Chapter Text
The first time he had felt truly helpless, Wang Zhoucheng remembered, was when he held Bao. His first pet. A small dog, all black fur and one milky white eye, given to him by Han Rui when he was seven. He had carried Bao everywhere, loved him even when the little dog yipped angrily at being held too tightly. Even then, Bao had been a survivor; he was blind in one eye and extremely wary of strangers, but he had Wang Zhoucheng.
“Mama, what’s wrong with Bao?” he had asked, tears running down his cheeks.
“Little Bun,” his mother had said, brushing his tears away. “Bao met bad people before like Rui-er had. But he has you now.”
“Why would anyone be bad to Bao?” He had hugged Bao tighter, swearing then and there that he would protect him, no matter what, like he had done when he first met Han Rui.
His mother had kissed his cheeks. “Promise me, A-Cheng, when you grow up, you’ll never stop being kind, no matter what the world throws at you.”
“I’m a big boy now,” he had grumbled, though his voice trembled. “I won’t, mama.”
She had smiled and pulled him close again. “I love you so much… you and little Bao. Both of you.”
Months later, Bao had fