Wei Wuxian whispered.

The air between them changed, charged with something electric. Wei Wuxian was acutely aware of Lan Wangji’s hands on his waist, of the way his own heart raced, of the years of separation suddenly collapsing into this single moment.

“Lan Zhan,” he breathed, not entirely sure what he was asking for.

He didn’t need to know. Lan Wangji understood, as he always had. With deliberate slowness, he leaned down, capturing Wei Wuxian’s lips in a kiss that started gentle but quickly deepened, years of longing and desire pouring into the contact.

Wei Wuxian gasped against Lan Wangji’s mouth, his hands clutching at broad shoulders as Lan Wangji walked him backward until he felt the edge of the bed against the backs of his knees. They tumbled onto the mattress together, Lan Wangji bracing himself above Wei Wuxian, looking down at him with an intensity that made Wei Wuxian shiver.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji murmured, his voice lower, rougher than Wei Wuxian had ever heard it. “May I?”

Wei Wuxian reached up, untying Lan Wangji’s forehead ribbon with trembling fingers. “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, Lan Zhan. Everything. Anything.”

Clothes were discarded with increasing urgency, their hands exploring, relearning each other’s bodies. Wei Wuxian marveled at the new scars on Lan Wangji’s skin, tracing them with reverent fingers, while Lan Wangji discovered the changes in Wei Wuxian’s body—leaner than before, with new planes and angles that he mapped with his lips and tongue.

“You’re beautiful,” Lan Wangji murmured against Wei Wuxian’s inner thigh, making him gasp and arch.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian pleaded, not entirely sure what he was asking for, only knowing that he needed more, needed everything Lan Wangji would give him.

Lan Wangji seemed determined to take his time, reducing Wei Wuxian to a writhing, pleading mess with his mouth and hands. When he finally entered him, they both gasped at the intensity, at the rightness of being joined again after so long.

“I’ve dreamed of this,” Wei Wuxian confessed breathlessly as they moved together. “So many times.”

“No more dreams,” Lan Wangji promised, his rhythm faltering as pleasure built. “Reality now.”

They moved together with increasing urgency, their bodies remembering a dance they had performed only few times before, yet somehow knew by heart. When release finally claimed them, they clung to each other, names falling from their lips like prayers.

Afterward, they lay tangled together, Wei Wuxian’s head on Lan Wangji’s chest, listening to the gradual slowing of his heartbeat. A comfortable silence enveloped them, broken only by their steadying breaths.

“I still can’t believe you’re here,” Wei Wuxian murmured eventually, tracing idle patterns on Lan Wangji’s skin. “That you know about A-Yuan.”

Lan Wangji’s arms tightened around him. “I should have found you sooner.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Wei Wuxian assured him. “I made sure no one could find us. For A-Yuan’s safety.”

“Our son,” Lan Wangji said, as if testing the words.

Wei Wuxian smiled against his chest. “Our son,” he agreed. “He’s amazing, Lan Zhan. So smart. So kind. He reminds me of you every day.”

“I want to know him,” Lan Wangji said softly. “To be his father. Not just in name.”

“You will,” Wei Wuxian promised. “Starting tomorrow. You’ll meet him properly.”

Lan Wangji was quiet for a moment. “Tomorrow, I am expected back in Cloud Recesses.”

Wei Wuxian stiffened slightly in his arms, then forced himself to relax. “I understand. You have duties.”

“I will come back,” Lan Wangji said firmly. “But I cannot… I cannot tell anyone. Not yet. Not until I can ensure your safety. Both of you.”

“I know,” Wei Wuxian said softly. “It’s alright, Lan Zhan. We’ve managed this long.”

“It’s not alright,” Lan Wangji said, his voice tight with emotion. “But I will fix it. Somehow.”

Wei Wuxian lifted himself onto his elbow to look down at Lan Wangji’s face in the dim light. “Just knowing you’re with us, even if it’s only sometimes… it’s more than I dared hope for.”

Lan Wangji reached up, threading his fingers through Wei Wuxian’s hair, pulling him down for another kiss that quickly rekindled the fire between them. This time was slower, more deliberate, as if they were committing every touch, every sensation to memory to sustain them through the coming separation.

When Lan Wangji rolled them over, pressing Wei Wuxian into the mattress, his eyes dark with desire, Wei Wuxian surrendered completely, letting Lan Wangji claim him again and again throughout the night, their passion only tempered by whispered confessions and promises for the future.

The small house in the Burial Mounds was nothing like what Lan Wangji was accustomed to, but as they approached, the sound of childish laughter made it seem more welcoming than the jade-adorned halls of Cloud Recesses had felt in years.

Wei Wuxian called out as they neared, “Uncle Four! A-Yuan! Look who’s come to visit!”

A blur of motion, and suddenly A-Yuan was running toward them, arms outstretched. Without hesitation, Lan Wangji knelt down, opening his arms to receive the small body that collided with his chest.

“Baba!” A-Yuan exclaimed, his little arms wrapping around Lan Wangji’s neck. “Baba came!”

Lan Wangji held him carefully, as if he might break, overcome by the sensation of holding his child—his son—for the first time with full knowledge of who he was. Tears welled in his eyes, and he made no effort to stop them.

“A-Yuan,” he said softly, testing the name. “A-Yuan.”

Wei Wuxian watched them, his own eyes damp, a watery smile on his face. Uncle Four stood in the doorway, his expression softening at the scene.

“Ah, Wei-xiong,” a new voice called, “I’ve brought more paper and ink for A-Yuan to practice his characters! Oh!”

Lan Wangji looked up to see a familiar figure frozen in surprise at the edge of the clearing—Nie Huaisang, fan half-raised as if to hide behind it, eyes wide with shock.

“Lan Wangji,” he managed, looking between Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian with mounting comprehension. “This is… unexpected.”

“Nie-gongzu,” Lan Wangji acknowledged stiffly, still holding A-Yuan, who was now playing with the ribbon in his hair.

Wei Wuxian laughed nervously. “Ah, Nie-xiong visits sometimes. To bring supplies. And to see his favorite nephew.”

“Nephew?” Lan Wangji repeated, looking at Nie Huaisang with new understanding.

Nie Huaisang snapped his fan shut, an uncharacteristically serious expression crossing his face. “Wei-xiong is my best friend since childhood, I was angry when he hasn’t sent me a letter explaining anything for six months, so I came to him. I’ve kept their secret since then.” He looked directly at Lan Wangji. “Even from my brother.”

“Nie-xiong brings A-Yuan toys and books,” Wei Wuxian explained, moving to stand beside Lan Wangji and their son. “He’s been a best of friend.”

Lan Wangji inclined his head slightly toward Nie Huaisang. “Thank you,” he said simply, but with genuine feeling.

Nie Huaisang bowed in return. “I’ll… perhaps I should come back another time?”

“No, stay,” Wei Wuxian insisted. “A-Yuan has been looking forward to your visit. Haven’t you, A-Yuan?”

The boy nodded enthusiastically. “Uncle Sang! Brought present?”

Nie Huaisang laughed, the tension breaking. “Of course I did! Would I ever forget?” He produced a small package from his robes. “But first, shall we let your fathers talk?”

Inside the modest home, A-Yuan played happily with his new toy—an intricately carved wooden phoenix—while Granny Popo prepared tea and Nie Huaisang entertained the boy with elaborate stories.

Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji sat slightly apart, speaking in low voices.

“How did you manage all this?” Lan Wangji asked, his eyes never leaving A-Yuan for long. “Without your golden core.”

“It wasn’t easy,” Wei Wuxian admitted. “Especially during the pregnancy. The resentful energy… it was hard to control sometimes. But I had to, for A-Yuan’s sake.” He smiled slightly. “And somehow, he makes it easier. His presence… it balances things.”

“Because he is part of both of us,” Lan Wangji said softly. “Yin and yang.”

Wei Wuxian nodded, a gentle smile touching his lips. “Exactly.”

They watched A-Yuan play for a while longer, Lan Wangji drinking in every detail—the way he scrunched his nose when concentrating, how his laughter bubbled forth uninhibited, the serious way he thanked Uncle Four for a cup of weak tea.

“I don’t want to leave,” Lan Wangji finally said, his voice so quiet only Wei Wuxian could hear.

“I know,” Wei Wuxian replied, equally soft. “But you must. For now.”

“I’ll return. Every month. More if I can manage it.”

Wei Wuxian reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. “We’ll be here. Waiting.”

A-Yuan looked up then, as if sensing he was being discussed, and beamed at his fathers.

“Baba, A-die, look!” He made the wooden phoenix soar through the air. “Flying!”

Lan Wangji’s throat tightened with emotion. He rose and went to kneel beside his son, helping him guide the toy in graceful arcs. “Like this,” he demonstrated.

A-Yuan laughed with delight. “Baba teaches good!”

Wei Wuxian watched them, memorizing the image—Lan Wangji’s gentle hands guiding A-Yuan’s smaller ones, their matching serious expressions as they concentrated on their task. For the first time in over two years, he felt something like hope settle in his heart.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t what any of them deserved. But it was theirs, this small, secret family, carved out against all odds in a world that would deny their very existence.

And for now, that was enough.

The following morning arrived too quickly. Lan Wangji stood at the edge of the clearing, dressed once more in his immaculate white robes, Bichen at his side. A-Yuan clung to his leg, unwilling to let go.

“Don’t go, Baba,” he pleaded, his little face scrunched in distress.

Lan Wangji knelt down, placing his hands on A-Yuan’s shoulders. “I must. But I will return. Soon.”

“Promise?” A-Yuan asked, lower lip trembling.

“Promise,” Lan Wangji said solemnly. He reached into his sleeve and withdrew a small jade pendant—a tiny replica of his own Lan sect cloud emblem. “This is for you. To remember me until I return.”

A-Yuan accepted the pendant with reverent hands. “Pretty,” he breathed.

“It will protect you,” Lan Wangji said, carefully placing the silk cord around the boy’s neck. “And remind you that I am thinking of you always.”

A-Yuan touched the pendant, then threw his arms around Lan Wangji’s neck. “Love Baba,” he declared.

For a moment, Lan Wangji seemed unable to speak. Then, so quietly it was almost inaudible: “I love you too, A-Yuan.”

He stood, meeting Wei Wuxian’s eyes over their son’s head. So much passed between them without words—longing, regret, hope, promise.

“Wei Ying,” he said simply, reaching out to touch Wei Wuxian’s cheek briefly.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian replied, leaning into the touch. “Be safe.”

With a last look at his newly discovered family, Lan Wangji turned and began the journey back to Gusu, back to a life that now seemed hollow compared to what he was leaving behind. But in his heart, he carried the image of his son’s smile and the warmth of Wei Wuxian’s gaze.

He would return. And someday, somehow, he would find a way to bring his family home—not to the cold elegance of Cloud Recesses or the resentful grounds of the Burial Mounds, but to a new place, a safe place, where they could be together in the light.

Until then, he had promises to keep and secrets to guard. And a family waiting for him to return.

But oh, the world was never that kind. Just a month before Lan Zhan was meant to see Wei Ying, his husband and a son, everything fell apart…again. But this time there wont be turning back nor coming back to his husband and son.

Chapter Text

The cultivation world continued its slow descent into chaos.

The first devastating blow came with Jin Zixuan’s death—killed by fierce corpses during what should have been a routine night hunt. Reported by his cousin Jin Zixun. The Ghost General and Yilling Patriarch were the cause of the death of his own sister’s husband.

Wei Wuxian doesn’t know what is happening, one moment he was yelling at Wen Ning, and the next thing he saw was Wen Qing coming behind his back when he felt a sharp pain on his back.

she drugged him.

The next thing he remembers before everything went to black was Wen Qing whispering five words before she took Wen Ning’s hand and walked out.

‘Thank you, and I’m sorry’

The attack came at dawn. Jin Guangshan, with the support of several sect leaders, led a force into the Nightless city where they got an information that Yilling Patriarch would be.

And he was.

Lan Wangji arrived later than he wanted, he went to Burial Mounds after learning what will happen from his brother. When he saw destroyed and empty houses and cave, the blood from his already pale face drained. ‘Wei Ying’

Now he’s here on the cliff trying to stop his beloved husband from jumping.

“Wei Ying, please, don’t do this, please beloved” he begged, his hand almost reaching him but Wei Ying slips away.

“No, they’re dead Lan Zhan. All of them, Qing-jie, A-Ning, Oma Po, Uncle Four….Shijie..she’s dead. A-Yuan! Our son is dead!! My baby is dead, Lan Zhan.” Tears streaming down his face, his feet moving on their own, bringing him closer to edge. His once soft voice, now sounded so broken that made Wangji flinch.

“I bring death to everyone I love,” he whispered. “I won’t bring it to you too, Lan Zhan.”

He held his breath, tears also streaming down his own face at the mention of their Son’s death, their baby. But he can’t loose his husband too.

When he moved, Wei Ying moved too. He let himself fall, but Lan Zhan caught his hand in time.

“Please, beloved. Not you too. Please” He begged again. But Wei Wuxian -oh, that foolish man. He smiled, and Wangji felt his heart breaking again.

“My Lan Zhan. I’ve caused you so much pain.”

“Live, my love.” those were his only words but they cut deeper than any cut of a sword.

Wangji felt someone’ presence next to him. Jiang Cheng. Thankfully, maybe the presence of his husband’s brother would make him listen. But before Wangji could plead for help, Jiang Wanyin shouted.

“Go to hell, Wei Wuxian!!!” He shouted—rage and sorrow clashing in his voice—as he swung his sword down, cleaving the stone beneath their hands. The rock split, and their grasp was broken.

Wei Wuxian let go of Lan Zhan’s hand. deciding to fall with a smile and looking at the only person he had.

“WEI YING!” The scream tore from Lan Wangji’s throat, raw and primal. He would have thrown himself after Wei Wuxian if strong arms hadn’t dragged him back from the edge.

“Wangji! Wangji, stop!” Lan Xichen’s voice penetrated the roaring in his ears. “He’s gone. He’s gone.”

Around them, a cheer began to rise from the assembled cultivators. The Yiling Patriarch was dead. The threat was ended.

Lan Wangji collapsed to his knees, staring unseeing at the abyss that had claimed his husband. Silent tears streamed down his face as the celebration continued around him, oblivious or indifferent to his grief.How can he survive now?

Only two others did not celebrate: Lan Xichen, who knelt beside his brother in worried confusion, and Nie Huaisang, who stood apart, his fan covering the lower half of his face, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

Jiang Cheng stood at the cliff edge, looking down into the darkness. His expression was unreadable—a complex mixture of vindication, grief, and something that might almost have been regret. Without a word to anyone, he turned and walked away, Zidian once more a ring on his finger.

Oh, he will pay the most. Lan Wangji swore to himself.

Two figures stood next to him, he didn’t move, still staring down the cliff, tears streaming down his face, and wont stop for a long time.

He doesn’t know how long was he kneeling but he knows that at least twenty people including Nie Huaisang and his brother, and his clan came and asked him to leave. Lan Wangji stood up when his brother came to him for 3rd time. Thinking he suceed, Lan Xichen let out a sigh of relief, only for it to be shattered seconds later.

Lan Wangji doesn’t know where he is going but he is. His feet are moving on their own. And soon enough he found himself at familiar cave entrance in Burial Mounds. Maybe he’s searching for Wei Yings soul, maybe for just his belongings-

a cry.

Lan Wangji followed the sound behind rubles of destroyed huts. He saw that there was a talisman. He immediately ribbed it off, revealing all of the Wen children and-

oh, Yuan.

The children were instantly relieved that it was their Wangji-gege and not a cultivator. Wangji let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding as he fell to his knees hugging Yuan. Chanting his name like it was a prayer through tears. The older children were surprised to see him cry but still cried with him.

After many more hugs and tears, Wangji decided to bring them all to Gusu.

The journey to Cloud Recesses was slow. Lan Wangji had seven children in his care, ranging from A-Yuan’s age to about sixteen. He procured a cart for them to travel in, moving only during daylight hours, stopping frequently to rest and eat.

Throughout the journey, he pondered what he would say when they arrived. The truth would have to be told—all of it. His marriage to Wei Wuxian, their son, the reality of what had happened to the Wen remnants. The Lan sect, his brother, his uncle—they would all have to face the consequences of their actions and inactions.

When they finally passed through the gates of Cloud Recesses, Lan Wangji led the children directly to the Hanshi, where he knew his brother and uncle would be waiting for him.

Lan Xichen’s relief at seeing him turned to confusion when he noticed the children. Lan Qiren’s expression darkened from relief to displeasure.

“Wangji, what is the meaning of this?” he demanded. “Who are these children?”

Lan Wangji guided A-Yuan forward gently. “This is my son,” he stated clearly. “A-Yuan.”

Lan Qiren’s eyes widened in shock. “Your… what?”

“My son,” Lan Wangji repeated. “Mine and Wei Ying’s.”

A stunned silence fell over the room. Lan Xichen looked between Lan Wangji and the child, clearly seeing the resemblance now that it had been pointed out.

“That’s impossible,” Lan Qiren finally sputtered. “Two men cannot… it’s not…”

“It happened,” Lan Wangji said simply. “Through a confluence of unusual energies, Wei Ying carried and bore our child.”

“Wei Wuxian?” Lan Qiren’s face paled further. “You and that… that…”

“My husband,” Lan Wangji interrupted firmly. “We exchanged vows in private during my seclusion in the Cold Springs, before the Sunshot Campaign.”

Lan Xichen stepped forward, his expression a mixture of hurt and understanding. “Why did you never tell me, Wangji?”

“It was safer for them,” Lan Wangji answered quietly. “Or so I believed.” He looked down at A-Yuan, who was watching the exchange with solemn eyes. “I was wrong.”

He proceeded to tell them everything—the discovery of his son two months ago, his visit to the Burial Mounds, the truth about the Wen remnants Wei Wuxian had protected. He spoke of Wen Qing and Wen Ning’s sacrifice to protect the children, of Wei Wuxian’s desperate grief believing they were all dead.

“He died thinking our son was gone,” Lan Wangji concluded, his voice rough with unshed tears. “Thinking he had failed to protect those he loved.”

By the time he finished, Lan Xichen was seated heavily in a chair, his face in his hands. Lan Qiren stood rigidly by the window, his back to the room.

“The talismans broke because the Wens who created them with Wei Ying died,” Lan Wangji explained. “Not because the children were harmed.”

“And now?” Lan Qiren asked without turning. “What do you expect us to do with these… these Wen children?”

“They are children,” Lan Wangji said firmly. “Only children. They will take the Lan name and be raised as disciples of our sect.”

“Impossible!” Lan Qiren turned at last, his face flushed with anger. “The other sects would never allow it.”

“They don’t have to know,” Lan Wangji stated coldly. “Unless they wish the world to know the truth of what happened to the Wen remnants—elderly, women, and the healers who saved Jiang Wanyin’s life.”

Lan Xichen looked up at this. “What do you mean, saved Jiang Wanyin’s life?”

Lan Wangji hesitated, then shared the final piece of Wei Wuxian’s story—the golden core transfer. By the time he finished, both Lan Xichen and Lan Qiren looked shaken to their cores.

A small hand tugged at Lan Wangji’s robes. “Baba,” A-Yuan said softly. “Where is A-die? When is he coming?”

Lan Wangji knelt before his son, taking his small hands in his own. “A-Yuan,” he began gently. “A-die… A-die had to go away. For a very long time.”

“When will he come back?” A-Yuan’s lip trembled.

“He can’t come back,” Lan Wangji said, his voice nearly breaking. “But he loved you very much. More than anything in the world.”

A-Yuan’s eyes filled with tears. “Did A-die not want me anymore?”

“No,” Lan Wangji pulled him close. “No, A-Yuan. He wanted nothing more than to be with you. With us. But he… he had to go to protect us.” It wasn’t quite a lie, he told himself. Wei Wuxian had let go to save him, believing A-Yuan already lost.

A-Yuan buried his face in Lan Wangji’s shoulder, small body shaking with sobs. The other children looked on, their own eyes wet with tears. They had lost everything too—parents, home, even their clan name.

Lan Xichen rose from his chair and approached cautiously. He knelt beside Lan Wangji and the crying child.

“Hello, A-Yuan,” he said gently. “I’m your Uncle Xichen.”

A-Yuan peeked at him through tear-swollen eyes.

“Would you and your friends like to see where you’ll be staying? We have rooms prepared, and there will be warm food.”

A-Yuan looked to Lan Wangji for confirmation. At his father’s nod, he wiped his eyes with his sleeve and nodded.

“Good boy,” Lan Xichen smiled, offering his hand. “Your father will join us shortly, after he speaks with your great-uncle.”

As Lan Xichen led the children away, Lan Wangji remained kneeling, suddenly exhausted beyond measure. The weight of everything—Wei Wuxian’s death, the discovery of A-Yuan alive, the revelations to his family—crashed down on him all at once.

“Wangji,” Lan Qiren’s voice was unexpectedly gentle. “Rise.”

Lan Wangji obeyed automatically, years of ingrained respect taking over. He stood facing his uncle, ready for condemnation, for punishment, for exile.

Instead, Lan Qiren sighed heavily, suddenly looking every year of his age. “I knew there was something between you and that boy, even back when you were both studying here. I hoped… I told myself it was merely infatuation. That you would grow out of it.”

Lan Wangji remained silent.

“I was wrong about many things, it seems,” Lan Qiren continued. “About Wei Wuxian. About the Wens he protected.” He looked toward the door where the children had gone. “That boy… he has his eyes.”

“And his smile,” Lan Wangji added softly.

Lan Qiren nodded once, a sharp gesture. “He is a Lan now. They all are. I will see to their education personally.”

It was the closest thing to an apology Lan Qiren would ever offer, and Lan Wangji accepted it with a deep bow.

“Thank you, Shufu.”

In the days that followed, the children were officially given the Lan name and settled into the Cloud Recesses. A-Yuan, now formally Lan Yuan, stayed in Lan Wangji’s quarters, refusing to be separated from his remaining father.

At night, when the boy was asleep, Lan Wangji would sit by the window, playing Inquiry on his guqin, sending the notes into the night sky. No answer ever came.

Lan Xichen found him like this one evening, the melancholy notes of Inquiry fading into silence.

“Wangji,” he said softly. “You must rest.”

Lan Wangji’s fingers stilled on the strings. “I keep thinking I could have done more. Should have done more.”

“You did everything you could,” Lan Xichen assured him. “More than most would have dared.”

“It wasn’t enough.”

Lan Xichen sat beside him. “A-Yuan needs you. Whole and present. Wei Wuxian would want that for both of you.”

Lan Wangji looked out at the moon, so similar to the one that had witnessed Wei Wuxian’s fall. “His last words to me were ‘Live, my love.’ A command I am struggling to obey.”

“Then live for your son,” Lan Xichen suggested gently. “And for the day when you can tell him the whole truth about his other father—not the Yiling Patriarch of legend, but Wei Wuxian the man. The one you loved.”

Lan Wangji nodded slowly. “I will raise him to know his father’s heart. His courage. His unwavering protection of the innocent.” He looked at his brother. “The cultivation world must never forget what it did to him. What we all did through action or inaction.”

“It won’t,” Lan Xichen promised. “I will see to that personally.

The night was still, a heavy blanket of silence draped over the small cottage Lan Wangji had established at the edge of the Cloud Recesses. It had been fifty-three days since he had brought the Wen remnants and A-Yuan to this sanctuary—fifty-three days of protecting them, providing for them, and wondering if he was doing right by the memory of the one person who had ever truly seen him.

Lan Wangji sat alone on the wooden floor of his bedroom, a jar of Emperor’s Smile cradled between his hands. The liquor was forbidden in Cloud Recesses, but tonight—like too many nights before—he couldn’t bring himself to care about the rules. Not when his heart felt hollowed out, not when memories of Wei Wuxian’s smile haunted him more vividly than any fierce corpse ever could.

A single red ribbon lay coiled beside him, the crimson silk catching the moonlight that spilled through the window. With trembling fingers, Lan Wangji reached for it, wrapping the ribbon around his palm until he could feel the ghost of pressure against his skin. He brought his fist to his mouth, pressed his lips against the fabric, and closed his eyes against the burning sensation that threatened to overwhelm him.

“Wei Ying,” he whispered, the name falling from his lips like a prayer. “Wei Ying.”

The alcohol burned down his throat, a poor substitute for the warmth he truly craved. Fifty-three days since bringing the Wen remnants to safety. Fifty three days since the Siege of the Burial Mounds. Fifty three days since watching helplessly as Wei Wuxian was torn apart by the combined might of the cultivation world. Fifty five days of waking up with his name on his lips, only to remember that he was gone.

The jar slipped from his fingers, spilling across the immaculate floor. Lan Wangji didn’t move to clean it. Instead, he reached for another, breaking the seal with more force than necessary.

He didn’t hear the approaching footsteps until they were at his door. He didn’t bother hiding the alcohol or straightening his disheveled appearance when the door slid open to reveal his brother.

Lan Xichen stood silently at the threshold, his usual serene expression fractured by concern as he took in the scene before him: his perfect, rule-abiding brother, slumped against the wall, surrounded by empty jars, clutching a red ribbon like it was the only thing tethering him to this world.

“Wangji,” Xichen said softly, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “A-Yuan is asleep with Shifu. The children are also asleep. They’re doing great in the classes.”

Lan Wangji nodded once, not trusting himself to speak. The room swam slightly before his eyes, the effects of the alcohol seeping into his blood, numbing everything except the one pain he wished it would take away.

Xichen knelt beside him, careful to avoid the spilled liquor. He said nothing for a long moment, simply sharing the weight of the silence with his brother.

“You cannot continue like this, Wangji,” he finally said, voice gentle but firm. “The discipline scars on your back have barely healed. If you continue drinking—”

“It does not matter,” Lan Wangji cut him off, the words slurring slightly. “Nothing matters.”

“That’s not true.” Xichen carefully took the jar from Lan Wangji’s hand, setting it aside. “The Wen children matter. A-Yuan matters. And—” he hesitated, something flickering across his face that Lan Wangji couldn’t interpret through the haze of alcohol and grief.

“What is it?” Lan Wangji asked, suddenly alert despite his inebriated state. He knew his brother too well to miss that expression. “Something has happened.”

Xichen took a deep breath, as if steeling himself. “I received news today. News that… changes everything we believed about what happened at Nightless City.”

Lan Wangji felt his heart stutter in his chest. “Wei Ying,” he breathed, hope and terror warring within him. “Is he—”

“No,” Xichen said quickly, pain flashing across his features as he watched hope die in his brother’s eyes. “No, Wangji. I’m sorry. But it’s about Jin Zixuan and Jiang Yanli.”

Lan Wangji stared at his brother, uncomprehending.

“They’re alive, Wangji. Both of them.”

The world seemed to tilt beneath him, the floor no longer solid. “Impossible,” he whispered.

“Jin Zixuan was gravely wounded but survived. He was hidden away to recover while the Jin clan investigated what truly happened. Jin furen was also injured in the chaos at Nightless City, but she too survived.”

Lan Wangji’s mind raced, piecing together what this meant. “And Wei Ying?”

“Cleared,” Xichen said, his voice thick with emotion. “Both Jin Zixuan and Jin furen have testified that Wei Wuxian was not responsible. They heard a second flutist controlling Wen Ning and the other corpses. Someone else orchestrated the attack that was blamed on Wei Wuxian.”

The room spun violently around Lan Wangji. He lurched forward, bile rising in his throat as the full implication hit him. “They knew,” he rasped, voice breaking. “They knew he was innocent and still they—” He couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t put into words the horror of what had happened.

“There’s more,” Xichen said quietly. He reached out, placing a steadying hand on Lan Wangji’s shoulder. “Jin furen has refused to speak to Jiang Wanyin since learning what happened. She… she yelled at him, accused him of killing their brother. According to my source, she said she no longer has any brothers left.”

A strangled sound escaped Lan Wangji’s throat. It was not quite a laugh, not quite a sob—something broken and awful that scraped its way out of him. “Too late,” he said, the words like glass in his mouth. “Too late for Wei Ying. Too late for—” He broke off, his hand clenching around the red ribbon so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

“Wangji,” Xichen whispered, horrified by the raw devastation on his brother’s face.

Lan Wangji surged to his feet suddenly, swaying dangerously. The lash marks on his back screamed in protest at the abrupt movement, but he welcomed the physical pain—anything to distract from the agony tearing through his heart.

“Thirty-three lashes,” he said, voice eerily calm despite the tears now streaming down his face. “I received thirty-three lashes for trying to help him. And now you tell me the Jin sect knew but chose to blame him?”

“Wangji—”

“I failed him,” Lan Wangji said, the words torn from somewhere deep inside him. “I knew he was innocent. I knew it here.” He pressed his fist against his chest. “But I could not save him. I could not protect him.” His legs gave out beneath him, and he sank back to the floor.

Xichen moved quickly to catch him, arms wrapping around his brother as Lan Wangji’s composure finally shattered completely. For the first time since they were children, Lan Xichen watched as his proud, stoic brother sobbed openly, great heaving cries that seemed to tear from the very core of his being.

“I loved him,” Lan Wangji confessed through his tears, the words he had never before spoken aloud. “I loved him, and I let him die thinking no one believed in him.”

“He knew,” Xichen said fiercely, holding his brother tighter as tremors wracked his frame. “Wei Wuxian knew you believed in him, Wangji. He knew.”

But Lan Wangji was beyond consolation, lost in a storm of grief for what might have been, for the life that could have unfolded had the truth come to light just days earlier. Had he been stronger, had he fought harder, had he simply refused to let Wei Wuxian face the world alone.

“The children,” he managed through his tears. “The Wen remnants. They were innocent too. Wei Ying died thinking they died, and now I—”

“You are honoring his memory,” Xichen said firmly. “You are doing what he would have wanted. Protecting those he cared for.”

Lan Wangji clutched the red ribbon to his chest, as if trying to press it into his very heart. “It is not enough,” he whispered. “It will never be enough.”

The night stretched on, brother holding brother as years of restrained emotion poured out of Lan Wangji in a flood that seemed it would never end. Outside, clouds drifted across the moon, casting the room into deeper shadow, as if the heavens themselves were drawing a veil over this private moment of unbearable grief.

Dawn broke over Cloud Recesses, pale light creeping across the floor of Lan Wangji’s cottage. He sat motionless where his brother had left him hours before, the red ribbon still wound around his fingers, his face a marble mask once more.

The sound of children’s laughter drifted through the window—the Wen children beginning their day, A-Yuan’s high, clear voice among them. Lan Wangji closed his eyes, letting the sound wash over him.

A decision crystallized within him, hardening like amber around the broken pieces of his heart. If Jin Zixuan and Jiang Yanli had survived and cleared Wei Ying’s name, then there was something he needed to do.

He rose stiffly to his feet, ignoring the protest from his healing back. With precise movements, he tied the red ribbon around his wrist, tucking it beneath the sleeve of his robe where it would remain hidden against his skin. A private memorial, a silent promise.

Then, he began to prepare. The Wen children and A-Yuan would need to be cared for in his absence. His brother would help, he knew. Shifu too, despite his misgivings. They would understand once he explained where he needed to go, what he needed to do.

Lan Wangji straightened his robes, washed his face, erased all outward signs of his night of weakness. But inside, something had fundamentally changed. The truth had been revealed too late to save Wei Wuxian, but not too late for Lan Wangji to ensure that the world knew what had really happened.

Not too late to make certain that Wei Ying’s name would be cleared in every corner of the cultivation world.

Not too late to make those responsible pay for what they had done.

But he won’t say anything about his son. No, he can’t endanger him. Or any of the children.

Chapter Text

The sun hadn’t even fully risen over Cloud Recesses when a small figure bolted upright in bed, eyes bright with the limitless energy that only five-year-olds seemed to possess. A-Yuan—now formally Lan Yuan, courtesy name Sizhui—had been awake for precisely three minutes according to the water clock. Much too long by his estimation.

“Baba!” he whispered urgently, poking at the sleeping form of his father. “Baba, wake up!”

Lan Wangji opened his eyes instantly, years of cultivation and vigilance making him alert immediately. His expression softened imperceptibly when he saw his son’s eager face hovering inches from his own. “Mn. It is early.”

“But Baba, we have to get ready! Jingyi said we’re going to catch frogs today by the stream where Bobo takes us to meditate!”

Lan Wangji’s eyebrow twitched slightly. Catching wildlife was definitely not an approved activity for junior disciples, even those as young as A-Yuan and Jingyi. The corners of his mouth tightened at the memory of another who had constantly flouted rules and delighted in the natural world.

“A-Yuan,” he said carefully. “The Cold Springs are not for catching creatures.”

Yuan’s face fell momentarily before brightening again. “We can just look at them! And maybe just touch one? Jingyi says they feel slimy and funny!”

Lan Wangji studied his son. In the three years since bringing him to Cloud Recesses, A-Yuan had thrived. Though initially quiet and withdrawn after the trauma of losing his parent and the Burial Mounds community, the boy had slowly opened up like a flower reaching for sunlight. His naturally sweet temperament remained, but increasingly, Lan Wangji noticed flashes of Wei Ying in him—an irreverent laugh, a curious nature that borders on reckless, a stubborn determination that softened even Lan Qiren’s stern demeanor.

“First, morning routine,” Lan Wangji reminded him gently.

Yuan’s shoulders slumped dramatically. “But Baba…”

“Rules are the foundation,” Lan Wangji recited automatically, though not unkindly.

“Rules are the foundation,” Yuan parroted back with a sigh that contained far too much exasperation for someone so small.

Lan Wangji’s heart clenched painfully. That sigh could have come directly from Wei Ying’s mouth.

By the time they emerged from their rooms, Cloud Recesses was stirring to life. Yuan walked solemnly beside his father, dressed impeccably in his miniature white robes with the cloud pattern that designated him as a junior disciple-in-training. His ribbon—shortened and simplified for children—was tied perfectly around his forehead, but somehow already tilting slightly askew.

They weren’t three steps down the path when a blur of white robes hurtled around the corner and nearly collided with them.

“A-Yuan!” Lan Jingyi skidded to a stop, bowing hastily to Hanguang-jun before turning excitedly to his friend. “Are you ready? I found the perfect spot!”

Lan Wangji looked down at the two boys. Jingyi was exactly one month older than Yuan but carried himself with the confidence of someone much older. His ribbon was already completely crooked, and one of his sleeves bore a suspicious dirt mark.

“Lan Jingyi,” Lan Wangji said evenly. “Breakfast. Then studies.”

Jingyi’s face fell. “Yes, Hanguang-jun,” he mumbled, before shooting Yuan a look that clearly telegraphed alternative plans.

Lan Wangji pretended not to notice. “Where is your guardian this morning?” he asked Jingyi.

“Senior disciple Lan Miwen is helping Zufu with the archives,” Jingyi replied promptly. “He told me to go directly to the dining hall.”

“Mn.” Lan Wangji inclined his head slightly. “We will walk together.”

Yuan beamed up at his father, then sent a secretive smile to Jingyi. The two boys immediately fell into step, heads close together as they whispered excitedly. Lan Wangji could only catch snippets.

“…slimiest ones are green…” “…bucket in the east garden…” “…if we catch enough, maybe…”

Lan Wangji’s expression remained impassive, but internally he sighed. Reaching down, he gently adjusted Yuan’s forehead ribbon, smoothing it back into place. Yuan leaned into the touch with natural affection, and for a moment Lan Wangji simply absorbed the miracle of his son’s presence—how seamlessly he had become the center of Lan Wangji’s carefully ordered world.

Breakfast in Cloud Recesses was a solemn affair. Or at least, it was supposed to be.

“A-Yuan, vegetables first,” Lan Wangji reminded his son, who was picking systematically around his plate of bland congee.

“But Baba, the vegetables taste like grass,” Yuan protested quietly, then seemed to catch himself, glancing nervously at the head table where Lan Qiren sat watching the junior disciples with hawkish attention.

“They provide strength,” Lan Wangji stated.

Across the table, Jingyi nodded sagely. “My guardian says vegetables help you jump higher. That’s why the rabbits eat so much grass and can jump so far.”

Yuan considered this new information carefully before taking an experimental bite of steamed greens. “Do you think if I eat all my vegetables, I could jump as high as the rabbits?” he whispered to Jingyi.

“Definitely,” Jingyi confirmed, speaking with the absolute certainty that characterized most of his declarations. “Maybe even higher.”

Yuan’s eyes widened, and he began methodically consuming his vegetables with newfound purpose.

Lan Wangji caught his brother’s eye across the dining hall. Lan Xichen’s smile was small but warm, clearly amused by the boys’ exchange. Despite his duties as Sect Leader, Xichen had always made time for Yuan, becoming a doting uncle who slipped the boy sweet lotus seeds and told him stories that made him giggle.

Yuan finished his breakfast in record time, then looked expectantly at his father. “May I be excused, Baba? Master Liu is teaching us characters this morning, and I want to practice the ones from yesterday.”

Lan Wangji felt a flicker of pride. Unlike Wei Ying, who had chafed under the structured learning of Cloud Recesses, Yuan actually seemed to enjoy his studies. “You may,” he replied with a nod.

Yuan and Jingyi bowed respectfully before scampering out of the dining hall at a pace just barely within acceptable limits.

Lan Xichen materialized at his brother’s side. “Those two seem particularly energetic this morning,” he observed, watching the children disappear down the path.

“Mn.”

“Reminds me of when we were young,” Xichen continued. “Though perhaps with a bit more mischief than we ever managed.”

Lan Wangji looked at his brother. “You were never mischievous.”

“No,” Xichen agreed, his smile turning wistful. “But you had your moments, Wangji. Don’t you remember the time you snuck extra rabbits into the warren without Uncle knowing?”

Lan Wangji remained silent, but his ears reddened slightly.

“A-Yuan is flourishing,” Xichen observed, changing the subject. “He grows more confident every day.”

“Mn.”

“And more like him in some ways,” Xichen added gently.

Lan Wangji’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around his teacup. “Yes.”

It wasn’t something they discussed often—or ever, really. The shadow of Wei Wuxian’s memory hung over Cloud Recesses like an invisible storm cloud, felt only by those who knew where to look. For most of the sect children, the Yiling Patriarch was a cautionary tale, a bogeyman to frighten junior disciples into obedience. For Lan Wangji, he was the gaping wound that refused to heal, the name he could not bring himself to speak aloud.

And yet, in A-Yuan, tiny pieces of Wei Ying lived on—a laugh, a gesture, an irreverent question that would have Lan Qiren’s mustache twitching in irritation.

“Uncle has requested your presence this afternoon,” Xichen said, mercifully changing the subject. “Something about revising the night hunt protocols for junior disciples.”

Lan Wangji nodded, mentally adjusting his day’s schedule. “Will you…”

“I would be delighted to watch A-Yuan,” Xichen finished for him. “Perhaps we could practice guqin. He’s showing remarkable aptitude.”

“Thank you, xiongzhang.”

The morning lessons proceeded without incident, which should have been Lan Wangji’s first clue that something was amiss. Yuan and Jingyi sat attentively through their reading lesson, practiced their characters with unusual focus, and even volunteered answers during their brief introduction to the Lan sect principles.

It was when they were dismissed for their midday meal that Lan Wangji noticed Yuan’s sleeve was damp.

“A-Yuan,” he said, kneeling to inspect his son. “Your robes.”

Yuan looked down with exaggerated surprise. “Oh! I… I spilled tea, Baba.”

Behind him, Jingyi nodded vigorously. “Yes, Hanguang-jun! Tea! It was an accident!”

Lan Wangji stared at them impassively. He had developed a finely tuned sense for childish deception over the past three years. “There is no tea served during morning lessons.”

Yuan’s eyes darted sideways to Jingyi, panic evident on his small face.

“Water!” Jingyi amended quickly. “Water from the… from the…”

“From the washing basin!” Yuan finished triumphantly.

Lan Wangji regarded them both silently. Neither child could meet his eyes. Finally, he reached into Yuan’s sleeve and extracted a small, dripping cloth pouch that wiggled alarmingly.

“Lying is forbidden in Cloud Recesses,” he reminded them quietly.

Yuan’s bottom lip trembled. “I’m sorry, Baba. The frog was all alone, and Jingyi said it might be sad without its family.”

“It was ribbiting very sadly,” Jingyi added solemnly.

Lan Wangji opened the makeshift pouch to reveal a small green frog that looked more irritated than distressed. “Living beings are not toys,” he told them, his voice gentle but firm. “You must respect their nature.”

Yuan nodded miserably. “We didn’t want to hurt it.”

“I know.” Lan Wangji closed the pouch carefully. “After the midday meal, we will return this creature to its home. Together.”

Both boys’ faces lit up with relief and excitement. “We can go to the stream?” Jingyi asked hopefully.

“Supervised,” Lan Wangji clarified.

“Thank you, Baba!” Yuan threw his arms around his father’s legs in an enthusiastic hug.

After a moment’s hesitation, Lan Wangji patted his head softly.

The midday meal was interrupted by a commotion at the entrance to the dining hall. Lan Qiren strode in, his normally composed face tight with irritation. Trailing behind him were three junior disciples, all looking thoroughly chastised.

“Wangji,” Lan Qiren addressed his nephew directly. “I believe these belong to you.” He gestured to the two smallest culprits—Yuan and Jingyi—who stood with heads bowed, though Jingyi kept sneaking glances up through his lashes.

Lan Wangji rose immediately. “Shufu. What has happened?”

“These children,” Lan Qiren began, his mustache quivering with restraint, “were discovered at the Cold Springs engaged in… amphibian pursuit.”

The third child, slightly older than Yuan and Jingyi, stepped forward bravely. “It was my idea, Grandmaster. I told them frogs are medicinal.”

“Lan Zhihao,” Lan Qiren addressed the older boy sharply. “Spreading misinformation is also against the rules.”

Yuan looked up, his face a study in genuine confusion. “But Zufu, the medical pavilion has frog oil for coughs. Senior Disciple Lan Yi showed us.”

Lan Qiren’s eyebrow twitched. The child was technically correct, which was perhaps the most aggravating form of correctness.

“Baba,” Yuan continued, turning to Lan Wangji, “we were being respectful. We watched them and only caught the biggest ones that could handle being picked up. And we were going to put them back!”

Several disciples at nearby tables poorly concealed their amusement. Lan Xichen, seated at the head table, coughed delicately into his sleeve in what Lan Wangji recognized as his brother’s attempt to hide laughter.

“A-Yuan,” Lan Wangji said calmly. “We discussed this earlier.”

Yuan’s shoulders slumped. “Yes, Baba.”

“The stream is off-limits without supervision.”

“Yes, Baba.”

“Rules are the foundation.”

Yuan nodded, eyes downcast. “Rules are the foundation,” he repeated dutifully.

Lan Wangji turned to his uncle. “I will handle their discipline.”

Lan Qiren studied him for a moment, then nodded curtly. “See that you do. Five additional copies of the sect rules, to be completed before sunset.” With that, he swept away, leaving the children in Lan Wangji’s care.

Once his uncle was out of earshot, Lan Wangji addressed the three boys. “Did you release the frogs?”

Zhihao nodded quickly. “Yes, Hanguang-jun. Back into the water.”

“Gently?” Lan Wangji pressed.

“Very gently,” Yuan confirmed. “Like how you showed me to hold the baby bunnies.”

Something in Lan Wangji’s chest loosened slightly. “Good. Now eat. Then copying.”

The boys shuffled to their places, appropriately remorseful but not crushed. As they passed, Lan Wangji noticed a small smudge of mud on Yuan’s neck, just below his ear. Without thinking, he reached out and gently wiped it away with his sleeve. Yuan leaned into the touch momentarily before hurrying after his friends.

The afternoon found Lan Wangji in his uncle’s study, discussing revisions to the night hunt protocols while Yuan and his fellow troublemakers sat in the adjacent room, diligently copying the sect rules under the watchful eye of a senior disciple.

“The children are becoming increasingly unruly,” Lan Qiren observed, stroking his beard.

“Particularly those two.”

Lan Wangji knew exactly which two his uncle meant. “They are young.”

“You were never so disruptive at their age,” Lan Qiren countered.

“I was different.”

Lan Qiren sighed heavily. “The boy has a good heart and a quick mind. But I see… influences… that concern me.”

Lan Wangji met his uncle’s gaze steadily. “A-Yuan is a Lan.”

“I know,” Lan Qiren agreed. “But he is his kid as well. And he was a troublemaker.”

They both knew he meant Wei Wuxian, though neither would speak his name.

“He was too young to remember,” Lan Wangji said, though they both suspected this wasn’t entirely true. Sometimes Yuan would say things or make observations that suggested shadows of memories from his early life—talking about a “his a-die” who made toys that moved on their own, or humming fragments of songs neither of them had taught him. Even though Lan Wangji never keeps anything about his beloved from their son.

Lan Qiren’s expression softened almost imperceptibly. “He is a good boy, Wangji. And you are raising him well. I simply worry that his… impulsiveness… will lead him toward difficulties.”

“I will guide him,” Lan Wangji promised.

From the adjacent room came the sound of muffled giggles, quickly hushed. Lan Qiren closed his eyes briefly, as if seeking patience from the ancestors.

“Perhaps,” he suggested with careful neutrality, “more advanced studies would provide an appropriate challenge for his energy. The boy shows remarkable aptitude for music.”

Lan Wangji recognized the olive branch for what it was. “I would welcome your guidance in this matter, Shufu.”

Lan Qiren nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Send him to me tomorrow after his morning lessons. We will assess his progress.”

A soft knock interrupted them. The door slid open to reveal Lan Xichen, who bowed respectfully to his uncle before addressing his brother.

“Wangji, the boys have completed their copying. Might I suggest they be allowed some fresh air? I could supervise their meditation by the gentian field.”

Lan Qiren waved a dismissive hand. “See that they actually meditate this time.”

“Of course, Uncle,” Xichen replied, his serene smile revealing nothing of his thoughts.

Lan Wangji stood. “Thank you, xiongzhang. I will join you shortly.”

The gentian field lay in a secluded corner of Cloud Recesses, a tranquil spot where blue-violet flowers nodded in the afternoon breeze. When Lan Wangji arrived, he found his brother seated on a stone bench, watching the three boys who sat in perfect meditation posture on small mats before him.

Too perfect, in fact. Yuan’s back was naturally straight, but Jingyi’s hands were unnaturally positioned with exaggerated precision.

Lan Wangji approached silently, stopping beside his brother. “How long?” he asked quietly.

“Nearly fifteen minutes,” Xichen replied, impressed. “Their focus has improved considerably.”

Just then, a butterfly landed on Yuan’s nose. The boy’s face twitched, but he remained perfectly still. However, when the butterfly fluttered its wings, tickling his skin, a small giggle escaped him. The sound seemed to break a dam—Jingyi immediately collapsed into laughter, and even the older Zhihao cracked a smile.

“Or perhaps not,” Xichen amended with a chuckle.

Yuan opened his eyes and spotted his father. “Baba! Did you see? I almost did it!”

“You did well,” Lan Wangji acknowledged.

“Zewu-jun told us about how you used to meditate when you were little,” Jingyi piped up. “He said you could sit for hours without moving!”

Lan Wangji shot his brother a look that went deliberately ignored.

“Bobo also said you liked rabbits even back then before a-die gifted you new rabbits,” Yuan added. “Can we visit the rabbits after meditation, Baba? Please?”

“We’ll be very quiet,” Zhihao promised, clearly hoping to redeem himself after the morning’s adventures.

Lan Wangji considered the request. “Fifteen more minutes of proper meditation first.”

The boys immediately reassumed their positions, faces comically serious in their determination. Lan Wangji sat beside his brother, gracefully folding himself onto the grass.

“They try so hard to please you,” Xichen observed softly. “Especially A-Yuan.”

“Mn.”

“You’re doing well with him, Wangji. He’s happy.”

Lan Wangji watched his son, noting the occasional twitch of his small fingers, the way his forehead ribbon had once again slipped slightly askew, the peaceful set of his features despite his obvious effort to remain still. “I hope so.”

“He is,” Xichen assured him. Then, after a pause, “He would be proud of you both.”

Lan Wangji said nothing, but his hands tightened slightly in his lap. Even after three years, the mention of Wei Ying—even obliquely—felt like pressing on a bruise.

Xichen seemed to sense his discomfort and changed the subject. “Uncle tells me he plans to start A-Yuan on advanced musical theory.”

“Yes.”

“He’ll excel, I’m sure. He has natural talent.”

“Like his father,” Lan Wangji said quietly, and they both knew he didn’t mean himself.

The rabbit meadow was Yuan’s favorite place in all of Cloud Recesses. Located in a sheltered clearing not far from Lan Wangji’s private residence, it housed dozens of rabbits of varying sizes and colors. Yuan approached the meadow with reverent excitement, carefully sliding open the small gate that kept the rabbits contained.

“Remember,” Lan Wangji instructed all three boys, “gentle hands, quiet voices.”

The children nodded solemnly before entering the enclosure. Immediately, several rabbits hopped curiously toward them, familiar with human visitors who brought treats.

“Look, A-Yuan!” Jingyi whispered excitedly. “The black one with white feet remembers me!”

Yuan knelt carefully, allowing a plump white rabbit to sniff his outstretched fingers. “Baba, can I hold Xue?” he asked, referring to the rabbit he had helped raise from a kit.

“Mn,” Lan Wangji assented, watching as his son gently scooped up the creature with practiced care.

Zhihao, the oldest of the three at seven years old, sat cross-legged as several rabbits investigated him with twitching noses. “Hanguang-jun,” he asked respectfully, “is it true you’ve kept rabbits since you were our age?”

Lan Wangji nodded. “Yes.”

“My father says the Lan connection to rabbits goes back generations,” Zhihao continued seriously. “He says they represent the virtues of gentleness and awareness.”

“Your father is wise,” Lan Wangji acknowledged.

Yuan settled beside his father, cradling Xue against his chest. “Baba, can you tell the story about how this rabbit meadow started? Please?”

Lan Wangji hesitated. The true origin of his expanded rabbit collection was inextricably tied to Wei Ying, who had once teased him mercilessly about his childhood pets but later gifted him even more of them. After Wei Ying’s death, Lan Wangji had found himself collecting more and more rabbits, as if each one could hold a fragment of those memories.

“Another time,” he said gently.

Yuan nodded, seemingly unsurprised by the deflection. At five, he was already learning which questions his father would answer and which ones made the familiar sadness appear in his eyes.

“I know a story,” Jingyi announced, petting a spotted rabbit that had settled in his lap. “My guardian told me that Lan An, our sect founder, kept a magical white rabbit that could understand human speech and would hop three times whenever someone told a lie.”

Yuan’s eyes widened. “Really?”

Zhihao scoffed. “That’s not in any of the sect histories.”

“Well, maybe it’s a secret history,” Jingyi retorted, undeterred. “Anyway, the rabbit could also fly on moonlit nights and would bring good dreams to children who behaved well all day.”

“Baba,” Yuan turned to his father, “can rabbits really fly?”

“No,” Lan Wangji replied seriously.

“Lying is forbidden in Cloud Recesses,” Yuan reminded Jingyi with such a perfect imitation of Lan Qiren’s tone that Lan Wangji nearly smiled.

Jingyi sighed dramatically. “It’s not lying if you’re telling a story. It’s… what did Master Liu call it… ‘creative embellishment.’”

A small smile tugged at Yuan’s lips. “I think I’d like a flying rabbit,” he confessed. “Then we could go anywhere!”

“We could fly to Caiyi Town whenever we wanted sweets,” Jingyi agreed enthusiastically.

“Or to see the lantern festival!”

“Or all the way to Yunmeng to catch lotus pods!”

At the mention of Yunmeng, Lan Wangji’s attention sharpened. Yuan rarely mentioned the region, but occasionally it appeared in his speech—another fragment of memory that shouldn’t exist but somehow did.

“Have you been to Yunmeng, A-Yuan?” he asked carefully.

Yuan blinked, looking momentarily confused. “I… I don’t think so? But the lotus pods there taste sweet and sticky. And there are boats with purple sails.”

Jingyi looked intrigued. “How do you know that?”

“I just… remember,” Yuan said with a child’s simple acceptance of the inexplicable. “Sometimes I remember things I haven’t seen. Baba says it’s because I have a good imagination.”

Lan Wangji met his son’s innocent gaze. He had never actually said this—it was A-Yuan who had supplied this explanation when Lan Wangji couldn’t bring himself to discuss the memories that occasionally surfaced.

“Mn,” he said noncommittally.

“My guardian says imagination is a sign of intelligence,” Jingyi declared loyally.

Yuan beamed at his friend before returning his attention to Xue, who had begun nibbling affectionately at his sleeve. “Baba, when I’m bigger, can we visit Yunmeng? I want to see if it matches my imagination.”

The question pierced Lan Wangji with unexpected force. He had not returned to Yunmeng since Wei Ying’s death, could not bear to see the lotus lakes and flowing waters that had shaped the man he loved.

But looking at his son’s hopeful face, Lan Wangji found himself nodding. “When you’re older.”

Yuan’s entire face lit up. “Promise?”

“Mn.” Lan Wangji gently adjusted his son’s crooked forehead ribbon. “Promise.”

Evening in Cloud Recesses descended with gentle quietude. Lan Wangji sat on the porch of their private residence, watching as Yuan carefully practiced basic guqin fingerings on a small instrument Lan Xichen had gifted him for his fifth birthday.

“Am I doing it right, Baba?” Yuan asked, demonstrating the position Lan Wangji had shown him earlier.

“Almost.” Lan Wangji moved to sit beside his son, gently adjusting the boy’s smallest finger. “Like this.”

Yuan concentrated fiercely, his small brow furrowed as he repeated the movement. “It’s hard to make my fingers do different things.”

“With practice, it will become natural,” Lan Wangji assured him.

“Did you find it hard when you were little?”

Lan Wangji considered the question. “Yes,” he admitted. “But worthwhile things often require effort.”

Yuan nodded sagely, as if absorbing a profound truth. “Jingyi says his fingers get tangled up like noodles when he tries to play.”

“Jingyi must also practice patience.”

“That’s what Zewu-jun told him,” Yuan giggled. “But Jingyi said patience is boring.”

Despite himself, Lan Wangji felt his lips twitch. “What do you think?”

Yuan thought about this seriously. “I think… patience feels like waiting for rabbits to come to you instead of chasing them. If you wait, they hop right over, but if you chase them, they run away.”

Lan Wangji felt a surge of pride at his son’s insight. “A wise observation.”

Yuan beamed at the praise before returning his attention to the guqin. His small fingers plucked at the strings, producing notes that were technically correct if not particularly melodious.

“Baba,” he said after a while, “can you play the song about the emperor’s birds? The one that makes me see colors when I close my eyes?”

Lan Wangji recognized the request—it was a simple tune he had composed specifically for Yuan, designed to help children visualize and develop their spiritual awareness. “Finish your practice first,” he replied.

Yuan diligently continued for several more minutes before Lan Wangji nodded his approval.

The boy carefully set aside his small instrument and moved to sit cross-legged on a cushion, assuming the meditation position as Lan Wangji brought out his own guqin.

The evening air filled with clear, sweet notes as Lan Wangji played, watching as his son closed his eyes and listened with the particular intensity that characterized everything he did. Yuan’s face relaxed into peaceful concentration, occasionally lighting up with wonder as he visualized the imagery the music evoked.

When the song ended, Yuan’s eyes remained closed for a moment before fluttering open. “I saw purple and gold birds this time,” he reported excitedly. “And they were flying over water with little boats.”

Lan Wangji nodded approvingly. “Your spiritual perception is developing well.”

Yuan yawned suddenly, the day’s adventures catching up with him. “Baba, am I in trouble for catching frogs with Jingyi and Zhihao?”

“You have completed your punishment,” Lan Wangji reminded him gently.

“But are you disappointed?” Yuan pressed, suddenly serious.

The question caught Lan Wangji off guard. He studied his son’s earnest face, seeing in it both his own solemn nature and Wei Ying’s expressive openness.

“No,” he said finally. “Curiosity is not wrong. But rules protect us and others.”

Yuan nodded, seeming relieved. “That’s what I thought. Rules are like… like fences for the rabbits. They’re not to be mean, they’re to keep them safe.”

“A good comparison,” Lan Wangji agreed, chest tightening with love for this small, thoughtful boy who somehow balanced the best of two worlds within himself.

Another yawn overwhelmed Yuan, and Lan Wangji recognized it was time for bed. “Come,” he said, setting aside his guqin. “Wash up.”

Yuan dutifully prepared for bed, changing into his sleeping robes and carefully folding his disciple’s uniform for the next day. When he was settled beneath the covers in the small bedroom adjoining Lan Wangji’s, he looked up with sleepy eyes.

“Baba, will you stay until I fall asleep?”

“Mn.” Lan Wangji sat on the edge of the bed, a familiar routine they had established years ago when nightmares of the Yuan and Wen children hiding started to come every night.

Yuan curled onto his side, one small hand reaching out to grasp his father’s sleeve. “Baba,” he murmured, already half-asleep, “I had fun today.”

“Sleep now,” Lan Wangji said softly.

“Mn,” Yuan replied, unconsciously mimicking his father’s signature response. His eyes drifted closed, and within minutes, his breathing deepened into the rhythm of sleep.

Lan Wangji remained there, watching over his son. In sleep, Yuan’s face relaxed completely, showing the baby roundness that was gradually giving way to childish angles. His dark lashes rested against cheeks still flushed with health and youth, and one small hand still clutched Lan Wangji’s sleeve with trusting determination.

Carefully, so as not to wake him, Lan Wangji brushed a strand of hair from Yuan’s forehead. “Wei Ying,” he whispered, so quietly that even the night air barely carried the sound, “he is happy.”

A report to someone who couldn’t hear it, a reassurance to a ghost who would never know how his child flourished in his absence. Yet speaking the words aloud somehow eased the constant ache in Lan Wangji’s chest, if only for a moment.

Outside, Cloud Recesses settled into nighttime stillness. The nine o’clock bell rang in the distance, signaling the official start of quiet hours. Inside their small sanctuary, Lan Wangji continued his vigil, guarding the precious life that had somehow become his anchor in a world without Wei Ying.

Yuan shifted in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible before settling again. His fingers relaxed their grip on Lan Wangji’s sleeve but didn’t let go entirely.

Lan Wangji didn’t mind. He had nowhere else to be.

In the morning, they would begin again. There would be lessons and rules, meditation and discipline. There would be Jingyi’s schemes and Yuan’s earnest attempts to follow them while still pleasing his father and elders. There would be Lan Qiren’s exasperation and Lan Xichen’s gentle amusement.

There would be moments when Yuan laughed in a particular way or gestured with Wei Ying’s exact mannerisms, and Lan Wangji’s heart would crack open all over again. But there would also be moments of peace, of connection, of the month where he first discovered Yuan, when he was with his beloved while their son was playing with toys.

And those moments made Wangji stay and fulfill his promise.

Chapter Text

Wei Wuxian was bored. 

Ten years of death had taught him that the afterlife was nothing like the ghost stories he’d heard as a child. There were no fiery pits, no demons with pitchforks, little bit of torture the physical and mental kind. Instead, there was simply… existence and fire. A strange, formless kind of existence where time stretched endlessly, where memories faded and sharpened at random, and where the only real torture was knowing what—and who—he’d left behind.

He had learned that his son was alive from the devil? guardians? he’s not sure, but they did told him that the kid survived. Only then did Wei Wuxian breath normally. But it did also made him feel stupid for choosing to die instead of waiting a bit more. And oh… his beloved husband. The pain of that separation still cut deeper than any sword ever could. How did he manage? Wei Wuxian had so many questions, but no answers.

Wei Wuxian lounged in what passed for his “residence” in this realm, a strange, ever shifting space that sometimes resembled the Lotus Pier of his youth, sometimes the cave where he and Lan Wangji had sheltered during the war, and sometimes the gloomy darkness of the Burial Mounds. Today, it had settled on a peculiar blend of all three: lotus blossoms floating on dark, murky water, stone walls dripping with moisture, and a single jar of Emperor’s Smile sitting untouched on a table that hadn’t been there yesterday.

“Hmph. Still sulking, I see.”

Wei Wuxian didn’t need to look up to recognize that voice. “And still uninvited, I see,” he replied lazily, keeping his eyes closed as he lay back against what resembled a pile of silk cushions. “Don’t you have your own corner of hell to haunt, Xue Yang?”

He let out another scoff, “Everywhere is boring. Your corner is marginally less boring.”

“I’m flattered,” Wei Wuxian drawled, finally cracking one eye open to observe his unwelcome visitor.

Xue Yang looked the same as he had when he’d first appeared in this realm three months ago—young, sharp-featured, with a permanent smirk that made Wei Wuxian want to either laugh or punch him, sometimes both simultaneously. He was dressed in dark robes that seemed to absorb the meager light around them, and he carried himself with a predatory grace that death hadn’t diminished.

“You should be,” Xue Yang retorted, dropping into a seated position across from Wei Wuxian without invitation. “I could be terrorizing Wen Chao right now, but instead, I’ve chosen to grace you with my presence.”

“How generous of you.” Wei Wuxian’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “And how is our least favorite Wen doing? Still screaming about that woman that isn’t there?”

A wicked grin spread across Xue Yang’s face. “I may have… enhanced his experience. Added a few venomous spiders to the mix. In his mind, at least.”

Despite himself, Wei Wuxian snorted with laughter. “You’re terrible.”

“That’s rich coming from you.” Xue Yang reached for the jar of Emperor’s Smile, only to have his hand pass through it. He scowled. “I hate that we can see things but not touch them.”

“That’s the point of punishment, isn’t it?” Wei Wuxian sighed, sitting up properly. “Though I still don’t understand why I can touch some things and not others. This place makes no sense.”

“Nothing makes sense here,” Xue Yang agreed, then added with false sweetness, “Much like your cultivation methods back in the living world, Yiling Patriarch.”

Wei Wuxian shot him a withering look. “If you’ve come here just to insult me, you can leave.”

“But tormenting you is so amusing.” Xue Yang’s smirk widened. “Almost as amusing as watching you mope over your Jade.”

Wei Wuxian stiffened. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, please.” Xue Yang rolled his eyes dramatically. “You talk in your sleep. ‘Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan,’” he mimicked in a high, breathy voice that sounded nothing like Wei Wuxian. “‘I miss you.” “Yuan-”

Wei Wuxian lunged forward, genuine anger flashing in his eyes. “Don’t you dare—”

But Xue Yang was already dancing out of reach, laughing. “So touchy! Is this why they called you the Yiling Patriarch? Not for your fierce corpses, but for your fearsome temper?”

“My temper is perfectly controlled,” Wei Wuxian growled, settling back into his seated position with forced calm. “Unlike some people, I don’t kill entire clans on a whim.”

“It wasn’t a whim,” Xue Yang corrected, his voice suddenly cold. “It was a very deliberate choice.”

A tense silence fell between them. This was how their interactions typically went—moments of almost companionable banter interspersed with sharp reminders of why they should, by all rights, hate each other.

And yet, despise everything they kept seeking each other out. Perhaps because misery loved company. Perhaps because, in this endless void of afterlife, even the company of someone you should despise was better than facing eternity alone.

“Did you ever regret it?” Wei Wuxian asked suddenly, breaking the silence. “The Yueyang Chang clan?”

Xue Yang’s expression shuttered. “Did you ever regret raising the dead?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Neither is that.”

Wei Wuxian sighed deeply, running a hand through his unbound hair. “Sometimes,” he admitted quietly. “Not the method, but… some of the consequences. The innocent people who got caught in the crossfire.”

For a moment, he thought Xue Yang wouldn’t respond. Then, almost inaudibly: “Not the clan. But maybe… one person.”

Before Wei Wuxian could probe further, a distant wailing echoed through their space, a sound so familiar it made both men groan in unison.

“Speaking of people I’ll never regret killing,” Xue Yang muttered darkly.

The wailing grew louder, more distinct, until it formed words: “—can’t stay here! Do you know who I am? I am Wen Chao! Son of Wen Ruohan! This place is beneath me! These punishments are beneath me! I demand—”

“Does he ever shut up?” Wei Wuxian complained, flopping back onto his cushions.

“Not in the three months I’ve been here,” Xue Yang replied, grimacing. “You’ve had to listen to this for thirteenth years?”

“On and off. Sometimes he goes quiet for a while. I assume that’s when they’re getting… creative… with his punishments.”

Xue Yang’s eyes lit up with malicious glee. “Speaking of creative punishments, want to help me devise a new torment for our mutual friend?”

Wei Wuxian hesitated only briefly. “What did you have in mind?”

Maybe they aren’t the best of friends, maybe in the living world they hated each other, but now, each other’s presence was all they had. And tormenting Wen Chao which is only reason the two didn’t kill each other.

Few days later in another tormenting session for Wen Chao

As they traversed the strange, shifting landscape of the afterlife realm, Wei Wuxian found himself studying his companion. Xue Yang moved with confidence, as if he’d been navigating this place for years rather than months. There was something almost feline about his movements—precise, deliberate, ready to pounce at the slightest opportunity.

“How did you die?” Wei Wuxian asked abruptly.

Xue Yang’s step faltered momentarily before he recovered. “Straight to the point, aren’t we?”

“We’re already dead. What’s the point in dancing around it?”

A bitter laugh escaped Xue Yang’s lips. “Fair enough. Jin Guangyao killed me. Stabbed me in the back—literally—when I was no longer useful to him.”

Wei Wuxian frowned. “Jin Guangyao? The one who—”

“Orchestrated your death? Yes, that’s the one.” Xue Yang’s voice was light, almost casual, but there was an edge to it that cut like a blade. “He was quite busy in the time you were… occupied… with the Burial Mounds and your little Wen refugees.”

Something cold settled in Wei Wuxian’s stomach. “I was going to ask if he was the one who was our spy but what do you mean, orchestrated my death?”

Xue Yang studied him for a long moment, then sighed. “Jin Guangyao—or Jin Guangshan’s favored bastard, as he was then—was the mastermind behind much of what happened to you. The ambush at Nightless City? The ‘coincidental’ arrival of all those clan leaders just when you were at your weakest? The whispers that turned even your precious shidi against you? All him.”

Wei Wuxian felt a cold rage building inside him, so familiar and yet so distant since his death. “And how do you know this?”

A humorless smile twisted Xue Yang’s lips. “Because I helped him. Before he decided I, too, was expendable.”

For a moment, Wei Wuxian was tempted to lash out, to attack Xue Yang there and then. But what would be the point? They were already dead. And besides, Xue Yang had clearly paid for his actions with his own betrayal and death.

“Why?” he asked instead. “Why help destroy me?”

Xue Yang looked down with slight pinkness on his ears, “I thought…if I hhelp him destroy you, that would make me better than you.” He murmured quietly. “And he had some dirt on me, and I…” He hesitated. “I needed his protection at the time. It was nothing personal.”

“Nothing personal,” Wei Wuxian echoed hollowly. “You helped orchestrate my separation from my husband, my son, everything I loved, and it was nothing personal?”

Something flickered in Xue Yang’s eyes—surprise, perhaps, or a hint of genuine regret. “Husband? Son? I didn’t know about that.”

“Few did,” Wei Wuxian admitted, the anger draining out of him, leaving only a profound weariness. “We kept it secret. Too many enemies. Too dangerous. And look how well that turned out.”

An uncomfortable silence stretched between them, broken only by Wen Chao’s distant wailing.

“For what it’s worth,” Xue Yang said finally, his voice uncharacteristically subdued, “I am… not pleased… to have played a role in separating a father from his child.”

Coming from Xue Yang, Wei Wuxian realized, this was probably as close to an apology as he would ever get.

“It’s done now,” Wei Wuxian said with a heavy sigh. “And we’re both paying for our choices.”

Xue Yang nodded, then gestured ahead where Wen Chao’s wailing had grown louder. “Shall we continue with our… distraction?”

Wei Wuxian managed a small, grim smile. “Lead the way.”

They left Wen Chao trembling and cursing behind them, his wails following them as they made their way back through the shifting landscape of the afterlife.

“That,” Xue Yang said with undisguised glee once they were far enough away, “was much more satisfying than I expected.”

Wei Wuxian nodded, feeling a complicated mix of vindication and emptiness. “He deserved worse.”

“They all do,” Xue Yang agreed darkly. “Jin Guangyao, Jin Guangshan, all of them. They deserved what I gave them, and more.”

Wei Wuxian shot him a sidelong glance. “The difference between us, Xue Yang, is that I never targeted the innocent.”

Something flashed in Xue Yang’s eyes—anger, perhaps, or shame. “And who decides who’s innocent? The victors? The powerful? The ‘righteous’ sects who left children to starve in the streets?”

There was a rawness to his voice that made Wei Wuxian pause. “Is that what happened to you?” he asked quietly. “You were left to starve?”

Xue Yang’s expression shuttered. “We’re not having this conversation.”

“Why not? We’re dead. What else do we have to do but talk about our tragic backstories?” Wei Wuxian attempted a light tone, but the question was genuine.

“My ‘tragic backstory,’ as you so eloquently put it, is none of your business,” Xue Yang snapped. “Just because we both ended up in this hellhole doesn’t mean we’re friends.”

“Friends?” Wei Wuxian laughed. “No, definitely not. But we might be the closest thing either of us has to companionship for eternity, so we might as well get to know each other.”

Xue Yang was silent for a long moment as they walked. Just when Wei Wuxian thought he wouldn’t respond at all, he spoke, his voice uncharacteristically subdued.

“I was nine when the Jin sect guards caught me stealing food. They cut off my finger as punishment. Jin Guangshan watched and laughed.”

Wei Wuxian felt a cold anger settle in his chest. “That’s—”

“Spare me your pity,” Xue Yang cut him off sharply. “I don’t want it.”

“It’s not pity,” Wei Wuxian corrected. “It’s understanding. I was an orphan too, before the Jiangs took me in. If they hadn’t…” He shook his head. “I could have easily ended up on a similar path.”

Xue Yang shot him a skeptical look. “The great Yiling Patriarch, a common thief and murderer? I doubt it.” 

They had reached Wei Wuxian’s “residence” again, the space having shifted once more in their absence. Now it resembled a simple bamboo house, reminiscent of the one he’d occupied in the Burial Mounds.

“Well, this has been an unexpectedly productive day,” Xue Yang declared, stretching lazily. “Tormenting Wen Chao, sharing tragic pasts, discovering the Yiling Patriarch’s soft underbelly… I should write it down in my nonexistent diary.”

Wei Wuxian rolled his eyes, but there was no real annoyance behind it. “Don’t you have your own corner of hell to haunt?”

“Probably,” Xue Yang agreed cheerfully. “But yours is more interesting.”

With that, he sauntered away, disappearing into the shifting mists of the afterlife realm before Wei Wuxian could respond.

Chapter Text

The next day—or what passed for a day in this timeless realm—Wei Wuxian was awakened by something hitting his face. He jerked upright, instinctively reaching for Chenqing before remembering where he was and that his flute was long gone.

“Rise and shine, Yiling Patriarch,” Xue Yang’s cheerful voice called. “We have work to do.”

Wei Wuxian blinked the sleep from his eyes, focusing on the figure lounging against the doorframe of what was now a small woodland cottage. “Work? What work? We’re dead, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Dead, but not idle,” Xue Yang corrected, tossing another small object at Wei Wuxian, who caught it reflexively.

It was… a candy? No, the ghostly impression of one—visible but not tangible, like everything else in this realm.

“What is this supposed to be?” Wei Wuxian asked, eyeing the translucent sweet with suspicion.

“A peace offering,” Xue Yang said with a grin that was anything but peaceful. “And a bribe.”

Wei Wuxian raised an eyebrow. “A bribe for what, exactly?”

“I need your help with something.”

“The last time you said that, we ended up mentally torturing Wen Chao.”

“And wasn’t that fun?” Xue Yang countered. “Besides, this is different. I’ve discovered something… interesting.”

There was a gleam in his eye that made Wei Wuxian both curious and wary. “Define ‘interesting.’”

“I think I’ve found a way to see the living world.”

Wei Wuxian went very still. “What?”

“Not interact with it,” Xue Yang clarified quickly. “Just… glimpse it. Like looking through a window from very far away.”

Wei Wuxian’s heart—or whatever passed for one in this afterlife—seemed to skip a beat. “How? Why didn’t you tell me this yesterday?”

“Because I only confirmed it works late last night,” Xue Yang replied, pushing away from the doorframe to enter the cottage fully. “And it’s not easy. It requires… well, let’s call it a significant expenditure of energy.”

“What kind of energy?”

Xue Yang hesitated, which was unusual enough to make Wei Wuxian instantly suspicious. “The kind that leaves you exhausted for what feels like days afterward. The kind that might attract unwanted attention from the guardians of this realm.”

“You’re not telling me everything,” Wei Wuxian accused, rising to his feet.

“Probably not,” Xue Yang agreed with infuriating cheerfulness. “But I’m telling you enough. I can show you how to do it, but I need something in return.”

“Of course you do,” Wei Wuxian muttered. “What?”

Xue Yang’s expression grew serious, the playful gleam fading from his eyes. “I want to see what happened after I died. Who’s still alive, who’s not. What became of… certain people.”

“Certain people meaning?”

“That’s my business.”

Wei Wuxian studied him for a long moment. “You’re asking me to trust you, but you won’t extend the same courtesy.”

“Trust is such a strong word,” Xue Yang replied with a dismissive wave. “Let’s call it a mutually beneficial arrangement. I show you how to peek at the living world, which means you get to see your precious husband and possibly your son, and in return, you help me channel enough energy to maintain the window long enough for me to see what I need to see.”

It was tempting. So tempting. The chance to see Lan Wangji again, to see Yuan… even if only from a distance, even if they couldn’t see or hear him in return.

But this was Xue Yang. The man who, by his own admission, had helped orchestrate Wei Wuxian’s death. The man who had slaughtered an entire clan out of vengeance.

“How do I know this isn’t some elaborate trick?” Wei Wuxian asked. “Or worse, something that will cause harm to the living?”

Xue Yang rolled his eyes. “Because I’m as trapped here as you are. Whatever I do, whatever I see, has no effect on the living world. It’s like…” He searched for an analogy. “It’s like watching a play from the back row of a crowded theater. You can see what’s happening on stage, but the actors can’t see you, and you can’t affect the performance.”

Wei Wuxian considered this. “And the ‘significant expenditure of energy’ you mentioned? What exactly does that entail?”

“Nothing harmful,” Xue Yang assured him, then amended, “Well, nothing permanently harmful. It’s just draining. Like maintaining a difficult cultivation technique for hours without rest.”

Wei Wuxian was still suspicious, but the possibility of seeing Lan Wangji and Yuan again, even from a distance, was too powerful to resist. “Show me first,” he decided. “Prove it works. Then I’ll consider helping you.”

Xue Yang grinned triumphantly, as if he’d known all along that Wei Wuxian would agree. “Excellent. Follow me.”

He led Wei Wuxian out of the cottage and through the shifting landscape of the afterlife realm, past areas Wei Wuxian had never explored before. The mists grew thicker, the air colder, until they reached what appeared to be the edge of a vast, bottomless chasm.

“This,” Xue Yang announced, gesturing to the yawning void, “is our window.”

Wei Wuxian peered over the edge, seeing nothing but endless darkness. “I don’t understand.”

“Watch.” Xue Yang knelt at the edge of the chasm, placing his palms flat on the ground. He closed his eyes, his face settling into an expression of intense concentration.

For several long moments, nothing happened. Then, slowly, a faint glow began to emanate from the darkness below. It grew stronger, brighter, until Wei Wuxian could make out shapes within it—blurry at first, then sharpening into recognizable forms.

He gasped. It was Cloud Recesses. The familiar buildings, the gentle waterfalls, the impeccably maintained gardens—all visible as if through a rain-streaked window, distant and slightly distorted, but unmistakable.

“How…?” he breathed, dropping to his knees beside Xue Yang.

“Focus,” Xue Yang ground out, his voice tight with strain. “It takes… significant effort… to maintain the connection.”

The image wavered, threatened to dissipate, then stabilized again as Xue Yang’s brow furrowed with renewed concentration.

Wei Wuxian leaned forward eagerly, scanning the visible portion of Cloud Recesses for any sign of Lan Wangji or Yuan. But the “window” showed only empty courtyards and gardens.

“Can you change what we’re seeing?” he asked urgently. “Move the view?”

Xue Yang’s eyes remained closed, but his lips tightened with annoyance. “With… difficulty. Where?”

“The private residences. The Jingshi.”

Xue Yang made a small, pained sound, and the view began to shift, sliding across the landscape of Cloud Recesses until it settled on a familiar building—Lan Wangji’s private quarters.

Wei Wuxian’s heart lurched painfully in his chest as a figure appeared in the frame: tall, impossibly graceful, dressed in immaculate white and blue robes. Lan Wangji. He was seated at a table, seemingly engaged in writing, his perfect posture and beautiful profile exactly as Wei Wuxian remembered.

“Lan Zhan,” he whispered, reaching out instinctively before remembering that he couldn’t touch, couldn’t interact. This was merely a glimpse, a distant view of a world he no longer belonged to.

And then, another figure entered the frame—a young boy, fourteen or fifteen years old, dressed in the white and blue of the Lan sect but with a ribbon of red tied around his wrist. He approached Lan Wangji with a book in hand, saying something Wei Wuxian couldn’t hear.

“Yuan,” Wei Wuxian breathed, his vision blurring with tears. “A-Yuan.”

The boy had grown so much. His features had sharpened, revealing a striking blend of Lan Wangji’s features, but oh, the smile even he couldn’t deny it, it was so much like his own. He saw the pain that was in Lan Zhan’s eyes when he looked at Yuan smiling. He wishes to hug them both now more than ever.

“Sorry to break it to you, but I’m almost out of energy and I want to see something too,” Xue Yang interrupted him, “you need to help me with that, remember?”

“Right- sorry, i got distracted.” He glanced one more time before finally standing up and taking Xue Yang’s place and feeding the “window” with his energy so Xue Yang can look through it.

Xue Yang looked through the window searching quietly for something- someone, until he found him. He smiled, a true smile.

“Xingchen..” He breathed out, it felt like a stone was lifted from his heart after seeing him okay. And just then, he saw a girl, woman now, coming with basked full of flowers.

“a-Qing…” Xue Yang felt his eyes water when he saw his daughter, his precious little girl.

Xue Yang may seemed cold, which he is, but for his family? No, never. He finally released the breath he had been holding, its fine, they’re okay, and they’re happy. He saw Xingchen holding a pedant close to his heart and something in him broke further-

The window collapsed entirely, plunging them back into the cold, gray reality of the afterlife realm. Xue Yang fell backward, utterly spent, his chest heaving with exertion and emotion.

Wei Wuxian sat back on his heels, feeling similarly drained. For several minutes, neither spoke, each lost in their own thoughts and memories.

“I didn’t know,” Wei Wuxian said finally, breaking the silence. “About Xiao Xingchen. About your daughter.”

Xue Yang’s eyes remained closed, his voice barely audible when he replied: “No one did. That was the point.”

“You protected them by keeping them secret.”

“Fat lot of good it did in the end,” Xue Yang said bitterly, opening his eyes to stare up at the colorless sky. “I still died. Still left them alone.”

Wei Wuxian studied him thoughtfully. “Does Xingchen know that Jin Guangyao killed you?”

A harsh laugh escaped Xue Yang. “Probably not. He likely believes I got exactly what I deserved, wherever that happened to be.”

“You really think he’s still in mourning for you? After knowing what you did?”

Xue Yang was quiet for a long moment. “I don’t know,” he admitted finally. “The Xingchen I knew would mourn what we had, what we could have been, even if he couldn’t forgive what I became.”

There was a rawness to his voice that made Wei Wuxian feel like he was intruding on something private. Despite everything—despite knowing the blood on Xue Yang’s hands, the atrocities he’d committed—Wei Wuxian couldn’t help but feel a flicker of sympathy.

“Seems we’re both tragic lovers,” he observed wryly, attempting to lighten the mood.

Xue Yang snorted, pushing himself up to a seated position with visible effort. “Speak for yourself. Your Jade is raising your son, keeping your memory alive. My husband thinks I’m a monster who left them.” He paused, then added with a touch of his usual sardonic humor, “Though I suppose that part’s not entirely wrong.”

Wei Wuxian shook his head. “The way he touched that pendant… that wasn’t the gesture of someone who’s let go of love. Trust me, I know a thing or two about stubborn, devoted cultivation partners.”

Something flickered in Xue Yang’s eyes—a reluctant hope, quickly suppressed. “It doesn’t matter now,” he said dismissively. “We’re here, they’re there. End of story.”

“Maybe not,” Wei Wuxian mused, an idea beginning to form in his mind. “That window shows us the living world. What if there’s a way to… I don’t know, send something back? A message, a sign?”

Xue Yang stared at him. “Are you insane? That’s not how this works. We can look, but we can’t touch. We can’t affect the living world from here.”

“How do you know? Have you tried?”

“Of course I’ve tried!” Xue Yang snapped, a flash of genuine anger breaking through his usual calculated demeanor. “Do you think I wouldn’t have sent a message to them if I could? Do you think I wouldn’t have moved heaven and earth to let Xingchen know the truth about how I died, about Jin Guangyao’s role in everything?”

Wei Wuxian held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Alright, alright. It was just a thought.”

Xue Yang took a deep breath, visibly working to regain his composure. “Sorry,” he muttered, the apology so unexpected that Wei Wuxian nearly did a double-take. “It’s just… frustrating. Being so close and yet so far.”

“I know,” Wei Wuxian agreed softly. “Believe me, I know.”

They sat in silence for a while longer, each lost in their own thoughts, until Xue Yang spoke again.

Xue Yang laughed, the sound hollow and without humor. “And here I thought my love life was complicated.”

Despite everything, Wei Wuxian found himself smiling. “We’re quite the pair, aren’t we? The two most hated men in the cultivation world, pining for the husbands and children we left behind.”

“Speak for yourself,” Xue Yang retorted, but there was no real heat behind it. “I don’t pine. I plot revenge.”

“Against Jin Guangyao? The man’s still alive, living his best life as the son of Jin Guangshan. What exactly do you plan to do about it from here?”

Xue Yang’s eyes took on a dangerous gleam. “I’m working on that. And now that I know my daughter and Xingchen are still alive, still together…” He trailed off, his expression growing contemplative. “I have even more reason to find a way out of this hellhole.”

Wei Wuxian stared at him. “You think that’s possible?”

“I don’t know,” Xue Yang admitted. “But what else have we got to do for eternity? Torment Wen Chao? Watch our loved ones from afar? I’d rather spend my time looking for a way back, no matter how impossible it seems.”

Wei Wuxian couldn’t argue with that logic. The thought of returning to the living world, of holding Lan Wangji in his arms again, of watching Yuan grow up… it was too tempting to dismiss outright, no matter how far-fetched.

“And if we did find a way back,” he mused aloud, “what would you do? Try to reconcile with Xingchen? Take revenge on Jin Guangyao?”

“Both,” Xue Yang answered without hesitation. “In that order.”

“Even knowing that Xingchen might reject you? That he might still view you as the monster?”

Xue Yang was quiet for a moment, his expression uncharacteristically vulnerable. “Do you know what Xingchen said to me, the last time we spoke? Before I left and never returned?”

Wei Wuxian shook his head.

“He said, ‘I will always love the man I married, even if I can’t reconcile him with the man you’ve become.’ At the time, I thought it was just a pretty way of saying goodbye. But now…” He gestured toward where the window had been. “Now I’m not so sure.”

Wei Wuxian considered this. “Love is complicated,” he said finally. “It doesn’t always make sense, doesn’t always follow the rules we think it should.”

“Like a righteous Lan falling for the infamous Yiling Patriarch?” Xue Yang suggested with a sardonic smile.

“Exactly,” Wei Wuxian agreed, returning the smile. “Who would have thought?”

Xue Yang pushed himself to his feet, wobbling slightly from the exertion of maintaining the window. “Well, this has been sufficiently depressing for one day. What do you say we go torment Wen Chao again? I’m feeling the need to inflict suffering on someone who truly deserves it.”

Wei Wuxian laughed, the sound surprisingly genuine. “A distraction would be welcome,” he admitted, also rising. “But maybe we should rest first. You look like you’re about to collapse.”

“Your concern is touching,” Xue Yang drawled, “but unnecessary. I’ve endured worse.”

“I’m sure you have,” Wei Wuxian agreed mildly, “but that doesn’t mean you should push yourself to exhaustion. The window drained both of us.”

Xue Yang studied him for a moment, then shrugged. “Fine. A brief rest, then we make Wen Chao’s afterlife even more hellish. Deal?”

“Deal,” Wei Wuxian agreed, and they set off together through the shifting landscape of the afterlife, two unlikely companions united by love, loss, and a shared desire for something more than this gray existence.

Years passed, or what felt like it passed for two years in this timeless realm. Wei Wuxian and Xue Yang fell into a strange sort of routine—spending time in their respective “residences,” tormenting Wen Chao when the mood struck them, and occasionally using the window to glimpse the world of the living.

Each time they looked through the window, they took turns choosing what to see. Sometimes Wei Wuxian would watch Lan Wangji teaching Yuan the guqin, the boy’s fingers fumbling over the strings while his father guided him with infinite patience. He mastered it pretty fast.

Sometimes Xue Yang would watch A-Qing practicing simple sword forms under Xiao Xingchen’s gentle instruction, her determined expression so like her father’s that it made Wei Wuxian’s heart ache in sympathy.

They spoke more freely now, sharing stories of the lives they’d left behind. Wei Wuxian learned that Xue Yang had met Xiao Xingchen during a night hunt, before either of them had established their reputations—Xue Yang as a ruthless killer, Xingchen as a paragon of righteous cultivation. They had been drawn to each other despite their fundamental differences, or perhaps because of them. When A-Qing had been born—a miracle of concentrated spiritual energy, just like Yuan—Xue Yang had believed, briefly, that he could change his path, be the husband and father they deserved.

But Jin Guangyao had threatened to expose their relationship, to put Xingchen and A-Qing in danger if Xue Yang didn’t continue working for him. The choice had seemed simple at the time—protect his family by doing what he did best. It was only later, when rumors of his actions reached Xingchen anyway, that Xue Yang realized his mistake.

“I should have trusted him,” Xue Yang admitted during one of their conversations. “Should have told him the truth from the beginning. But I was afraid he’d choose his principles over me. Over us.”

“Would he have?” Wei Wuxian asked.

Xue Yang was quiet for a long moment. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “That’s the worst part. I’ll never know.”

In return, Wei Wuxian shared the story of his relationship with Lan Wangji—how it had begun in hostility, evolved into grudging respect, then blossomed into something neither of them had expected. How they had married in secret, with only the spirits of the cave to witness their bows. How discovering Wei Wuxian was pregnant with Yuan had been both terrifying and wonderful.

“We thought we had time,” Wei Wuxian said, staring into the distance. “Time to find a safe way to tell everyone, time to build a life together. And then…”

“And then Jin Guangyao and his schemes,” Xue Yang finished bitterly.

Wei Wuxian nodded. “The irony is, I never even knew he was involved. I thought it was just Jiang Cheng’s anger, the sects’ fear.”

“Jin Guangyao excels at making others do his dirty work,” Xue Yang said darkly. “Keeping his own hands clean while orchestrating chaos. It’s what makes him so dangerous.”

They had tried, multiple times, to use the window to spy on Jin Guangyao himself, to see what he was plotting now. But something always prevented them—the window would blur, or shift to another location, or collapse entirely.

“It’s like this realm itself is protecting him,” Xue Yang had growled in frustration after their third failed attempt.

“Or someone in this realm is,” Wei Wuxian had mused, a suspicion forming in his mind.

They had soon discovered they weren’t the only souls in this particular afterlife. Besides Wen Chao, they occasionally glimpsed others—some they recognized, most they didn’t. All seemed to be serving their own forms of punishment, isolated in their own spaces, reliving their own regrets.

But today, as they approached the chasm that served as their window to the living world, something felt different. The air was thicker, charged with an energy that made the hairs on the back of Wei Wuxian’s neck stand up.

“Do you feel that?” he murmured to Xue Yang, who nodded grimly.

“Something’s changed,” Xue Yang agreed, his hand instinctively moving to where his sword would have been in life.

They approached the chasm cautiously, peering over the edge into the darkness below. At first, nothing seemed amiss. Then, a flicker of light—different from the usual glow of the window, sharper somehow, more focused.

“What is that?” Wei Wuxian breathed, leaning forward slightly.

The light grew stronger, brighter, until it resolved into a distinct shape—a talisman, floating in the darkness, glowing with spiritual energy.

“That’s…” Xue Yang’s voice was hushed with disbelief. “That’s a summons.”

“A summons?” Wei Wuxian echoed, confused. “But who would be summoning into the afterlife?”

The answer came in the form of a voice—faint, distorted, but unmistakable—rising from the depths of the chasm.

“…by the blood of the sacrifice and the power of this array, I call forth the soul of Wei Wuxian…”

Wei Wuxian froze, his entire being focused on that voice, those words. “Someone’s trying to summon me back,” he whispered, hardly daring to believe it.

“…to fulfill my vengeance and enact justice…” the voice continued, growing stronger, clearer.

Xue Yang grabbed Wei Wuxian’s arm, his grip painfully tight. “This is it,” he hissed, excitement blazing in his eyes. “This is our way back.”

“But they’re only summoning me,” Wei Wuxian pointed out, though hope was beginning to bubble in his chest.

“For now,” Xue Yang agreed, his mind clearly racing. “But once you’re back, once you’ve found a way to anchor yourself in the living world… you could summon me.”

It was dangerous. Impossible, perhaps. And yet…

“I could,” Wei Wuxian agreed slowly. “If I manage to return, if I find a way to stabilize myself in a physical form… I could try.”

The summons was growing stronger, the pull of it beginning to tug at Wei Wuxian’s very essence. He could feel himself being drawn toward the light, toward the voice calling his name.

“Promise me,” Xue Yang demanded urgently. “Promise you’ll find a way to bring me back too.”

Wei Wuxian hesitated. Bringing Xue Yang back to the world of the living, with all his rage and desire for revenge… was that something he wanted to be responsible for?

But then he thought of Xiao Xingchen touching that jade pendant, of A-Qing growing up without knowing her father. He thought of the pain in Xue Yang’s eyes when he watched them from afar.

“I promise,” Wei Wuxian said firmly. “I’ll find a way.”

Chapter Text

And then, abruptly, the sensation stopped.

Wei Wuxian solidified with a jarring thump, stumbling backward into Xue Yang.

“What happened?” Xue Yang demanded, steadying him. “Why are you still here?”

“I don’t know,” Wei Wuxian panted, feeling strangely drained. “It just… stopped. Like the connection was severed.”

They stared at each other in confusion, then at the space around them as the mist began to swirl more violently than usual. The familiar sound of chains echoed through the fog, accompanied by cursing.

“New arrival,” Xue Yang observed unnecessarily.

They watched as the guards materialized from the mist, dragging between them a struggling figure—young, slight, with wild hair and desperate eyes.

“This is impossible!” the newcomer was shrieking. “It should have worked! The ritual was perfect! Wei Wuxian should have—”

The young man’s words died in his throat as his gaze fell on Wei Wuxian and Xue Yang, who were standing in their courtyard, staring back at him with identical expressions of dawning comprehension.

“Oh,” said the newcomer in a very small voice.

Wei Wuxian and Xue Yang continued to stare. The awkward silence stretched on until one of the guards cleared what might have been its throat.

“Mo Xuanyu,” the guard announced flatly. “Deceased by ritual suicide. Failed summoning attempt.”

With that, they removed his chains and dissolved back into the mist, leaving the three of them standing there in profound awkwardness.

“So,” Wei Wuxian finally said. “That was you trying to summon me.”

Mo Xuanyu nodded miserably. “It was supposed to work. I gave everything—my life, my spiritual energy, even my soul. You were supposed to possess my body and get revenge on my family.”

“Revenge?” Wei Wuxian raised an eyebrow.

“They were horrible to me,” Mo Xuanyu said defensively. “Called me a cutsleeve, threw me out of the clan, treated me like dirt. I wanted them to pay.”

Xue Yang snorted. “Well, congratulations. Instead of revenge, you’ve earned yourself an eternity in hell and given us another roommate.”

“Another roommate?” Mo Xuanyu looked between them in alarm.

“Don’t worry,” Wei Wuxian said dryly. “We’re all very cozy here.”

Mo Xuanyu looked like he might cry. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. I studied the ritual for months. I followed every instruction perfectly.”

“Clearly not,” Xue Yang observed. “Or Wei Wuxian would be haunting your body right now instead of standing here making small talk with us.”

Wei Wuxian shot him a look before turning back to Mo Xuanyu with something approaching sympathy. “What exactly did you do?”

“The Sacrifice Summoning ritual,” Mo Xuanyu said, wiping his nose with his sleeve. “From the texts Hui- I collected. I carved the array, I made the offerings, I slit my wrists and called your name as I died.”

“And yet here you are,” Xue Yang said unhelpfully.

“There you are,” Mo Xuanyu corrected, pointing at Wei Wuxian. “You never left. So why didn’t it work?”

Wei Wuxian considered this. “Maybe because I’m not just any ghost. I’m in hell, not wandering the living world. The barriers here might be too strong for a simple summoning ritual to overcome.”

“It wasn’t simple,” Mo Xuanyu protested. “It was incredibly complex. And dangerous. And expensive—do you know how much phoenix blood costs?”

“Apparently not enough,” Xue Yang said with a grin that was more mean than amused.

Mo Xuanyu glared at him. “Who are you anyway?”

“Xue Yang,” he replied with a mocking bow. “Terror of Kuizhou, slaughterer of the Chang clan, and currently Wei Wuxian’s roommate in eternal damnation.”

Mo Xuanyu’s eyes went wide. “The Xue Yang? The one who massacred the—”

“Yueyang? Yes, I got that memo.” Xue Yang’s grin turned sharper. “Courtesy of Jin Guangyao, in case you’re wondering.”

“Jin Guangyao killed you?” Mo Xuanyu looked genuinely shocked. “But he’s going to be Chief Cultivator!”

Both Wei Wuxian and Xue Yang turned to stare at him.

“Going to be?” Wei Wuxian repeated. “I thought he already was. At least what I heard from guards”

Mo Xuanyu shook his head. “The ceremony is next month. That’s why I needed the revenge so badly. I wanted my family to suffer before Jin Guangyao became untouchable.”

“Too late now,” Xue Yang pointed out.

“Thanks for the reminder,” Mo Xuanyu snapped, then immediately looked apologetic. “Sorry. I’m just… this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.”

Xue Yang studied the young man—barely more than a boy, really. There was something familiar about him, though he couldn’t place what.

“Mo Xuanyu,” he said thoughtfully. “I feel like i heard somewhere that name.”

Mo Xuanyu nodded reluctantly. “Jin Guangshan was my father. Illegitimate son, obviously. The family only acknowledged me because I showed talent for cultivation. Then they threw me out when I…” He trailed off, cheeks reddening.

“When you what?” Xue Yang pressed.

“When they caught me with another male disciple,” Mo Xuanyu mumbled.

“Ah,” Wei Wuxian said with understanding. “And now you’re here with us. Two more cutsleeves, as your family would say.”

Mo Xuanyu’s head snapped up. “You too?”

“Married,” Wei Wuxian confirmed. “To Lan Wangji of Gusu Lan.”

“And I was married to Xiao Xingchen,” Xue Yang added. “Before Jin Guangyao had me killed, that is.”

Mo Xuanyu looked between them with something approaching hope. “So you understand? What it’s like to be rejected by your family for loving someone they disapprove of?”

“More than you know,” Wei Wuxian said softly.

“Actually, no, since I don’t have a family like that.” Xue Yang answered.

The three of them stood in contemplative silence for a moment before Xue Yang clapped his hands together.

“Well, this is all very touching, but we have a practical problem. Where is our newest roommate going to sleep?”

In the past years hell was becoming more and more crowded, obviously it will never be small but it still gave them a reason for Xue Yang to move in with Wei Wuxian. He was glad-and excited- but he will never, ever, tell that to Wei Wuxian. 

Wei Wuxian looked around their modest quarters. “I suppose we’ll have to make do. Mo Xuanyu can take the corner by the window.”

“It’s fine,” Mo Xuanyu said quickly. “I don’t need much space. I’m just grateful you’re not throwing me out.”

“Where would you go?” Xue Yang asked reasonably. “This is hell. There’s nowhere to be thrown out to.”

“Comforting,” Mo Xuanyu muttered.

Wei Wuxian retrieved his wine jar and settled back on his cushion. “So, Mo Xuanyu. Tell us about this summoning ritual of yours. What exactly did it entail?”

Mo Xuanyu perked up slightly, apparently glad to be discussing something he knew about. “It’s called the Sacrifice Summoning. The practitioner offers their life force to bridge the gap between the world of the living and the realm of the dead, allowing a vengeful spirit to possess their body and carry out revenge.”

“And you chose me because?” Wei Wuxian prompted.

“Because you’re the most powerful vengeful spirit in recent history,” Mo Xuanyu said as if it should be obvious. “The Yiling Patriarch, master of demonic cultivation, slaughterer of thousands. Who else would I choose?”

“I never slaughtered thousands,” Wei Wuxian protested.

“The stories say—”

“The stories exaggerate,” Xue Yang interrupted. “Trust me, I was there for some of it. Wei Wuxian was impressive, but he wasn’t the monster they made him out to be.”

Mo Xuanyu looked disappointed. “So you wouldn’t have gotten revenge on my family?”

Wei Wuxian considered this. “Probably not the way you wanted. I’m not really the mass murder type.”

“But you killed—”

“In war,” Wei Wuxian said firmly. “To protect people I loved. Not for petty revenge.”

Mo Xuanyu’s shoulders slumped. “So even if the ritual had worked, it would have been pointless.”

“Not pointless,” Wei Wuxian said gently. “Just… different than what you expected.”

“Story of my life,” Mo Xuanyu sighed. “Or death, I suppose.”

Xue Yang, who had been unusually quiet during this exchange, suddenly spoke up. “The ritual you described—it’s incomplete.”

Both Wei Wuxian and Mo Xuanyu turned to look at him.

“What do you mean?” Mo Xuanyu asked.

“The Sacrifice Summoning,” Xue Yang explained. “It’s part of a larger series of rituals. What you performed was just the first step.”

“First step of what?” Wei Wuxian demanded.

Xue Yang’s expression was thoughtful. “Jin Guangyao had me research it, among other things. The complete ritual sequence is called the Bridge of Souls. It’s designed not just to summon a spirit, but to create a permanent pathway between the worlds.”

Mo Xuanyu leaned forward eagerly. “A pathway? You mean like a way for souls to return to life?”

“Theoretically,” Xue Yang nodded. “Though it would require multiple practitioners, each performing their part of the ritual in sequence. And the cost…” He shook his head. “The cost would be enormous.”

Wei Wuxian felt his pulse quicken. “What kind of cost?”

“Lives,” Xue Yang said simply. “Many lives. The ritual requires a chain of sacrifices, each death weakening the barrier between worlds until it can be breached entirely.”

“How many lives?” Mo Xuanyu asked, though he looked like he might not want to know the answer.

“The text I saw mentioned thirteen,” Xue Yang replied. “Thirteen souls willingly sacrificing themselves to open the bridge.”

Wei Wuxian and Mo Xuanyu exchanged glances.

“That’s…” Mo Xuanyu began.

“Horrific,” Wei Wuxian finished. “We’re talking about convincing thirteen people to commit suicide just so we can escape hell.”

“Not escape,” Xue Yang corrected. “Return. There’s a difference. Escape implies we’re breaking out illegally. Return suggests we’re… finding a loophole.”

“A loophole that requires thirteen deaths,” Wei Wuxian repeated.

“Thirteen deaths of people who hate their lives enough to want revenge,” Xue Yang pointed out. “People like Mo Xuanyu here.”

“Hey!” Mo Xuanyu protested.

“He’s not wrong,” Wei Wuxian said thoughtfully. “There are plenty of people in the world who might be willing to die if it meant their enemies would suffer.”

Mo Xuanyu looked between them with growing excitement. “So you think it’s possible? We could actually get out of here?”

“I think it’s worth investigating,” Wei Wuxian said carefully. “But first we need to understand the ritual better. Xue Yang, how much do you remember?”

Xue Yang closed his eyes, concentrating. “The ritual must be performed by thirteen individuals over the course of thirteen months. Each practitioner must have a connection to the soul they’re trying to return—either emotional or circumstantial. The sacrifices must be made in a specific order, at specific times, with specific offerings.”

“And the soul being returned?” Wei Wuxian asked. “Do they have any part to play?”

“They must remain in the designated area of the underworld until the bridge is complete,” Xue Yang recited. “Any attempt to leave or escape will sever the connection and render the ritual void.”

Mo Xuanyu frowned. “So we’d be stuck here until it was finished?”

“We’re already stuck here,” Xue Yang pointed out.

“Fair point,” Mo Xuanyu conceded.

Wei Wuxian was quiet for a moment, thinking. “Thirteen people willing to die for revenge. Thirteen months of rituals. And at the end, what? One of us gets to go back?”

“According to the text, the bridge, once opened, could theoretically allow multiple souls to return,” Xue Yang said. “But the number would be limited by the strength of their individual connections to the living world.”

“So some of us might make it back, and some might not,” Wei Wuxian summarized.

“Or all of us might make it back,” Mo Xuanyu said hopefully.

“Or none of us,” Xue Yang added pragmatically.

Wei Wuxian sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s a long shot. A dangerous, complicated, morally questionable long shot.”

“But it’s a shot,” Mo Xuanyu pointed out. “Which is more than before.”

“True,” Wei Wuxian admitted. He looked at his two companions—the sadistic killer and the failed revenge-seeker. “So what do you think? Should we try to make this work?”

Xue Yang grinned, the expression sharp and predatory. “I think Jin Guangyao won’t see it coming.”

Mo Xuanyu nodded eagerly. “And my family deserves everything that’s coming to them.”

Wei Wuxian thought of Lan Wangji, still wearing mourning white, still visiting his grave- or what looked like grave- every month. Of A-Yuan, growing up without his birth father. Of all the things left unsaid and undone.

“Alright,” he said finally. “Let’s figure out how to escape hell.”

Over the following weeks, the three of them threw themselves into research and planning with the dedication of scholars preparing for the imperial examinations. Wei Wuxian used his knowledge of demonic cultivation, Xue Yang contributed his understanding of forbidden rituals, and Mo Xuanyu provided detailed information about the current state of the cultivation world.

They quickly discovered that their project was far more complex than they’d initially realized.

“The ritual sites have to be specific,” Mo Xuanyu explained one evening, reading from notes he’d managed to scribble down before his death. “Places where the veil between worlds is already thin. Burial grounds, sites of massacres, places where large numbers of people died violently.”

“Well, that shouldn’t be too hard to find,” Xue Yang said sarcastically. “The cultivation world is full of such cheerful locations.”

“The problem isn’t finding the sites,” Wei Wuxian said, studying the crude map they’d drawn on the floor. “The problem is finding people willing to die at them.”

“We need people with serious grudges,” Mo Xuanyu mused. “People who feel they have nothing left to live for.”

“People like us, in other words,” Xue Yang observed.

“Exactly like us,” Wei Wuxian agreed. “But how do we find them? We’re dead, remember? We can’t exactly put up notices advertising for revenge-seekers.”

They’d been puzzling over this problem for days when the solution walked into their courtyard in the form of Wen Chao.

“Well, well,” he said, surveying their planning materials with obvious curiosity. “What are the three misfits up to now?”

“None of your business,” Xue Yang replied automatically.

But Wei Wuxian was looking at Wen Chao with new eyes. “Actually,” he said slowly, “it might be very much his business.”

Xue Yang and Mo Xuanyu turned to stare at him.

“Think about it,” Wei Wuxian continued. “Who better to help us identify potential ritual participants than someone who’s been here longer than any of us? Someone who knows which souls arrive harboring the deepest grudges?”

Wen Chao’s eyes lit up with interest. “Are you proposing some sort of partnership, Yiling Patriarch?”

“I’m proposing that you might be useful for once in your existence,” Wei Wuxian replied. “The question is, what would you want in return?”

Wen Chao’s smile was unpleasant. “A chance to make Jin Guangyao suffer, of course. He was one of the ones who orchestrated my father’s death, after all.”

“Jin Guangyao seems to have orchestrated everyone’s death,” Mo Xuanyu muttered.

“Which makes him a common enemy,” Wei Wuxian pointed out. “And common enemies make for strange bedfellows.”

“He’s kind of like his father,” Mo Xuanyu said, all three of them looked at him, “Older Jin cant keep it in his pants while he cant keep it outside the family.” The three were confused on that statement but left it there.

Xue Yang looked disgusted. “Are we seriously considering working with him?”

“I’m seriously considering using him,” Wei Wuxian corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Wen Chao clapped his hands together. “Excellent! When do we start?”

“We start by you telling us everything you know about souls who’ve arrived here seeking revenge,” Wei Wuxian said. “And I mean everything. Their names, their grudges, their deaths—all of it.”

“And in exchange?” Wen Chao prompted.

“In exchange, when this works and we return to the living world, Jin Guangyao gets what’s coming to him,” Wei Wuxian promised.

“I’m not convinced-” Wen Chao started but Wei Wuxian cut him off.

“Xue Yang and I wont be here anymore,” 

“I accept” He said without further argument. Wen Chao’s grin was full of malice. “Oh, I’m going to enjoy this.”

As the weeks passed, their little conspiracy grew. Wen Chao proved surprisingly useful, providing detailed information about dozens of souls who had arrived in their section of hell over the years. They compiled lists, drew connections, and identified potential candidates for their ritual.

The picture that emerged was disturbing but not entirely unexpected. Jin Guangyao’s influence could be traced through dozens of deaths—rivals eliminated, allies discarded when they were no longer useful, inconvenient truths buried along with the people who knew them.

“He’s been planning this for years,” Mo Xuanyu said one evening as they reviewed their findings. “Systematically removing anyone who could challenge his rise to power.”

“The question is, will any of these people be willing to help us?” Xue Yang wondered.

“Let me worry about that,” Wei Wuxian said. “I can be very persuasive when I need to be.”

And indeed, when they began reaching out to their potential recruits, Wei Wuxian’s reputation proved to be an asset rather than a liability. The Yiling Patriarch was a name that commanded respect even in hell, and when he spoke of revenge against Jin Guangyao, people listened.

Their first recruit was a cultivator named Liu Ming, who had been murdered by one of Jin Guangyao’s agents after discovering evidence of the man’s corruption. Next came Wang Xiulan, a merchant’s daughter who had been killed to cover up Jin Guangyao’s involvement in a smuggling operation. Then Chen Bowen, a disciple of the Nie sect who had learned too much about certain deaths that had been attributed to qi deviation.

One by one, they built their network of the wronged and the vengeful, until they had their thirteen—twelve souls in hell who wanted Jin Guangyao to pay, plus one living person who would perform the final ritual.

“The last practitioner has to be someone with a strong connection to the soul being returned,” Xue Yang explained. “Someone whose grief and love can anchor the bridge between worlds.”

“But they have to be dead too, right?” Mo Xuanyu asked. “Since the ritual requires sacrifice?”

“Not necessarily,” Wen Chao interjected, looking thoughtful. “The final practitioner channels the combined energy of all the previous sacrifices. They don’t need to die—they just need to complete the ritual.”

Wei Wuxian felt a wave of relief, thirteen deaths -souls- are enough.

“So who performs the final ritual?” Xue Yang asked.

Wen Chao straightened up, an odd expression crossing his face. “I will.”

The other three stared at him in surprise.

“You?” Wei Wuxian said incredulously. “Why would you—”

“Because I have connections to all of you,” Wen Chao explained. “I knew Wei Wuxian in life, I’ve been sharing this space with both of you for years, and Mo Xuanyu is here because of events- well i wasn’t connected to him but that’s not so bad. More importantly, I have nothing left to lose.”

“But you won’t be able to return with us,” Mo Xuanyu pointed out. “The final practitioner anchors the bridge but can’t cross it themselves.”

Wen Chao shrugged. “Better to be useful in death than useless in life, is what my father would say. Besides, knowing that I wont see you ever again… that’s revenge enough for me.”

The final piece of their plan fell into place when they realized how to communicate with the living world. Each soul scheduled to participate in the ritual would be able to appear to their chosen practitioner in dreams, providing instructions and guidance.

“It won’t be easy,” Wen Chao warned. “Dream communication requires enormous spiritual energy. You’ll each only get one chance to make contact.”

“One chance is all we need,” Wei Wuxian said confidently.

As they finalized their preparations, Wei Wuxian found himself thinking about what would happen if their plan succeeded. Would he really be able to return to his old life? Would Lan Wangji still want him after almost twelve years of grief and mourning? Would A-Yuan remember him?

“Having second thoughts?” Xue Yang asked, noticing his contemplative mood.

“Not second thoughts,” Wei Wuxian said. “Just… realistic expectations. A lot can change in sixteen years.”

“Not everything,” Mo Xuanyu said quietly. “Some things endure.”

“Like love?” Wei Wuxian asked.

“Like love,” Mo Xuanyu confirmed. “And like the need for justice.”

Wei Wuxian nodded, feeling some of his uncertainty fade. Whether or not his personal reunion with Lan Wangji went as he hoped, Jin Guangyao needed to be stopped. The man had caused too much suffering, manipulated too many people, destroyed too many lives.

“Alright,” he said, looking at his unlikely allies. “Let’s bring down Jin Guangyao and see about getting ourselves back to the land of the living.”

The four conspirators—Wei Wuxian, Xue Yang, Mo Xuanyu, and Wen Chao—raised their cups of stolen wine in a toast.

“To revenge,” Wen Chao declared.

“To justice,” Wei Wuxian corrected.

“To going home,” Mo Xuanyu added softly.

“To making Jin Guangyao pay for every life he’s destroyed,” Xue Yang concluded with a smile that was all sharp edges and promised violence.

They drank, and in the depths of hell, they began to plan the most ambitious resurrection in the history of cultivation. Which of course is going to be weird and it will change their lives a lot.

Chapter Text

Thirteen months later, everything was in place.

Wei Wuxian stood in the center of their makeshift ritual circle, carved into the stone floor of their expanded quarters with painstaking precision. Around him, the other participants sat in designated positions, each holding a piece of the complex array that would bridge the worlds of the living and the dead.

“Remember,” Wei Wuxian called out to their assembled conspirators, “the timing has to be exact. Wen Chao will guide the energy flow, but each of you needs to release your spiritual essence at precisely the right moment.”

Liu Ming, the murdered cultivator, nodded grimly. “We’ve been over this a hundred times. We’re ready.”

Wang Xiulan cracked her knuckles. “More than ready. I’ve been waiting months for this.”

Xue Yang sat cross-legged at Wei Wuxian’s right, Mo Xuanyu at his left. Both looked uncharacteristically serious—the magnitude of what they were attempting had finally sunk in.

“Are you sure about this?” Mo Xuanyu whispered. “What if something goes wrong?”

“Something’s already gone wrong,” Wei Wuxian replied. “We’re dead, remember? This is our chance to fix it.”

Wen Chao took his position at the head of the circle, hands already glowing with accumulated spiritual energy. Over the past year, he’d been storing power from all their practice sessions, preparing for this moment.

“Everyone ready?” he called out.

A chorus of agreement echoed through the chamber.

“Then let’s begin.”

The first phase of the ritual was almost anticlimactic. Liu Ming simply closed his eyes, whispered a final curse against Jin Guangyao, and dissolved into pure spiritual energy. The light that had been his soul flowed into the array, causing the carved lines to glow with soft silver radiance.

One by one, the others followed. Wang Xiulan went next, her essence adding golden threads to the growing web of power. Then Chen Bowen, his Nie sect training evident in the controlled way he released his spiritual core.

With each sacrifice, the array grew brighter, the air in their quarters crackling with building energy. Wei Wuxian could feel the pull of the living world growing stronger, like a tide drawing him upward.

“It’s working,” Xue Yang breathed, his own form beginning to waver as the ritual’s power affected all of them.

By the time the tenth soul had dissolved into the array, the chamber was blazing with multicolored light. The walls seemed to be dissolving, reality becoming thin and malleable around them.

“Almost there,” Wen Chao shouted over the building roar of spiritual energy. “Three more!”

The eleventh sacrifice was a young woman who had been killed for witnessing one of Jin Guangyao’s meetings. The twelfth was an elderly cultivator who had refused to falsify records for the Jin sect. Each death fed more power into the ritual, bringing them closer to their goal.

Finally, only the core group remained—Wei Wuxian, Xue Yang, Mo Xuanyu, and Wen Chao.

“This is it,” Wen Chao said, his form already beginning to blur as he channeled the accumulated energy. “The bridge is almost complete. When I give the signal, step forward together.”

Wei Wuxian grabbed Xue Yang and Mo Xuanyu’s hands. “Whatever happens, we stick together.”

“Understood,” Xue Yang replied, his usual snark replaced by grim determination.

Mo Xuanyu nodded, too nervous to speak.

Wen Chao raised his hands, the combined spiritual energy of thirteen souls flowing through him like liquid fire. “Now!” he screamed.

Wei Wuxian stepped forward with his companions—

And the world exploded into light.

Wei Wuxian’s first sensation upon returning to consciousness was pain. Not the dull, constant ache of his time in hell, but sharp, immediate, physical pain. His chest burned, his head throbbed, and every muscle in his body felt like it had been stretched and compressed simultaneously.

His second sensation was the smell of earth and growing things. Fresh air. Sunshine on his face.

“We’re alive,” he whispered, hardly daring to believe it.

A groan from nearby told him he wasn’t alone. Wei Wuxian forced his eyes open and found himself lying in a field somewhere, afternoon sun beating down from a brilliantly blue sky. Beside him, two figures were stirring—Xue Yang and Mo Xuanyu, both looking as disoriented as he felt.

“Did it work?” Mo Xuanyu asked weakly, pushing himself up on his elbows.

Wei Wuxian sat up slowly, taking inventory of his body. Arms, legs, torso—everything seemed to be where it should be. But something felt… wrong.

“We’re supposed to be in new bodies,” he said, examining his hands. They looked exactly like his hands had in life. Same calluses from sword work, same scar across the palm from a childhood accident. “These are our original bodies.”

Xue Yang was performing a similar examination, running his fingers over his face and arms. “Mine too. But that’s impossible. Our bodies should have decayed years ago.”

Mo Xuanyu struggled to sit up. “Maybe the ritual preserved them somehow? Or reconstructed them?”

“More likely it was a glitch,” Wei Wuxian said, though privately he was relieved. The thought of adjusting to a stranger’s body had been daunting. “The important thing is that we’re alive and in the right world.”

“But where exactly are we?” Xue Yang wondered, looking around at the unfamiliar landscape.

Wei Wuxian got to his feet, swaying slightly as the world spun around him. In the distance, he could make out the rooflines of a small town. “Let’s find out.”

It took them nearly an hour to walk to the town, their newly resurrected bodies weak and unsteady. By the time they reached the outskirts, Wei Wuxian was beginning to worry about their appearance. They were all wearing the same clothes they’d died in—bloodstained and battle-worn in his and Xue Yang’s cases, ritual robes for Mo Xuanyu.

“We need to blend in,” he said as they approached the first building. “People can’t know who we are.”

“Speak for yourself,” Xue Yang retorted. “Some of us weren’t famous.”

“You were infamous,” Wei Wuxian pointed out. “Which is worse. And Mo Xuanyu—what if your family sees you? Didn’t you say they are still alive?”

Mo Xuanyu paled. “You’re right. If they see me…”

“Then we disguise ourselves,” Wei Wuxian decided. “New clothes, maybe alter our appearances. At least until we figure out our next move.”

They managed to steal some robes from a merchant’s stall while the owner was distracted—Wei Wuxian felt guilty about it, but they didn’t have money and couldn’t exactly explain their situation. The bigger challenge came when they tried to decide how to disguise themselves.

“I am not wearing this,” Xue Yang declared, holding up a set of pale blue robes with flowing sleeves and an intricately embroidered belt. “I’ll look like a courtesan.”

“That’s the point,” Wei Wuxian explained patiently. “No one will expect the fearsome Xue Yang to dress like—”

“Like a whore,” Xue Yang finished flatly.

“I was going to say ‘like a refined young master,’” Wei Wuxian corrected. “But if you prefer the first interpretation…”

Mo Xuanyu, meanwhile, was examining his own outfit with disappointment. “These robes are so plain,” he complained. “Where’s the embroidery? The silk trim? The decorative elements?”

“The point is to be inconspicuous,” Wei Wuxian reminded him.

“But I want to look pretty,” Mo Xuanyu protested. “I died before I ever got to dress how I wanted. Can’t I have some embroidery? Maybe some jewelry?”

Wei Wuxian looked between his two companions—one refusing to wear clothes that made him look too attractive, the other complaining that his disguise wasn’t attractive enough.

“You’re both impossible,” he declared.

“I’m not wearing these robes,” Xue Yang said again, crossing his arms stubbornly.

“And I’m not wearing these either,” Mo Xuanyu chimed in. “They’re too boring.”

Wei Wuxian rubbed his temples, feeling a headache building. “Fine. Xue Yang, you can wear the plain brown robes. Mo Xuanyu, you get the blue ones with the embroidery.”

“No,” Xue Yang protested immediately. “The brown ones are too rough. They’ll chafe.”

“And the blue ones are still too plain,” Mo Xuanyu added. “Don’t you have anything with gold thread? Or maybe some nice jewelry?”

“We’re dead criminals trying to blend in!” Wei Wuxian exploded. “We don’t get to be picky about our disguises!”

“I’m not a criminal,” Mo Xuanyu said sulkily. “I just performed an illegal ritual.”

“That makes you a criminal,” Xue Yang pointed out.

“Says the mass murderer,” Mo Xuanyu shot back.

“I was very selective about my murders,” Xue Yang replied with dignity.

Wei Wuxian stared at them both, wondering if this was what having children felt like. “I cannot believe I spent thirteen months planning this resurrection just to end up babysitting you two.”

“We’re not children,” Xue Yang protested.

“Then stop acting like it!” Wei Wuxian snapped. “Xue Yang, put on the damn blue robes. Mo Xuanyu, you get the brown ones. End of discussion.”

“But—” they both began.

“No buts!” Wei Wuxian interrupted. “We need disguises, these are the clothes we have, and if either of you complains one more time, I’m going to figure out how to send you back to hell myself!”

The threat worked. Grumbling under their breaths, both men began changing into their assigned outfits.

Wei Wuxian, meanwhile, donned a set of simple black robes that made him look like a traveling scholar. He bound his hair differently, changed his posture slightly, and practiced altering his voice. When he looked in a borrowed mirror, even he had trouble recognizing himself.

“There,” he said, turning to check on his companions’ progress. “How do we—”

He stopped mid-sentence. Xue Yang, despite his protests, looked… actually quite good in the blue robes. The color brought out his eyes, and the flowing cut disguised his lean, dangerous build. He looked less like a killer and more like a pampered young master.

Mo Xuanyu, on the other hand, was practically pouting as he adjusted the brown robes. “I look like a servant,” he complained.

“You look inconspicuous,” Wei Wuxian corrected. “Which is the goal.”

“But I wanted to look pretty,” Mo Xuanyu insisted.

“You do look pretty,” Wei Wuxian said, exasperated. “You always look pretty. The robes don’t change that.”

Mo Xuanyu perked up slightly. “Really?”

“Really,” Wei Wuxian confirmed. “Now can we please focus on more important things? Like figuring out where we are and what we’re going to do next?”

They managed to gather information from local gossip without arousing suspicion. They were about two days’ travel from Lanling, it was currently late summer, and Jin Guangyao’s ascension to Chief Cultivator had been postponed due to some unspecified “complications.”

“Complications?” Wei Wuxian mused as they sat in a small inn, sharing a meal. “What kind of complications?”

“The kind that happen when thirteen people die performing revenge rituals in one month,” Xue Yang suggested. “People might start asking questions.”

“But they wouldn’t connect it to Jin Guangyao,” Mo Xuanyu pointed out. “Most of our conspirators weren’t obvious enemies.”

“Maybe not,” Wei Wuxian agreed. “But thirteen suspicious deaths in thirteen different locations? Someone’s bound to notice a pattern.”

A commotion outside the inn caught their attention. Through the window, they could see a group of cultivators in white and blue passing through the town.

“Lan sect,” Wei Wuxian breathed, his heart suddenly racing.

“Are you going to go to them?” Mo Xuanyu asked gently.

Wei Wuxian watched the figures disappear around a corner, drinking in the familiar colors, the disciplined way they moved. Somewhere, Lan Wangji was going about his daily life, not knowing that his dead husband was now alive again and only two towns away.

“Not yet,” he said finally. “We need to be smarter about this. If I just show up claiming to be Wei Wuxian back from the dead, they’ll think I’m a fraud or a demon. We need proof. A plan.”

“What kind of plan?” Xue Yang asked, though he sounded like he already suspected the answer.

Wei Wuxian’s smile was sharp and determined. “The kind that involves taking down Jin Guangyao and clearing our names in the process.”

Mo Xuanyu clapped his hands together excitedly. “Revenge!”

“Justice,” Wei Wuxian corrected automatically.

“Can’t it be both?” Xue Yang asked.

Wei Wuxian considered this. “I suppose it can be both.”

They spent the rest of the evening planning their next moves. It would be dangerous—three supposedly dead men trying to bring down the most powerful cultivator in the land. But they had advantages too. They knew Jin Guangyao’s secrets, his methods, his weaknesses. And they had nothing left to lose.

“First, we need to gather intelligence,” Wei Wuxian decided. “Find out exactly what’s been happening since we died. Then we strike.”

“I still think we should do something about these clothes,” Mo Xuanyu muttered, tugging at his brown robes. “If we’re going to bring down Jin Guangyao, shouldn’t we look good doing it?”

“We’ll get you prettier clothes later,” Wei Wuxian promised. “After we save the cultivation world.”

“And I still say these blue robes make me look like a courtesan,” Xue Yang added.

“Would you prefer to look like a corpse?” Wei Wuxian asked pointedly.

Xue Yang considered this. “Point taken.”

As night fell over the small town, three dead men sat planning the downfall of the man who had killed them. They were alive, they were together, and they had work to do.

Jin Guangyao had no idea what was coming for him.

The next morning brought new challenges. Wei Wuxian woke to find Mo Xuanyu attempting to embroider his plain brown robes with thread stolen from the innkeeper’s sewing kit.

“What are you doing?” he asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Improving my disguise,” Mo Xuanyu replied without looking up from his needlework. “If I have to wear brown, at least I can make it interesting brown.”

Across the room, Xue Yang was practicing different ways to walk in his blue robes, clearly still uncomfortable with how they made him look.

“This is ridiculous,” Xue Yang muttered. “I used to be feared across three provinces. Now I look like I should be serving tea at a music house.”

“You used to be dead,” Wei Wuxian pointed out. “I’d say this is an improvement.”

“Debatable,” Xue Yang replied, but he stopped fidgeting with the robes.

After a quick breakfast, they set out for Lanling. Their plan was simple in concept, complex in execution: gather information about Jin Guangyao’s current activities, identify his vulnerabilities, and expose his crimes in a way that couldn’t be dismissed or covered up.

“The challenge,” Wei Wuxian explained as they walked, “is that he’s spent years building his reputation. People want to believe in him. They need to believe in him, especially after the war.”

“But people also love a good scandal,” Mo Xuanyu pointed out. “Especially about powerful men.”

“True,” Wei Wuxian agreed. “We just need to give them a scandal they can’t ignore.”

They were debating the best approach when they encountered their first real test. A group of rogue cultivators had set up a checkpoint on the road, demanding “tolls” from travelers.

“Papers,” the leader demanded when they approached. He was a big man with scarred hands and the look of someone who’d seen too many battles. “And coin for passage.”

“We’re just humble travelers,” Wei Wuxian said, adopting the manner of a nervous scholar. 

“Surely we can work something out?”

“Papers first,” the man insisted.

Wei Wuxian exchanged glances with his companions. They didn’t have papers, of course, having been dead for three years.

“I’m afraid we’ve lost our documentation,” he said carefully. “Perhaps—”

“No papers, no passage,” the leader cut him off. “Unless you can pay the premium rate.”

“How much?” Xue Yang asked, his voice deceptively mild.

“Fifty taels of silver. Each.”

Mo Xuanyu made a choking sound. “That’s robbery!”

“That’s business,” the leader replied with a grin that showed too many missing teeth.

Wei Wuxian was about to suggest they find another route when Xue Yang stepped forward.

“You know,” he said conversationally, “I used to know someone who ran toll scams like this. Want to know what happened to him?”

The leader’s hand moved to his sword. “Are you threatening me, boy?”

“Oh no,” Xue Yang replied, his smile becoming razor-sharp. “I’m reminiscing.”

What happened next was over so quickly that Wei Wuxian almost missed it. One moment Xue Yang was standing there in his flowing blue robes, looking like a delicate young master. The next, three of the four rogue cultivators were on the ground, and their leader was staring in shock at the shallow cut across his throat.

“My apologies,” Xue Yang said politely, wiping his improvised weapon—a sharpened hairpin—clean. “But I really don’t like being extorted.”

“You—” the leader gasped.

“Dead, yes, I know,” Xue Yang replied. “It’s been mentioned.”

The surviving rogues fled into the woods, leaving their leader behind. Wei Wuxian knelt beside the man, checking his wound.

“Not fatal,” he assured Xue Yang. “Though he’ll have a scar.”

“Good,” Xue Yang said with satisfaction. “Maybe it’ll remind him to choose his targets more carefully.”

Mo Xuanyu was staring at both of them with wide eyes. “That was… very efficient.”

“We didn’t survive as long as we did by being inefficient,” Wei Wuxian replied, helping the wounded leader to his feet. “Run along now. Find a new profession.”

The man stumbled away, still clutching his throat.

“Well,” Wei Wuxian said, dusting off his hands. “That was invigorating. Shall we continue?”

As they resumed their journey, Mo Xuanyu peppered Xue Yang with questions about his fighting technique. Wei Wuxian, meanwhile, found himself oddly pleased by the encounter.

It felt good to be doing something again, even something as simple as discouraging highway robbery.

But more than that, it reminded him why they were doing this. The world was full of people like those rogue cultivators—people who preyed on the innocent because they thought they could get away with it. Jin Guangyao was just a more sophisticated version of the same thing.

“You’re thinking awfully hard over there,” Xue Yang observed.

“Just planning,” Wei Wuxian replied. “We’re going to need to be smarter about this than we were about those bandits.”

“Are you saying I wasn’t smart?” Xue Yang asked with mock offense.

“I’m saying you were effective,” Wei Wuxian clarified. “But effectiveness without subtlety won’t work against Jin Guangyao. He’s too well protected, has too many allies.”

“So what do you suggest?” Mo Xuanyu asked.

Wei Wuxian smiled, and for a moment, he looked exactly like the Yiling Patriarch who had once struck fear into the hearts of his enemies.

“We’re going to destroy him the same way he destroyed us,” he said. “From the shadows. Quietly. Completely.”

“Now you’re talking,” Xue Yang said with approval.

As they walked toward Lanling and their uncertain future, three supposedly dead men began to plan the downfall of the most powerful cultivator in the land. They had been given a second chance at life, and they intended to make it count.

Chapter Text

Three days later, Wei Wuxian decided they all needed a break.

“We can’t just rush headlong into confronting Jin Guangyao,” he reasoned as they made camp beside a secluded lake deep in the woods. “We need time to adjust to being alive again. To plan properly.”

“You mean you’re tired,” Xue Yang observed, dropping an armload of firewood with more force than necessary.

“I mean we’re all tired,” Wei Wuxian corrected, though Xue Yang wasn’t wrong. The constant travel, the need to stay disguised, the weight of their mission—it was all taking a toll. “When’s the last time any of us had a chance to just… exist? Without plotting or scheming or running from something?”

Mo Xuanyu looked up from where he was attempting to set up their makeshift shelter. “I don’t think I ever have,” he said thoughtfully. “There was always something to worry about. My family, my cultivation, the ritual…”

“See?” Wei Wuxian gestured toward him. “The boy needs a break. We all do.”

“I’m not a boy,” Mo Xuanyu protested weakly, but he didn’t sound like he had much energy for the argument.

“You’re younger than both of us,” Xue Yang pointed out. “That makes you a boy.”

“I’m nineteen!”

“Like I said. Boy.”

Wei Wuxian watched this exchange with amusement. Over the past few days of traveling together, he’d started to see the dynamic forming between his two companions. Xue Yang, despite his protests about his “slutty” disguise, had settled into an almost protective role toward Mo Xuanyu—though he expressed it by being relentlessly teasing. Mo Xuanyu, meanwhile, seemed to oscillate between being annoyed by Xue Yang and genuinely enjoying the attention.

It was… oddly domestic. Like they were becoming an actual group instead of just three random people thrown together by circumstance.

“Anyway,” Wei Wuxian continued, “we’re staying here for a few days. Rest, recuperate, maybe do some training. Mo Xuanyu, your swordsmanship could use work.”

“What’s wrong with my swordsmanship?” Mo Xuanyu demanded.

“You mean besides the fact that you nearly cut your own leg off trying to ward off that wild boar yesterday?” Xue Yang asked innocently.

Mo Xuanyu’s cheeks flushed. “That boar was very aggressive!”

“It was a piglet,” Wei Wuxian said gently. “And it was running away from you.”

“It was still scary,” Mo Xuanyu muttered.

The next morning—or rather, what would have been morning if any of them had been awake for it—Wei Wuxian was roused by the sound of Mo Xuanyu shrieking.

“GHOST!” the young man wailed from somewhere near the lake. “There’s a ghost in the water!”

Wei Wuxian groaned, rolling over on his bedroll. The sun was high overhead, suggesting it was well past noon. Beside him, Xue Yang was chuckling into his pillow.

“What did you do?” Wei Wuxian asked suspiciously.

“Nothing,” Xue Yang replied, though his grin suggested otherwise.

“XUE YANG!” Mo Xuanyu’s voice carried clearly across the water. “This isn’t funny!”

“Sounds pretty funny to me,” Xue Yang murmured, making no effort to get up.

With a sigh, Wei Wuxian hauled himself to his feet and stumbled toward the lake, still half-asleep. He found Mo Xuanyu standing waist-deep in the water, staring in terror at something floating near the shore.

“What’s wrong?” Wei Wuxian asked, rubbing his eyes.

“There!” Mo Xuanyu pointed with a shaking finger. “A corpse!”

Wei Wuxian looked where he was pointing and immediately understood Xue Yang’s amusement. Floating in the shallows was what appeared to be a human figure, face-down and motionless. But Wei Wuxian’s sharp eyes caught the telltale signs—the too-perfect positioning, the way it bobbed just slightly too rhythmically with the waves.

“Mo Xuanyu,” he said patiently, “that’s a scarecrow.”

“What?”

“It’s a scarecrow. Stuffed with straw and dressed in old clothes. Xue Yang probably floated it out there while you were bathing.”

Mo Xuanyu squinted at the floating figure, and Wei Wuxian saw the moment realization dawned. The young man’s fear transformed into indignation so quickly it was almost comical.

“XUE YANG!” he bellowed, turning toward their camp.

Laughter echoed from the trees where Xue Yang was presumably still lounging in his bedroll.

“I’m going to kill him,” Mo Xuanyu declared, sloshing toward shore with murder in his eyes.

“No killing,” Wei Wuxian said firmly, though he was fighting back laughter of his own. “But you can dump lake water on his head if it makes you feel better.”

Mo Xuanyu’s expression brightened considerably. “Really?”

“Really. Just… try not to drown him. We need him.”

What followed was perhaps the most undignified water fight Wei Wuxian had witnessed since his days as a student at Cloud Recesses. Mo Xuanyu, armed with a bucket and righteous fury, managed to thoroughly soak Xue Yang before the older man could fully wake up. Xue Yang retaliated by tackling Mo Xuanyu into the lake, leading to a great deal of splashing and shouting.

Wei Wuxian watched from the shore, drinking tea and feeling oddly content. When was the last time he’d seen people just… playing? Having fun without any ulterior motive or hidden agenda?

“You know,” he called out to his waterlogged companions, “Lan Zhan would be horrified by how late we slept.”

“Good thing he’s not here then,” Xue Yang replied, surfacing with lake weed in his hair.

Wei Wuxian felt a familiar pang at the mention of his husband, but it was gentler now than it had been in hell. Sad, but not devastating. He was alive again. He would see Lan Wangji soon.

“Speaking of running,” he said, setting down his tea, “Xua, you promised to let us help with your swordsmanship.”

Mo Xuanyu’s face fell. “Do I have to?”

“Yes,” Wei Wuxian and Xue Yang said in unison.

“But I’m wet,” Mo Xuanyu protested.

“Then dry off and get your sword,” Wei Wuxian said mercilessly.

An hour later, Mo Xuanyu was standing in a small clearing, sword in hand and wearing an expression of profound reluctance.

“I don’t see why I need to learn this,” he complained. “I have spiritual powers. Can’t I just use those?”

“Spiritual powers are useful,” Wei Wuxian agreed, “but what happens when you’re exhausted? Or injured? Or facing someone who can counter your techniques?”

“I die?” Mo Xuanyu suggested hopefully.

“You fight with your sword,” Xue Yang corrected. “Now stop whining and show us what you can do.”

What Mo Xuanyu could do, it turned out, was not very much. His form was sloppy, his footwork nonexistent, and his grip on his sword so loose that Xue Yang was able to disarm him within the first minute.

“Have you ever actually trained with this thing?” Xue Yang asked, picking up the fallen blade.

“A little,” Mo Xuanyu said defensively. “The Jin sect gave me basic lessons.”

“Basic lessons in how to stab yourself, apparently,” Xue Yang observed.

“Be nice,” Wei Wuxian chided, though he had to admit Mo Xuanyu’s technique was… concerning. “Everyone starts somewhere.”

“Most people start when they’re children,” Xue Yang pointed out. “Not when they’re grown men who’ve already died once.”

“I can hear you,” Mo Xuanyu said irritably.

“You’re supposed to hear me. I’m insulting you to your face.”

Wei Wuxian sighed. “Xue Yang, stop being mean to Xu. Xu, stop being so sensitive. We’re here to help you, not mock you.”

“He’s mocking me,” Mo Xuanyu pointed out.

“I’m providing constructive criticism,” Xue Yang countered.

“There was nothing constructive about calling me hopeless.”

“I didn’t call you hopeless. I said your technique was hopeless. That’s different.”

“How is that different?”

“One insults you personally, the other insults your abilities. Your abilities can be improved.”

Wei Wuxian looked between them and decided intervention was needed before they started bickering again.

“Alright, enough,” he said firmly. “Xue Yang, demonstrate proper form. Kid, watch and learn.”

What followed was actually quite educational, if you could ignore the running commentary. Xue Yang, despite his attitude problems, was genuinely skilled with a blade. His movements were economical, precise, and deadly efficient. Mo Xuanyu watched with obvious fascination, asking questions and trying to mimic the techniques.

“Your stance is still too wide,” Xue Yang observed after Mo Xuanyu’s latest attempt. “You’re not a tree. You need to be able to move.”

“But if my stance is too narrow, I’ll fall over,” Mo Xuanyu protested.

“Then find the middle ground,” Wei Wuxian suggested. “Balance is key.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon on basic drills—footwork, grip, simple strikes and parries. Mo Xuanyu was a quick learner when he wasn’t complaining, and by evening, he was managing to execute basic techniques without endangering himself or others.

“There,” Xue Yang said with satisfaction as they finished for the day. “You’re marginally less likely to accidentally commit suicide now.”

“Your encouragement is overwhelming,” Mo Xuanyu replied dryly, but he was smiling.

As the sun set over the lake, the three of them settled around their campfire, sharing a meal of fish they’d caught (well, that Xue Yang had caught while Mo Xuanyu hid from the “aggressive” fish) and wild vegetables Mo Xuanyu had foraged.

“You know,” Mo Xuanyu said thoughtfully, poking at the fire with a stick, “this is nice.”

“What is?” Wei Wuxian asked, though he had a feeling he knew.

“This. Just… being together. Not worrying about anything for a while.” Mo Xuanyu glanced at his companions. “I never really had friends before.”

“We’re friends?” Xue Yang asked with mock surprise. “I thought I was your tormentor and Wei Wuxian was your reluctant guardian.”

“You can be both,” Mo Xuanyu replied seriously.

Wei Wuxian found himself smiling. “I suppose we are friends. Strange as it is.”

“Very strange,” Xue Yang agreed. “A mass murderer, a failed revenge seeker, and the Yiling Patriarch. Sounds like the beginning of a terrible joke.”

“What’s the punchline?” Mo Xuanyu asked curiously.

“They all lived happily ever after?” Wei Wuxian suggested.

Xue Yang snorted. “That would be a terrible punchline.”

“I like it,” Mo Xuanyu said softly.

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the flames dance and listening to the gentle lapping of the lake against the shore. It was peaceful in a way none of them had experienced in years.

“So,” Xue Yang said eventually, “tomorrow we go back to planning Jin Guangyao’s downfall?”

“Tomorrow we go back to reality,” Wei Wuxian confirmed. “But for tonight…”

“For tonight we’re just three friends by a lake,” Mo Xuanyu finished.

“Friends who happen to be dead men walking,” Xue Yang added.

“Details,” Wei Wuxian said dismissively.

The next day dawned bright and clear, though none of them saw it dawn. True to form, all three slept well past midday, sprawled in their bedrolls like exhausted children.

It was Mo Xuanyu who woke first, roused by what he initially thought was the sound of crying. He sat up groggily, looking around their camp for the source of the noise. Everything seemed normal—their fire had burned down to embers, their supplies were where they’d left them, and Xue Yang and Wei Wuxian were still fast asleep.

Then he heard it again. A low, mournful wailing that seemed to come from the direction of the lake.

Mo Xuanyu’s blood ran cold. Ghosts. It had to be ghosts. The lake was probably built on an ancient battlefield or burial ground, and now the restless spirits were—

“AAAAHHHHH!” he shrieked, scrambling backward so fast he got tangled in his bedroll and crashed into Wei Wuxian.

“What—ow—kid, what are you doing?” Wei Wuxian groaned, blinking sleepily.

“Ghosts!” Mo Xuanyu gasped, pointing toward the lake. “There are ghosts wailing by the water!”

From his own bedroll, Xue Yang was making suspicious choking sounds.

Wei Wuxian sat up, listening carefully. Sure enough, the wailing sound came again—mournful, ethereal, and definitely supernatural.

“Hmm,” he said thoughtfully. “That does sound like—”

The wailing was suddenly interrupted by a very unghost-like sneeze.

Wei Wuxian turned to look at Xue Yang, who was now openly grinning.

“What did you do this time?” Wei Wuxian asked with resigned amusement.

“Nothing!” Xue Yang protested, though his grin suggested otherwise. “I can’t help it if this lake is haunted.”

“Xue Yang,” Wei Wuxian said warningly.

“Alright, fine.” Xue Yang sat up, still chuckling. “I may have rigged up a little… atmospheric enhancement. Some hollow reeds, positioned just right in the lake. The wind blows through them and creates that lovely wailing sound.”

Mo Xuanyu stared at him in disbelief. “You mean you made me think there were ghosts just to scare me?”

“I didn’t make you think anything,” Xue Yang replied innocently. “I just provided some ambient sound effects. Your overactive imagination did the rest.”

“You’re horrible,” Mo Xuanyu declared, but he sounded more relieved than angry.

“I’m creative,” Xue Yang corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Wei Wuxian shook his head, but he was fighting back laughter. “You know, Lan Zhan would have words to say about your pranks.”

“Good thing Lan Wangji isn’t here then,” Xue Yang replied cheerfully.

“What would he say?” Mo Xuanyu asked curiously, apparently having forgiven Xue Yang for the ghost scare.

Wei Wuxian considered this. “Probably something about how frivolous pranks disturb the peace and show a lack of proper restraint. Then he’d give you lines to copy.”

“Lines?” Mo Xuanyu looked confused.

“Punishment lines. ‘I will not frighten my companions with fake ghost sounds’ written a hundred times or something like that.”

“That sounds awful,” Mo Xuanyu said with a shudder.

“It builds character,” Wei Wuxian said solemnly, then ruined the effect by grinning. “Or so Lan Qiren always claimed.”

Xue Yang had gone very quiet. “Your husband sounds…” he began, then trailed off.

“Sounds what?” Wei Wuxian prompted.

“Strict,” Xue Yang finished. “Very… proper.”

There was something in his tone that made Wei Wuxian look at him more closely. “Yes, he is. But not in a bad way. He’s just… principled. He believes in doing the right thing, even when it’s difficult.”

“Must be nice,” Xue Yang said quietly. “Having someone like that.”

Wei Wuxian felt a pang of sympathy. He’d almost forgotten that Xue Yang had lost his own partner, had left behind a husband and daughter when he died.

“It is,” he said gently. “I miss him every day.”

Mo Xuanyu, sensing the shift in mood, cleared his throat. “Well, since we’re all awake, should we have some food? I’m starving.”

The moment passed, and they settled into their morning routine—though given that it was well past noon, perhaps it should be called their afternoon routine. Mo Xuanyu foraged for edible plants while Wei Wuxian caught fish and Xue Yang maintained their equipment.

It was a peaceful division of labor that they’d fallen into naturally over the past few days. Each of them contributed what they could, and somehow it all worked out.

“You know,” Mo Xuanyu said as they prepared their meal, “I keep expecting something to go wrong. For guards to find us, or for someone to recognize us, or…”

“For the lake to actually be haunted?” Xue Yang suggested with a grin.

“That too,” Mo Xuanyu admitted. “It just seems too good to be true, being able to rest like this.”

“Sometimes good things happen,” Wei Wuxian said, though he understood Mo Xuanyu’s wariness. “Even to people like us.”

“People like us being dead criminals?” Xue Yang asked.

“People like us being survivors,” Wei Wuxian corrected. “We’ve all been through hell—literally, in our case. We deserve some peace.”

After they ate, Xue Yang declared it was time for more sword practice.

“But we practiced yesterday,” Mo Xuanyu complained.

“And you were marginally less terrible by the end,” Xue Yang replied. “Imagine how much better you could be with more practice.”

“What if I don’t want to be better?” Mo Xuanyu asked. “What if I’m content being mediocre?”

“Then you’ll die,” Xue Yang said cheerfully. “Probably messily.”

“You’re very encouraging,” Mo Xuanyu said sarcastically.

“I’m realistic,” Xue Yang corrected. “Wei Wuxian, back me up here.”

Wei Wuxian, who had been listening to this exchange with amusement, nodded. “He’s right, Mo Xuanyu. Not about the dying messily part—well, not entirely—but about needing to improve. We’re going up against Jin Guangyao eventually. You need to be able to defend yourself.”

Mo Xuanyu sighed dramatically. “Fine. But if I accidentally cut myself, I’m blaming both of you.”

The afternoon training session went better than the previous day’s. Mo Xuanyu’s stance was more stable, his grip more secure, and he only dropped his sword twice. Xue Yang, despite his blunt commentary, was actually a patient teacher when he wanted to be.

“Better,” he said approvingly as Mo Xuanyu completed a series of basic cuts. “Your form still needs work, but you’re not completely hopeless anymore.”

“Such high praise,” Mo Xuanyu replied, but he was clearly pleased with the compliment.

Wei Wuxian, meanwhile, had taken on the role of providing encouragement and correcting Xue Yang when his teaching methods became too harsh.

“Remember,” he told Mo Xuanyu, “you’re not trying to win any tournaments. You just need to be competent enough to survive a fight long enough for help to arrive.”

“Or for you to run away,” Xue Yang added helpfully.

“Or for US to run away,” Wei Wuxian agreed. “There’s no shame in tactical retreats.”

“Is that what we call cowardice now?” Mo Xuanyu asked.

“We call it survival,” Wei Wuxian corrected. “And survival is the most important skill any of us can master.”

As the sun began to set, they called an end to the training session. Mo Xuanyu was sweating and exhausted, but there was a sense of accomplishment in his expression that hadn’t been there before.

“I think I’m actually getting better at this,” he said wonderingly.

“You are,” Wei Wuxian confirmed. “Give it another week or two, and you’ll be genuinely competent.”

“Competent enough to face Jin Guangyao’s guards?” Mo Xuanyu asked.

Wei Wuxian and Xue Yang exchanged a look.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Xue Yang said diplomatically.

Chapter Text

They’d been walking for hours now, making their way toward the town that had once been Wei Wuxian’s stronghold, though none of them were entirely sure what they expected to find there. It was simply the logical place to start—a location with strong ties to Wei Wuxian’s past, where they might be able to establish themselves and plan their next moves.

The silence had been comfortable at first, each of them adjusting to the sensation of breathing, of heartbeats, of muscles that could grow tired. But as the afternoon wore on and the road stretched endlessly ahead, conversation began to flow more naturally.

“I still can’t believe we actually escaped,” Mo Xuanyu said, breaking the contemplative quiet.

 He looked younger in life than he had in death, the stress lines around his eyes less pronounced, though the wariness remained. “Thirteen months we spent in that gray wasteland planning, and then suddenly…”

“Suddenly we found the crack,” Xue Yang finished with satisfaction. “Though I still say my approach of threatening the guardian spirits was what finally worked.”

“Your approach of threatening everything that moved was hardly subtle,” Wei Wuxian pointed out with amusement. “If Mo Xuanyu hadn’t figured out how to manipulate the boundary between realms using his summoning knowledge, we’d still be there listening to Wen Chao whine about his accommodations.”

Mo Xuanyu ducked his head, clearly pleased by the praise but trying not to show it. “The theoretical framework was sound. Once I realized that the barrier between life and death wasn’t as solid as most people believe…”

“You managed to reverse-engineer your own failed summoning ritual and use it to punch a hole back to the living world,” Xue Yang said admiringly. “Not bad for someone who claimed to be a failure.”

A complicated expression crossed Mo Xuanyu’s face. “I never claimed to be a failure. Other people claimed that for me.”

Wei Wuxian glanced at him with interest. Despite their time together in the afterlife, there was still so much about Mo Xuanyu that remained mysterious. The young man was clearly brilliant—his understanding of soul magic and spiritual theory rivaled that of sect leaders—yet he’d been dismissed and discarded by the Jin sect as worthless.

“Speaking of which,” Xue Yang said, his tone deceptively casual, “I’ve been wondering something. Where exactly did you learn to perform soul summoning in the first place? It’s not exactly the kind of thing they teach at sect schools.”

Wei Wuxian noticed the way Mo Xuanyu’s shoulders tensed slightly, the barely perceptible hitch in his step. Interesting.

“I told you,” Mo Xuanyu said, not looking at either of them, “I researched it.”

“Yes, but where?” Xue Yang pressed, his predator’s instincts clearly picking up on the evasion. “The Jin sect library? Because somehow I doubt they keep detailed instructions on forbidden necromancy just lying around for any disgraced bastard son to stumble across.”

“It’s not important now,” Mo Xuanyu said quickly, his voice taking on a strained quality. “What matters is that we’re here, we’re alive, and we have work to do.”

Wei Wuxian and Xue Yang exchanged glances. In the thirteen months they’d spent together in the afterlife, Mo Xuanyu had been remarkably forthcoming about most aspects of his past—his childhood in the Jin sect, his struggles with his sexuality, the brutal ‘treatment’ he’d endured before his expulsion. But whenever the conversation turned to the specifics of how he’d learned soul summoning, he became evasive.

“Mo Xuanyu,” Wei Wuxian said gently, “we’re not interrogating you out of idle curiosity. Soul summoning is incredibly dangerous magic. Most cultivators won’t even acknowledge it exists, let alone study it. If we’re going to work together—if we’re going to trust each other with our lives—we need to understand exactly how you acquired that knowledge.”

“Because if someone taught you,” Xue Yang added with characteristic bluntness, “we need to know who and why. For all we know, this whole situation is part of some larger scheme we’re walking blindly into.”

Mo Xuanyu stopped walking abruptly, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “It’s not… I wasn’t…” He took a deep breath, clearly struggling with himself. “You’ll think less of me if I tell you.”

“Less of you?” Xue Yang’s laugh was genuinely surprised. “Mo Xuanyu, I massacred an entire clan because they killed someone I cared about. Wei Wuxian raised an army of corpses and lost control of them at a political gathering. We’re not exactly in a position to judge anyone.”

“Besides,” Wei Wuxian added, settling down on a convenient boulder by the side of the road, “whatever it is, I guarantee we’ve heard worse. Come on, sit. Tell us the truth.”

Mo Xuanyu hesitated for a long moment, looking between them with clear internal conflict. Finally, his shoulders slumped in defeat, and he sank down onto the dusty ground with his back against a tree.

“Nie Huaisang,” he said quietly, the name dropping into the afternoon air like a stone into still water.

The effect was immediate and dramatic. Wei Wuxian’s eyes widened in shock, and then he threw back his head and burst into delighted laughter that echoed across the countryside.

“Of course!” he gasped between laughs, slapping his knee with glee. “Of course it was Nie-xiong! That sneaky, brilliant, absolutely ruthless bastard!”

Xue Yang looked confused, glancing between Wei Wuxian’s delighted laughter and Mo Xuanyu’s miserable expression. “Care to explain why you’re so amused by this revelation? I honestly woul more believe it was Wen Ruohan if we haven’t seen him in hell before the kid even arrived.”

“Because,” Wei Wuxian said, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, “this is exactly the kind of thing Nie Huaisang would do. Everyone always underestimated him—thought he was just this harmless, useless second young master who only cared about fans and birds and pretty things. But underneath all that was one of the most cunning, patient, absolutely brilliant minds I’ve ever encountered.”

Mo Xuanyu shifted uncomfortably, pulling his knees up to his chest. “You’re not… angry?”

“Angry?” Wei Wuxian’s grin was brilliant with genuine admiration. “I’m impressed! Do you have any idea how much planning and patience it would take to orchestrate something like this? Nie Huaisang must have spent years quietly researching soul summoning, gathering resources, identifying the right person to carry out his plans, all while maintaining his facade of being a harmless aesthete.”

“But why?” Xue Yang asked, his analytical mind clearly working through the implications. “What’s his endgame? Why would Nie Huaisang the “head shaker” want Wei Wuxian brought back from the dead?”

Wei Wuxian’s expression grew more thoughtful, the laughter fading into something sharper and more focused. “Revenge,” he said simply. “It has to be. Nie Huaisang never forgot a slight, never forgave anyone who wronged his family. If he’s orchestrating my return, it’s because there’s someone he wants destroyed, and he thinks the Yiling Patriarch is the weapon he needs to do it, or he really missed me which also would make a lot of sense.”

“Jin Guangyao,” Mo Xuanyu said quietly, his voice barely audible.

“Exactly,” Wei Wuxian agreed. “Xue Yang you said Nie Mingjue was decleared dead when you died, right? Jin Guangyao killed Nie Mingjue—I’d bet my life on it. Nie Huaisang probably suspected as much, but could never prove it. So he decided to create his own instrument of justice.”

Mo Xuanyu wrapped his arms around his knees, making himself even smaller. “So I really was just a pawn. A useful tool to be manipulated and discarded.”

The pain in his voice made Wei Wuxian’s expression soften. “Tell us how it happened,” he said gently. “The whole story. From the beginning.”

Mo Xuanyu was quiet for so long that Wei Wuxian began to think he wouldn’t answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft and distant, lost in painful memory.

“It was about six months after the Jin sect cast me out. I was… not doing well. I’d managed to find lodging in some tiny town whose name I can’t even remember—a room above a tavern that rented to anyone with coin, no questions asked. I was drinking heavily, spending what little money I had on alcohol and self-pity.”

He paused, his fingers digging into the fabric of his robes. “I was planning to kill myself. Not dramatically, not as some grand gesture of revenge. I just… couldn’t see the point in continuing. I had no core, no family, no prospects. I was a walking reminder of everything the Jin sect preferred to forget.”

Wei Wuxian felt a familiar ache in his chest. He remembered that despair, that bone-deep certainty that death would be a kindness compared to the weight of continued existence.

“What stopped you?” he asked quietly.

A bitter smile ghosted across Mo Xuanyu’s lips. “Nie Huaisang. Though I didn’t know who he was at first. One evening, I was in the tavern—drunk as usual—when this elegantly dressed man sat down across from me. He was… beautiful, in a way that seemed almost otherworldly. Refined features, expensive clothes, carrying himself with the kind of effortless grace that spoke of noble birth.”

“But you didn’t recognize him?” Xue Yang asked.

Mo Xuanyu shook his head. “It had been years since I’d seen him, and I’d only met him a few times during sect gatherings when I was younger. Besides, he looked different. More mature, more sophisticated. There was something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before—a depth that suggested hidden knowledge, hidden pain.”

“What did he say to you?” Wei Wuxian prompted.

“At first? Nothing particularly significant. He introduced himself as a traveling merchant—gave a false name, of course. He seemed genuinely interested in my story, bought me dinner, listened to me ramble about how unfair life was. I thought he was just some kind stranger taking pity on a pathetic drunk.”

Mo Xuanyu’s voice grew softer, almost wistful. “But he kept coming back. Day after day for nearly a week, he would find me in that tavern and just… talk. He had this way of making you feel like you were the most interesting person in the world, like your thoughts and opinions actually mattered.”

“He was gathering information,” Xue Yang observed. “Learning about your background, your grievances, your emotional state.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Mo Xuanyu agreed, but without bitterness. “But he was also genuinely kind. He listened when I talked about my childhood in the Jin sect, about the discrimination I faced, about my complicated relationship with Jin Guangyao. He seemed to understand the particular pain of being an unwanted son in a powerful family.”

Wei Wuxian could picture it perfectly. Nie Huaisang had always been an exceptional listener, with an uncanny ability to make people feel heard and understood. It was part of what had made him so effective at gathering information even as a teenager.

“When did he reveal his true identity?” Wei Wuxian asked.

Mo Xuanyu’s laugh held no humor. “Not until the very end. He waited until I was completely invested in our… friendship, I suppose. Until I was looking forward to his visits, depending on his company to break up the monotony of my self-destruction.”

“And then?”

“Then he told me he had a proposition for me. A way to get real, meaningful revenge on the Jin sect—not just petty vengeance, but genuine justice for all the wrongs they’d committed.” Mo Xuanyu’s eyes grew distant. “He spoke about corruption in the great sects, about how the truly guilty always seemed to escape consequences while innocents suffered. He made it sound like a noble cause.”

“Which it was, in a way,” Wei Wuxian mused. “The Jin sect’s treatment of you was unconscionable. Jin Guangyao’s crimes against my family, against the Nie sect, against countless others… there’s definitely justice to be served there.”

“That’s what he said. He told me there was someone who had been wronged even more than I had, someone with the power to bring down the entire corrupt system that had destroyed both our lives. He said this person had been murdered by the very people who should have protected him, but that there was a way to bring him back.”

“Me,” Wei Wuxian said.

Mo Xuanyu nodded. “You. He explained about your death—how you’d been manipulated and betrayed by people who claimed to love you, how the great sects had conspired to destroy you because they feared your power and independence. He made you sound like a martyred hero, someone who deserved justice.”

“And then he gave you the books,” Xue Yang said.

“Not immediately. First, he revealed who he really was—Nie Huaisang, second young master of the Nie sect, brother to the late great Nie Mingjue. He told me about his own losses, his own desire for justice. He made it sound like we were kindred spirits, united by our grief and our need for vindication.”

Mo Xuanyu pulled his knees tighter against his chest. “Only then did he produce the books. Ancient texts on soul summoning, necromancy, spiritual manipulation. He said he’d been collecting them for years, preparing for the right moment and the right person to carry out his plans.”

“And you were the right person because…?” Wei Wuxian prompted.

“Because I had nothing left to lose,” Mo Xuanyu said simply. “Because my connection to the Jin sect meant I could get close enough to perform the ritual without arousing suspicion. Because my knowledge of spiritual theory meant I could actually understand and execute the complex magic involved. And because…”

He trailed off, his face flushing with embarrassment.

“Because?” Xue Yang pressed.

“Because I was already planning to die anyway,” Mo Xuanyu whispered. “The soul summoning ritual requires the caster to sacrifice their life force. For someone who was already contemplating suicide, it wasn’t really a sacrifice—it was just giving my death meaning.”

The silence that followed was heavy with understanding. Wei Wuxian felt a surge of sympathy for the young man, recognizing the particular despair that could make death seem like a gift rather than a loss.

“Did he tell you the ritual would kill you?” he asked gently.

Mo Xuanyu shook his head. “Not initially. He was very careful about how he presented the information, focusing on the power of the summoning, the certainty that it would work, the justice that would finally be served. It wasn’t until I was deep into the research that I fully understood what ‘offering one’s life force’ actually entailed.”

“And by then, you were committed to the plan,” Xue Yang observed.

“By then, I wanted to die anyway,” Mo Xuanyu corrected. “The thought that my death could serve a purpose, could contribute to something greater than just ending my own misery… it was seductive. Nie Huaisang had given me something I’d been lacking for months—hope. Even if that hope was ultimately for my own death to have meaning.”

They sat in contemplative silence for a while, watching the shadows lengthen as the afternoon progressed. A merchant’s cart passed them on the road, the driver nodding politely at the three young men resting by the wayside before continuing on his journey.

“Do you regret it?” Wei Wuxian asked eventually. “Trusting him? Going through with the ritual?”

Mo Xuanyu considered the question seriously, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “I regret that the ritual didn’t work as intended. I regret that Jin Guangyao is still alive and prospering while we had to claw our way back from the dead. But trusting Nie Huaisang?” He paused, then shook his head slowly. “No. He gave me something to live for in my final months. More than that—he gave me something to die for. He made me feel like my existence, however brief and painful, could contribute to something meaningful.”

“That’s remarkably mature of you,” Xue Yang commented, genuine respect in his voice.

Mo Xuanyu’s laugh was self-deprecating. “Having your soul torn from your body and spending months in the afterlife gives you perspective on these things. Besides, I understand now that being used doesn’t necessarily diminish the value of the relationship. Nie Huaisang may have manipulated my emotions and my desperation, but the kindness he showed me was real. The time he spent listening to my problems, the genuine care he demonstrated for my wellbeing—that wasn’t all an act.”

“How can you be sure?” Wei Wuxian asked, curious about Mo Xuanyu’s certainty.

“Because he didn’t have to be kind,” Mo Xuanyu replied simply. “If all he needed was a desperate person willing to die for his cause, he could have found someone more bitter, more consumed with rage. He chose me specifically because he believed I could succeed, yes, but also because he saw something in me worth saving, even if only temporarily.”

Wei Wuxian studied Mo Xuanyu’s profile, noting the quiet dignity in his posture despite the painful subject matter. “You’re in love with him,” he said, not unkindly.

Mo Xuanyu’s face flushed crimson. “I… that’s not… it’s more complicated than that. Maybe I like him, but I don’t love.”

“Is it?” Xue Yang asked with genuine curiosity. “Because from where I’m sitting, it sounds like classic infatuation with a charismatic manipulator.”

“Maybe,” Mo Xuanyu admitted, his voice barely audible. “But if it is, it’s infatuation based on genuine understanding and connection. Nie Huaisang didn’t just use my desperation—he spoke to my intelligence, my need to be valued for more than just my bloodline or my potential utility to the Jin sect. For the first time in my life, someone saw me as a complete person rather than just a set of problems to be solved or assets to be exploited.”

Wei Wuxian felt his heart clench with sympathy. He could understand that hunger for recognition, for being seen and valued as a whole person rather than just a collection of useful traits.

“And what do you think his ultimate goal was?” he asked. “If the summoning had worked as planned, if I had successfully possessed your body, what did he expect me to do?”

“Destroy Jin Guangyao,” Mo Xuanyu answered without hesitation. “That was always the endgame, though he never stated it directly. Every conversation we had, every piece of information he shared about the cultivation world’s corruption, it all pointed toward Jin Guangyao as the primary target.”

Wei Wuxian nodded thoughtfully. “That makes perfect sense. Nie Huaisang always suspected Jin Guangyao was involved in Nie Mingjue’s death, but he could never prove it. Bringing back the Yiling Patriarch would be like unleashing a guided weapon—someone with the power to destroy Jin Guangyao and the personal motivation to want him dead.”

“Personal motivation?” Mo Xuanyu looked puzzled.

“Jin Guangyao orchestrated my downfall,” Wei Wuxian explained, his voice growing cold with remembered anger. “He manipulated events from behind the scenes, turned my own family against me, created the circumstances that led to my death. Nie Huaisang would know that I had every reason to want revenge.”

“So we’re all playing our parts in his grand design,” Xue Yang observed with dark amusement. “Even our escape from the afterlife probably serves his purposes somehow.”

“Probably,” Wei Wuxian agreed. “But that doesn’t mean we have to dance to his tune. We’re free agents now, with our own goals and motivations. If our interests happen to align with his plans, well… that’s just convenient.”

Mo Xuanyu looked between them with growing excitement. “You mean we’re actually going to go after Jin Guangyao? We’re going to make him pay for what he’s done?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Xue Yang said with a predatory grin. “I have my own grievances with that particular bastard. The question is how we go about it.”

“Carefully,” Wei Wuxian replied. “Jin Guangyao is cunning and well-protected. He’s also had three years to consolidate his power while we were dead. We can’t just storm into Lanling Jin and challenge him to a duel.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Mo Xuanyu asked.

Wei Wuxian stood up, brushing dust from his borrowed robes. “First, we establish ourselves somewhere safe and gather information. We need to understand the current political landscape, figure out who Jin Guangyao’s allies and enemies are, learn about any weaknesses or vulnerabilities we can exploit.”

“And then?” Xue Yang prompted, rising as well.

“Then we destroy him,” Wei Wuxian said simply. “Thoroughly, completely, in a way that ensures he can never hurt anyone else again.”

Mo Xuanyu scrambled to his feet, his eyes bright with anticipation. “Where do we start?”

Wei Wuxian looked ahead toward Yiling, where the late afternoon sun was casting long shadows across the familiar landscape of his former territory. “We start by going home. Or what used to be home, anyway.”

As they resumed their journey, Mo Xuanyu seemed lighter somehow, as if sharing his story had lifted a weight from his shoulders. He walked with more confidence, his posture straighter, his voice stronger when he spoke.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I think Nie Huaisang would be proud of us. We’ve exceeded his expectations in every possible way.”

“How so?” Wei Wuxian asked.

“He planned for you to return in my body, to be bound by the terms of the summoning ritual. Instead, we’ve all returned in our own forms, with our own agency and our own power. We’re not his weapons anymore—we’re his partners, whether he realizes it or not.”

Xue Yang laughed approvingly. “I like the way you think, kid. Let’s see how the great mastermind handles having his carefully crafted pawns develop minds of their own.”

Chapter Text

The morning sun filtered through the trees as the three unlikely companions approached a crossroads outside a small village. Wei Wuxian and Mo Xuanyu were deep in discussion about the current political climate of the cultivation world, but Xue Yang had grown increasingly quiet over the past hour.

“This is where we part ways,” Xue Yang announced suddenly, coming to a stop at the intersection of three dirt roads.

Wei Wuxian and Mo Xuanyu turned to look at him, surprised by the abrupt declaration.

“Part ways?” Mo Xuanyu echoed, confusion clear in his voice. “But we agreed to work together to take down Jin Guangyao.”

“And we will,” Xue Yang assured him, though there was something tense in his posture that hadn’t been there before. “But first, I have… personal matters to attend to.”

Wei Wuxian studied his companion’s face, noting the way Xue Yang’s eyes kept drifting toward the eastern road—the one that led toward Yi City. Understanding dawned.

“Shishu,” Wei Wuxian said quietly. “And A-Qing.”

Xue Yang’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “I need to see them. Need to… explain. They think I’ve been dead for three years. They deserve to know the truth.”

“The truth about what, exactly?” Mo Xuanyu asked, still looking confused. “That we escaped from the afterlife together?”

“That I’m alive,” Xue Yang corrected. “That I didn’t abandon them by choice. That I want to come home.”

Wei Wuxian felt a pang of sympathy. He understood that desperate need to reunite with loved ones, to bridge the gap that death had created between them and the people they’d left behind.

“How long do you need?” he asked practically.

Xue Yang considered. “A few days, maybe a week. Xingchen is… he won’t make this easy for me. And A-Qing…” His expression grew pained. “She was only fifteen when I died. She’s eighteen now. She’s grown up thinking her father abandoned her.”

“We’ll meet you in Yiling,” Wei Wuxian decided. “Give you time to sort things out with your family, then we can plan our next moves together.”

“You sure?” Xue Yang asked, though relief was evident in his voice. “I know you’re eager to see Lan Wangji and Yuan.”

“They’ve waited thirteen years,” Wei Wuxian replied with a sad smile. “A few more days won’t kill them, and to be honest I still don’t know how to even begin conversation with them. Besides, Mo Xuanyu and I can use the time to gather information.”

Mo Xuanyu nodded enthusiastically. “I’d like to visit some of the smaller towns, talk to common folk about how the political situation has changed.”

“Settled then,” Xue Yang said, some of his usual cocky demeanor returning. “Don’t do anything too interesting without me. I’d hate to miss all the fun.”

With that, he set off down the eastern road, his stride confident despite the emotional turmoil Wei Wuxian knew he must be feeling.

“Think they’ll forgive him?” Mo Xuanyu asked softly.

“I don’t know,” Wei Wuxian admitted. “But if anyone deserves a second chance at happiness, it’s someone who clawed their way back from the dead for it.”

Yi City looked exactly as Xue Yang remembered it, narrow winding streets, buildings that seemed to lean into each other for support, an air of comfortable shabbiness that spoke of a community more concerned with substance than appearance. It had been Xingchen’s choice to settle here, and Xue Yang had come to love it for the peace it had offered them.

Now, walking through the familiar streets after three years of being dead, he felt like a ghost returning to haunt his former life.

The small temple that Xiao Xingchen had claimed as their home sat at the edge of the city. Through the open doors, he could hear the soft sound of someone playing a guqin, a melody he didn’t recognize, but played with Xingchen’s distinctive delicate precision.

For a moment, Xue Yang hesitated. What if Xingchen had moved on? What if A-Qing had grown to hate the memory of the father who’d disappeared from her life?

But he’d come this far. He’d literally escaped from hell for this chance. He wasn’t going to let cowardice stop him now.

Taking a deep breath, Xue Yang stepped through the temple doors.

The music stopped abruptly. Xiao Xingchen sat frozen at his guqin, his head tilted in that particular way that meant he was listening intently. Even blind, he’d always been able to sense Xue Yang’s presence.

“Xingchen,” Xue Yang said softly.

The guqin strings made a discordant sound as Xingchen’s hands jerked involuntarily. He rose slowly, turning toward the sound with an expression of such shock and pain that Xue Yang felt his heart clench.

“No,” Xingchen breathed, his face going pale. “This isn’t… you’re dead. You’ve been dead for three years. This is another illusion.”

“I got better,” Xue Yang said, attempting humor, but his voice came out strained.

For a long moment, they stood facing each other. Xingchen looked older than Xue Yang remembered, lines of grief etched around his eyes, his beautiful face marked by weariness.

“A-Qing!” Xingchen called suddenly, his voice sharp with panic. “A-Qing, come here!”

Footsteps approached from the back of the temple, quick, light, purposeful. A young woman appeared in the doorway, and Xue Yang’s breath caught.

A-Qing had grown beautiful in his absence. She was tall and graceful like her father, but she moved with confidence that was purely her own. Her face held features of both parents, Xingchen’s delicate features softened by Xue Yang’s sharper angles.

When she saw Xue Yang, she went very still.

“Father?” she said quietly, uncertainty coloring her voice.

The word hit Xue Yang like a physical blow. She still called him father, even after three years of absence.

“A-Qing, princess,” he managed, his voice thick with emotion. “You’ve grown so much.”

Her expression shifted, cycling rapidly through shock, recognition, joy, and then settling into cold anger.

“Where have you been?” she demanded, her voice rising with each word. “Three years! Three years we thought you were gone because you didn’t want us! Three years Dad cried himself to sleep thinking you’d left because you couldn’t give up your life of crime!” (ngl this was inspired by HP Molly)

“A-Qing,” Xingchen said gently, but she wasn’t finished.

“And now you just walk back in here like nothing happened? Do you have any idea what you put us through?”

Xue Yang took the verbal assault without flinching. He deserved it and more.

“You’re right to be angry,” he said quietly. “You’re right about all of it. I left, I made choices that put me in danger, and I paid the price. But I need you to understand—I never wanted to leave you. I never wanted to cause you pain.”

“But you did it anyway,” A-Qing shot back, tears streaming down her cheeks. “You chose whatever it was you were doing over us. Over me.”

Xingchen stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on A-Qing’s shoulder. “Let him speak. We deserve an explanation.”

Xue Yang looked between them—the two people he loved most in the world, both hurt and angry because of his choices.

“I was dead,” he said simply. “For three years, I was actually, literally dead. I didn’t leave you by choice. I was murdered.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

“Murdered?” Xingchen repeated slowly. “By whom?”

“Jin Guangyao,” Xue Yang replied, his voice hardening. “He decided I was no longer useful and had me killed.”

A-Qing wiped angrily at her tears. “That’s impossible. People don’t just come back from the dead.”

“Usually, no,” Xue Yang agreed. “But I found a way. I fought my way back because I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving you both forever.”

Xingchen sank back down, his hands shaking. “Dead,” he whispered. “All this time, you were actually dead.”

“In a realm between life and death,” Xue Yang clarified. “A place where souls go to face consequences. It was… not pleasant.”

“Good,” A-Qing said fiercely. “I hope you suffered.”

“I did,” Xue Yang admitted. “Every single day. But regret wasn’t enough to bring me back. It took determination, cunning, and luck.”

He moved closer, kneeling in front of where A-Qing stood. “I know I don’t deserve forgiveness. I know I have no right to ask for another chance. But I’m asking anyway, because you two are the only thing in any realm that matters to me.”

A-Qing stared down at him, her young face a storm of conflicting emotions. Finally, she turned and ran from the room.

“She needs time,” Xingchen said quietly. “We both do.”

The next few days passed in strange mixture of joy and tension. Xingchen had agreed to let Xue Yang stay, though he’d made it clear that forgiveness would take time. A-Qing remained coldly polite during meals, but Xue Yang caught her watching him sometimes when she thought he wasn’t looking.

Xue Yang threw himself into domestic life with enthusiasm that surprised even him. He helped with cooking, cleaned the temple, listened to Xingchen play music, and tried to find ways to connect with the young woman A-Qing had become.

“You don’t have to try so hard,” Xingchen said one evening as they sat together on the temple steps.

“Yes, I do,” Xue Yang replied quietly. “I have three years of absence to make up for. Three years of birthdays I missed, of problems I wasn’t here to help solve.”

“A-Qing’s eighteenth birthday was last month,” Xingchen mentioned. “She refused to celebrate. Said it didn’t feel right without…”

“Without me,” Xue Yang finished, guilt tightening his chest. “What did she want? For her birthday?”

“A sword,” Xingchen said with a small smile. “She’s been pestering me to teach her proper swordplay for years.”

“She’s our daughter,” Xue Yang pointed out. “Did you really think she’d inherit your pacifist nature instead of my combative one?”

“I had hoped,” Xingchen admitted. “But you’re right. She has your fire, your determination to meet challenges head-on.”

“Is that such a bad thing? Knowing how to fight might keep her alive.”

Xingchen was quiet for a moment. “I suppose you’re right. I just wanted her to have a different kind of life than either of us did.”

“Safety is an illusion,” Xue Yang said softly. “The only real security comes from being strong enough to protect yourself and the people you love.”

As if summoned by their conversation, A-Qing appeared in the doorway behind them.

“I’ve been listening,” she said without preamble, settling down on the step below them.

“And I want to learn. To fight, I mean.”

Xue Yang looked at her, noting the determined set of her jaw. “Why? It’s not a decision to make lightly.”

“Because I was helpless,” A-Qing replied, her voice steady despite the pain underlying it. “When you disappeared, when we thought you’ve choose crimes over us, I was completely helpless. I couldn’t go looking for you, couldn’t even protect Dad from his own grief. I never want to feel that powerless again.”

Xue Yang felt a surge of pride mixed with regret. She was definitely his daughter—his stubbornness and Xingchen’s courage combined.

“Alright,” he said. “We’ll teach you. But you have to understand—learning to fight means learning to kill. Are you prepared for that responsibility?”

A-Qing met his gaze steadily. “Are you prepared to be my teacher? Because that means staying alive and staying here, not running off on dangerous missions.”

The challenge in her voice made Xue Yang smile—the first genuine smile he’d worn since returning.

“Deal,” he said, extending his hand to her.

After a moment’s hesitation, A-Qing reached out and shook it.

It was on the fourth day of this tentative reconciliation that the junior disciples arrived in Yi City.

Xue Yang was in the temple courtyard, demonstrating basic sword forms for A-Qing while Xingchen offered corrections, when they heard voices echoing through the narrow streets.

“We should have turned left at the crossroads,” one voice was saying—young, cultured, with the precise diction of nobility.

“I told you we should have followed the main road,” another replied, this one carrying the distinctive accent of Gusu.

“Well, we’re here now,” a third voice interjected with forced cheer. “Might as well see if anyone can give us directions.”

“This place gives me the creeps,” came a fourth voice. “Why would anyone build a city in such a remote location?”

“Because not everyone wants to live under the constant scrutiny of the great sects,” the fifth voice replied dryly.

Xue Yang and Xingchen exchanged glances. Visitors to Yi City were rare, and visitors who sounded like young cultivators were rarer still.

“Sect disciples,” Xingchen said quietly. “From their accents and speech patterns, I’d guess a mix of different sects.”

“Should we hide?” A-Qing asked, looking between her parents.

Xue Yang considered. His face was known throughout the cultivation world, and while everyone believed he was dead, his sudden reappearance would cause complications. On the other hand, if these were just junior disciples who’d gotten lost, they posed no real threat.

“I’ll go inside,” he decided. “You two handle them.”

But before he could move, the voices grew closer, and a group of young people rounded the corner into the temple courtyard. Five junior disciples—two in Lan white and blue, one in Jin yellow and gold, one in Nie gray, and one in purple robes Xue Yang didn’t immediately recognize.

For a moment, everyone froze.

The juniors stared at the sight of the notorious Xue Yang, supposedly dead for three years, standing calmly in a temple courtyard with a sword in his hand. Xue Yang stared back, recognizing the distinctive features of various sect families.

“Well,” he said finally, his voice carrying its old sardonic edge, “this is awkward.”

The Lan disciples immediately went for their swords, but the Jin disciple—a young man who looked strikingly similar to Jin Guangyao, spoke first.

“Wait,” the Jin disciple said, his voice shaking slightly. “You’re Xue Yang. You’re supposed to be dead.”

“I got better,” Xue Yang replied with a sharp grin. “It’s becoming quite the habit of mine.”

“How?” one of the Lan disciples demanded, his sword halfway drawn. “Dead is dead. People don’t just come back to life.”

‘So this is a-Yuan’ He thought looking up and down at the kid, ‘he definitely resembled second Jade.”

“People don’t,” Xue Yang agreed. “But I’m not exactly people, am I?”

Xingchen stepped forward, moving protectively in front of A-Qing. “There’s no need for weapons. We’re not looking for trouble.”

“You’re harboring a known criminal,” the other Lan disciple accused. “Xue Yang is wanted for mass murder.”

‘are we sure this one isn’t Wei Wuxian’s kid?’ he thought to himself

“I can assure you, he wont do anything” Xingchen replied, though even he sounded uncertain.

“Besides,” Xue Yang added conversationally, “I’m curious what brings junior disciples to Yi City. It’s not exactly a popular destination.”

The juniors exchanged uncertain glances. They were clearly out of their depth.

“We got lost,” the Nie of course disciple admitted finally. “We were traveling together to a conference in Qishan when we took a wrong turn.”

“And ended up here,” the purple-robed disciple finished. “Which is impossible, because Yi City isn’t on any of the main roads.”

Xue Yang felt a familiar chill. Yi City appearing where it shouldn’t be, travelers getting lost and ending up in places they’d never intended to go—it was a pattern he recognized.

“How did you get lost, exactly?” he asked, his voice taking on a sharper edge.

“There was a man,” one of the Lan disciples said slowly. “An older man in traveling clothes. He offered to guide us when we realized we’d taken a wrong turn. He led us here and then… disappeared.”

“What did he look like?” Xingchen asked urgently.

“Middle-aged, well-dressed but not ostentatiously so.” the Jin disciple replied.

Xue Yang cursed under his breath. That description could fit any number of people, but given the circumstances, he had a sinking feeling he knew exactly who they were talking about.

“We need to get you out of the city,” he said abruptly. “Right now.”

“Why?” A-Qing asked, alarmed by the sudden change in his demeanor.

“Because Yi City is about to become very dangerous, and these children are the bait.”

As if summoned by his words, a thick mist began rolling through the streets of the city. It moved with unnatural purpose, flowing around buildings and seeping into every corner.

The temperature dropped noticeably, and somewhere in the distance, they could hear the sound of something moving through the mist—something large and definitely not human.

“What is that?” the purple-robed disciple whispered, drawing his sword with shaking hands.

“Fierce corpses,” Xue Yang replied grimly, his own sword appearing in his hand. “Someone’s using you to lure cultivators to Yi City, and they’ve prepared quite the reception committee.”

The mist grew thicker, and the sounds grew closer. Multiple somethings, moving with coordinated purpose, surrounding the temple.

“Can we fight them?” A-Qing asked, drawing the practice sword she’d been training with.

“We’re about to find out,” Xue Yang replied, moving to place himself between his family and the approaching threats.

But as the first fierce corpse emerged from the mist—a grotesquely twisted thing that had once been human—Xue Yang heard something that made his heart leap with hope.

The distinctive sound of Chenqing, floating through the air with deadly precision.

‘Good thing we made that flute for him when we came back’

“Well, well,” he said, grinning for the first time since the mist had appeared. “Looks like the cavalry has arrived.”

Wei Wuxian landed lightly in the temple courtyard, Chenqing still raised to his lips, just as the first fierce corpse lunged toward the group of junior disciples. A sharp, commanding note from the flute sent the creature stumbling backward, its movements suddenly clumsy and uncontrolled.

“Miss me?” Wei Wuxian called to Xue Yang, even as he redirected the corpse’s attack toward another enemy emerging from the mist.

“Took you long enough,” Xue Yang shot back, his sword flashing as he decapitated a corpse that had been reaching for one of the Lan disciples. “I was starting to think you’d gotten lost.”

“We did get lost,” Mo Xuanyu’s voice came from somewhere in the mist, sounding distinctly annoyed. “Someone keeps moving roads around when we’re not looking, and certain people refused to ask for directions.”

“I don’t ask for directions,” Wei Wuxian called back cheerfully, spinning away from a grasping hand. “I prefer the scenic route.”

“Your scenic routes always involve mortal peril,” Mo Xuanyu complained, appearing out of the mist with his sword drawn and his robes slightly disheveled.

“That’s what makes them scenic,” Wei Wuxian replied, earning himself an exasperated look from his younger companion.

A moment later, moving with the fluid grace of a master swordsman, Lan Wangji materialized from the mist like an avenging spirit. Bichen sang through the air, cutting through three corpses in a single elegant motion.

But the sight of his husband—alive, real, here—hit Wei Wuxian like a physical blow. For a moment, he almost forgot about the battle raging around them, almost let Chenqing fall from nerveless fingers.

“Lan Zhan,” he breathed, the name a prayer and a plea and a promise all at once.

There was no time for reunion, no time for explanations or tears or the thousand things they both needed to say. More fierce corpses were emerging from the mist, and the junior disciples were badly outmatched despite their best efforts.

“Explanations later,” Wei Wuxian called, forcing himself to focus on the immediate danger. “Right now, we have uninvited guests to deal with.”

“I call the big one,” Xue Yang announced cheerfully, pointing his sword toward a massive corpse that looked like it had once been a warrior.

“Show-off,” Mo Xuanyu muttered, but he moved to flank Xue Yang’s chosen opponent.

“Children should be seen and not heard, kid,” Xue Yang replied without missing a beat, his sword already in motion. He would never say that to his princess, but obviously Mo Xuanyu is not his daughter…Princess? maybe.

“I’m nineteen!” Mo Xuanyu protested, even as he smoothly blocked an attack that would have taken Xue Yang’s head off.

“Like I said—child.”

“You’re both children,” Wei Wuxian called out, redirecting a group of smaller corpses away from the frightened juniors. “I’m the eldest, which makes me the responsible one.”

“That’s terrifying,” Xue Yang and Mo Xuanyu said in unison, which made Wei Wuxian grin despite the circumstances.

“Focus!” he called to them, using Chenqing to coordinate their attacks. “We can argue about the family hierarchy later!”

“There’s nothing to argue about,” Xue Yang declared, spinning gracefully away from his opponent’s grasp. “I’m clearly the most mature.”

“You literally just claimed dibs on fighting the biggest monster like we’re children picking candy,” Mo Xuanyu pointed out, his sword work elegant despite his protestations.

“That’s strategic thinking,” Xue Yang replied primly. “I’m the best qualified to handle the larger threats.”

“You’re the most bloodthirsty,” Wei Wuxian corrected. “There’s a difference.”

“Potato, po-tah-to,” Xue Yang said dismissively, opening his opponent’s throat with a precise cut. “I guess they don’t talk”

The battle was brief but intense. With Wei Wuxian controlling the corpses’ movements through Chenqing, Xue Yang and Mo Xuanyu providing deadly precise swordwork, and Lan Wangji cutting through enemies like a force of nature, the fierce corpses stood little chance.

Soon, the courtyard was littered with truly dead bodies, and the unnatural mist began to dissipate.

“Well,” Wei Wuxian said, lowering Chenqing and finally allowing himself to look—really look—at Lan Wangji. “That was invigorating.”

Before he could say more he found himself in bone crushing hug from his husband. He hugged back with same energy. The junior disciplines long gone, except two in Lan and one Jin clothes.

“Wei Ying,” he said, and the name came out broken, barely more than a breath.

“I’m here,” Wei Wuxian said, gently “Lan Zhan, I’m here.”

“Wei Ying, Wei Ying, Wei Ying,” he continued to chant, every time more broken yet hopeful.

“My Lan Zhan, I’m here, and I’m never leaving,” Wei Wuxian said, kissing the side of Lan Wangjis head.

But Lan Wangji continued only to say his name, “Wei Ying, Wei YIng”

“I’m so sorry, Lan Zhan, I’m sorry, love.”

Lan Wangji’s response was lost in another broken repetition of Wei Wuxian’s name, his whole body shaking with the force of his emotions. His hands fisted in the back of Wei Wuxian’s robes as if he was afraid Wei Wuxian might disappear again.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Wei Wuxian promised, pressing his face into the crook of Lan Wangji’s neck. “Never again, Lan Zhan. Never again.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Wei Wuxian promised, and then Lan Wangji was kissing him, desperate and hungry and full of thirteen years of grief and love and desperate relief.

Wei Wuxian kissed him back with equal fervor, pouring all of his own longing and regret and overwhelming love into the connection between them. When they finally broke apart, both were crying, clinging to each other as if they were the only solid things in the world.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji said again, his voice barely audible. “Real?”

“Real,” Wei Wuxian confirmed, pressing their foreheads together. “I’m real, Lan Zhan. I came back to you.”

“I think I’m going to puke” Xue Yang called out fake gagging.

“Kill yourself” Wei Wuxian replied with a soft smile looking up at his husband.

It was then that Wei Wuxian became aware of another presence nearby—a tall, elegant young man in Lan colors, standing perfectly still but with tears streaming down his face.

The young man had familiar features, a gentle bearing that reminded Wei Wuxian achingly of someone he’d loved, and when he smiled uncertainly, it was a smile Wei Wuxian knew by heart.

“A-Yuan?” Wei Wuxian whispered, his voice breaking on the name.

The young man’s composure finally shattered. “A-Die,” he sobbed, and suddenly he was running across the courtyard, throwing himself into his parents’ embrace.

Wei Wuxian caught him with his free arm, holding him close while keeping the other around Lan Wangji. “My little radish,” he whispered against Yuan’s hair, tears starting anew. “Look how tall you’ve gotten. Look how beautiful you are.”

“I’ve missed you so much a-die” he cried harder “I missed you so much, I tried to talk to you through quin but you never answered”

“I’m here now,” Wei Wuxian promised, pressing kisses to the top of his son’s head. “I’m here, and I’m never leaving you again.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji whispered, his voice full of wonder as he looked at their reunited family. “Our A-Yuan.”

“Our son,” Wei Wuxian agreed softly, pulling both his husband and child closer.

From somewhere nearby, there was the sound of someone clearing their throat. Wei Wuxian looked up to see another young man—this one in Jin colors, with aristocratic features and an expression that cycled between wonder and uncertainty.

The young man was studying Wei Wuxian’s face with the intensity of someone trying to solve a puzzle. “You’re… you’re really him,” he said quietly. “The Yiling Patriarch. But you’re supposed to be dead.”

“I got better,” Wei Wuxian replied automatically, then focused on the young man’s face. There was something familiar about him, something that tugged at Wei Wuxian’s memory, but he couldn’t quite place it.

“Why the hell is everybody saying that?” he said annoyed.

From somewhere nearby, he heard the other Lan disciple—a young man with an expressive face and slightly wild hair—make a strangled sound.

“This is really happening,” the disciple said, his voice climbing several octaves. “The Yiling Patriarch is back from the dead and he’s having an emotional reunion with Sizhui and I don’t know what the protocols are for this situation!”

“Jingyi,” Yuan—Sizhui, Wei Wuxian corrected himself—said without moving from Wei Wuxian’s embrace, “there are no protocols for this.”

“There should be protocols!” Jingyi protested, his voice getting higher with each word. “There should definitely be protocols for when legendary figures return from the dead! This is highly irregular!”

“Everything about today has been irregular,” the Jin disciple said faintly, swaying slightly on his feet. “Also, when have you ever been following protocols?”

“shut it, young mistress” The lan- Jingyi, replied with a scoff.

“You!” the Jin discipline was about to strangle Jingyi when Sizhui stopped him.

Wei Wuxian looked at him properly for the first time, noting the aristocratic bearing, the familiar bone structure, and most importantly, the way he carried himself with unconscious arrogance that was distinctly Jin.

“Okay, this is beautiful and everything,” he said, his voice thick with tears he was trying to hide, “but can someone please explain how Wei Wuxian is alive? Because I’m pretty sure dead people are supposed to stay dead, and this is really messing with my understanding of how the world works!”

“Jingyi,” Sizhui said gently, though he was smiling through his own tears, “maybe now isn’t the best time for philosophical discussions about mortality.”

“When is a good time?” Jingyi demanded. “Because I feel like this is the kind of thing we should address sooner rather than later! What if there are other dead people wandering around? What if this is some kind of zombie apocalypse? What if—”

“It’s not a zombie apocalypse,” Mo Xuanyu interrupted dryly, earning himself a startled look from Jingyi. “Though I can see how you might be confused, given the circumstances.”

“Lunatic? what are you doing here?” Jin Ling asked, finally pulling himself together enough to take in the rest of their surroundings.

“Mo Xuanyu,” the young man replied with a slight bow.

“You know him, young mistress?” Jingyi asked.

Jin Ling was so focused on the three dead now alive lunatics that he forgot to fight with Jingyi about the nickname. “Yes, cutsleeve who was-”

“Formerly of the Jin sect, more recently of the afterlife.” Mo Xuanyu interrupted him.

“The afterlife?” Jingyi squeaked.

“I’m also here,” Xue Yang said cheerfully, appearing beside Mo Xuanyu with his usual predatory grin. “Though I’m the most impressive.”

“You’re also the most homicidal,” Mo Xuanyu pointed out.

“That’s what makes me impressive,” Xue Yang replied with dignity.

“Oh good,” Jingyi said faintly. “Multiple resurrected criminals. This day just keeps getting better.”

“We prefer ‘reformed souls seeking justice,’” Wei Wuxian called out, still wrapped in Lan Wangji’s arms. “It sounds more heroic.”

“You literally raised an army of corpses,” Jin Ling pointed out, though there was no real accusation in his voice.

“Can we maybe continue this reunion inside?” Mo Xuanyu suggested practically, though he was watching the family dynamics with a soft smile. “We’re still surrounded by corpse remains, and some people have questions that probably shouldn’t be answered in public.”

“The baby bird has a point,” Xue Yang agreed, automatically falling into their established pattern of calling Mo Xuanyu ‘baby bird.’ and ‘kid’

“I have a name!” Mo Xuanyu protested on cue.

“You have a name, kid,” Wei Wuxian agreed fondly, finally allowing himself to be herded toward the temple entrance while keeping his arms around his family.

“I’m nineteen!” Mo Xuanyu called after them.

“Practically a baby,” Xue Yang replied cheerfully.

“I hate both of you,” Mo Xuanyu declared, but he was grinning as he said it.

“No, you don’t,” Wei Wuxian and Xue Yang replied in unison, which only made Mo Xuanyu’s grin wider.

“This is so weird,” Jin Ling muttered, staring at the three of them. “Two serial criminals, one lunatic, acting like siblings.” He whispered to himself but both Lan Jingyi and Lan Sizhui heard him. And neither of them disagreed.

Chapter Text

The abandoned temple sat nestled in a grove of ancient pines, far enough from any main roads to ensure privacy but close enough to civilization that their presence wouldn’t draw unwanted attention. It had taken them two days of careful travel to reach this location—a place Xiao Xingchen had suggested, knowing it from his wandering years as a spot where weary travelers could find shelter without questions.

Wei Wuxian sat cross-legged on a worn cushion, ostensibly helping A-Yuan practice calligraphy while the other juniors occupied themselves with various quiet activities. Jin Ling was meticulously cleaning his sword—again, because apparently the third time was the charm when it came to achieving perfect blade maintenance. Jingyi was attempting to fix a torn section of his robes with increasingly frustrated muttering that included several creative combinations of words that definitely weren’t in the Lan sect’s approved vocabulary.

“Jingyi,” Sizhui said mildly without looking up from his own practice, “if you keep swearing at your robes, they’re going to develop a complex.”

“My robes already have a complex,” Jingyi shot back, wrestling with a particularly stubborn piece of thread. “They’re actively trying to fall apart out of spite. I swear this tear gets bigger every time I look at it.”

“That’s because you keep poking at it instead of actually fixing it,” A-Qing observed from where she was reading a collection of poetry, occasionally sharing particularly beautiful passages with the group. “Here, give it to me. Dad taught me proper mending techniques.”

She held out her hand expectantly, and after a moment of wounded pride, Jingyi reluctantly handed over his robes.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, then brightened. “Hey, A-Qing, read us that poem about the mountain springs again. The one with all the metaphors about flowing water.”

To any casual observer, it would have looked like a peaceful family gathering—a group of cultivators taking shelter from the road, spending time together while the young people continued their education and training.

The reality was far more tense.

“A-Yuan,” Wei Wuxian said softly, guiding his son’s brush strokes while keeping his voice carefully casual, “remember to keep your spiritual energy flowing smoothly through the characters. Each stroke should be deliberate and controlled—like everything else we do.”

“Like this, A-Die?” Sizhui asked, his voice equally quiet as he formed the complex character for ‘justice.’ There was something in his tone that suggested he understood there were layers to their current situation that he wasn’t privy to.

“Exactly like that,” Wei Wuxian confirmed, but his eyes flicked briefly to where Lan Wangji sat near the temple’s entrance, seemingly meditating but actually maintaining a subtle spiritual barrier that would prevent anyone from overhearing their conversations. To the kids, it probably looked like his husband was just being typically contemplative. In reality, he was running interference for secrets that could get them all killed.

Across the temple, Xue Yang was crouched over a small cooking fire, attempting to prepare the evening meal with ingredients Mo Xuanyu had procured from the nearby village. The smell wafting from his efforts was… concerning. Wei Wuxian had smelled battlefield latrines that were more appealing.

“Xue Yang,” Mo Xuanyu said with barely concealed horror, approaching the cooking area like someone diffusing a bomb, “what exactly did you put in that stew?”

“Food,” Xue Yang replied defensively, stirring the pot with more violence than was strictly necessary. The spoon made squelching sounds that definitely weren’t supposed to come from edible substances. “Nutritious, sustaining food that will keep us all healthy and strong.”

Wei Wuxian looked up from the calligraphy practice, caught a whiff of whatever was happening near the fire, and immediately made a face like he’d bitten into a lemon. “Are you sure it’s not going to keep us all dead instead? Because that smell suggests you might be accidentally creating some kind of biological weapon.”

“Yeah,” Jin Ling added helpfully, not looking up from his sword maintenance, “it smells like something crawled into that pot and died. Possibly several somethings.”

“My cooking is perfectly adequate,” Xue Yang said with wounded dignity, though even he seemed to be keeping his distance from the pot now. “Just because it’s not fancy doesn’t mean it’s dangerous.”

“Xue Yang,” Xingchen said gently from where he sat near A-Qing, his tone holding the kind of diplomatic patience that came from years of marriage, “perhaps you should let someone else handle the cooking duties. Your talents lie in… other areas.”

“Like what areas?” A-Qing asked with genuine curiosity. “Besides the obvious murder-related ones, I mean.”

“A-Qing,” Xingchen scolded, though he sounded more amused than truly scandalized.

“What? I’m just saying, Baba’s skill set is very specialized. Cooking clearly isn’t part of it.”

Xue Yang looked between his husband and daughter, both of whom were trying very hard not to laugh at his expense. “Fine,” he muttered, abandoning his stirring spoon with the air of a man whose artistic vision had been tragically misunderstood. “But don’t blame me when everyone starves because none of you appreciate practical survival skills.”

“I appreciate survival,” Jingyi said immediately. “Specifically, I’d like to survive eating dinner tonight, which means someone other than you should probably be in charge of food preparation.”

“Who is this kid!? Wei Wuxian! did you have another kid and didn’t tell me?” Xue Yang said defensively, earning Wangji’s attention to the conversation.

“Kid’s got a point,” Wei Wuxian agreed cheerfully. “No offense, Xue Yang, but I’ve tasted battlefield rations that were more appetizing than whatever you’re brewing over there.”

Mo Xuanyu immediately moved to take over the cooking, examining the contents of the pot with the expression of a physician faced with a particularly challenging diagnosis. “I think I can save this,” he said hopefully, though his voice suggested he wasn’t entirely convinced. “If I add some herbs and maybe dilute it significantly… and possibly start over completely…”

“The kid thinks he can fix everything,” Xue Yang said with fond exasperation, settling down near Wei Wuxian’s calligraphy station. There was genuine affection in his voice, the kind that came from watching someone consistently solve problems with quiet competence.

“I’m nineteen,” Mo Xuanyu protested automatically while frantically adding ingredients to counteract whatever Xue Yang had done to the innocent vegetables. “And I’m not trying to fix everything, just dinner. Which, honestly, is probably beyond saving at this point.”

“Like I said, kid.”

“Stop calling me kid!”

“Sure thing, baby bird.”

Mo Xuanyu made a sound of frustration that was probably supposed to be threatening but came out more like an offended kitten. Wei Wuxian and Xue Yang exchanged grins—the kind of look that passed between older siblings who had found a new and entertaining way to torment their youngest brother.

As the afternoon wore on and the juniors gradually became absorbed in their various activities—Jin Ling’s sword was now so clean it could probably be used as a mirror, Jingyi was attempting to help A-Qing with her poetry reading while she worked on his robes, and Sizhui had moved on to practicing more advanced calligraphy techniques—the adults began to engage in a different kind of conversation.

It was the kind of coded communication that looked completely natural to casual observers but carried layers of meaning that only the speakers understood. Wei Wuxian had learned this particular skill during his first life, when saying the wrong thing in the wrong company could get you killed. Apparently, death hadn’t dulled his instincts for verbal camouflage.

“The weather has been… interesting… lately,” Wei Wuxian commented casually, ostensibly still focused on helping Sizhui with his calligraphy but actually beginning to lay groundwork for much more dangerous topics. “Lots of unusual… atmospheric pressure… building up in the eastern regions.”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji agreed quietly, his eyes still closed in apparent meditation. “Conditions are… unstable. Requires careful monitoring before any major… travel plans.”

Xingchen nodded thoughtfully, his sensitive hearing picking up nuances in their voices that the children would miss. “I’ve noticed similar… patterns… in my observations during our journey. The spiritual energy has been particularly… active… in certain directions. Especially around areas with recent… development.”

“Probably related to all that recent… construction… happening in the larger cities,” Xue Yang added, his tone light but his eyes sharp as they flicked toward the juniors to make sure they weren’t paying attention to the adult conversation. “Big projects always stir things up, create unexpected… complications… for people trying to conduct normal business.”

Mo Xuanyu, still working on rescuing dinner from the brink of culinary disaster, glanced up briefly. “I’ve heard the… architectural standards… for those projects aren’t as solid as they appear from the outside. Lots of… foundation issues… that most people don’t notice until it’s too late to address them properly.”

To the juniors, it sounded like a perfectly ordinary conversation about travel conditions and regional development—the kind of boring adult discussion that young people learned to tune out as background noise. To the adults, it was the opening moves of a much more dangerous discussion about surveillance, power structures, and the systematic corruption that had been building in the cultivation world for years.

“I wonder,” Xingchen said carefully, “what it would take to properly… assess… those foundation problems. Someone would need fairly specialized knowledge to even identify where to look.”

“Oh, I have some ideas about that,” Mo Xuanyu replied, his voice carefully neutral. “From my… previous experience… with similar architectural projects. The key is understanding how these… buildings… were originally constructed, and what kind of… materials… were used in ways that weren’t documented in the official records.”

Wei Wuxian felt a familiar cold satisfaction settling in his chest. Mo Xuanyu might look like a gentle scholar, but underneath that unassuming exterior was a mind that understood exactly how power worked and how to dismantle it.

As evening approached and dinner was finally declared salvageable (though Mo Xuanyu insisted everyone eat slowly and drink plenty of water, “just as a precautionary measure”), the group settled into what appeared to be comfortable family time. Except the fact Wei Wuxian did not even touched his meat, instead he gave it to Mo Xuanyu, which made Lan Wangji glance at him every now and then. Stories were shared, gentle teasing was exchanged, and gradually, the younger members of their party began to show signs of tiredness. 

Jingyi was the first to start yawning, though he tried valiantly to hide it behind increasingly elaborate stretches. A-Qing had moved from mending his robes to practically mending everyone’s travel-worn clothing, her needle flying with the efficiency of someone who had learned early that self-sufficiency was a valuable skill. Jin Ling was still fussing with his sword, but his movements were becoming more ritualistic than necessary—the kind of repetitive activity people used to wind down from stress.

“I think,” Xingchen said carefully, his tone casual but his timing deliberate, “it might be wise for our younger companions to get some rest. Tomorrow will likely be another long day of travel, and we’ll want everyone alert and energetic.”

“But we’re not tired,” Jingyi protested, though he was clearly fighting back another yawn as he spoke. “We could stay up and help with… whatever it is adults do after the interesting people go to sleep.”

“Sleep,” Sizhui said dryly. “Adults do sleep, Jingyi. It’s not actually a mysterious ritual.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jin Ling muttered, already gathering his blankets with the resigned efficiency of someone who recognized inevitable defeat. “Some of us appreciate the value of adequate sleep for maintaining peak performance. Unlike some people who think they can function indefinitely on pure enthusiasm and spite.”

“Hey!” Jingyi protested. “I function very well on enthusiasm and spite, thank you very much. It’s a perfectly valid energy source.”

“It’s really not,” A-Qing said with the patient tone of someone explaining basic facts to a particularly dense child. “Trust me, I’ve watched Baba try to run on anger and stubbornness for years. It doesn’t end well for anyone involved.”

“Princess speaks from experience,” Xue Yang agreed cheerfully. “Though in my defense, anger and stubbornness got me through some very difficult situations.”

“And into some very difficult situations,” Xingchen added pointedly.

“Details.”

A-Qing looked between her parents and the other adults, her sharp eyes noting the subtle tension in their postures, the way conversations kept trailing off when she paid too much attention, the careful positioning that kept the adults between the children and potential exits. She was clearly putting pieces together, but after a moment of consideration, she simply nodded and began helping arrange sleeping areas for herself and the boys.

“Good night, A-Die,” Sizhui said softly, pressing a kiss to Wei Wuxian’s cheek with the unconscious affection of someone who had learned not to take such moments for granted. “Sleep well.”

“You too, A-Yuan,” Wei Wuxian replied, his voice warm with genuine love despite the weight of the plans forming in his mind. “Sweet dreams. Try not to worry about anything—the adults will handle all the boring travel logistics.”

“Good night, Senior Wei!” Jingyi called out, still irrepressibly cheerful despite his exhaustion. “Tomorrow you have to tell me more stories about creative problem-solving and educational innovation!”

“I’ll tell you all about my mother’s legendary academic innovations,” Wei Wuxian promised, which made Jingyi practically bounce with anticipation even as he was lying down.

“yea-good night i guess.” Jin Ling said awkwardly.

Wei Wuxian still cant help it but feel like he knows the kid. And the kid himself looked like he knew Wei Wuxian, yet chose to say nothing. “Good night.”

It took nearly an hour for the juniors to fully settle into sleep, their breathing gradually evening out into the deep rhythms of exhaustion and youth. A-Qing was the last to succumb, her awareness finally giving way to the kind of bone-deep tiredness that came from too much stress and too little security.

Only then did the adults begin to move with more purpose.

Lan Wangji carefully reinforced his spiritual barrier, layering additional protections to ensure that no sound would escape their immediate area and no outside surveillance techniques could penetrate their space. The process was subtle but comprehensive—the kind of advanced spiritual work that required years of training and absolute precision.

Xingchen positioned himself where he could monitor the sleeping young people while still participating in the conversation, his enhanced hearing allowing him to detect the slightest change in their breathing patterns. If any of the children started to wake up, he would know immediately and could signal the others to shift back to innocent topics.

Xue Yang began methodically checking and cleaning his weapons with practiced efficiency, his movements economical and deadly precise. It was a ritual that served multiple purposes—ensuring his equipment was ready for whatever came next, keeping his hands busy while his mind focused on planning, and providing a subtle but unmistakable reminder of exactly what kind of skills he brought to their little group.

And Mo Xuanyu, looking far more serious than his nineteen years would normally suggest, pulled out a collection of papers, maps, and notes that he’d been discretely gathering over the past few days. The documents were carefully organized, cross-referenced, and annotated with the kind of detailed analysis that spoke of genuine scholarly training applied to very dangerous subjects.

“Alright,” Wei Wuxian said quietly, his playful demeanor replaced by the cold focus of someone who had once led armies and toppled governments. “Let’s talk strategy. And let’s be honest about exactly how much trouble we’re walking into.”

“Jin Guangyao’s current position is stronger than we initially realized,” Mo Xuanyu began without preamble, spreading a detailed map of the cultivation world across the space between them. His voice was steady and professional, but Wei Wuxian could see the slight tremor in his hands that betrayed how much this conversation was costing him emotionally. “He’s not just Chief Cultivator in name—he’s systematically consolidated actual power through a network of allies, debts, and carefully placed threats that most people don’t even recognize as threats.”

“What kind of allies?” Xue Yang asked, his voice taking on the sharp edge that meant he was thinking like the predator he’d once been. The weapon maintenance had become more methodical, more focused—preparing for war rather than simple upkeep.

“A mix of legitimate supporters who genuinely believe he’s providing stability to the cultivation world, opportunists who benefit from his policies and don’t ask too many questions about his methods, and people who are too afraid of him to consider opposition,” Mo Xuanyu replied, pointing to various locations on the map with steady precision. “The scary part is how many of them don’t even realize they’re being manipulated. He’s very good at making people feel like his success is their success, like his power protects them rather than controls them.”

“He always was talented at that particular kind of manipulation,” Wei Wuxian said grimly. “Making people grateful for their chains by convincing them the chains are actually protection from worse alternatives.”

“The question is,” Xingchen said quietly, “how much of his support would disappear if his true nature became undeniably public?”

“Some of it,” Mo Xuanyu admitted. “But not all. Some of his allies know exactly what he is and support him anyway because they benefit from the current system. Others are too invested in maintaining stability to care about justice. And some…” He hesitated, then continued with obvious difficulty. “Some enjoy the cruelty. They like having someone in power who’s willing to do the things they don’t have the courage to do themselves.”

The adults absorbed this information in grim silence, each of them understanding the implications. Taking down Jin Guangyao wouldn’t just be a matter of exposing his crimes—it would require dismantling an entire system of complicity and corruption.

“What about evidence?” Wei Wuxian asked, his mind already working through possibilities. “If we’re going to bring him down, we need more than accusations and personal testimony. People can dismiss testimony, explain it away, claim we’re biased or seeking revenge.”

Mo Xuanyu’s expression grew darker. “That’s where things get really complicated. Jin Guangyao is absolutely meticulous about documentation—but only the kind that makes him look good. Anything incriminating has either been destroyed or hidden so well that even people who worked closely with him don’t know where it is.”

“But you have ideas,” Xingchen observed quietly, reading the subtle signs in Mo Xuanyu’s posture and tone.

“I have suspicions,” Mo Xuanyu corrected carefully. “Jin Guangyao is paranoid, but he’s also pragmatic in the extreme. He wouldn’t destroy evidence that might be useful for controlling people or protecting himself in the future—he’d just make sure it was stored somewhere absolutely secure, somewhere only he could access.”

“Like where?” Wei Wuxian asked, leaning forward with interest.

“His private study in Lanling,” Mo Xuanyu said immediately. “The one that’s warded against everyone except him and maybe Jin Guangshan, though I’m not even sure about Jin Guangshan anymore. If there’s a record of his crimes anywhere, if there’s documentation of his blackmail material or evidence of his murders, it’s there.”

Xue Yang looked up from his weapon maintenance, his eyes sharp with predatory interest. “Getting into Lanling Jin undetected won’t be easy. They’ve increased security significantly since the war ended, and Jin Guangyao isn’t the type to leave vulnerabilities in his own defenses.”

“Not undetected,” Wei Wuxian said thoughtfully, a familiar gleam appearing in his eyes—the look that had once struck terror into the hearts of his enemies and exasperation into the hearts of his friends. “Loudly. Very, very loudly.”

“Explain,” Lan Wangji requested, his tone suggesting he already suspected where this was heading and was preemptively preparing for the kind of plan that would give any reasonable person nightmares.

Wei Wuxian’s grin was sharp and predatory, the expression of someone who had once turned impossible odds into decisive victories through sheer audacious creativity. “We don’t sneak into Lanling. We make them invite us in. Create a situation that requires Jin Guangyao’s personal attention—something public enough that he can’t ignore it, but contained enough that he’ll want to handle it himself rather than risk involving too many witnesses.”

“A distraction,” Xingchen said, understanding immediately.

“The best kind of distraction—the kind that looks like a legitimate crisis but is actually completely under our control,” Wei Wuxian confirmed, his mind already racing through possibilities and contingencies. “Something that plays to his ego and his paranoia simultaneously, that makes him feel like he needs to personally demonstrate his power and competence.”

“I like it,” Xue Yang said with vicious approval, setting down his newly sharpened sword. “What kind of crisis did you have in mind? Please tell me it involves making Jin Guangyao look like an idiot in front of important people.”

“Resentful energy,” Wei Wuxian replied simply, though his tone suggested there was nothing simple about what he was planning. “Specifically, a concentrated manifestation that appears to be connected to some of Jin Guangyao’s past… activities.”

Mo Xuanyu’s eyes widened with understanding, and Wei Wuxian saw a mixture of admiration and horror cross the young man’s face. “You want to use spiritual traces to recreate echoes of his crimes. Make the evidence literally manifest in front of witnesses.”

“Can you actually do that?” Xingchen asked with genuine curiosity, though his voice held a note of concern about the kind of techniques that would be required.

“With the right preparation and enough concentrated spiritual energy? Probably,” Wei Wuxian said, his mind already working through the technical challenges involved in such a complex spiritual manipulation. “Resentful energy has a kind of memory—it holds impressions of traumatic events, especially ones involving betrayal, murder, and other forms of spiritual violation. If I can gather enough energy from locations where Jin Guangyao committed his crimes…”

“You can force those memories to replay like some kind of spiritual theater,” Xue Yang finished, his voice filled with dark satisfaction. “Public, undeniable, impossible to explain away or dismiss as hearsay.”

“But it would require getting close to those locations without detection,” Lan Wangji pointed out practically. “And gathering that much resentful energy would be… noticeable… to anyone with spiritual sensitivity.”

“Not if we spread the collection over several weeks and multiple locations,” Mo Xuanyu said, already thinking through the logistics with the kind of methodical planning that had kept him alive in the Jin sect for years. “I can provide a detailed list of places where Jin Guangyao definitely committed murders or other crimes—some of them are locations where multiple incidents occurred, so the spiritual traces should be particularly strong.”

“If we visit them as part of apparently normal travel,” Wei Wuxian continued, “gathering small amounts each time, being careful to make it look like routine spiritual maintenance or investigation…”

“No one would notice the pattern until it was too late,” Xue Yang agreed. “And by then, we’d have enough energy to create a very dramatic and very public revelation.”

“What about the actual confrontation?” Xingchen asked, his tone serious as he considered the practical realities of what they were planning. “Even if you can force Jin Guangyao’s crimes into the open, even if you can make them undeniably public, he’s not going to just surrender peacefully. He’ll fight back, and he’ll have resources at his disposal that we can’t match in direct conflict.”

“That’s where things get interesting,” Xue Yang said with a predatory smile that spoke of years spent studying his enemies’ weaknesses. “Jin Guangyao’s greatest weakness has always been his pride. He can’t resist explaining himself when he thinks he’s won—and he can’t resist trying to be clever when he thinks he’s trapped.”

“So we make him think he’s won,” Wei Wuxian said, following the logic with the kind of strategic thinking that had once made him one of the most feared military minds in the cultivation world. “Let him believe he’s successfully defended himself against our accusations, gotten the situation back under his control, maybe even turned it to his advantage.”

“Then, when he’s feeling confident and maybe a bit smug about outmaneuvering us…” Mo Xuanyu continued, his voice taking on a note of grim satisfaction.

“We reveal that everything he just said was being recorded by spiritual techniques he didn’t detect,” Xingchen finished. “A confession obtained through his own arrogance.”

“There’s a certain poetic justice in that,” Xue Yang observed approvingly.

They spent the next several hours working through details—specific locations to visit for resentful energy collection, techniques for gathering and storing spiritual traces without detection, methods for ensuring their activities couldn’t be traced back to them, and contingency plans for the various ways their confrontation with Jin Guangyao could go wrong.

As they worked, their careful planning was occasionally interrupted by the kind of banter that had developed between them during their time in the afterlife and their recent experiences as reluctant allies.

“Pass me that map,” Wei Wuxian requested, pointing to a chart showing the major spiritual energy flows through the region.

“Which map, coreless dog?” Xue Yang asked with casual cruelty, though his tone held more fond insult than genuine venom—the kind of nickname that had started as a real attack and evolved into something closer to dark affection.

“The one next to you, edgelord,” Wei Wuxian replied without missing a beat, his voice carrying the same mix of insult and fondness. “Try to keep up with the conversation instead of just sitting there looking dramatically tortured.”

“Both of you stop being horrible to each other and focus on the important planning,” Mo Xuanyu scolded, sounding remarkably like someone’s exasperated mother despite being the youngest person present. “We have serious work to do, and your childish name-calling isn’t helping anyone.”

“Yes, mom,” Wei Wuxian and Xue Yang said in unison, earning themselves a dirty look from Mo Xuanyu that was probably supposed to be intimidating but came across more like an offended kitten.

“Don’t call me mom, you overgrown children,” Mo Xuanyu muttered, though he was already moving to reorganize their notes and maps more efficiently, fussing over the details with the kind of unconscious caretaking that had probably kept him sane during his worst years in the Jin sect.

“What should we call you then?” Xue Yang asked with innocent curiosity that fooled absolutely no one. “Baby bird? Little scholar? Kid? Nineteen-year-old infant?”

“You should call me by my name,” Mo Xuanyu replied with as much dignity as he could muster while simultaneously checking to make sure everyone had adequate water and adjusting blankets that didn’t need adjusting. “Mo Xuanyu. Adult person. Fully grown human being who doesn’t need parental supervision.”

“Nineteen-year-old baby bird it is,” Wei Wuxian agreed cheerfully, reaching over to ruffle Mo Xuanyu’s hair with the casual affection of an older brother.

Mo Xuanyu made a sound of frustration and tried to duck away from the hair-ruffling, but he was smiling as he did it—the kind of reluctant happiness that came from being teased by people who actually cared about his wellbeing.

As the night deepened, their planning became more detailed and more refined. They worked out a comprehensive timeline that would allow them to gather the necessary evidence over the course of several weeks, moving gradually closer to Lanling while maintaining the appearance of normal travel. They identified specific individuals who might serve as witnesses when the time came for their final confrontation—people with enough influence to matter but enough independence to be trustworthy.

They even planned for how to handle the aftermath, which was perhaps the most complex part of their entire strategy. What to do if they succeeded in exposing Jin Guangyao, how to manage the political chaos that would inevitably follow, what to do if they failed and had to disappear permanently to avoid retaliation.

It was during a brief break in their discussions, as Mo Xuanyu fussed over making sure everyone had adequate blankets and water, that they encountered their first real moment of serious tension.

Xue Yang had been experimenting with a small talisman designed to concentrate resentful energy, testing whether he could contribute to their evidence-gathering efforts despite his lack of expertise in the more sophisticated spiritual techniques they would need. The talisman had been working perfectly—a small, controlled manifestation of dark energy that could be easily contained and stored for later use.

Until a small spark from the dying cooking fire landed on the paper, causing it to flare up suddenly with green-tinged flames that cast eerie shadows across the temple walls.

The reaction from all three escapees was immediate and visceral. Wei Wuxian threw himself backward with a choked sound, his face going pale and his hands shaking as he stared at the flames with naked terror. Xue Yang’s eyes went wide with something that might have been panic, and he scrambled away from the burning talisman as if it were a venomous snake, his usual grace replaced by desperate, clumsy movements. Mo Xuanyu froze completely, staring at the fire with an expression of pure, paralyzing fear—the look of someone reliving their worst nightmare.

Lan Wangji moved immediately, using a quick spiritual technique to extinguish the flames before they could spread or attract attention. Xingchen moved to Mo Xuanyu’s side, placing a gentle hand on the young man’s shoulder and speaking in quiet, soothing tones, but the kid immediately flinched at the touch.

“It’s out,” Lan Wangji said quietly, his voice calm and reassuring. “The fire is out. Everyone is safe. No one is in danger.”

It took several minutes for the three former captives of death to fully recover their composure. Their breathing was harsh and uneven, their faces pale with remembered trauma, their hands shaking with adrenaline and fear.

Mo Xuanyu was the first to speak, his voice shaky but determined as he struggled to regain control of himself.

“Sorry,” he said quietly, his words barely audible. “Fire still… it still reminds me of…”

“The ritual,” Wei Wuxian finished, understanding immediately. His own voice was rough, strained with the effort of pushing down panic. “The soul summoning. All that burning, all that pain…”

“Among other things,” Xue Yang added grimly, his usual sharp humor temporarily absent, replaced by the hollow tone of someone who had seen too much and lost too much to ever be entirely whole again.

They didn’t need to discuss it further. All three of them carried scars from their deaths—some physical, some spiritual, some purely psychological. Fire, it seemed, was a trigger that affected all of them, bringing back memories of pain and endings and desperate choices made in impossible circumstances.

Wei Wuxian remembered the flames that had consumed the Burial Mounds, the way fire had followed him everywhere in his final months, becoming a symbol of destruction and loss that had haunted his dreams. Xue Yang remembered burning buildings and burning bridges, the smell of smoke that had accompanied his worst crimes and his final betrayal. Mo Xuanyu remembered the ritual flames that had consumed his life force, the burning that had been meant to summon salvation but had instead brought only death.

“We should be more careful with experimental techniques,” Xingchen observed gently, his voice holding the kind of understanding that came from years of dealing with traumatized people. “Especially ones involving combustible materials.”

“Good point,” Wei Wuxian agreed, his color gradually returning to normal as he fought to steady his breathing. “Maybe we should stick to spiritual energy manipulation that doesn’t require open flames or anything that might… unexpectedly ignite.”

“Definitely agreed,” Mo Xuanyu said quickly, his voice still shaky but growing stronger. “I can think of several alternative approaches that would be just as effective but much less… triggering.”

They returned to their planning, but the mood had shifted subtly. There was more care in how they moved around each other, more attention to small comforts and reassurances, more awareness of the psychological wounds that they all carried alongside their determination to seek justice.

When Mo Xuanyu started to shiver despite the mild temperature, Xue Yang wordlessly pushed an extra blanket in his direction, his movements gentle despite his usual sharp edges. When Wei Wuxian seemed to be having trouble concentrating, Lan Wangji moved closer so their shoulders were touching, providing silent comfort through physical proximity and shared warmth.

“You know,” Mo Xuanyu said quietly as they began to wrap up their planning for the night, his voice thoughtful and a bit melancholy, “I keep thinking about what happens after. If we succeed in exposing Jin Guangyao, if we manage to bring him to justice and somehow survive the aftermath… what then? What do we do with ourselves in a world where we’ve actually won?”

“Then we go home,” Wei Wuxian said simply, though his voice held depths of longing that made the simple words heavy with meaning. “We go back to our families and try to build the kind of life we should have had all along, the kind of life we thought was impossible.”

“And if we fail?” Xue Yang asked, his tone carefully neutral but his eyes holding a kind of desperate hope that he was trying very hard to hide.

“Then we face the consequences together,” Xingchen replied, his blind eyes somehow finding each of them in turn. “As we should have from the beginning, as family should.”

“Together,” Mo Xuanyu repeated thoughtfully, tasting the word like something precious and fragile. “I like the sound of that. I’ve never really had ‘together’ before.”

“None of us have,” Wei Wuxian said softly. “Not really. Not in the way that matters.”

As they began to settle in for the night, there was a sense of something building in the air around them. Anticipation mixed with dread, hope balanced by the very real possibility of failure, the strange comfort of facing impossible odds with people who understood the weight of what they were attempting.

Wei Wuxian was just beginning to drift off to sleep, lulled by the familiar presence of his husband beside him and the quiet breathing of their son nearby, when a small sound from outside the temple made him go instantly alert.

It might have been nothing—a night bird settling into roost, or a small animal moving through the underbrush in search of food or shelter. But it might also have been something else entirely. A footstep, perhaps, carefully placed but not quite careful enough. Or the whisper of fabric against wood as someone moved through the darkness beyond their small circle of firelight and warmth.

He caught Lan Wangji’s eye and saw his own concern reflected there—the kind of wordless communication that came from years of partnership and shared danger. Without speaking, they both began to subtly reinforce their spiritual barriers, preparing for the possibility that their careful secrecy had been compromised.

Across the temple, Xue Yang’s hand moved almost imperceptibly toward his sword, his body language shifting from relaxed alertness to predatory readiness. To someone who didn’t know him, he would still look like he was settling in for sleep, but Wei Wuxian could see the coiled tension in his shoulders, the way his breathing had changed to the shallow, controlled rhythm of someone preparing for potential violence.

Xingchen turned his head slightly, his enhanced hearing focused on the sounds from outside with the kind of intense concentration that came from years of navigating the world without sight. His expression was calm, but Wei Wuxian noticed the way his fingers had found the edge of his sword hilt, ready to draw at a moment’s notice.

Mo Xuanyu continued to appear peacefully asleep, but Wei Wuxian noticed that the young man’s breathing had changed in a way that suggested he, too, was now fully awake and alert. His hand was resting casually near a small pouch that Wei Wuxian knew contained several defensive talismans—not much in terms of offensive capability, but enough to buy time or create a distraction if needed.

Minutes passed with agonizing slowness. The sound was not repeated, but none of them relaxed their vigilance. In the darkness beyond their small circle of safety, anything could be waiting—Jin Guangyao’s agents, curious local authorities, bandits drawn by the prospect of easy targets, or simply wildlife that had been startled by their presence.

The children slept on, blissfully unaware of the tension that had gripped the adults. A-Yuan’s breathing was deep and even, the sleep of someone who felt safe and protected. Jin Ling had curled up with one hand still resting on his sword hilt—a habit that spoke of too many years learning that danger could come at any moment, but even he seemed genuinely at rest. Jingyi was sprawled across his blankets with the complete abandon of youth, and A-Qing had found a position curled against her father’s side, seeking comfort even in sleep.

Wei Wuxian found himself thinking about how much they all had to lose, how many people depended on their success not just for justice, but for simple survival. If their plan failed, if Jin Guangyao discovered what they were doing before they were ready, it wouldn’t just be the three escapees who paid the price. Their families, their friends, everyone they cared about would become targets.

The weight of that responsibility settled on his shoulders like a physical burden.

“Probably nothing,” Xingchen said finally, his voice barely a whisper but clearly audible in the tense silence. “Wind through the trees, or a deer passing through.”

“Probably,” Wei Wuxian agreed quietly, but his hand remained close to Chenqing, and his spiritual senses stayed extended into the darkness beyond their sanctuary.

Gradually, very gradually, the tension began to ease as it became apparent that whatever had caused the disturbance was not an immediate threat. But none of the adults fully relaxed, and Wei Wuxian noticed that they all seemed to settle into sleeping positions that would allow for quick movement if necessary.

“Tomorrow,” Xue Yang said quietly, his voice so low it was almost sub-vocal, “we start moving faster. This location is too exposed for extended planning sessions.”

“Agreed,” Wei Wuxian murmured back. “We’ll need to find somewhere more secure if we’re going to continue detailed preparations.”

“I know a place,” Xingchen offered, his whisper carrying the authority of someone who had spent years mapping safe havens and hidden routes. “Two days’ travel northeast. More remote, better defensive positions, less likely to attract attention.”

As Wei Wuxian finally allowed himself to settle into the space between waking and sleeping, his mind continued to turn over their plans, looking for weaknesses and contingencies they might have missed. The strategy was sound, but strategies were only as good as their execution, and execution depended on dozens of variables they couldn’t fully control.

Jin Guangyao was cunning, ruthless, and surrounded by people who had every reason to protect him. He had resources they couldn’t match, influence they couldn’t counter, and years of experience in exactly the kind of political maneuvering they were attempting to use against him.

But he also had weaknesses—pride, paranoia, and the kind of arrogance that came from years of believing himself untouchable. Those weaknesses had served him well in rising to power, but they might also be the keys to bringing him down.

The question was whether Wei Wuxian and his unlikely allies could exploit those weaknesses before Jin Guangyao realized what they were doing and moved to eliminate the threat they represented.

As sleep finally began to claim him, Wei Wuxian found himself thinking about the strange turns his afterlife had taken. A few weeks ago, he had been trapped in a gray realm of regret and separation, convinced that death was the end of his story, that he will have to listen to Xue Yang annoying voice everyday till the rest of his death. Now he was surrounded by family, planning to reshape the cultivation world, and facing dangers that somehow felt more meaningful than anything he had done in his first life.

It was terrifying. It was impossible. It was probably going to get them all killed.

But for the first time in longer than he could remember, Wei Wuxian felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be, doing exactly what he was supposed to do, with exactly the right people at his side.

The game was beginning in earnest now. Jin Guangyao’s carefully constructed world of order and control was about to meet the chaos of three souls who had learned that sometimes, the only way to find peace was to completely tear down everything that stood in the way of justice.

Sometimes, that was enough.

The fire died down to glowing embers, casting dancing shadows on the temple walls as the small group of would-be revolutionaries settled into uneasy sleep. Outside, the wind whispered through the pine trees.

In his dreams, Wei Wuxian found himself standing in a great hall filled with golden light, facing down a figure in elaborate robes whose face shifted and changed like smoke. Behind him, he could feel the presence of his allies—Lan Wangji’s steady strength, Xue Yang’s sharp-edged determination, Mo Xuanyu’s quiet courage, Xingchen’s unwavering moral compass. And of course his best friend’s brilliance that showed them the opening of this whole plan.

“You cannot win,” the figure in his dreams said, its voice echoing with the authority of established power. “You are dead things, attempting to interfere in the world of the living. You have no place here.”

“We made our place,” Wei Wuxian replied, his dream-voice carrying the confidence of someone who had already conquered death itself. “We earned our place by refusing to accept that death was the end of our story.”

“And what story do you think you’re writing now?” the figure asked, and for a moment its face solidified into Jin Guangyao’s familiar features, beautiful and cruel and utterly certain of its own superiority.

Wei Wuxian smiled, the expression sharp as a blade and twice as dangerous. “A better one.”

He woke to gray dawn light filtering through the broken temple roof and the sound of A-Yuan practicing sword forms in the courtyard, his movements precise and graceful in the morning stillness. Beside him, Lan Wangji was already awake, his eyes alert and focused on the world beyond their shelter.

“Ready?” Lan Wangji asked quietly, and Wei Wuxian knew he wasn’t just asking about their preparations for another day of travel.

Wei Wuxian sat up, checked to make sure the children were still safely asleep, and met his husband’s gaze with steady determination.

“Ready,” he confirmed.

But of course nothing goes according to plan, first being Lan Xichen passing a message to his brother asking him to go to a banquet because he will not make until later that day. 

Second being Wei Wuxian findig out his sister was alive.

Chapter Text

The banquet halls of Lanling Jin gleamed with ostentatious wealth—golden fixtures, elaborate silk hangings, and enough precious stones embedded in the walls to fund a small sect for years. Wei Wuxian had to admit that Jin Guangyao certainly knew how to project power and prosperity, even if that projection was built on a foundation of lies and murder.

He adjusted his mask slightly, ensuring it sat properly over his features. The simple white porcelain face covering was elegant enough to fit in at such a formal gathering, but plain enough not to draw unwanted attention. Beside him, Mo Xuanyu fidgeted with his own mask—black lacquer decorated with silver details that complemented his dark robes. Xue Yang, predictably, had chosen something more dramatic: a mask of deep red with gold accents that somehow managed to look both festive and vaguely threatening.

“Stop touching your face,” Xue Yang muttered under his breath as they approached the entrance to the main banquet hall. “You’re going to give us away before we even get inside.”

“I’m not touching my face,” Mo Xuanyu protested quietly. “I’m adjusting the fit. There’s a difference.”

“The fit is fine,” Wei Wuxian assured him, though he understood the nervousness. They were walking directly into the heart of enemy territory, surrounded by people who would happily see them dead if they knew who was hiding behind the masks. “Just remember—we’re mysterious disciples of the legendary Baoshan Sanren, here to observe and learn from the cultivation world’s current leadership.”

“Mysterious disciples who happen to be conveniently masked,” Xue Yang added with dark amusement. “Because we’re too humble and unworthy to show our faces in such august company.”

Lan Wangji, walking slightly ahead of them with Xiao Xingchen, turned back with a subtle look that suggested they should probably stop talking and start focusing on their roles. Both men were unmasked, serving as their group’s official representatives and spokespersons.

“The story is simple,” Xingchen said quietly as they joined the flow of arriving guests. “You three are my junior disciples, studying under the tutelage of Baoshan Sanren’s teachings as I once did. You prefer to remain anonymous out of humility and respect for your teacher’s memory.”

“And if anyone asks specific questions about our training or background?” Mo Xuanyu asked.

“They’ll ask me,” Lan Wangji said simply. “As senior disciple and your guide in formal social situations.”

The plan was straightforward enough, but Wei Wuxian couldn’t shake the feeling that they were walking into a trap. Jin Guangyao was many things, but careless wasn’t one of them. This banquet, ostensibly held to celebrate some minor political alliance, felt too convenient, too perfectly timed with their own plans to be coincidental.

But they needed to be here. Intelligence gathering required taking risks, and this was their best opportunity to observe Jin Guangyao’s current power base, identify potential allies and enemies, and look for weaknesses they could exploit in their eventual confrontation.

The banquet hall was already filled with representatives from every major sect and dozens of minor ones. Wei Wuxian recognized faces from his previous life—some friendly, some hostile, most simply neutral political figures who would align themselves with whoever seemed most likely to maintain stability and prosperity.

“Welcome,” came a familiar voice from near the hall’s entrance, smooth and cultured and carrying just the right note of gracious authority. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

Jin Guangyao approached their small group with the practiced ease of a perfect host, his smile warm and his posture welcoming. He looked exactly as Wei Wuxian remembered—beautiful in the way that dangerous things often were, with intelligent eyes that seemed to see everything and reveal nothing.

“Sect Leader Jin,” Xingchen said with a respectful bow, his tone carrying the careful neutrality of someone who understood the importance of proper etiquette. “Thank you for your gracious invitation. I am Xiao Xingchen.”

“Ah, the legendary Xiao Xingchen! bright moon and gentle breeze, and distant snow and cold frost., for your cultivation partner or so had I heard.” Jin Guangyao’s smile brightened with what appeared to be genuine pleasure and recognition. “Your reputation precedes you, Daozhang. The cultivation world has heard many fascinating stories about your travels and your noble dedication to helping the common people.”

 The mention of Song Lan made Xingchen stiffen, “I had that honor, yes,” Xingchen replied carefully.

“And Hanguang-jun,” Jin Guangyao continued, turning to Lan Wangji with warm familiarity. “How wonderful to see you again. I trust Xichen is well?”

“Mn,” Lan Wangji replied with a slight nod. “Brother is well.”

“Excellent. And these are…?” Jin Guangyao’s gaze moved to the three masked figures standing slightly behind their two companions.

“Junior disciples,” Xingchen said smoothly. “Also following the path of Baoshan Sanren’s teachings. They prefer to remain anonymous out of respect for their teacher’s memory.”

“How admirably humble,” Jin Guangyao said, though Wei Wuxian caught a flicker of something—curiosity? suspicion?—in those intelligent eyes. “Well, mysterious disciples or not, you are all welcome here. Please, enjoy the festivities.”

As Jin Guangyao moved away to greet other guests, Wei Wuxian felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. The first test was passed—they were inside, their cover story had been accepted, and they were free to observe and gather information.

The five of them moved through the banquet hall with practiced casualness, splitting up occasionally to cover more ground but never straying too far from each other. Wei Wuxian found himself studying the other guests, noting alliances and tensions, identifying people who might be sympathetic to their cause and others who were clearly firmly in Jin Guangyao’s camp.

It was during one of these observational sweeps that his world suddenly tilted on its axis.

She was sitting at a table near the center of the hall, elegant in yellow and gold robes that complemented her delicate beauty. Her hair was arranged in an elaborate style that spoke of wealth and status, and she was engaged in quiet conversation with Jin Zixuan, alive, leaning close listening to her with the kind of attention that spoke of deep affection.

Jiang Yanli. His shijie. Alive.

Wei Wuxian felt his breath catch in his throat, his hands beginning to shake as the full impact of what he was seeing hit him. She was alive. She was here. She was real, not some cruel hallucination or wishful thinking brought on by stress and guilt.

Alive.

Both of them.

Wei Wuxian’s throat went dry. His mask felt suffocating. He stared, heart racing so violently he thought everyone in the hall must hear it.

Yanli. His sister. His anchor. His soft, warm Shijie.

Alive.

He gripped the edge of the table so hard his knuckles turned white. He couldn’t stop looking, couldn’t look away. Every part of him screamed that it was impossible, but there she was—breathing, smiling, moving.

And then her gaze lifted.

It was like being struck. Her eyes met his across the hall.

She was staring at him with an expression he couldn’t quite read—curiosity, perhaps, or maybe just the natural interest someone might show in a mysterious masked figure.

Their eyes met across the crowded room, and for a moment Wei Wuxian forgot to breathe. Even behind his mask, even after thirteen years and death and resurrection, there was something in her gaze that suggested recognition, or at least the stirring of recognition.

Jin Zixuan said something to her then, drawing her attention away, and she turned back to her husband with a smile. But Wei Wuxian had seen the way she hesitated before looking away, the slight furrow in her brow that suggested she was trying to place a memory just out of reach.

The rest of the banquet passed in a blur of careful observation and forced normalcy. Wei Wuxian managed to gather useful intelligence about Jin Guangyao’s current political position, identified several potential allies and enemies, and even had a few carefully neutral conversations with other guests. But underneath it all, his mind kept circling back to the impossibility of his sister’s presence.

When the formal portion of the evening finally ended and guests began retiring to their assigned quarters, Wei Wuxian felt a mix of relief and anticipation. They had survived the first part of their infiltration, but the real work was just beginning.

“Guest quarters are on the third floor,” Lan Wangji said quietly as they made their way through the corridors of the Jin sect compound. “We have rooms in the east wing.”

“Convenient,” Mo Xuanyu observed. “That’s relatively close to the areas we need to investigate.”

“Almost too convenient,” Xue Yang added suspiciously. “I don’t trust Jin Guangyao’s hospitality.”

“Neither do I,” Wei Wuxian agreed. “But it gives us the access we need.”

Their rooms were indeed well-positioned for their purposes—close enough to the main administrative areas to allow for discrete exploration, but far enough from the family quarters to avoid unwanted attention from permanent residents of the compound.

“Rest for now,” Xingchen suggested as they reached their corridor. “We’ll reconvene in a few hours to begin the real investigation.”

Wei Wuxian nodded, accepting the key to his assigned room with hands that were steadier than they had been during the banquet. He needed time to process what he had seen, time to plan his next moves, and time to prepare for whatever revelations the night might bring.

But as he made his way down the corridor toward his quarters, he found his steps slowing, his route becoming less direct. The guest wing was connected to other parts of the compound by a series of covered walkways and connecting corridors, and Wei Wuxian found himself taking a longer path that would allow him to see more of the Jin sect’s home base.

It wasn’t really exploring, he told himself. It was reconnaissance. Gathering intelligence for their mission.

He was so focused on memorizing the layout of the corridors that he almost didn’t notice the figure approaching from the opposite direction until they were nearly face to face.

Jiang Yanli froze when she saw him, her eyes widening with the same recognition he had seen during the banquet. They stood there for a moment, staring at each other in the dim light of the corridor, neither speaking.

“I’m sorry,” Wei Wuxian said finally, his voice carefully modulated to disguise its familiar cadence. “I didn’t mean to startle you, madam. I was just… looking for my quarters.”

He started to step aside, to let her pass and hopefully avoid any further interaction that might compromise their mission. But her voice stopped him cold.

“A-Xian?”

The name hit him like a physical blow. His real name, the one she had called him since childhood, spoken with the same gentle affection he remembered from their youth. Behind his mask, tears began to stream down his face.

“Shijie,” he whispered, the word escaping before he could stop it.

And then she was crying too, her hands flying to her mouth as if to hold back a sob. For a moment that stretched like eternity, they simply stood there, separated by three feet of corridor and thirteen years of grief and loss and impossible circumstances.

“You’re alive,” she said finally, her voice breaking on the words. “You’re really alive. A-Xian, I thought… we all thought…”

“I know,” he said, reaching up to pull away his mask with shaking hands. “I know, shijie. I thought you were dead too. For thirteen years, I thought I had failed to protect you.”

“Oh, A-Xian,” she breathed, stepping forward to cup his face in her hands, her thumbs wiping away tears as if he were still the young man she had raised and cared for. “My foolish little brother. You didn’t fail anyone. You saved us. You saved so many people.”

“I got you killed,” he protested, leaning into her touch despite himself. “At Nightless City, the way I lost control…”

“You got us away from the worst of the fighting,” she corrected firmly. “A-Xuan and I were able to escape because you drew the attention of the most dangerous cultivators away from the civilians. You sacrificed yourself to save others, just like you always did.”

They held each other then, brother and sister reunited after more than a decade of believing the other was lost forever. Wei Wuxian buried his face in her shoulder and wept like a child, letting himself feel the full weight of grief and relief and overwhelming love that had been building since the moment he saw her across the banquet hall.

“How?” he asked finally, when he was able to speak again. “How are you here? How are you alive?”

“A-Xuan and I were badly injured, but we survived,” she explained, her own voice thick with tears. “We managed to escape the worst of the fighting and found help.”

Wei Wuxian felt his stomach clench, knowing he needed to warn her but unsure how much he could safely reveal. “Shijie, I can’t explain everything right now, but I need you to promise me something. Please don’t trust Jin Guangyao. I know he’s been kind to your family, but—”

“A-Xian,” she interrupted gently, a sad smile crossing her face. “I never did.”

The simple statement hit him like a revelation. “You… what?”

“I never trusted him,” she repeated quietly. “A-Xuan wanted to believe the best in him, wanted to think family loyalty meant something. But I’ve seen how he looks at people when he thinks no one is watching. I’ve seen how he calculates every interaction, every favor. A man who truly cares about family doesn’t keep score of his kindnesses.”

Relief flooded through Wei Wuxian so intensely he felt dizzy. “You knew.”

“I suspected,” she corrected. “I had no proof, but… a woman learns to recognize dangerous men, A-Xian. Especially beautiful ones who always know exactly what to say.”

“Your family,” he said instead, seizing on the safer topic. “You and Jin Zixuan, you’re happy?”

“We are,” she said with a smile that transformed her face. “A-Xian, you have a nephew. A-Ling is sixteen now, and he’s grown into such a wonderful young man. He’s strong and brave and kind, just like his uncle.”

“The bratty one? Oh, Shijie, you raised him so well. I have a feeling he recognised me, that’s why he looked familiar. He looks just like peacock” He rambled.

Yanli’s expression grew complex, cycling through confusion and understanding and something that might have been hurt. “A-Ling knows you’re alive? He’s seen you?”

“It’s complicated,” Wei Wuxian said, hating how inadequate the words sounded. “Shijie, there are things I can’t tell you right now, things that aren’t safe to discuss here. But I promise, I will explain everything soon.”

She studied his face, taking in the mask he still held in his hands, the formal robes that weren’t his usual style, the careful way he was speaking. “You’re here for a reason,” she said, understanding dawning. “You’re not just visiting. You’re… working.”

“I can’t—” Wei Wuxian started.

“I know,” she said quickly. “I know you can’t tell me. But A-Xian, please be careful. Whatever you’re doing, whoever you’re working with… please promise me you’ll be safe.”

“I promise I’ll try,” he said, which was the most honest answer he could give.

“That’s not the same thing,” she said with fond exasperation, the expression so familiar it made his heart ache.

“It’s the best I can offer,” he replied. “But shijie… I’m not alone this time. I have people watching my back, people who care about me. I’m not the reckless boy you remember.”

“You’re not a boy at all anymore,” she said softly, studying his face with the kind of attention that saw past surfaces to the man beneath. “Death changed you.”

“Yes,” he agreed simply.

“But you’re still my A-Xian,” she said, and it wasn’t a question.

“Always,” he promised.

They parted then, reluctantly but necessarily, with promises to find each other again soon and explanations that would have to wait for safer circumstances. Wei Wuxian made his way back to his assigned quarters with a heart that felt simultaneously fuller and more fragile than it had in years.

Lan Wangji was waiting for him when he entered his room, seated by the window with his usual composed patience. But his golden eyes sharpened when he saw Wei Wuxian’s face, taking in the tear tracks and the emotional exhaustion that he couldn’t quite hide.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji said softly, rising to meet him. “What happened?”

“I saw her,” Wei Wuxian said simply, allowing himself to be pulled into his husband’s embrace. “I spoke to her. Lan Zhan, she’s really alive, and she doesn’t hate me.”

“Of course she doesn’t hate you,” Lan Wangji said, his voice warm with affection and understanding. “She loves you. She always has.”

“I know that now,” Wei Wuxian said, pressing his face against Lan Wangji’s shoulder and breathing in the familiar scent of sandalwood and safety. “But for thirteen years, I thought… I thought I had killed the person who mattered most to me in the world.”

“And now you know differently,” Lan Wangji said, his hands gentle as they stroked Wei Wuxian’s hair. “How do you feel?”

“Grateful,” Wei Wuxian said after a moment of consideration. “Relieved. Terrified that I might lose her again if our plan goes wrong.”

“Then we make sure it doesn’t go wrong,” Lan Wangji said simply.

They held each other in comfortable silence for several minutes, taking comfort in physical closeness and shared understanding. Finally, Wei Wuxian pulled back, his expression growing more focused as he shifted from emotional processing to operational planning.

“The others?” he asked.

“Waiting,” Lan Wangji confirmed. “Ready to begin when you are.”

Wei Wuxian nodded, moving to the small desk by the window and beginning to pull supplies from hidden pockets in his robes. “Then let’s get to work.”

The paper talisman took shape under his fingers with practiced ease—a simple design that would serve as eyes and ears, small enough to go unnoticed but sophisticated enough to bypass basic spiritual wards. This particular version was one of his own innovations, designed to mimic the spiritual signature of ordinary household objects while maintaining full functionality.

“This will get us the information we need,” he said, holding up the completed paper figure. “But we’ll need to be ready to act quickly once we know what we’re dealing with.”

Lan Wangji nodded, moving to the door to signal the others. Within minutes, their small group had assembled in Wei Wuxian’s room, each of them carrying the focused tension of people preparing for dangerous work.

“The target is Jin Guangyao’s private study,” Wei Wuxian explained as he made final adjustments to the paper talisman. “According to Mo Xuanyu’s intelligence, that’s where he’s most likely to keep sensitive documents and evidence of his crimes.”

“Security?” Xue Yang asked.

“Extensive,” Mo Xuanyu replied. “Spiritual wards, physical locks, and probably some kind of monitoring system. But if anyone can get past all that undetected, it’s this little guy.”

He nodded toward the paper figure in Wei Wuxian’s hands, which had begun to glow faintly with stored spiritual energy.

“Remember,” Wei Wuxian said as he prepared to activate the talisman, “we’re looking for evidence that can be used publicly. Documents, correspondence, anything that proves Jin Guangyao’s involvement in murder or other crimes.”

“And if we find something?” Xingchen asked.

“Then we figure out how to use it without getting ourselves killed in the process,” Xue Yang said grimly. (foreshadowing)

Wei Wuxian activated the talisman with a careful application of spiritual energy, sending it gliding out the window and into the night-darkened corridors of the Jin sect compound. Through its eyes, he could see the layout of the buildings, the positioning of guards, and the subtle glow of various protective wards.

The others gathered around him as he guided the paper figure through the complex, sharing what they could see through their connection to his spiritual energy. The study, when they found it, was exactly as Mo Xuanyu had described—heavily warded, elaborately decorated, and clearly the private domain of someone who valued both security and luxury.

“There,” Mo Xuanyu said quietly, pointing to a section of the study that looked slightly different from the rest. “That wall. There’s something behind it.”

Wei Wuxian directed the paper figure closer, using its enhanced senses to examine the apparently solid surface. “You’re right. It’s not a wall at all—it’s a concealed entrance.”

“A secret chamber,” Xingchen said with grim satisfaction. “Just as we suspected.”

“Can you get inside?” Xue Yang asked.

Wei Wuxian concentrated, guiding the paper figure through the complex process of identifying and bypassing the concealment wards. It took several minutes of careful work, but eventually the hidden entrance revealed itself—a narrow doorway that led into a chamber beyond.

What they saw inside made them all go silent.

The secret chamber was filled with evidence—documents, weapons, and what appeared to be preserved body parts arranged like trophies. In the center of the room sat a wooden box that radiated spiritual energy in a way that made Wei Wuxian’s skin crawl.

“Nie Mingjue’s head,” Xue Yang said quietly, his voice carrying a weight of personal knowledge that made the others turn to stare at him. “He’s been keeping it as some kind of… prize.”

“You know this how?” Mo Xuanyu asked carefully.

Xue Yang’s expression darkened. “Because I was there when he killed Nie Mingjue. Jin Guangyao had me dispose of the body afterward—told me it was necessary to prevent the sect from falling into chaos over their leader’s death. I hid the bidy somewhere safe but when i returned next day, it was moved, and I don’t know where. I thought we were just… cleaning up after an unfortunate political necessity.”

“You helped him cover up murder,” Wei Wuxian said, though his tone held understanding rather than judgment.

“I helped him commit murder,” Xue Yang corrected bitterly. “I was the one who weakened Nie Mingjue first, made him vulnerable to Jin Guangyao’s final attack. At the time, I told myself it was just another job. Another target who happened to be inconvenient.”

“And these weapons,” Wei Wuxian added, directing the paper figure to examine the collection more closely. “They’re from his other victims.”

“Including yours,” Xue Yang said grimly, pointing to a familiar sword among the collection. “That’s Suibian, isn’t it?”

Wei Wuxian’s breath caught as he recognized his old sword, the weapon that had served him faithfully through his first life and had supposedly been destroyed after his death. “How did he get that? It should have been burned with the rest of my possessions.”

“Jin Guangyao has always been a collector,” Mo Xuanyu said with dark understanding. “He keeps trophies from his victories, reminders of the people he’s defeated.”

“Well,” Xue Yang said with vicious satisfaction, “now we know where to find him tomorrow night. And we know exactly what evidence we need to present to destroy him.”

They spent the next hour documenting everything they could see through the paper talisman, creating a detailed record of Jin Guangyao’s collection of crimes. When they finally recalled the paper figure, each of them carried the grim satisfaction of people who had found exactly what they were looking for.

“Now,” Wei Wuxian said, his voice hard with determination. “We confront him.”

“Tonight?” Mo Xuanyu asked.

“Right now,” Xue Yang confirmed, already moving toward the door. “Before he has a chance to move the evidence or prepare defenses.”

The five of them made their way through the corridors of the Jin compound with purpose, no longer bothering to maintain the pretense of casual guests. Their target was in the main hall, holding court among his supporters and allies.

“Sect Leader Jin,” Xingchen said, approaching the group with his characteristic directness. “We have a matter of some importance to discuss with you.”

“Of course, Daozhang Xiao,” Jin Guangyao replied with his usual smooth courtesy, though his eyes sharpened with interest. “What can I do for you?”

“We have reason to believe,” Xingchen continued, his tone carefully controlled, “that there may be evidence of criminal activity hidden within your compound. Specifically, we’ve detected traces of demonic cultivation emanating from your private study.”

The change in Jin Guangyao’s expression was subtle but unmistakable—a flicker of something cold and dangerous behind the mask of polite concern. “That’s quite an accusation. I trust you have evidence to support such a claim?”

“We felt the spiritual disturbance ourselves,” Wei Wuxian said, stepping forward with his mask still in place. “Dark energy, the kind that comes from prolonged contact with… unnatural artifacts.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jin Guangyao said, his tone growing cooler. “My study contains nothing but documents and personal effects.”

“Then you won’t mind showing us,” Mo Xuanyu said, also moving forward to join the confrontation. “Just to put any concerns to rest.”

Jin Guangyao’s eyes flicked to Mo Xuanyu, and for a moment his composed expression wavered slightly—a flicker of recognition quickly suppressed. “I don’t think that’s necessary—” he began, but his words were interrupted by the arrival of two more figures.

Lan Xichen entered the hall with his usual serene composure, accompanied by a man in purple robes whose presence made Wei Wuxian’s breath catch in his throat. Jiang Cheng looked older than Wei Wuxian remembered, his face marked by years of responsibility and loss, but his bearing was as proud and uncompromising as ever.

“Brother,” Lan Xichen said to Lan Wangji, his voice carrying curious concern. “I heard there was some kind of dispute?”

Wei Wuxian felt his heart hammering in his chest as his eyes met those of his former shidi across the room. For a moment, Jiang Cheng’s gaze lingered on the masked figure, something flickering in his expression—confusion, perhaps, or the stirring of unwelcome recognition.

“Zewu-jun,” Jin Guangyao said with obvious relief, drawing attention away from the charged moment. “Perhaps you can help resolve this misunderstanding. These… guests… are making accusations about secret chambers and demonic cultivation, but I assure you there’s nothing of the sort in my study.”

Lan Xichen looked between his sworn brother and his blood brother, his expression troubled. “A-Yao, if Wangji believes there’s something that needs to be investigated…”

“Of course,” Jin Guangyao said quickly, though his smile looked strained. “I have nothing to hide. If it will put everyone’s minds at ease, I’m happy to show you my study.”

Wei Wuxian felt his heart racing as they made their way through the corridors toward Jin Guangyao’s private quarters. Jiang Cheng was walking just a few feet away from him, close enough that Wei Wuxian could see the familiar way he held his shoulders when he was tense, could hear the slight rasp in his voice that had always appeared when he was trying to project authority.

His brother. His shidi who had killed him in anger and grief and misguided loyalty.

Wei Wuxian forced himself to focus on their mission, to push down the complex emotions that Jiang Cheng’s presence evoked. There would be time to deal with family complications later—assuming they all survived the next few minutes.

Jin Guangyao’s study looked exactly as it had through the paper talisman’s eyes—elegant, well-appointed, and apparently innocent of any wrongdoing. Jin Guangyao gestured around the room with obvious pride.

“As you can see, nothing but books, documents, and a few personal mementos. I’m not sure what you expected to find.”

“The secret chamber,” Xue Yang said bluntly, stepping forward to examine the wall where they had seen the hidden entrance. “We know it’s here.”

“Secret chamber?” Jin Guangyao laughed, the sound carrying just the right note of amused confusion. “I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed. This is simply my private study.”

“Then you won’t mind if we examine the walls more closely,” Wei Wuxian said, moving to join Xue Yang’s investigation.

“Actually, I do mind,” Jin Guangyao said, his tone growing sharper. “This is my private space, and I don’t appreciate strangers pawing through my personal possessions based on unfounded accusations.”

“A-Yao,” Lan Xichen said gently, “if there’s truly nothing to hide, then a brief examination shouldn’t be a problem. It would resolve this matter quickly and completely.”

Jin Guangyao looked between his sworn brother’s trusting face and the determined expressions of their small group. After a moment, he sighed in apparent resignation.

“Very well. But I want it understood that I’m only agreeing to this because I trust Zewu-jun’s judgment, not because I accept the validity of these accusations.”

He moved to the wall that concealed the secret chamber, placing his hand against a specific section and channeling spiritual energy into what appeared to be a hidden mechanism. The wall shimmered and dissolved, revealing the chamber beyond.

But the chamber was empty.

Where the previous night there had been documents, weapons, and horrific trophies, now there was nothing but bare stone walls and empty shelves. Even Nie Mingjue’s head was gone, leaving no trace that it had ever been there.

“As you can see,” Jin Guangyao said with smooth satisfaction, “there’s nothing here. Just an old storage chamber that I rarely use.”

Wei Wuxian felt his heart sink as he stared into the empty space. Jin Guangyao had known they were coming. Somehow, he had anticipated their investigation and moved all the evidence to a different location.

But then his eyes fell on something that Jin Guangyao had apparently overlooked—a collection of weapons mounted on the far wall, displayed like decorations but clearly functional and well-maintained.

“Those swords,” Wei Wuxian said, pointing to the display. “Where did you acquire them?”

“Various sources over the years,” Jin Guangyao replied casually. “Some were gifts, others I purchased from craftsmen or acquired during night hunts. Nothing unusual about a cultivator collecting quality weapons.”

Wei Wuxian moved closer to the display, his eyes scanning the collection until he found what he was looking for. There, among the other blades, was Suibian—his sword, the weapon that had been sealed after his death and should have been impossible for anyone else to wield.

“This one,” he said, reaching toward the familiar hilt. “This is interesting craftsmanship.”

“Don’t touch that!” Jin Guangyao said sharply, moving to intercept him. “Those weapons are not for handling by guests.”

But Wei Wuxian was already grasping the sword’s hilt, and the moment his fingers made contact, Suibian responded with a flare of spiritual energy that illuminated the entire chamber. The sword had recognized its true master, breaking the seal that had held it dormant for thirteen years.

“Impossible,” Jin Guangyao breathed, staring at the glowing blade in Wei Wuxian’s hand. “That sword was sealed. No one should be able to draw it except…”

He stopped, his face going pale as the implications hit him.

Wei Wuxian pulled off his mask with his free hand, revealing his face to the assembled crowd for the first time. “Except Wei Wuxian,” he finished, his voice carrying the cold satisfaction of someone who had just sprung a carefully planned trap.

The reaction was immediate and dramatic. Jiang Cheng stumbled backward with a strangled sound that was part sob, part curse, his face cycling through shock, disbelief, and something that might have been desperate hope mixed with old anger. Lan Xichen’s composed expression cracked with amazement and confusion. Jin Zixuan who had arrived just in time to hear that was take back, looking at Wei Wuxian pale. 

“Wei Wuxian?” He asked maybe others, maybe his brother, maybe even Wei Wuxian, but mostly himself.

But Jin Guangyao’s reaction was the most interesting—a moment of genuine surprise, quickly masked but not quickly enough. His eyes had widened with shock, but there was something else there too—fear, perhaps, or the recognition that his carefully constructed world was about to come crashing down.

“Wei Wuxian,” he said, his voice carefully controlled despite the tremor Wei Wuxian could hear underneath. “I had heard rumors of your return, but I hardly dared believe them. How… interesting.”

“Not as interesting as you’re about to find it,” Mo Xuanyu said, pulling off his own mask to reveal his face. “Hello, brother. Miss me?”

If Wei Wuxian’s revelation had shaken Jin Guangyao, Mo Xuanyu’s nearly destroyed his composure entirely. His face went white as bone, his eyes wide with something approaching terror as he stared at the young man he had systematically tormented and driven to suicide.

“Mo Xuanyu,” he whispered, the name barely audible. “But you’re… you’re dead. I saw the body, I attended the funeral—”

“Death is so inconvenient,” Xue Yang agreed, removing his own mask with a predatory smile. “But fortunately, it’s not as permanent as people think. Especially when you have unfinished business.”

Now Jin Guangyao looked genuinely rattled. His gaze moved between the three men who should have been safely dead, his quick mind clearly racing to understand how this was possible and what it meant for his carefully constructed empire of lies and manipulation.

“This is impossible,” he said finally, his voice lacking its usual smooth confidence. “People don’t just return from death.”

“We’re not people,” Wei Wuxian replied pleasantly. “We’re ghosts with unfinished business. And our business is with you.”

The chamber erupted into chaos as Jin Guangyao’s supporters moved to defend their leader while others simply fled from the confrontation they wanted no part of. Spiritual energy filled the air as weapons were drawn and battle lines were established.

“Run,” Lan Wangji said quietly, appearing at Wei Wuxian’s shoulder. “Now.”

“Run,” Wei Wuxian agreed, and their small group fought their way out of the chamber and through the corridors of the Jin compound, leaving behind confusion, questions, and the beginning of the end of Jin Guangyao’s carefully constructed empire.

This will come later to haunt them, but Adrenalin from running away once again, like in old times was more exciting than anything. 

Chapter Text

They have been walking for past four hours, and to say that they were tired would be a little word. Mo Xuanyu dropped down against the tree, with dramatic groan.

“I’m tireeeed,” he complained.

Wei Wuxian looked at him then at Xue Yang who was too busy leaning against his husband and glaring down. To be honest, death makes you lazy, they didn’t have anywhere to run around so their muscles were failing, and while Mo Xuanyu hasn’t been in hell but just for a year and a month, it doesn’t mean he had ever exercised in life. 

Wei Wuxian looked at his husband before looking back at Mo Xuanyu. “Let’s set up a camp and start a fire to sleep. I’m sure we can’t arrive at Gusu if we’re too tired. Kid, you should get some wood for fire while a- Yang and I set the camp.” Mo Xuanyu was too tired to argue so he stood up and did what he was told, same with Xue Yang. In meantime, Xiao Xingchen and Lan Wangji went to get food.

While the two was setting up the camp, Xuanyu came back with wood and started the fire. Only then did Wei Wuxian realised that Xue Yang was too silent, he didn’t even insult anyone. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Xue Yang looked at him then sat down next to Mo Xuanyu. “I’m worried,” he answered, Wei Wuxian was about to ask him when he spoke again. “I know that Xingchen and I are trying, I mean he is trying to forgive me and I’m trying to do anything for his forgiveness, but A-Qing, she doesn’t want to look at me except when we’re training, and I don’t blame her. I deserve worse, but still, every time I look at her she has that same hate in her eyes, instead of admiration like she did before everything.” He explained and the two listened.

“I dont think she hates you,” Mo Xuanyu said after few minutes.

“Yeah,” Wei Wuxian agreed, “give her some time Xue Yang, she’s a teenager, she had to watch her father grieve for his husband for 3 years, all while she also thought you were dead. I think she will learn how to accept you if you try hard enough. No daughter can hate her father even if she begs to heavens to be able to because its easier.” 

Xue Yang couldn’t look at him, his eyes looking at the fire ahead, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “What if she does? I can’t blame her, I don’t blame her. She had to watch Xingchen mourn for years over a criminal. She had to bloom without a dad.”

Mo Xuanyu looked at him then down at the fire, he had no say in this when he himself hated his “father”. Wei Wuxian sighed then sat next to them.

“No daughter wants to hate her father. Xue Yang, before everything you have been there for her, and i know she knows that. Give her some time, she’ll come back, you just have to take the first step.” he assured.

For the first time in a while Xue Yang smiled, he looked at him “thank you,”. He stood up and looked between them both. “If any of you mentions this ever again I’ll cut your tongue out,” he had a slight blush on his cheeks before storming to his tent. The two laughed. 

“Aww, and I was just thinking of writing a book of this” Wei Wuxian teased.

“Wei Wuxian!” he yelled making Mo Xuanyu laugh.

The three went to their own tents waiting for the other two, they were too tired to even eat. 

Xiao Xingchen and Lan Wangji had been trying to catch fishes, Xiao Xingchen was the one doing the fishing while Lan Wangji tried to find any other sources of food. They came back earlier than expected, in time to hear the conversation their husbands and their friend had. 

When Xue Yang spoke, Xingchen’s heart broke slowly. Everyone though he was the righteous cultivator who easily forgave, but even he himself had the flaws. And hearing his husband talk like that just made it more clear for him. Xue Yang wasn’t wrong, even if he did act “normal” with him, he still hasnt forgave him, even if he knew it wasnt Xue Yang’s fault. Maybe the past has caught up to him and made him the way he is now. Loosing Song Lan was hit as it is for him, then learning that the man he loves is becoming a murderer, it did take on him. Even after Xue Yang stopped killing and tried to change for him and their daughter, it didn’t last long apparently. So, indeed was he selfish and flawed.

He stood there alongside with Wangji, listening to the conversation. Wei Wuxian’s words were truly wise and eye opening. Not because he is his sister’s son, but because that the man who had every right to hate his both father and mother figure is saying those things, meaning he had forgiven them. 

Wangji smiled softly hearing his Wei Ying talk like that, it made him fall in love all over again. 

When the three went to their tents, Xingchen and Wangji finally stepped out of the woods. Xingchen said goodnight and went to Xue Yang’s tent. Wangji did the same, he and Wei Ying didn’t have time to be alone in all of this mess. 

Xue Yang was laying down in sleeping position when Xingchen entered the tent. He sat quietly down not sure if Xue Yang was awake or not. 

“She doesn’t hate you, A-Yang,” he began softly, “and neither do I. What my nephew said is true, she needs time and I hope you will be there through it. Maybe I haven’t forgiven you fully, but I could never hate a man I love. I would choose you, every time, just-” he cleared his throat, tears slowly coming down his face. “just give us some time, husband.” With that Xingchen turned around opposite direction of his husband, when he felt hands around his torso and wet tears on his shoulder. 

Neither of them spoke, but they didn’t need to. They knew, once this is over, it will go back to like it was. Because neither of them liked losing the other. Not when they were each other’s light in the darkest time of life.

The next morning woken up by their early rising husbands, Wei Wuxian and Xue Yang looked like they were ready to murder each other, Mo Xuanyu came out of the tent after Xingchen went to wake him up looking exactly like the two. He sat down next to them and the three just started at front. 

Xingchen and Wangji looked at each other before deciding to eat what they have brought yesterday for breakfast. 

A loud dramatic groan was heard after few minutes. “Why the fuck do we need to wake up this early for?” Xue Yang cursed still not looking away from that spot the three started at. 

“Say another word and I will skin you alive,” Wei Wuxian without looking up answered. If there is anything he hates more than waking up early is talking early in the morning. And it looked like the other two agreed.

“You have to eat, then we’ll continue to Gusu,” Xingchen said calmly before putting three meals in front of them. 

“I will jump of the roof,” Mo Xuanyu now glaring at the fish added.

“Jump from Burial Mounds, coward” Wei Wuxian added tiredly. 

“Do a backflip,” Xue Yang added.

Wangji looked at Wei Ying with soft warning and little concern. “Wei Ying,” he called out softly.

“A-Yang” Xingchen warned.

“I hope you both die,” Mo Xuanyu added with bored expression before grabing his food to eat.

Wangji and Xingchen now looked at him shocked, though it wasn’t visible on Wangji.

But the two just started eating as well, not even giving a damn about what Mo Xuanyu said. 

“This is nice,” Wei Wuxian said stuffing food in his mouth.

“Maybe, if we had Emperor’s Smile,” Xue Yang added.

“I never had it,” the revelation shocked both Xue Yang and Wei Wuxian.

“the fuck? how come you never had it, kid?” Xue Yang asked confused and very much offended. 

“not like I was given any alcohol when my relatives locked me up, or proper food,” he answered, making the two realise.

“I almost forgot you tried to summon me to kill your family” Wei Ying said casually making both Xingchen and Wangji confused.

After breakfast the five made their way to Gusu, it was past midday when they have arrived, they could be riding their swords but that would make them too noticeable.

Lan Xichen was waiting for them in his study, when they arrived he greeted them still in quite shock from what happened two days ago.

“Wangji,” he turned to his brother silently asking if he was alright, then to the person next to his brother. “Young Master Wei,” he smiled softly “it’s good to have you back”

Wei Wuxian thought he was going to scold him or worse so when Xichen said that he was delighted, “it’s good to be back” he smiled with his bunny teeth, just like he used to do before.

“Thank you for this, Sect Leader Lan,” Xingchen bowed, also pulling Xue Yang who was looking around not interested in anything other than being nonchalant down as well. Xue Yang looked at him and pouted but bowed when Xingchen glared at him. “I’m sorry about my husband,” he apologised.

Xichen looked more shocked now, but quickly wiped it off and bowed back, “no need to apologise, I haven’t greeted you properly first, please forgive this one.” When he stood up he was now looking at Xue Yang and Xiao Xingchen, perhaps because the righteous cultivator just referred to infamous criminal as his husband. 

“Wei Wuxain,” Mo Xuanyu called all of a sudden making the others look at him and Xichen acknowledge another presence.

“What?” Wei Ying asked confused.

“You didn’t tell me your brother in law is literally the most handsome man I ever saw, this is unfair on many levels.” He said his eyes not moving away from Xichen, he pushed Xue Yang aside making the latter curse him, and stood in front of Xichen to bow. “I’m pleased to meet you, Sect Leader Lan” he said flirtatiously. 

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Xue Yang was looking at him disapprovingly, which earned him hit on the foot from Mo Xuanyu who still hasn’t stopped looking at the man.

Xichen chuckled softly at him before bowing aswell. “I thank you for the kind words.” When he rose looking at him with a smile he asked, “may I know your name? I heard you called A-Yao, brother, I never knew he had a brother.” (fucking lie)

Mo Xuanyu was too mesmerised by Xichen’s honey like voice to answer immediately, “yeah another illegitimate son of that old bastard.” he answered but his eyes didn’t leave Xichen’s beautiful ones. “Mo Xuanyu, former Jin discipline and another illegitimate son of Jin Guangshan,” 

Xichen didn’t know what to say to that, of course he had known the habit of older Jin, even if gossip was forbidden in Lan sect everyone knew about it. It was basically impossible to not know when they’re everywhere. 

Before Mo Xuanyu could add any other flirtatious things, Lan Wangji spoke up.

“Brother, you shall not trust Jin Guangyao,” he looked at his brother who’s smile disappeared quickly.

“Wangji,” but Lan Wangji wasnt done talking.

“Brother, he is not to be trusted,” Wangji tried to explain but the termination of his brother’s face made him stop.

“Lan Zhan is right, Zewu-jun, I have seen it with my own eyes, he is hiding some dark secret and all of us here have had connection with him. Xue Yang had the most and he knows just how dangerous Jin Guangyao is, he worked for him and helped him with the crimes.” Wei Wuxian said.

Lan Xichen looked at Xue Yang but there was still some stubbornness in his eyes. He looked down then back at Wei Wuxian.

“Young Master Wei, I trust Meng Yao just how Wangji trusts you, but if and only if you tell me everything and I see it with my own eyes, i will help you.” He had agreed. “Why don’t we eat together, ans you can tell me everything” he offered.

When they sat down to eat everyone took turns explaining about Jin Guangyao’s crimes. At the end of the meal after everyone said what they had, Lan Xichen was not looking good by any kind.

“I knew him long enough and never even assumed he would do anything like this, ever.” Wangji took pity of his brother offering him soft squeeze on the shoulder. Xichen looked up at Mo Xuanyu “I never knew something like that would happen, young master Mo, I am very sorry for not knowing your story,” he apologised making Mo Xuanyu surprised he yelped.

“No no no, Sect Leader Lan, it’s okay, no one even knew about this, you shouldn’t be one to apologise” his cheeks reddening.

Xichen smiled softly but it didn’t reach his eyes, “are you planing on staying here?” he asked them all.

“No,” Xue Yang answered before any of them could even process it. 

“What? why not?” Mo Xuanyu asked in defense

“Because we have to get going, idiot, we cant just stay here because you have developed crush on Sect Leader, you think Jin Guangyao will kill himself?” he said earning himself an elbow in stomach by Xingchen.

“I thought he liked Huisang,” Wei Ying asked confused, “but Xue Yang is right, we have to get going if we want to get things done before it develops into something bigger.” 

Mo Xuanyu pouted “Unfair, just unfair” 

“life is not fair, kid” Xue Yang teased.

Then it clicked into Wei Wuxian’s mind, he hasn’t seen his son in three days since they left for Gusu when the five had to go to banquet. “Where’s A-Yuan, Zewu-jun ge? shouldn’t he and Jingyi be here?” 

Xichen looked at him and smiled, “they had a sudden mission last night, I heard from Jingyi they also met other Sect disciplines, you shouldn’t worry about him.” 

Wei Wuxian looked at Xue Yang and it seems like he also had the same idea, something is fishy there. But they didn’t want alarm anyone so he smiled “Thank you” 

The five decided they all need sleep so they might as well sleep in Gusu where they were safe. Xiao Xingchen and Xue Yang went to their own room in guest wing, Mo Xuanyu had his own room next to theirs, while Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji went to Wangji’s room in Jingshi.

Jingshi was the same as Wei Wuxian remembered it, he had been here just once when he was alive but he watched this place many times over the three years after discovering the window in hell. It was plain usually, but the little details made it feel like home. Some paintings of toddler Yuan and Wangji, some of them now, even his own portrait was there. He smiled softly, his heart aching when he run over them with his fingers. A stall for two swords, both Bichen and Yutu, his sons sword. Small shoes next to Wangji’s, on the wall next to the kitchen there was a scale of height while Yuan was growing up, Wei Wuxian didn’t realise it but tears filled his eyes quickly, he had missed all of it, he missed his sons birthdays, first detention, sword practice, he had missed everything about his life. He whipped the tears away when Wangji came next to him, silently telling him that he is there and that it’s okay.

“I missed it all, didn’t I?” he asked sadly sitting down on the bed.

“Wei Ying” Wangji sat next to him, 

“How was he growing up? was he mischievous? did he gave Qiren a headache?” He asked joyful, avoiding the saddnes in his own voice. 

Wangji stared at him before deciding to let it go, “Mn, Yuan was nice kid, he was curious, followed the rules but as every child he liked exploring and sometimes he gave uncle headaches when he was with Jingyi.” he smiled softly on the thought.

Wei Wuxian’s eyes lit up “Oh, I’m so glad he wasn’t boring like you Lan Zhan,” he teased until his eyes soften “Thank you for giving him a good childhood, Lan Zhan” he put his hand on his cheek, “You were a great father” he said before softly kissing him. 

Wangji kissed him back before pulling away, it was great to have his beloved back, he missed everything about him, but most he missed his gentle words, his teasing, his smile thay lit up Wangji’s whole world. “Wei Ying is good a-die too,” he closed his eyes when Wei Ying caressed his face.

“My dear husband, you were all alone, I’m so sorry about that. I promise I’m not leaving, ever again,” a tear escaped his eye before he could wipe it away, “i missed you so much”

“Missed Wei Ying too,” Wangji said before kissing him again. No matter how many times he kisses those same lips, he’ll never get enough of it. When they finally pulled away, both were breathless. 

“Tell me some stories Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying demanded, and who was Lan Wangji to reject something his beloved asks? Especially if it involves telling about their son. So Wangji did, he told him many stories about Yuan growing up, his mischievous adventures, everything.

When it was almost midnight, Wei Ying left the bed and Jingshi silently. The bad feeling about the juniors and Yuan hasn’t disappeared since Lan Xichen told him they left for a mission. To clear his mind he decided to play his flute. 

He played every song he could remember from his past life, even if he probably shouldn’t be in forbidden forest, he couldn’t help it, it was one of the quietest places in Gusu since no one dared to come there. 

Fourth song in he heard rustling behind him, he immediately got into character, Chenqing already on his lips ready to attack. He heard chains on the ground which genuinely gave him chills. What if it was a monster and Wei Wuxian is an idiot who is always dying first in horror stories about ghosts. Rustling was coming closer and closer, and while Wei Wuxian was a brave man he also was afraid it was a dog which would be worse than any ghost or monster.

When the rustling became so close he could feel the presence in his bones he began to slowly play. When the thing or better person stepped forward Wei Wuxian froze.

“Wen Ning?” he asked. The figure titled his head, confirming it was him. Wei Wuxian already started crying, he ran up to him and hugged him. “A-Ning,” he chanted over and over again. When he moved to look at him, he saw that Wen Ning was there but his mind was not, his eyes were black and he had chains around his legs and hands, old robes and deadpan expression. “What happened to you?” but Wen Ning couldn’t answer. 

Wei Wuxian remembered something so he tried searching for it on Wen Ning, he found three nails nailed to his head, when he pulled them out Wen Ning screamed in pain “i know, I’m sorry just one more and it will be over.” he looked at him apologetically. When he pulled the third nail, Wen Ning once again screamed in pain but next few seconds he looked around his eyes weren’t black anymore, when he saw Wei Wuxian he was shocked, if a corpse could cry, Wen Ning would be in tears right now. 

“Wei-gongzi? you’re alive?” And Wei wuxian was hugging him again and again.

“A-Ning, you’re alive? but how? I thought you died” After more tears from Wei Wuxian and shocked expression from Wen Ning, Wen Ning decided to tell him what had happened

Chapter Text

Wen Ning remembered the day clearer than any other, as if time itself had carved it into his soul. The climb up Golden Carp Tower had felt endless, his hands shaking, his steps dragging behind his sister’s steady ones. He wasn’t afraid of dying, no, Wen Ning had been ready for death the moment he raised his sword for Wei-gongzi. What terrified him was the thought of leaving his sister alone, of leaving debts unpaid, of failing to protect even once more.

He had clutched his sword too tightly, knuckles white, though he never raised it against anyone as they walked the long golden steps. Around them, disciples sneered, muttered words like “traitor,” “dog,” “puppet.” He let them. He had grown used to the words. It was Wen Qing’s back he focused on, straight as ever, her hair bound, her robes neat, walking like a general heading into war.

She never looked back at him, but her presence was enough. His sister, his anchor.

Inside the great hall, light streamed from tall lanterns, falling on rows of jade pillars and the faces of Jin disciples lined up on both sides. In the center sat Jin Guangshan, smug, already intoxicated on his own power. Wen Ning’s eyes had darted to the man he hated most, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. They weren’t here for vengeance.

Wen Qing’s voice had rung out, calm, cold “We came to surrender our lives, in exchange for Wei Wuxian’s mercy.”

Her words cut through the silence. Murmurs rose, disciples glancing at each other. Wen Ning’s stomach turned it felt wrong, bowing to these men, these people who had destroyed their clan, their home, their family. But for Wei-gongzi… for Wei Wuxian, who had carried them when the world cast them aside… Wen Ning could do it.

Jin Guangshan smirked, eyes glinting with the cruelty of a man who saw pawns instead of people. “Surrender your lives, hm? How very noble of you.”

Wen Ning stayed silent. His palms were damp. His breathing came slow.

It was then he saw black masked man standing just behind the sect leader’s chair, arms folded, nothing good. Beside him, Jin Guangyao wore his usual polite smile, but Wen Ning saw it — the calculation behind his eyes.

They weren’t going to let him die clean.

When the guards seized him, he didn’t resist. He felt the bite of chains on his wrists, the cold of steel pressed too deep into his skin. Wen Qing was still speaking, still demanding that their deaths be enough, still trying to bargain with wolves in scholar’s robes. Wen Ning wanted to reach for her, but the guards forced him to his knees.

That was when black masked man leaned close, whispering where only Wen Ning could hear:

“Do you think they’ll let you rest? No. A puppet like you doesn’t deserve rest. You’ll live. You’ll suffer. And you’ll serve.”

Wen Ning’s blood turned to ice. He saw his sister being burned alive while he was being dragged away.

He tried to shout, to look at Wen Qing, but hands forced his head down, nails digging into his scalp. Then came the pain, white-hot, searing, tearing through his skull as something sharp drove into bone. He gasped, body seizing, the world spinning black.

Voices echoed around him, muffled through the ringing in his ears. Jin Guangyao’s gentle tone, like honey hiding poison: “Careful. Don’t kill him. He will be useful.”

Useful. Not human. Never human.

When the second nail went in, he thought he had died. Thought his soul had slipped away, that this was punishment. His body convulsed, his vision flooded white. He had tried to scream for Wen Qing, but no sound came, only a raw gurgle. He felt hands on his shoulders, pinning him down like an animal.

And when the third nail sank into his head, Wen Ning finally fell silent.

Darkness.

Nothing but darkness.

He didn’t know how long it lasted, minutes, days, years. Time bled together. Sometimes he heard faint voices, commands. Sometimes he felt his body move without him, killing, striking, obeying. He wasn’t there, not really. Only his body was.

But in the void, in the black silence where his mind floated, he wasn’t alone.

He saw her, his sister. Wen Qing standing tall, robes soaked in blood, but her eyes clear, steady. She didn’t speak, but she watched him. He clung to the image, terrified of forgetting her face.

And sometimes, when the silence was unbearable, another figure appeared, Wei Wuxian, grinning the way he used to, calling him “A-Ning” with that warmth that never judged. Wen Ning knew it wasn’t real, just fragments of memory, but he needed it. He needed them both, because otherwise he would lose himself entirely.

He would have died in the dark, if not for those dreams.

Every time his body was forced to kill, Wen Ning dreamed of Wei Wuxian shaking his head, voice gentle: “It’s not your fault, A-Ning. Not your fault.” Every time despair clawed at him, Wen Qing stood there, hand on his shoulder, telling him silently to hold on.

Those ghosts were the only reason he didn’t shatter.

“Rise,” a voice said, distant and cruel. Wen Ning flinched. It wasn’t the voice of his sister, not the warmth of Wei Wuxian, but black masked man crisp, deliberate, filled with authority he hated.

He tried. His knees shook. Blood dripped from small cuts along his palms where the chains had rubbed raw. His vision blurred, but he saw the first thing that made his chest constrict: the table. A long, steel surface, instruments laid out like predators waiting. Needles, blades, iron clamps, jars of something dark and sludgy… and in the corner, a crucifix of chains with a body barely recognizable as a corpse.

Wen Ning’s hands flexed, searching for something, anything to anchor him. He felt a ghost in the corner of his mind Wei Wuxian’s laughter, warm and bright. He tried to reach for it, even through the haze of fear, but the chains were too tight, the nails pressed into his skull too sharp.

The first talisman burned into his forehead, a searing pain that made him scream, though no sound escaped. Wen Qing’s hand appeared in his vision, translucent, guiding him: Stay. Focus.

“Good,” the man said. “He responds. Let’s see how long he holds.”

The next hour—or was it three?—was a blur. Steel pressed into him, into his chest, his limbs. Talismans burned across his arms. Commands whispered into his ears: stand, kneel, walk, bow, rise. A body that no longer had freedom. Pain that no longer ended.

But always, behind the pain, there were flashes.

It kept him from breaking. Kept him from screaming.

When they stopped—momentarily—he collapsed on the stone floor, eyes wide and wet. The man’s shadow passed over him, examining notes, muttering about resilience, marking down successes and failures.

Chains were loosened. For a moment, he could breathe. But the relief was brief.

“You survived longer than expected,” He said. “Let’s test the limits.”

Another talisman, another nail in the head, another wave of visions.

The room smelled of burnt metal and blood. Every corner of it felt wrong, like the air itself had been cut open and stitched back together too many times. Chains dug into his wrists, cold enough to make the skin blister, but the weight wasn’t the worst of it. The worst was the silence in between.

When the cultivators came, they didn’t speak. Masks over their faces, robes darkened with ash. Their hands worked fast, practiced, as though this wasn’t cruelty—it was routine. A needle slid into his skin, pouring in something thick and burning. His body jerked, his head slammed back against the wood. He bit down so hard he thought his teeth would crack, but the sound that left his throat was still too loud.

They wrote things down while he shook. One tilted his head, watching the way Wen Ning’s pulse stuttered under his skin. Another pressed a talisman to his chest, chanting until the air inside his lungs felt like shards of glass. He stopped breathing more than once, but they always dragged him back.

Wen Qing, standing just behind the chains, her face strict, sharp, like she was scolding him for even thinking about giving in. Sometimes her hand pressed to his shoulder, steady, reminding him he wasn’t allowed to fall apart.

Wei Wuxian appeared too, sometimes grinning, sometimes serious, crouching low like he always did when speaking to A-Yuan. “You’re too slow, Wen Ning,” the grin would say. Or, in that quiet voice that left no room for argument: You’re going to be fine.

And A-Yuan—sometimes laughing, sometimes just holding out his small hand, waiting for him to take it.

He knew they weren’t real. He knew they were gone. But in those moments, when the talismans burned through his skin and the chanting made the marrow of his bones scream, those ghosts were the only reason he didn’t.

Hours passed, though he could not tell. The sun never came. Time had no meaning. There were whispers of other prisoners, of failed experiments, of corpses chained and hollow-eyed in distant rooms. Sometimes he heard them cry. 

They experimented on him in other ways too

Electrocuting him with talismans until his body convulsed against the chains.

Feeding him poisons, watching him hallucinate the faces of his sister, of Wei Wuxian, of A-Yuan dissolving in flames.

Locking him in soundless darkness, hours stretching into eternity, until he thought he was already dead.

Every time he collapsed, Wen Qing’s ghost would appear. Always her hand, always her whisper, stay. And somehow, he stayed. Somehow, he survived.

By the time his body was too weak to obey, Black masked man and Jin Guangyao paused, curious. 

And that kept him alive.

The rest of the day was a cycle of pain and hallucination, but a strange comfort Wen Ning began to recognize patterns. Ghosts of those he loved, whispers of warmth between the burning, the chains, the nails. Each scream brought a vision of home, each talisman sparked a memory of laughter. Even in torture, he was never truly alone.

By the last hour, when the man finally stepped back, he was slumped on the floor. Chains hanging loose, nails removed, but his body barely recognized as human. Yet his mind clung to the warmth — Wen Qing’s hand, Wei Wuxian’s voice, A-Yuan’s small laughter echoing through darkness.

And when they left him, alone in the lab, the first thing he did was whisper into the cold stone:

“I survived.” This is how it was for the past thirteen years.

When he finally surfaced, when the nails were gone and Wei Wuxian’s face was not a dream but real, warm, wet with tears, Wen Ning couldn’t believe it. His lips trembled, words rasping out, broken

“Wei-gongzi? You’re alive?”

And for the first time since Golden Carp Tower, Wen Ning realized , so was he.

Chapter Text

Wei Wuxian hadn’t noticed how badly his hands were shaking until the warmth of Wen Ning’s sleeve brushed against them. He wanted to laugh, make a joke, anything to cut the silence, but the words wouldn’t come.

A person he viewed as little brother, someone who made his life less dark, his family, suffered so much all because of his stupid decisions. Oh how Wei Wuxian hated himself. If he could go back in time he would never make Wen Ning his friend, if it only would keep him from suffering, he would do it. 

He looked at Wen Ning who was looking at him with confused look on his face. Wei Wuxian couldn’t hold it in, he hugged him tightly, tears began to stream.

Wen Ning panicked thinking he had done something to make the man cry.

“Wei-gongzi! I’m so sorry! was it something I said?” he asked frantic.

Wuxian pulled away and chuckled dryly, Wen Ning always so selfless. 

“No, A-Ning. I’m just- I’m so sorry about everything. If I hadn’t- if I hadn’t done any of my mistakes, you would have never suffered, and A-jie would be here and you would be a-” 

before he could say more Wen Ning cut him off.

“Wei-gongzi, don’t ever blame yourself, this has nothing to do with you. Jiejie and I- it was our decision to help and I regret nothing” he looked down “apart that I couldn’t save her or you,” he smiled “you accepted us and protected us, and I’ll- no, we’ll always be grateful for that” 

Wei Wuxian was so touched by that he started crying again, which made Wen Ning panic again. It was some time that took Wei Wuxian to calm down. They sat on the grass and Wei Wuxian began to tell him about how he escaped hell with the other two. To say that Wen Ning was surprised, shocked-as much as a corpse can be- would be a little word. It was past an hour or two that they heard Footsteps approaching

Wei Wuxian turned around just to see his husband there looking at the both of them like they just committed another murder.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian smiled. Seeing his husband will always make him smile.

While Wen Ning looked terrified, after all those years he still hasn’t gotten over his fear of Lan Wangji. He sat up immediately, and bowed. Wei Wuxian laughed.

“ah, a-Ning, you don’t have to do that. Lan Zhan doesn’t bite. Right, husband?” He smiled towards Wangji who was now standing next to him.

“Mn” he confirmed, though his face hasn’t changed. “Wei Ying”

“mhm! he is alive! can you believe it Lan Zhan! my a-Ning is alive!” Wei Wuxian was jumping like an excited toddler.

Lan Wangji’s golden eyes studied Wen Ning carefully, taking in every detail of his appearance. The fierce corpse stood rigid under his gaze, clearly uncomfortable despite Wei Wuxian’s reassurances. The chains were still around his ankles, his robes torn and filthy from thirteen years of gods knew what. After what felt like an eternity, Lan Wangji gave a small nod.

“How,” was all he said, his voice carrying that familiar low timbre.

Wei Wuxian bounced on his feet, still brimming with excitement despite the tears still wet on his cheeks. “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out! A-Ning said he just… woke up. Isn’t that amazing?”

“Concerning,” Lan Wangji corrected, though his tone wasn’t unkind. His gaze shifted between Wei Wuxian and Wen Ning, analytical. “If someone freed Wen Ning, they know where he was kept. They know about the experiments.”

The implications of that statement settled over them like a heavy blanket. Wei Wuxian’s excitement dimmed slightly as he processed what his husband was suggesting. If someone had freed Wen Ning, if someone knew about Jin Guangyao’s experiments…

“Wei-gongzi,” Wen Ning spoke up hesitantly, wringing his hands together in that nervous gesture Wei Wuxian remembered so well. “Hanguang-jun is right. I don’t know who freed me, or why. One moment I was in the dark, and then suddenly I’m here. I thought—I thought maybe I was just hallucinating again, that you being alive was another trick. And now that you’re actually alive, I dont think I deserve this.”

“A-Ning!” Wei Wuxian stepped forward and grabbed Wen Ning’s shoulders, forcing the taller man to look at him. “Don’t ever think that. You’re family. You’ll always be family. Nothing changes that. And I’m real, okay? I’m here. I’m alive. We both are.”

Wen Ning’s dark eyes glistened, though no tears could fall. “Wei-gongzi…”

“None of that,” Wei Wuxian said firmly. “You’re staying here tonight. We have guest rooms at Cloud Recesses, and you’re going to use one. No arguments. We’ll figure everything out tomorrow, but tonight you’re going to rest. Or, well, whatever it is fierce corpses do. Meditate? Do you need to meditate?”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji said quietly, and Wei Wuxian turned to look at his husband. He knew that tone—it was Lan Wangji’s ‘we need to discuss this’ voice. But when their eyes met, he saw something softer there, understanding perhaps. Lan Wangji had always been able to read him so well, had always known when something mattered to him.

After a moment, Lan Wangji inclined his head slightly. “The guest quarters are available. Wen Ning may stay.”

Wei Wuxian could have kissed him right there. Actually, he probably would later. Definitely would later. Multiple times if Lan Zhan let him.

“See, A-Ning? Even Lan Zhan agrees. You’re staying, and tomorrow we’ll figure out what’s going on. Together.” Wei Wuxian smiled brightly, trying to inject as much warmth and certainty into his expression as possible. “Now come on, let’s get you cleaned up and into some actual robes that aren’t falling apart.”

Wen Ning looked between them, clearly overwhelmed but also grateful. “Thank you, Hanguang-jun, Wei-gongzi. I… thank you.”

The walk back to Cloud Recesses was not quiet. Wei Wuxian kept up a steady stream of chatter, filling Wen Ning in on everything that had happened—the escape from hell, the plan to deal with Jin Guangyao, life at Cloud Recesses. He carefully avoided going into too much detail about his own death not ready to unpack that particular trauma while Wen Ning was processing his own thirteen years of hell.

Lan Wangji walked beside them, silent but present, his hand occasionally brushing against Wei Wuxian’s in a gesture of support that made Wei Wuxian’s chest warm. Even after everything, even with all the chaos and pain and fear, Lan Zhan was there. Always there.

When they reached the guest quarters, Lan Wangji personally showed Wen Ning to one of the better rooms—one of the ones usually reserved for important visitors, Wei Wuxian noted with a soft smile. It had a comfortable bed, though Wen Ning wouldn’t need it for sleep, and a window that looked out over one of Cloud Recesses’ peaceful courtyards. There were clean robes laid out already, and Wei Wuxian suspected Lan Zhan had sent someone ahead to prepare the room.

“Rest,” Lan Wangji said simply, and it wasn’t a command but an offer. “We will speak more tomorrow.”

Wen Ning bowed deeply, still clearly in awe of Lan Wangji despite years of knowing him. “Thank you, Hanguang-jun. Wei-gongzi. I… I don’t know how to repay this kindness.”

Wei Wuxian waved cheerfully, though his eyes were still a bit red from earlier. “No repayment needed, A-Ning. Just rest. Or meditate. Or stare at the wall if that’s what fierce corpses do for fun. We’ll come get you in the morning.”

As they left the guest quarters and made their way toward the Jingshi, Wei Wuxian felt the events of the day finally starting to catch up with him. His emotional rollercoaster from panic to joy to concern to that lingering bad feeling about A-Yuan had left him drained, and he found himself leaning more heavily against Lan Wangji as they walked.

“Tired?” Lan Wangji asked softly, his arm coming around Wei Wuxian’s waist to support him.

“Mmm, a little,” Wei Wuxian admitted. “It’s been a lot. Good! But a lot. And I still can’t shake this feeling, Lan Zhan. About A-Yuan. About the juniors. Something’s not right.”

“We will investigate tomorrow,” Lan Wangji said, but there was concern in his voice too. Wei Wuxian knew his husband—Lan Zhan trusted his instincts, even when they seemed irrational.

They walked in comfortable silence for a moment before Wei Wuxian spoke again, his voice quieter now. “Lan Zhan… thank you. For letting A-Ning stay. For not questioning it. For just… trusting me.”

“Wei Ying cares for him,” Lan Wangji said simply, as if that explained everything. And perhaps it did. “That is enough.”

Wei Wuxian felt his throat tighten with emotion. How did he get so lucky? After everything he’d done, all his mistakes and poor choices, somehow he’d ended up with someone who understood him so completely, who supported him so unconditionally. Someone who had waited for him, had raised their son alone, had never stopped loving him even when he was dead and gone.

The Jingshi came into view, its elegant architecture bathed in moonlight. Home. It still sometimes surprised Wei Wuxian that he could think of anywhere as home, let alone here in Cloud Recesses where he’d once been punished for breaking rules and causing chaos. But with Lan Wangji, anywhere could be home.

Once inside, Lan Wangji immediately moved to light the lamps, filling the room with warm, gentle light. Wei Wuxian stood in the doorway for a moment, just taking it all in—the familiar space, the small details that made it theirs, the feeling of safety and warmth that permeated everything.

Then he collapsed onto their bed with a dramatic sigh, sprawling across it like a starfish.

“Lan Zhan, your bed is so comfortable. Why couldn’t people in Cloud Recesses sleep on these when we were students? I remember mine being like a plank of wood.”

“The beds have not changed,” Lan Wangji said, amusement coloring his tone as he moved to prepare tea. “Perhaps Wei Ying’s perception has.”

“Are you saying I’ve gone soft?” Wei Wuxian propped himself up on his elbows, grinning. “That living with you has made me appreciate comfort? That I’m no longer the wild and carefree Yiling Patriarch who could sleep on rocks?”

“Mn.”

Wei Wuxian laughed, the sound bright and genuine despite his exhaustion. He watched as Lan Wangji moved through their space with practiced ease, every motion graceful and efficient. Even something as simple as preparing tea was beautiful when Lan Wangji did it. Wei Wuxian could watch him forever and never get bored.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian said after a moment, his voice more serious. “What do you really think about A-Ning? About him being freed?”

Lan Wangji was quiet for a moment, considering his words carefully as he always did. He brought two cups of tea over to the bed, handing one to Wei Wuxian before sitting beside him. Their thighs touched, a point of warmth and contact that Wei Wuxian leaned into.

“It is unprecedented,” Lan Wangji said finally. “Someone knew where he was. Someone knew how to free him. Someone wanted him conscious again.”

Wei Wuxian took a sip of his tea, savoring the familiar blend that Lan Zhan always made perfectly. “I know. That’s what worries me. I mean, I’m thrilled A-Ning is back, really I am. But who would free him? And why? What do they gain from it?”

“Perhaps someone who opposes Jin Guangyao,” Lan Wangji suggested. “Wen Ning is evidence of his crimes.”

“Maybe. But it feels like there’s more to it.” Wei Wuxian frowned, his mind working through possibilities. “And with A-Yuan gone on this mysterious night hunt, and the juniors all supposedly together… Lan Zhan, what if it’s connected? What if someone is gathering pieces for something bigger?”

Lan Wangji’s hand came to rest on Wei Wuxian’s knee, warm and grounding. “We will investigate tomorrow. The library pavilion has extensive records. If there is a precedent, we will find it.”

“And if we don’t like the answers?”

“Then we will face it together,” Lan Wangji said firmly. “As we face everything.”

Wei Wuxian set his tea down and leaned against Lan Wangji’s shoulder, breathing in his husband’s familiar sandalwood scent. It was grounding, comforting, a reminder that he was really here, really alive, really home. “Together,” he repeated softly. “I like the sound of that. Though you know, Lan Zhan, you’re stuck with me now. Can’t get rid of me even if you wanted to.”

“Would never want to,” Lan Wangji said, and his arm came around Wei Wuxian’s shoulders, pulling him closer.

They sat like that for a while, finishing their tea in comfortable silence. Wei Wuxian could feel the tension of the day slowly seeping out of his body, replaced by the warmth and security of Lan Wangji’s presence. But his mind wouldn’t stop working, wouldn’t stop circling back to A-Yuan.

“Do you think A-Yuan is okay?” Wei Wuxian asked eventually, his voice small. “I know Xichen-ge said they’re on a night hunt, but… Lan Zhan, he’s been gone two days. That’s not normal for a simple night hunt, is it?”

“No,” Lan Wangji admitted, and Wei Wuxian could hear the worry in that single syllable. “It is not normal. But A-Yuan is capable. He has trained well. And he has Jingyi with him, and the other juniors.”

“I know, I know. He’s not a baby anymore. He’s grown up now, and I missed all of it.” Wei Wuxian’s voice cracked slightly. “I missed thirteen years of his life, Lan Zhan. Thirteen years of birthdays and training and growth and I just… I need to see him. I need to know he’s okay. I need to hug my son and tell him I love him and that I’m sorry I left.”

Lan Wangji pulled back enough to look at Wei Wuxian’s face, and there was such tenderness in his eyes that Wei Wuxian felt like he might cry again. “A-Yuan knows. He has always known. I made sure he knew about you, about how much you loved him, about the sacrifice you made.”

“But I still left him,” Wei Wuxian whispered. “I still died and left both of you alone.”

“You came back,” Lan Wangji said firmly, his hand coming up to cup Wei Wuxian’s face. “You fought your way out of hell and came back to us. That is what matters. A-Yuan will understand. He already does.”

Wei Wuxian leaned into the touch, closing his eyes. “I hope so. Gods, Lan Zhan, I hope so. Because if anything happens to him, if Jin Guangyao or whoever freed A-Ning has him, I will burn the entire cultivation world to the ground. I don’t care about consequences or politics or anything else. I will destroy everyone who touches my son.”

“Our son,” Lan Wangji corrected gently. “And I will help you.”

Wei Wuxian opened his eyes and stared at his husband. Lan Wangji, the perfect, righteous Hanguang-jun, was offering to help him burn down the cultivation world. The absurdity of it, the fierce protectiveness, the absolute certainty in Lan Zhan’s voice—it made Wei Wuxian fall in love all over again.

“Lan Zhan,” he murmured. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it makes me want to kiss you and never stop.”

“Mn,” Lan Wangji said, and there was something heated in his gaze now, something that made Wei Wuxian’s breath catch. “That would not be unwelcome.”

Wei Wuxian’s exhaustion suddenly felt very far away, replaced by a different kind of warmth spreading through his body. “Oh?” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to that teasing purr he knew drove Lan Zhan crazy. “Is my er-gege saying he wants kisses? Right now? After such a long and emotionally exhausting day?”

Lan Wangji’s ears were turning red, that telltale sign that Wei Wuxian had gotten to him. “Wei Ying…”

“What is it, Lan Zhan? Use your words.” Wei Wuxian was grinning now, shameless as always. His hand came up to trace the edge of Lan Wangji’s jaw, feeling the slight tension there. “Tell me what you want.”

“You,” Lan Wangji said simply, and the directness of it made Wei Wuxian’s stomach flip. “Always you.”

“Well, you have me,” Wei Wuxian said, his smile softening into something more genuine. “Always have me. Forever and ever, until death and beyond, because apparently not even death can keep me away from you.”

“Good,” Lan Wangji said, and closed the distance between them.

The kiss started soft, gentle, like most of their kisses did. Lan Wangji always approached him like he was something that might break, something to be cherished and protected. But Wei Wuxian had never been good at gentle for long, especially not when his emotions were running this high.

He deepened the kiss, his hands sliding up to tangle in Lan Wangji’s hair, carefully avoiding the ornament that held it in place. Lan Wangji made a soft sound against his mouth, and Wei Wuxian swallowed it greedily, wanting to consume every little noise, every reaction, every proof that this was real and Lan Zhan wanted him just as much.

When they finally pulled apart for air, both were breathing harder. Wei Wuxian’s lips felt swollen, sensitive, and he couldn’t help but lick them, savoring the taste of Lan Wangji’s tea and something that was purely him.

“Lan Zhan,” he murmured, his voice rough. “You’re too good at that. When did you get so good at kissing? Have you been practicing with someone else?”

“Only Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji said, and there was a hint of smugness in his tone that made Wei Wuxian laugh. “Always Wei Ying. Only Wei Ying.”

“That’s right,” Wei Wuxian said, feeling possessive and adored all at once. “Only me. Forever. No one else gets to kiss you like this. No one else gets to see you like this, with your ears all red and your control slipping.”

Lan Wangji’s hand came up to cup Wei Wuxian’s face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone with unbearable tenderness. “No one else matters. Never has. Never will.”

“Fuck, Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian breathed. “When did you learn to be so romantic? So smooth? You used to just glare at me and say ‘boring’ to everything I did.”

“You were never boring,” Lan Wangji said seriously. “You were infuriating. Fascinating. Beautiful. Never boring.”

Wei Wuxian felt his face heating up, and he knew he must be blushing like crazy. “Okay, okay, stop it. You’re going to make me combust. My poor heart can’t take it when you say things like that.”

“Good,” Lan Wangji said, and kissed him again.

This time, the kiss was less controlled. Wei Wuxian found himself being pressed back into the bed, Lan Wangji’s weight a welcome presence above him. His hands roamed, tracing the familiar planes of his husband’s back through layers of silk and cotton, wanting to feel skin but also savoring the anticipation.

“Lan Zhan,” he breathed between kisses. “Lan Zhan, I want—”

“Tell me,” Lan Wangji commanded softly, his lips moving to Wei Wuxian’s jaw, his neck. “Tell me what Wei Ying wants.”

Wei Wuxian arched up, pressing their bodies closer together. “You. Want you. Want to feel you. Want to forget about everything else for a while and just… just be with you.”

“You have me,” Lan Wangji said against his neck, and then he was sucking a mark there, teeth grazing sensitive skin in a way that made Wei Wuxian gasp.

“Shameless,” Wei Wuxian accused breathlessly. “Marking me where everyone can see. What will the other Lan disciples think?”

“They will think,” Lan Wangji said, moving to another spot on Wei Wuxian’s neck, “that you are mine.”

“Fuck,” Wei Wuxian whimpered. “Yes. Yours. Always yours. Now stop teasing and get these ridiculous layers off me already. Seriously, who designed Lan robes? Did they hate the concept of quick access?”

Lan Wangji huffed a quiet laugh against his skin, and Wei Wuxian felt absurdly proud of making him laugh. Then Lan Zhan’s hands were moving to the fastenings of Wei Wuxian’s outer robe, fingers working with practiced ease.

“Show off,” Wei Wuxian muttered, but he was grinning. His own hands were less coordinated, fumbling with Lan Wangji’s robes, but he managed eventually. “There. See? I can be efficient too.”

“Mn,” Lan Wangji agreed, though his eyes were dark with want now, pupils blown wide. “Very efficient.”

Soon enough, they were down to their inner robes, the fabric thin enough that Wei Wuxian could feel the heat of Lan Wangji’s skin through it. He arched up, pressing their bodies closer together, reveling in the feeling of solid muscle and warmth above him. This was real. This was happening. Lan Zhan was here, wanted him, loved him.

“Beautiful,” Lan Wangji murmured, his eyes roaming over Wei Wuxian with open appreciation. “Wei Ying is beautiful.”

“Lan Zhan, you’re going to make me self-conscious,” Wei Wuxian protested weakly, even as he preened under the attention. “Looking at me like that. Like I’m something precious.”

“You are,” Lan Wangji said simply. “Most precious thing in my life. You and A-Yuan. My everything.”

“Okay, that’s it, you need to stop talking or I’m going to cry again,” Wei Wuxian said, his voice suspiciously thick. “And I’ve cried enough today. Now come here and kiss me properly.”

Lan Wangji did, and this time there was nothing gentle about it. His mouth was demanding, possessive, claiming Wei Wuxian in a way that made him feel owned and cherished all at once. Wei Wuxian kissed back just as fiercely, his hands clutching at Lan Wangji’s shoulders, his back, anywhere he could reach.

“Lan Zhan,” he gasped when they broke apart. “Bed. Now. Please.”

“Impatient,” Lan Wangji observed, but he was already moving, pulling Wei Wuxian further onto the bed, settling between his legs.

“It’s been thirteen years,” Wei Wuxian pointed out breathlessly. “thirteen years of watching you through that window and not being able to touch. thirteen years of wanting you and not being able to have you. I think I’m entitled to be a little impatient.”

Something dark and possessive flashed in Lan Wangji’s eyes. “Mine now. Have you now. Will never let you go again.”

“Promise?” Wei Wuxian asked, and he hated how vulnerable his voice sounded.

“Promise,” Lan Wangji said firmly, and kissed him again.

The rest of their clothing was removed with less grace but no less urgency. Wei Wuxian couldn’t help but admire Lan Wangji’s body as it was revealed—pale skin, lean muscle, every line of him elegant and strong. Even after seeing him countless times through that window, even after all their nights together before his death, it never got old. Lan Zhan was gorgeous, and he was Wei Wuxian’s.

“Stop staring,” Lan Wangji said, but his ears were red again.

“Can’t help it,” Wei Wuxian replied shamelessly. “My husband is gorgeous. Would be a crime not to appreciate him. Should I write a poem? ‘Ode to Lan Zhan’s Perfect Everything’?”

“No poetry,” Lan Wangji said, but there was fondness in his voice.

“Spoilsport,” Wei Wuxian teased. Then his breath hitched as Lan Wangji’s hand wrapped around his arousal, warm and sure. “Fuck, Lan Zhan—”

“Language,” Lan Wangji said automatically, but his thumb was doing something absolutely sinful, and Wei Wuxian couldn’t bring himself to care about Lan sect rules right now.

“Fuck the rules,” Wei Wuxian gasped. “I’ll say fuck as many times as I want when you’re—oh, oh fuck, right there—”

Lan Wangji leaned over to their bedside table, retrieving the small jar of oil they kept there. Wei Wuxian watched with hooded eyes as Lan Wangji warmed the oil between his palms, the gesture somehow both practical and unbearably erotic. Everything Lan Zhan did was elegant, even this.

“Ready?” Lan Wangji asked, his slicked fingers hovering near Wei Wuxian’s entrance.

“Always ready for you,” Wei Wuxian said, spreading his legs wider in invitation. “Come on, Lan Zhan, don’t make me wait. Haven’t we waited long enough?”

Lan Wangji’s first finger pressed inside slowly, carefully, and Wei Wuxian’s breath hitched at the stretch. It had been years since they’d last done this, and his body needed time to adjust, but the slight burn was welcome. It was a reminder that this was real, that Lan Wangji was here with him, that he was alive and home and wanted.

“Okay?” Lan Wangji asked, always so careful, always so concerned.

“More than okay,” Wei Wuxian assured him. “Keep going. Don’t stop.”

Lan Wangji worked him open with patient thoroughness, adding a second finger and then a third, twisting and scissoring until Wei Wuxian was writhing on the bed, soft moans spilling from his lips. He’d forgotten how good this felt, how right. thirteen years of being dead, of being separated, and now they were together again and it was perfect.

When Lan Wangji’s fingers found that spot inside him, Wei Wuxian nearly came apart right there.

“Lan Zhan!” he gasped. “There, right there—fuck, don’t stop—”

Lan Wangji pressed against that spot again and again, watching Wei Wuxian’s reactions with intense focus. “Beautiful,” he murmured. “So responsive. So perfect.”

“Your fault,” Wei Wuxian panted. “You make me like this. Now come on, I’m ready, I need—need you inside me. Please, Lan Zhan.”

Lan Wangji withdrew his fingers, ignoring Wei Wuxian’s whine of protest, and slicked himself with more oil. Wei Wuxian watched hungrily, his own arousal aching between his legs, demanding attention.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji said softly, positioning himself. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” Wei Wuxian replied, reaching up to pull Lan Wangji down for a kiss. “So much. More than anything. Now show me.”

Lan Wangji pressed inside in one slow, steady push, and Wei Wuxian’s world narrowed to the feeling of being filled, being completed. He wrapped his legs around Lan Wangji’s waist, pulling him deeper, wanting to feel every inch. This was home. This was right. This was everything.

“Perfect,” Lan Wangji breathed against his ear. “Always so perfect for me. Made for me.”

“Move,” Wei Wuxian urged. “Lan Zhan, please move. Need to feel you.”

Lan Wangji did, pulling out almost completely before sliding back in, setting a rhythm that was slow and deep and absolutely maddening. Wei Wuxian clutched at his back, nails digging into smooth skin, trying to urge him faster.

“Patience,” Lan Wangji said, but his voice was strained.

“Don’t want patience,” Wei Wuxian shot back. “Want you to fuck me properly. Want you to make me forget everything except you. Come on, Lan Zhan, I know you can do better than this.”

That broke something in Lan Wangji’s control. His pace increased, hips snapping forward with more force, and Wei Wuxian cried out in pleasure, the sound echoing through the Jingshi. Distantly, he was grateful for the privacy wards they’d set up, because he wasn’t being quiet and he didn’t care.

“Yes,” Wei Wuxian encouraged, meeting each thrust with his own movements. “Like that, Lan Zhan, just like that. Harder. Want to feel you tomorrow. Want to remember this.”

Lan Wangji’s hand wrapped around Wei Wuxian’s neglected arousal, stroking in time with his thrusts, and Wei Wuxian saw stars. It was too much and not enough all at once, pleasure building at the base of his spine, coiling tighter and tighter.

“Close,” he gasped. “Lan Zhan, I’m close. So close.”

“Let go,” Lan Wangji commanded, his voice rough with his own approaching climax. “Want to see you. Want to feel you.”

Wei Wuxian came with a sharp cry, his body clenching around Lan Wangji as pleasure crashed over him in waves. It felt like dying and being reborn all at once, like every nerve ending was on fire in the best possible way. Through the haze of his orgasm, he felt Lan Wangji follow him over the edge, felt the warmth of his release inside him, felt Lan Zhan’s body shuddering above him.

They stayed like that for a moment, both breathing hard, bodies still joined. Wei Wuxian felt boneless, sated, utterly content. This was what he’d been missing. This connection, this intimacy, this feeling of being completely and utterly loved.

“Lan Zhan,” he murmured, running his fingers through his husband’s hair. “That was… fuck, that was amazing.”

“Mn,” Lan Wangji agreed, pressing a soft kiss to Wei Wuxian’s temple. “Always amazing with Wei Ying.”

Eventually, Lan Wangji carefully withdrew, and Wei Wuxian made a small noise of protest at the loss. He felt empty without Lan Zhan inside him, but then his husband was moving, getting up from the bed with only a slight wobble, and Wei Wuxian watched through half-lidded eyes as he went to their washing area.

He returned with a clean cloth and warm water, and Wei Wuxian felt his heart swell with affection. Even after everything, after the passion and intensity, Lan Wangji always took care of him like this. It was one of the things Wei Wuxian loved most about him—the way he showed love through actions, through care, through these quiet moments of tenderness.

“Don’t have to,” Wei Wuxian mumbled, already half-asleep. “Can do it myself.”

“Rest,” Lan Wangji said softly, gently cleaning him with careful, tender movements. “Let me take care of you.”

Wei Wuxian did, allowing himself to be cared for, allowing himself this vulnerability. Lan Wangji wiped away the evidence of their lovemaking his touch gentle on sensitive skin, before cleaning himself as well.

When he returned to the bed, Wei Wuxian immediately curled into him, seeking his warmth. Lan Wangji pulled the blankets over them both, one arm wrapping securely around Wei Wuxian’s waist, pulling him close until there was no space between them.

“Comfortable?” Lan Wangji asked.

“Mmm, very,” Wei Wuxian replied, pressing a lazy kiss to Lan Wangji’s chest. “Could stay like this forever. Actually, can we? Can we just stay in bed and ignore the world?”

“No.”

“Worth a try,” Wei Wuxian laughed softly. “You know, Lan Zhan, I missed this. Not just the sex—though that was incredible, don’t get me wrong—but this. The after. Just being held by you. Feeling safe.”

Lan Wangji’s arm tightened around him. “Missed it too. Missed everything about Wei Ying.”

They lay in comfortable silence for a while, Wei Wuxian tracing idle patterns on Lan Wangji’s skin while Lan Wangji’s fingers carded through his hair. It was peaceful, perfect.

Wei Wuxian wanted to stay awake, wanted to keep talking, but his body had other ideas. The emotional exhaustion of the day, combined with the physical exertion and the warmth of Lan Wangji’s embrace, was pulling him under like a tide.

“Love you, Lan Zhan,” he mumbled, already half-asleep.

“Love you too, Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji replied. “Sleep now. I will keep watch.”

“You need sleep too,” Wei Wuxian protested weakly. “Not gonna disappear.”

“I know. But let me hold you a while longer. Please.”

Wei Wuxian understood. He knew that Lan Wangji still sometimes woke in panic, reaching for him to make sure he was real, that he was still there. thirteen years of grief and loneliness didn’t just disappear overnight. Lan Zhan needed this, needed to hold him, needed the reassurance that Wei Wuxian wasn’t going to vanish like smoke.

“Okay,” Wei Wuxian agreed softly. “But you sleep eventually too. Deal?”

“Mn. Deal.”

Wei Wuxian let his eyes close, let himself drift toward sleep. But he was aware of Lan Wangji staying awake, staying alert, keeping watch. He knew his husband wouldn’t sleep yet, would wait until he was deeply under before allowing himself to rest. It was equal parts heartbreaking and endearing.

“Lan Zhan,” he mumbled, already half-asleep. “Stop worrying. I’m here. I’m real. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know,” Lan Wangji said softly. “Sleep, Wei Ying.”

Wei Wuxian wanted to argue, wanted to insist that Lan Zhan sleep too, but consciousness was slipping away like water through his fingers. He managed one more mumbled “love you” before sleep finally claimed him entirely.

Above him, Lan Wangji continued his vigil, memorizing every detail—the weight of Wei Wuxian in his arms, the warmth of his breath against his skin, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Real. Alive. Here.

Lan Wangji’s hand moved absently through Wei Wuxian’s hair, the gesture soothing for both of them. He could feel the moment Wei Wuxian fully surrendered to sleep, his body going completely lax, his breathing evening out into the deep rhythm of true rest.

Only then did Lan Wangji allow himself to relax slightly, though his arms never loosened their hold. He would sleep eventually, but not yet. Not until he was certain Wei Wuxian was deep enough in sleep that he wouldn’t notice Lan Wangji’s absence if he had to get up.

The Jingshi was quiet around them, peaceful. Outside, he could hear the gentle sounds of night—wind through the trees, the distant call of a night bird, the soft rustle of leaves. Cloud Recesses at night had always been a place of peace, but it had felt empty for thirteen years. Now, with Wei Wuxian back, it felt like home again.

Wei Wuxian stirred slightly in his sleep, unconsciously pressing closer to Lan Wangji’s warmth, and Lan Wangji’s response was automatic—his arms tightening protectively, his lips pressing a feather-light kiss to the top of Wei Wuxian’s head.

“Mine,” he whispered into the darkness, so quiet it was almost inaudible. “My Wei Ying. My husband. My love.”

He closed his eyes, allowing himself to simply feel. The warmth of Wei Wuxian’s body against his, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the solid reality of him. Real. Alive. Here.

thirteen years ago, Lan Wangji had thought he would never feel this again. Had thought he would spend the rest of his life alone, raising their son, carrying the memory of Wei Wuxian like a wound that would never heal. He had been prepared for that, had accepted it, had found a way to live with the grief.

But now Wei Wuxian was back, and Lan Wangji felt like he could breathe again. Like the world had color again. Like there was a reason to look forward to tomorrow. And Wangji never looked forward to something, that was until he met a boy with a smile that rivals the sun and heart bigger than ocean.

Chapter Text

The morning light filtered through the paper windows of the guest quarters, painting everything in soft shades of gold. Xiao Xingchen was already awake, as he usually was, watching the way the light played across his husband’s sleeping face. Xue Yang looked peaceful like this, all the sharp edges and defensive walls softened by sleep.

It was moments like these that reminded Xingchen why he’d fallen in love with this man in the first place. Before the betrayal, before Song Lan, before everything went wrong—there had been this. Quiet mornings, stolen moments, the man beneath the monster everyone saw.

Xue Yang’s eyes fluttered open, dark and unfocused for a moment before they found Xingchen’s face. A slow smile spread across his lips, rare and genuine.

“Watching me sleep again?” he murmured, voice rough from sleep. “That’s creepy, you know.”

“You looked peaceful,” Xingchen replied softly, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from Xue Yang’s forehead. “I like seeing you peaceful.”

Xue Yang’s expression shifted, something vulnerable flickering in his eyes before he masked it with his usual sarcasm. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it. The moment we leave this bed I’m back to being an asshole.”

“I know,” Xingchen said, and there was fondness in his voice despite everything. “You’ve always been an asshole.”

“And yet you married me. What does that say about you?”

“That I’m either very brave or very stupid.”

Xue Yang laughed, the sound startling in its genuineness. “Definitely stupid. Who the fuck marries a known criminal?”

“Someone who sees beyond the crimes,” Xingchen said, his thumb tracing the line of Xue Yang’s jaw. “Someone who remembers the man who saved a little girl from freezing to death. Someone who loved you before everything went wrong.”

Xue Yang’s expression crumbled slightly, and he turned his face into Xingchen’s palm. “Don’t. Don’t do that. Don’t make me feel things this early in the morning.”

“Why not?”

“Because then I’ll have to admit that I’m a piece of shit who doesn’t deserve you, and we’ll have this whole emotional conversation, and I haven’t even had breakfast yet.”

Xingchen smiled despite himself. “You are a piece of shit.”

“Wow, thanks.”

“But you’re my piece of shit,” Xingchen continued, leaning down to press a soft kiss to Xue Yang’s forehead. “And I’m choosing to forgive you. I’m choosing to try. Because A-Qing needs both of us, and because I never stopped loving you, even when I hated you.”

Xue Yang’s hands came up to grip Xingchen’s robes, holding him close. “I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know how to fix what I did. Song Lan—”

“Song Lan is gone,” Xingchen said quietly, his voice tightening with old pain. “And nothing we do will bring him back. But we’re still here. A-Qing is still here. And we have a chance to do better. To be better.”

“I killed him,” Xue Yang said, and there was something complicated in his voice—not love, but regret. “I killed your best friend. Your everything. How can you even look at me?”

“Because I know it wasn’t entirely you,” Xingchen said, though his voice wavered. “It was the demonic cultivation. It was Jin Guangyao’s manipulation. It was everything spiraling out of control. And I know—I know you didn’t love him the way I did. But he was still a person, and you still took him from me.”

“I did,” Xue Yang admitted, not looking away. “I won’t pretend I didn’t. I won’t make excuses.”

“I know,” Xingchen said. “And that’s why I’m trying. Because you’re not making excuses. Because you’re facing what you did. Because A-Qing needs to see that people can change, that forgiveness is possible. Because I want my husband back.”

“Xingchen…”

Before Xue Yang could say anything else, before the moment could become too heavy or escalate into something more romantic, there was a loud banging on their door.

“XUE YANG! XINGCHEN-GEGE! WAKE UP! BREAKFAST IS READY AND I’M STARVING!”

Mo Xuanyu’s voice was impossibly loud, deliberately obnoxious, and Xue Yang’s entire demeanor changed in an instant. The vulnerability vanished, replaced by irritation and murderous intent.

“I’m going to fucking kill him,” Xue Yang growled, sitting up abruptly. “I’m going to skin him alive and use his intestines as fucking jump rope.”

Xingchen couldn’t help but laugh, the serious moment broken. “A-Yang, you can’t kill your friend.”

“Watch me.”

The banging continued, accompanied by Mo Xuanyu’s increasingly annoying voice. “COME ON! I KNOW YOU’RE AWAKE! I CAN HEAR YOU TALKING! STOP HAVING YOUR DISGUSTING COUPLE MOMENTS AND GET UP!”

“DISGUSTING?” Xue Yang yelled back, throwing off the blankets and storming toward the door. “I’LL SHOW YOU DISGUSTING YOU LITTLE SHIT!”

He yanked the door open to reveal Mo Xuanyu standing there with the most innocent smile on his face, clearly having achieved exactly what he wanted.

“Good morning!” Mo Xuanyu chirped. “Did you sleep well? Have sweet dreams? Or were you too busy—”

Xue Yang lunged at him, and Mo Xuanyu shrieked with laughter, taking off down the hallway. Xue Yang chased after him, cursing creatively in ways that would make even the most hardened cultivators blush.

Xingchen sighed, getting out of bed at a much more reasonable pace. This was his life now. A criminal husband and a chaos gremlin friend. Somehow, it felt right.

By the time he made it to the dining area, Xue Yang had Mo Xuanyu in a headlock, and Mo Xuanyu was still laughing despite being unable to breathe properly.

“Say you’re sorry,” Xue Yang demanded.

“Never!” Mo Xuanyu gasped out. “You—were—too—slow—”

“I’m going to break your fucking neck.”

“A-Yang,” Xingchen said calmly, pouring himself tea. “Please don’t murder your friend before breakfast. It’s rude.”

“It’s efficient,” Xue Yang argued, but he loosened his grip enough for Mo Xuanyu to escape, gasping dramatically.

“You’re a monster,” Mo Xuanyu accused, rubbing his throat but still grinning. “An absolute monster.”

“And you’re an annoying little shit.”

“Guilty,” Mo Xuanyu agreed cheerfully, plopping down at the table. “But at least I’m a cute annoying little shit.”

“You’re really not.”

“Xingchen-gege, he’s being mean to me!”

Xingchen smiled into his tea. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have woken him up by banging on the door and yelling.”

“But where’s the fun in that?”

Before Xue Yang could attempt murder again, the door to the dining area opened, and Lan Xichen walked in. He looked tired, like he hadn’t slept well, but his smile was as gentle as ever.

“Good morning,” he greeted. “I hope you all slept—”

He stopped mid-sentence, taking in the scene: Xue Yang looking murderous with disheveled hair and sleep clothes, Mo Xuanyu grinning like a maniac with a red mark around his neck, and Xingchen calmly drinking tea like this was perfectly normal.

“—well,” he finished weakly.

Mo Xuanyu’s entire demeanor changed in an instant. He sat up straighter, his grin transforming from chaos gremlin to something far more flirtatious. “Sect Leader Lan! Good morning! You look absolutely radiant today. Did you sleep well? I hope our noise didn’t disturb you.”

Xue Yang made a gagging sound. “Oh my god, stop.”

“Stop what?” Mo Xuanyu asked innocently, batting his eyelashes at Xichen. “I’m simply being polite to our gracious host.”

“You’re being a whore.”

“And?” Mo Xuanyu turned back to Xichen, his smile widening. “Please, Sect Leader Lan, won’t you join us for breakfast? I would be honored to share a meal with someone as distinguished and handsome as yourself.”

Xichen chuckled softly, a polite but amused sound. “Thank you for the kind words, Young Master Mo. You’re very sweet.” There was something almost paternal in his tone, the way one might respond to an enthusiastic child. “I was planning to join you for breakfast, yes.”

“Please, call me Xuanyu,” Mo Xuanyu tried again, undeterred. “And perhaps after breakfast, you could show me around Cloud Recesses? I’d love a personal tour from someone so knowledgeable.”

Xichen’s smile remained gentle but distant. “That’s very kind of you to say. Perhaps one of the disciples could show you around—I’m afraid I have many duties to attend to today.”

Mo Xuanyu pouted but didn’t push further, though Xue Yang was smirking into his tea like he knew something Mo Xuanyu didn’t.

Xingchen patted his friend’s shoulder sympathetically while trying very hard not to laugh. This was going to be a long breakfast.

Xichen took a seat, and before anyone could say anything else, the door opened again, and this time Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji entered.

And between them, supported by Wei Wuxian’s arm, was Wen Ning.

The room fell completely silent.

Xue Yang’s head snapped up, his eyes widening. “What the fuck.”

Mo Xuanyu’s flirtatious expression vanished, replaced by shock. “Is that—”

“Ghost General?” Xingchen finished, standing up slowly. “But how—”

Lan Xichen was on his feet as well, his expression shifting to one of complete shock. “Wen Qionglin. But-how? Jin Guangyao said he burned your body. He told us all that you were destroyed, that there was nothing left.”

“Another lie,” Wei Wuxian said grimly, guiding Wen Ning to a seat. “Turns out Jin Guangyao has been lying about a lot of things. A-Ning has been alive—well, conscious—this whole time. Controlled with nails in his head for thirteen years.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

“Thirteen years,” Xichen repeated, his voice hollow. He sank back into his chair, looking ill. “He kept him for thirteen years. And told us all he was destroyed.”

“What the fuck,” Xue Yang said again, but this time his voice was quieter, more serious. His eyes were fixed on Wen Ning with an expression that was hard to read.

Wen Ning looked uncomfortable under everyone’s staring, wringing his hands together nervously. “I’m sorry for intruding. Wei-gongzi insisted I stay, but I can leave if—”

“No,” Xingchen said firmly, sitting back down. “No, you’re welcome here. Anyone who suffered at Jin Guangyao’s hands is a friend of ours.”

Xichen’s face was pale, his hands clenched into fists on the table. “How did you find him? How did he escape?”

Wei Wuxian settled into a chair, pulling Lan Wangji down next to him. “Found- summoned- him in the forest last night. Had removed the nails, but someone else freed him. We don’t know who yet, but A-Ning was wandering around, confused and scared. Brought him back here.”

“Someone freed him?” Xichen’s brow furrowed. “Who would do that? And why?”

“That’s what we need to figure out,” Wei Wuxian said. “But first, we need to make sure A-Ning is safe. And we need to figure out our next move against Jin Guangyao.”

Wen Ning took over then, his voice quiet but steady as he described what he remembered—the laboratory, the experiments, the thirteen years of being controlled and used. He didn’t go into graphic detail, but he said enough.

By the time he finished, Xichen looked even more ill. “I should have known. I should have questioned it. Why would Jin Guangyao need to burn a fierce corpse in private? why not in front of us? But I didn’t question it. I trusted him.”

“We all did,” Xingchen said quietly. “He’s very good at deception.”

“That’s not an excuse,” Xichen said firmly. “I should have been better. Should have questioned more.”

Mo Xuanyu, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, finally spoke up. “He’s good at making people trust him. That’s his whole thing. He acts like he’s this perfect, loyal servant, and everyone just believes him.”

Xichen looked at Mo Xuanyu, then back at Wen Ning. “I’m sorry. For not questioning it sooner. For not investigating. For failing you.”

“Sect Leader Lan,” Wen Ning said softly. “You didn’t know. No one did. Please don’t blame yourself.”

“Someone has to,” Xichen said.

“No,” Wei Wuxian cut in. “Jin Guangyao has to. He’s the one who did this. He’s the one who lied. He’s the one who needs to pay.”

Lan Wangji’s hand found Wei Wuxian’s under the table, squeezing gently. A reminder, a support.

As if summoned by the heavy atmosphere, Lan disciples began bringing in food. The meal started quietly, everyone lost in their own thoughts. Mo Xuanyu made a few halfhearted attempts to catch Xichen’s attention, but the sect leader seemed distracted, his mind clearly elsewhere.

“Sect Leader Lan,” Mo Xuanyu tried again, his voice almost pleading now. “Are you alright? You seem troubled.”

Xichen glanced at him and smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m fine, Young Master Mo. Just processing. But thank you for your concern—you’re very thoughtful for one so young.”

Mo Xuanyu deflated slightly at being called young, and Xue Yang snorted into his tea.

“Give it up, kid,” Xue Yang said. “He’s not interested.”

“I’m not a kid,” Mo Xuanyu protested. “I’m a grown man!”

“Sure you are,” Xue Yang said patronizingly, which only made Mo Xuanyu more frustrated.

Wei Wuxian watched the exchange with amusement, grateful for the levity even in such a dark situation. Then he caught Xichen’s eye and saw the troubled expression there, the guilt still eating at him.

They finished breakfast in a subdued atmosphere, and when they were done, Wei Wuxian stood. “Alright, we should get going. We need to get to Burial Mounds and figure out our next move.”

“Burial Mounds?” Xichen looked up. “You’re going back there?”

“It’s the safest place for us right now,” Wei Wuxian explained. “And we need somewhere to plan. Plus, I have a feeling Jin Guangyao is planning something.”

The group began gathering their things, preparing to leave. Just as they were about to head out, Xichen approached Wei Wuxian. “Young Master Wei, may I speak with you privately? Just for a moment.”

Wei Wuxian glanced at Lan Wangji, who nodded slightly. “Sure, Xichen-ge. What’s up?”

Xichen gestured toward a private room off to the side, and Wei Wuxian followed him. Once they were alone, Xichen closed the door and turned to face him.

And then, to Wei Wuxian’s complete shock, Lan Xichen dropped to his knees and bowed until his forehead touched the floor.

“What the—Xichen-ge, what are you doing?!” Wei Wuxian rushed forward, trying to pull him up. “Get up, come on, this is ridiculous—”

“Please,” Xichen said, his voice thick with emotion. “Please let me do this. I need to do this.”

Wei Wuxian stopped pulling, though his hands remained on Xichen’s shoulders. “Do what?”

“Apologize,” Xichen said. “And beg for your forgiveness.”

Wei Wuxian felt like the ground had disappeared beneath his feet. “Forgiveness? Xichen-ge, what are you talking about? We talked about this yesterday—about Jin Guangyao, about everything. You believed us. You’re helping us.”

Xichen raised his head slightly, though he remained on his knees. His eyes were bright with unshed tears. “Not just about believing you. About the siege. About participating in the attack on Burial Mounds. About not trusting Wangji when he tried to defend you. About everything I failed to do.”

“Xichen-ge—”

“I knew,” Xichen continued, his voice breaking. “I knew how Wangji felt about you. I knew he loved you. I knew A-Yuan was your son—both of yours, raised in these very halls. I watched him grow up calling me uncle. I saw how much Wangji grieved when you died. And yet I still participated in the siege. I still let them hunt you like an animal.”

Wei Wuxian’s throat felt tight. “You were following orders. Doing what you thought was right.”

“That’s no excuse,” Xichen said firmly. “The Lan sect is built on rules, on principles. ‘Be righteous.’ ‘Stand with justice.’ And yet when it mattered most, I broke those rules. I trusted rumors over my own brother. I let politics and fear guide my actions instead of truth and righteousness.”

He bowed again, pressing his forehead to the floor. “I am a hypocrite. I preach righteousness but failed to practice it when it counted. And because of my failure, you died. The Wen remnants died. Innocent people who had done nothing wrong were slaughtered. A-Yuan lost his father for thirteen years.”

“Xichen-ge, please get up,” Wei Wuxian pleaded. “You don’t need to do this.”

“I do,” Xichen insisted. “You don’t know—you don’t know what happened after. Wangji… he didn’t forgive me. For months after your death, he wouldn’t speak to me. Wouldn’t look at me. He was grieving, and angry, and I had contributed to that pain. I had helped kill his husband, the father of his child.”

Wei Wuxian felt his heart clench. He’d known Lan Zhan had grieved, had known it had been hard, but hearing this from Xichen made it real in a way it hadn’t been before.

“How could he forgive me?” Xichen’s voice was barely a whisper. “I participated in killing the man he loved. And when Wangji brought Yuan here, introduced us to him, I knew I made a grave mistake. Your son was growing up without you, and I had helped make that happen.”

“You didn’t know there were innocent people there,” Wei Wuxian said quietly. “You didn’t know about the Wens we were protecting, about how they’d done nothing wrong.”

“I should have,” Xichen said fiercely. “I should have questioned. Should have investigated. Should have trusted my brother instead of blindly following the other sects.” He looked up, meeting Wei Wuxian’s eyes. “If I had known—truly known—that there were innocent people at Burial Mounds, that you had a child there, that the Wens you were protecting were harmless… I would never have participated. I would have stood with Wangji. I would have defended you.”

“But you didn’t know,” Wei Wuxian said. “And I never told anyone. How could you defend something you didn’t understand?”

“I should have trusted my brother,” Xichen repeated. “Wangji has never lied to me. Never led me astray. And yet when it mattered most, I chose politics over family. I chose the cultivation world’s opinion over my own brother’s judgment. That is my failure. That is my sin.”

The room was silent except for the sound of their breathing. Wei Wuxian stood there, looking down at this man who had always been kind to him, who had always treated him with respect even when he was breaking rules and causing chaos as a teenager.

“Xichen-ge,” he said finally, his voice soft. “Look at me.”

Xichen raised his head, and Wei Wuxian could see the genuine remorse in his eyes, the guilt that had been eating at him for thirteen years.

“I never held anything against you,” Wei Wuxian said. “Not then, and not now. You did what you thought was right. You followed your sect, your duty. I don’t blame you for that.”

“You should,” Xichen said. “You should hate me.”

“Yeah, well, I’m terrible at holding grudges,” Wei Wuxian said with a weak smile. “Ask Lan Zhan. He’ll tell you I’m way too forgiving for my own good.”

He knelt down in front of Xichen, meeting him at eye level. “What happened at Burial Mounds… it was inevitable. If it wasn’t that siege, it would have been another. If it wasn’t that day, it would have been the next. The cultivation world wanted me dead, and they weren’t going to stop until they got what they wanted.”

“That doesn’t excuse my participation.”

“Maybe not,” Wei Wuxian agreed. “But it means I don’t blame you specifically. You were one person in a crowd of hundreds. And you know what? At least you have the guts to apologize. At least you’re willing to admit you were wrong. That’s more than most people would do.”

Xichen’s eyes were wet with tears now. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness.”

“Good thing forgiveness isn’t about deserving it,” Wei Wuxian said. He reached out and put his hand on Xichen’s shoulder. “Xichen-ge, I forgive you. Okay? I forgive you. And please, call me A-Xian. We’re family, aren’t we? You’re my son’s uncle, and Lan Zhan’s brother. You’ve been there for Lan Zhan and A-Yuan all these years. That makes us family.”

Xichen let out a choked sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “A-Xian… thank you. Thank you for your mercy.”

“It’s not mercy,” Wei Wuxian said. “It’s just… I’m tired of holding onto pain, you know? I’m tired of being angry at the world. I spent thirteen years dead. Thirteen years watching Lan Zhan raise our son alone, watching A-Yuan grow up without me. That’s enough suffering for everyone. Now I just want to move forward.”

He helped Xichen to his feet, refusing to let him bow again. “I want to be with Lan Zhan and A-Yuan. I want to fix things with A-Ning. I want to stop Jin Guangyao from hurting anyone else. That’s what matters now. Not dwelling on the past, but fixing the future.”

Xichen nodded, wiping at his eyes. “You’re remarkable, A-Xian. My brother chose well.”

“Damn right he did,” Wei Wuxian agreed with a more genuine grin. “Though between you and me, I think I got the better end of that deal. Your brother is pretty fucking amazing.”

Xichen smiled, a real smile this time. “He is. And he’s lucky to have you back.”

“We’re lucky to have each other,” Wei Wuxian corrected. Then, more seriously, “And Xichen-ge? Thank you. For taking care of them while I was gone. For being there for A-Yuan and Lan Zhan. For being the family they needed. That means everything to me.”

“It was my honor,” Xichen said. “A-Yuan is a wonderful young man. You would be proud of him.”

“I am proud of him,” Wei Wuxian said, his voice thick. “I can’t wait to see him again. Gods, Xichen-ge, I miss my son so much it hurts, and I just saw him three days ago.”

“You’ll see him soon,” Xichen assured him. “And when you do, he’ll be equally happy. He’s always asked about you. Always wanted to know what you were like.”

“Lan Zhan said he never hid anything from him.”

“He didn’t,” Xichen confirmed. “Wangji made sure A-Yuan knew his father. Knew what you sacrificed. Knew that you loved him.”

Wei Wuxian felt tears prickling his eyes. “Good. That’s good.”

They stood there for a moment, and something settled between them. Not quite the easy friendship from before—there was too much history, too much pain—but understanding. Forgiveness. A chance to move forward as family.

“We should go,” Wei Wuxian said eventually. “The others are probably wondering what’s taking so long.”

“Yes,” Xichen agreed. Then, more hesitantly, “A-Xian… if you or Wangji need anything. Anything at all. Please don’t hesitate to ask. The Lan sect is at your disposal.”

“Even if we ask you to help us take down Jin Guangyao?”

“Especially then,” Xichen said firmly. “He needs to be stopped. No matter what it costs me personally.”

Wei Wuxian studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Thank you, Xichen-ge. That means a lot.”

They left the room together, returning to where the others were waiting. Lan Wangji immediately moved to Wei Wuxian’s side, his eyes searching his face for any sign of distress.

“Everything okay?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah,” Wei Wuxian said, leaning into him. “Everything’s fine. I’ll tell you later.”

Lan Wangji nodded, accepting this, and wrapped an arm around Wei Wuxian’s waist.

“Alright,” Wei Wuxian said to the group. “Let’s get moving. We’ve got a long trip ahead of us, and I want to get to Burial Mounds before dark.”

They gathered their things and headed toward the entrance of Cloud Recesses. Xichen walked with them, and Wei Wuxian noticed the way Mo Xuanyu perked up when he realized the sect leader was accompanying them.

“Sect Leader Lan,” Mo Xuanyu said, his flirtatious smile returning full force. “Are you walking us out? How gentlemanly. You know, you really are the most considerate man I’ve ever met.”

Xichen chuckled softly, the sound warm but clearly amused rather than flattered. “You’re very kind, Young Master Mo. I hope your journey is safe.”

“You could always come with us,” Mo Xuanyu suggested hopefully. “I’m sure we’d all benefit from your wisdom and experience. And your company.”

“I’m afraid my duties keep me here,” Xichen said, still with that gentle, almost paternal tone. “But I appreciate the invitation. You’re very sweet.”

Mo Xuanyu deflated slightly at being called sweet in that way, and Xue Yang snorted. “Told you.”

“Shut up,” Mo Xuanyu muttered.

“He’s got someone else on his mind, kid. Give it up.”

“It’s worth trying!”

Xingchen hid a smile behind his hand, and even Lan Wangji’s lips twitched slightly. Wei Wuxian grinned, grateful for the levity.

They reached the gates of Cloud Recesses, and Xichen bowed to them. “Safe travels. And please, keep me informed. If you need reinforcements or support, send word immediately.”

“We will,” Wei Wuxian promised. “And Xichen-ge? Thank you. For everything.”

Xichen smiled. “Thank you, A-Xian. For your forgiveness, and for giving me a chance to make things right.”

With final goodbyes, the group of six—Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji, Xue Yang, Xiao Xingchen, Mo Xuanyu, and Wen Ning—set off down the mountain path toward Burial Mounds.

As they walked, Wei Wuxian looked around at his strange little found family. A resurrected demonic cultivator, a righteous cultivation prodigy, a reformed criminal, a blind swordsman, a chaotic former Jin disciple, and a conscious fierce corpse.

“We’re so fucking weird,” he said aloud.

“Just noticing that now?” Xue Yang replied.

“No, I’ve always known. I’m just saying it out loud.”

“Well stop,” Mo Xuanyu said. “You’re making it weird.”

“It already is weird!”

“He’s not wrong,” Wen Ning offered quietly.

Lan Wangji sighed, the sound long-suffering but fond. “This will be a long journey.”

“Yeah,” Wei Wuxian agreed, grinning up at him. “But at least we’re together. All of us weird, broken, resurrected people. Together.”

“Found family,” Xingchen said softly.

“The best kind,” Wei Wuxian agreed.

Chapter Text

The path to Burial Mounds stretched endlessly before them, winding through forests that Wei Wuxian knew like the lines of his own palm. Every gnarled tree root, every moss-covered stone, every shift in the wind brought memories rushing back—some sweet, most bitter. This had been his sanctuary once, when the world had turned its back and bared its teeth.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji’s voice cut through his thoughts, soft as silk and just as grounding. His hand found Wei Wuxian’s, their fingers interlacing like they’d been made to fit together. “You’re thinking too loud.”

Wei Wuxian huffed a laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Can’t help it, Lan Zhan. Going home after thirteen years of being dead does things to a person. Makes you wonder what’s even left, you know? If anything survived, or if it all just… rotted away.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Lan Wangji said, his thumb brushing over Wei Wuxian’s knuckles in a gesture so tender it made his chest ache, “I’m not going away.”

Behind them, Mo Xuanyu’s voice rose in pitch, dramatic and suffering. “How much further? Seriously, my feet are going to fall off. They’re going to literally detach from my legs and I’ll have to hop the rest of the way like some deranged bunny—”

“Then hop,” Xue Yang suggested without turning around, his tone flat and wholly unsympathetic. “Would make you quieter at least.”

“You’re so mean to me,” Mo Xuanyu whined. “Xingchen-gege, he’s being mean again!”

Xingchen, walking beside his husband with the kind of long-suffering patience that came from years of practice, simply smiled. “A-Yang, perhaps a bit more compassion?”

“No.”

“I tried,” Xingchen said to Mo Xuanyu apologetically.

“I dont understand why we cant fly on our swords”

Xue Yang rolled his eyes “because it will cause attention and we don’t want that. Try to keep up”

 Mo Xuanyu just scoffed.

Wen Ning drifted along beside them like a ghost given form, still adjusting to consciousness, to agency, to the overwhelming reality of being aware. Every few minutes he’d look around as if expecting to wake up, as if this freedom was just another cruel dream his imprisoned mind had conjured.

They’d been walking for hours when civilization appeared on the horizon—a house, modest but clearly loved, with smoke curling from the chimney and the sound of childish laughter dancing on the wind.

“Should we stop?” Xingchen suggested, ever the diplomat. “Perhaps they could spare some water.”

“Or we could just keep walking,” Xue Yang countered. “You know, not bother random people?”

“It’s called social interaction, A-Yang.”

“Disgusting. Why would anyone willingly—”

The door opened.

A woman stepped out, and the words died in Wei Wuxian’s throat. Because he knew that face, even aged by thirteen years, even weathered by time and life. He knew those eyes that had watched him throw himself in front of danger, that had seen him at his worst and somehow still held respect.

“Wei Wuxian?”

The name fell from her lips like a prayer and a curse all at once, disbelief coloring every syllable.

Wei Wuxian’s face split into a grin, genuine and bright as summer sun. “Luo Qingyang? MianMian? Holy shit, is that really you?”

For a heartbeat, MianMian simply stood there, frozen in the doorway like she’d seen a ghost. Which, Wei Wuxian supposed with dark humor, she technically had. Then her face crumpled into joy and she was rushing forward, propriety forgotten.

“It is you!” She stopped just short of touching him, hands hovering like she was afraid he’d dissolve into smoke. “But everyone—everyone said you were dead! Thirteen years dead and gone!”

“I got better,” Wei Wuxian said, and caught her when she finally committed to the hug. She smelled like cooking spices and clean laundry and home in a way that made his throat tight. “It’s a really long, really weird story. What are you doing all the way out here?”

MianMian pulled back, hands gripping his shoulders like she needed the physical proof. “I live here. With my husband and daughter.” Her eyes were bright, scanning his face with wonder. “Gods, Wei Wuxian, you look exactly the same. Like time just… stopped for you.”

“Perks of being dead, I guess. You don’t age when you’re rotting in hell.” Wei Wuxian’s grin turned slightly manic. “Wait, you got married? And you have a daughter? MianMian, that’s—that’s amazing!”

“Three years old,” MianMian said, and her voice went soft with the kind of love reserved for children. “Her name is Ying.”

The world tilted slightly on its axis.

“Ying,” Wei Wuxian repeated, his voice coming out strangled. “You named her—”

“After you.” MianMian’s smile was watery around the edges. “You saved my life in that cave during the war. Threw yourself in front of me without hesitation, took a hit that should have been for me. I never forgot that. When my daughter was born, I wanted—I needed to honor that. To remember what real courage looked like.”

“MianMian, I—” Wei Wuxian’s eyes burned in a way that had nothing to do with resentful energy. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” she said firmly, then seemed to remember they had an audience. Her eyes swept over the group—pausing on Lan Wangji with a knowing smile, lingering on Xingchen with recognition, going wide at Wen Ning’s unmistakably corpse-like presence, curious at Mo Xuanyu’s unfamiliar face.

And then landing on Xue Yang.

Every muscle in her body went taut as a drawn bowstring, her hand moving instinctively toward a sword that wasn’t there. When she spoke, her voice could have cut glass.

“Xue Yang.”

“In the flesh,” Xue Yang replied, utterly unbothered by the hostility rolling off her in waves. “Problem?”

“You’re a mass murderer.”

“Was,” Mo Xuanyu interjected cheerfully, apparently having appointed himself Xue Yang’s defense attorney. “Past tense. Very important distinction.”

“He’s with us,” Wei Wuxian said quickly, stepping between them before MianMian could decide whether violence was the answer. “I know what you’re thinking, and trust me, I had the same reaction. But he’s—he’s different now. Trying to be, anyway. And he’s married to Xingchen-xiong, so—”

“Married?” MianMian’s head whipped toward Xingchen so fast Wei Wuxian was briefly concerned for her neck. “To him? Xiao Xingchen, the renowned righteous cultivator, married to—”

“It’s complicated,” Xingchen said with the serenity of someone who’d had this conversation before and would undoubtedly have it again. “But yes. We’re married. We have a daughter.”

MianMian looked like someone had just explained that water was actually dry and the sky was secretly purple. “I need a drink.”

“I’ll get you water—”

“Something stronger than water.”

“We have alcohol,” MianMian said faintly, already turning back toward the house like her legs were moving on autopilot. “Come in. All of you. I clearly need to sit down for this.”

The inside of the house radiated warmth—the lived-in kind that came from love rather than luxury. Toys scattered across the floor like colorful landmines, the lingering scent of stewed vegetables, a child’s drawing pinned to the wall with care. It was so painfully, perfectly domestic that Wei Wuxian felt something in his chest simultaneously heal and break.

“Let me get my husband,” MianMian said, her voice still carrying that edge of surrealism. “He’s in the back with Ying. Fair warning, he might pass out when he sees you.”

She disappeared deeper into the house, calling out in a voice that tried and failed to sound casual. “Dear! We have visitors! Several visitors who are definitely all alive and not supernatural entities!”

Muffled response, confusion evident even through the walls.

Then footsteps.

A man emerged carrying a small girl on his hip, tall and lean with gentle eyes that crinkled at the corners. He looked kind in the way that came from choosing it repeatedly, from deciding that despite everything, gentleness was worth the cost.

His gaze swept over them with polite curiosity, welcoming and warm—

Until it hit Xue Yang.

The color drained from his face so quickly Wei Wuxian worried he might actually faint. The little girl, sensing something wrong with the sudden tension in her father’s body, looked up at him with concern.

“Baba?”

But the man couldn’t respond. He was staring at Xue Yang like the world had just rewritten itself, like every truth he’d known had shifted three inches to the left.

“a-Yang?” His voice cracked around the name, disbelief and hope and grief tangled together into something unrecognizable.

Xue Yang had gone completely, utterly still. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper, stripped of every defense, every wall he’d spent years building.

“Ge?”

The single syllable—that title, that recognition—hung in the air like a held breath.

Time seemed to stop. Wei Wuxian could feel the shock rippling through their group, could sense Xingchen going rigid beside his husband, could see Mo Xuanyu’s eyes going wide with fascinated horror.

“You’re alive.” The man’s voice shook like an earthquake. “You’re alive. They told me—after the massacre, after everything—they said you were dead or as good as dead, that the cultivation world had—”

“I thought you were dead,” Xue Yang interrupted, and there was something raw in his voice, something broken that Wei Wuxian had never heard before. “They told me the Chang clan killed you. That’s why I—”

He stopped. Swallowed hard. Didn’t finish.

He didn’t need to.

Understanding dawned on MianMian’s face like sunrise, horror and realization mixing into an expression of pure shock. “The Chang clan massacre,” she breathed. “That was—because of him?” She pointed at her husband, her hand trembling slightly.

“Wait.” Xingchen’s voice was carefully, dangerously controlled. “A-Yang. Is this man why you killed the Chang clan?”

Xue Yang didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. His eyes were still locked on his brother like if he looked away for even a second, the man would disappear.

“I need to put Ying down,” the man—Yichen, apparently—said quietly, his voice tight with barely restrained emotion. He disappeared into the back room, and they could hear him talking softly to his daughter, settling her with toys and promises that everything was fine.

The silence he left behind was suffocating.

“You have a brother.” Xingchen’s voice was shaking now, the careful control fracturing at the edges. “You have a brother, and you never told me. You massacred an entire clan because you thought they killed your brother, and in all our years together, you never once mentioned him.”

“Xingchen—”

“We have a daughter together, A-Yang.” Xingchen’s voice cracked. “We’re married. I’ve shared everything with you—my past, my pain, my fears—and you never thought to tell me you had a brother? That the Chang clan massacre, the thing that made you infamous, that ruined countless lives, was because of him?”

“He was dead,” Xue Yang said flatly, but Wei Wuxian could hear the defense mechanism slamming into place, could see the walls rebuilding themselves brick by brick. “Or so I thought. What was the point in bringing up a dead man? In telling you about someone who didn’t matter anymore?”

“Didn’t matter?” Xingchen’s voice rose. “A-Yang, you killed fifty people for him! How can you say he didn’t matter?”

“Because I thought he was gone!” Xue Yang’s voice cracked on the words, raw and bleeding. “Because talking about him meant remembering that I failed him, that I wasn’t there, that I couldn’t protect him! Because every time I thought about telling you, I choked on it!”

Yichen returned then, without his daughter, and his presence cut through the argument like a knife. He moved slowly, carefully, like approaching a wild animal that might bolt.

He stopped a few feet from Xue Yang, his eyes drinking in every detail like a man dying of thirst.

“You got taller, didi.”

The nickname—little brother—made Xue Yang’s breath hitch audibly.

“You got older, ge.”

And then Yichen was crossing the distance and pulling Xue Yang into his arms, and Xue Yang went rigid for a heartbeat, two, three—before his arms came up and clutched at his brother’s back like a drowning man finding solid ground.

“I thought you were dead,” Xue Yang said against his brother’s shoulder, his voice muffled and thick. “They told me the Chang clan killed you. Said you tried to steal from them and they executed you for it. Said they made it public, made it hurt.”

“I was never near the Chang clan,” Yichen said, and Wei Wuxian could see his shoulders shaking. “I left Kuizhou, went traveling to find work. I didn’t know—Yang, I didn’t know you thought I was dead. I tried to find you after I got out but everyone said you’d become this infamous criminal, that you were killing people, that you’d gone mad—”

“I killed them for you,” Xue Yang said, and his voice was flat in that way that meant he was barely holding it together. “The Chang clan. Every single one of them. Fifty-two people. Because they took you from me.”

Yichen made a sound like he’d been punched. “Oh, Yang…”

“You were the only family I ever had.” Xue Yang pulled back enough to meet his brother’s eyes, and Wei Wuxian had to look away from the naked pain there. “After everything, after all the shit we went through as kids, you were the only thing that mattered. And they took you. So I took everything from them.”

The room had gone silent enough to hear hearts breaking.

Wei Wuxian exchanged a glance with Lan Wangji, whose face remained impassive but whose hand found Wei Wuxian’s and squeezed. Mo Xuanyu looked uncharacteristically serious, his usual playfulness buried under genuine empathy. Wen Ning seemed to be trying to disappear into the wall.

“Maybe,” Wei Wuxian said carefully, “we should all sit down? This seems like a sitting-down kind of conversation.”

MianMian nodded mutely and moved toward the kitchen. “I’ll get that alcohol. Strong alcohol. All the alcohol.”

“Forget tea,” she muttered, pulling out a bottle of wine that looked homemade and strong enough to strip paint. “We’re going straight to the hard stuff.”

They settled around the modest table, the atmosphere heavy with revelation. MianMian poured wine with shaking hands, filling cups to the brim.

“So,” she said faintly, downing her entire cup in one go and immediately refilling it. “Let me make sure I understand. You two,” she gestured between Xue Yang and Yichen, “are brothers?”

“Yes,” Yichen said quietly.

“And you,” she pointed at Xue Yang, “killed the Chang clan because you thought they killed him?”

“Yes,” Xue Yang said, meeting her gaze without flinching.

“And now you’re here. In my house. Married to Xiao Xingchen. With a daughter.”

“Her name is A-Qing,” Xingchen said softly, though his voice still carried hurt. “She’s… not with us currently.”

“And you,” MianMian turned to Wei Wuxian with slightly manic eyes, “are apparently back from the dead?”

“Also yes,” Wei Wuxian confirmed. “Escaped from hell, actually. It’s a whole thing.”

MianMian downed her second cup. “I’m going to need more wine.”

“Maybe we should start from the beginning,” Lan Wangji suggested, his voice calm and steady in the chaos. “It seems there is much history to uncover.”

Yichen and Xue Yang looked at each other, and something passed between them—years of separation, of pain, of love that had never died despite everything.

“We grew up in Kuizhou,” Yichen began, his hand finding Xue Yang’s across the table. “Just the two of us after our mother died. Yang was very young when it happened. Maybe five? I was ten.”

“Four,” Xue Yang corrected quietly. “I was four.”

“Four,” Yichen repeated, squeezing his brother’s hand. “Our father… he wasn’t a good man. Drank too much, gambled what we didn’t have, got into debt with people who didn’t forgive or forget. When Yang was seven and I was twelve, our father sold him to pay off what he owed.”

The words fell like stones into still water.

Wei Wuxian felt his stomach drop. Beside him, Xingchen made a small, wounded sound.

“Sold him to who?” Mo Xuanyu asked, his usual cheer completely gone.

“Some merchant,” Yichen said, his voice hardening with old rage. “I don’t even remember his name, just his face. Just the way he looked at Yang like he was a thing to be used. I couldn’t—I couldn’t let it happen. So that night, I stole Yang back. We ran.”

“Lived on the streets for years after that,” Xue Yang continued, his voice distant like he was watching the memories from far away. “Ge taught me everything—how to steal without getting caught, how to fight dirty, how to spot danger, where to sleep so we wouldn’t freeze. He was all I had. The only person in the entire world who gave a shit if I lived or died.”

“When Yang was sixteen, I left,” Yichen said, and guilt colored every word. “Told him I was going to find work, make money, build us a real life. I thought if I could just get enough, we could stop running. Get a house. Be a family instead of two kids stealing to survive.”

“But you never came back,” Xue Yang said.

“I got arrested,” Yichen said. “Caught stealing from a merchant caravan. They threw me in prison for two years. By the time I got out, I tried to find you but you were gone. And then I started hearing stories—about Xue Yang, about the massacre, about what you’d become.” His voice broke. “I thought I’d failed you. Thought you’d turned into a monster because I abandoned you.”

“You didn’t abandon me,” Xue Yang said fiercely. “You were trying to help. And I did become a monster, but that wasn’t your fault.”

“Wasn’t it?” Yichen’s eyes were wet. “If I hadn’t left—”

“Then we both would have starved,” Xue Yang interrupted. “You did what you had to do. I’m the one who fucked up. Some merchant told me the Chang clan had caught you stealing and executed you. Said he watched it happen, said it was brutal. So I went to their compound and I killed them. All of them. Didn’t matter who they were—men, women, elderly, young. If they were Chang clan, they died.”

The silence was deafening.

“But they didn’t kill me,” Yichen whispered. “I was alive the whole time. In prison, but alive. And you killed fifty people over a lie.”

“Fifty-two,” Xue Yang corrected flatly. “Let’s be accurate about my body count. And yes, I know. You think I don’t fucking know? Every day I know. Every night I see their faces. And I can’t even say it was worth it because you were alive. I butchered fifty-two people for absolutely nothing.”

“Not for nothing,” Yichen said firmly. “For me. Because you loved me. Because I was your brother and you thought they’d murdered me. That doesn’t make it right, Yang, but it doesn’t make your love less real.”

“I should have told you,” Xue Yang said, finally looking at Xingchen. “About ge, about why I really did it. But I thought he was dead, and talking about dead people doesn’t change anything. Doesn’t bring them back. And I was—” His jaw clenched. “I was ashamed. Of failing him. Of becoming exactly what everyone always said I’d be.”

Xingchen was quiet for a long moment, processing. Then his hand found Xue Yang’s other one, the one Yichen wasn’t holding. “I’m not leaving you, A-Yang. I’m hurt that you didn’t trust me with this, but I’m not leaving. We’ll work through it.”

“You’re too good for me,” Xue Yang said roughly.

“Probably,” Xingchen agreed with a watery smile. “But you’re stuck with me anyway.”

MianMian, who had been steadily working through the wine bottle, finally found her voice. “This is the most insane thing I’ve ever heard. And I’ve been in this cultivation world for thirty-some years.”

“It gets weirder,” Mo Xuanyu offered helpfully.

“How could it possibly—”

“Wei Wuxian, Xue Yang, and I escaped from actual hell. Like, literal hell. Not a metaphor. We clawed our way out of the underworld and back to the living world. Also, Wen Ning over there has been conscious this whole time while being used as an experiment for thirteen years. So, you know. Pretty standard Tuesday for us.”

MianMian stared at him. Then at Wei Wuxian. Then at the wine bottle like it had personally betrayed her. “I’m going to need a stronger drink.”

“That’s basically battery acid already,” Xue Yang pointed out.

“Then I’ll need something stronger than battery acid.”

Despite the heavy revelations, something had loosened in the room. The truth was out now, bleeding and raw but no longer festering in darkness.

“I’d like to meet her,” Yichen said to Xue Yang. “Your daughter. A-Qing. If that’s alright.”

Xue Yang nodded, not trusting his voice.

“And you,” MianMian said, turning to Wei Wuxian with slightly unfocused eyes. The wine was clearly hitting. “Explain. How are you alive? Why are you traveling with this group? And why do you look exactly the same as thirteen years ago? Should I die to look that good?”

“No!” Yichen said but MianMian shushed him.

Wei Wuxian launched into an abbreviated explanation—his death, the thirteen years of watching through a window in hell, the escape with Xue Yang and Mo Xuanyu, finding Lan Wangji again, discovering Wen Ning. He kept it vague, dancing around details that would raise too many questions.

“So you just… escaped from hell,” MianMian said flatly.

“Yep!”

“That’s not how death works.”

“It is if you’re stubborn enough,” Mo Xuanyu chimed in.

MianMian looked at Lan Wangji as if seeking sanity. “And you married him. Willingly.”

“Yes,” Lan Wangji said, and there was warmth in his voice.

“Why?”

“Because I love him.”

“Even though he’s—” She gestured vaguely at all of Wei Wuxian.

“Especially because of that.”

Wei Wuxian grinned, bringing Lan Wangji’s hand up to kiss his knuckles. “See? He gets me.”

MianMian shook her head in disbelief. “You’re all insane. Every single one of you.”

“That’s fair,” Wei Wuxian agreed cheerfully. Then, more seriously, “MianMian, there’s something you should know. About Jin Guangyao.”

Her expression sharpened slightly through the wine haze. “What about him?”

“Stay away from him,” Wei Wuxian said, his voice dropping to something deadly serious. “I can’t explain everything, and I won’t put you in danger by telling you too much. But please, trust me. Jin Guangyao is dangerous. If he comes around, if he asks questions, be careful.”

MianMian studied his face for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “Alright. I trust you, Wei Wuxian. If you say stay away, I’ll stay away.”

“Thank you.”

They stayed a bit longer, letting Yichen and Xue Yang catch up on thirteen years of separation. Yichen showed Xue Yang drawings his daughter had made, told him stories about his life with MianMian, about finding peace after so much chaos.

But eventually, the sun began its descent toward the horizon, and Wei Wuxian felt the pull of urgency returning.

“We need to go,” he said reluctantly. “We’ve already lost too much time.”

“Where are you heading?” Yichen asked.

“Burial Mounds,” Wei Wuxian said. “There’s something we need to check on.”

Yichen’s eyebrows rose but he didn’t question it. Instead, he pulled Xue Yang into one more hug. “Be careful, didi. Please. I just found you again.”

“I’m always careful,” Xue Yang lied.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

MianMian walked them to the door, steadier now that she’d had food and time to process. “Come back,” she said to Wei Wuxian. “When this is over, whatever it is. Come back and bring your son. I want Ying to meet the man she’s named after.”

“I will,” Wei Wuxian promised. “I swear it.”

They set off again, the path to Burial Mounds looming ahead. The group of six walked in contemplative silence, each processing the revelations in their own way.

It was Mo Xuanyu who eventually broke the quiet. “So that was intense.”

“That’s one word for it,” Xue Yang muttered.

“I prefer ‘emotionally devastating’ personally,” Mo Xuanyu continued. “Really hits the depth of family trauma we just witnessed.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

“Children,” Xingchen sighed.

Wei Wuxian smiled despite the weight in his chest. This was his family now—broken, weird, barely functional, but his. And soon, if they were lucky, he’d have A-Yuan back too.

The mountains rose before them, dark and foreboding. Wei Wuxian could feel it now—the pull of resentful energy, the familiar signature of Burial Mounds. It felt like coming home to a house that had burned down.

“We’re close,” he said unnecessarily.

“I can feel it,” Lan Wangji confirmed, his hand moving to Bichen.

As they climbed higher, Wei Wuxian’s sense of urgency grew. Something was wrong. He could feel it in his bones, in the way the resentful energy twisted wrong, in the distant sounds that might have been wind but felt too much like voices.

“There are people here,” Lan Wangji said quietly, his cultivator senses sharp.

“Cultivators,” Wei Wuxian agreed, his heart rate picking up. “Young ones. Lan Zhan, I think—”

“The juniors,” Lan Wangji finished, already moving faster.

They broke into a run, all pretense of caution abandoned. Wei Wuxian led them through paths carved by memory, deeper into Burial Mounds, following the pull of spiritual energy that didn’t belong here.

The caves. They were in the caves he’d once called home.

As they approached, voices became clear—young, distressed, angry. The sound of fighting, of accusations, of chaos.

Wei Wuxian’s blood ran cold.

He burst into the cave entrance, the others right behind him, and stopped dead.

The juniors were there—maybe a dozen of them, hanging from the cave walls by chains that glowed with talismans. But they weren’t just hanging. They were fighting, screaming at each other, attacking with whatever spiritual energy they could muster despite their restraints.

At the center of it all, Jingyi and Jin Ling were going at it with the kind of vicious intensity that spoke to demonic influence.

“You’ve always been jealous!” Jin Ling was shouting, his face red with rage. “Always in Sizhui’s shadow!”

“At least I have friends!” Jingyi screamed back. “At least people actually like me!”

Xue Yang, of all people, started laughing. Full-body, bent-over laughing that echoed through the cave in a way that was deeply inappropriate given the situation.

“Oh my god,” he wheezed. “Oh my god, they’re still fighting about stupid shit even while—” He broke off into more laughter.

“A-Yang, this isn’t funny,” Xingchen said, but then his eyes landed on another figure and his voice went sharp with concern. “A-Qing?”

And there, hanging from the wall with an expression of pure, undiluted teenage exasperation, was A-Qing. She looked utterly done with everything, her face the perfect picture of someone who had reached the end of their patience three days ago.

Xue Yang’s laughter cut off abruptly. “A-Qing? What the fuck—how did you—”

“Oh, now you notice me?” A-Qing’s voice dripped with sarcasm despite her predicament. “I’ve been hanging here for days listening to these two idiots argue about literally nothing while under demonic influence. Do you have any idea how annoying that is? Any idea at all?”

“We’re getting you down,” Xingchen said immediately, already moving toward her.

“Finally,” A-Qing muttered. “I thought I was going to die of secondhand embarrassment before anyone showed up.”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes were scanning the cave frantically, looking for one face in particular. And then he found him—there, toward the back, with blood on his face and exhaustion in his eyes but alive, conscious, and looking at Wei Wuxian with wide-eyed recognition.

A-Yuan.

His son.

“A-Yuan,” Wei Wuxian breathed, and then he was moving, Chenqing already at his lips, playing the melody that would break demonic control.

Whatever had happened here, whoever had done this, they were going to pay.

But first, he was getting his son back.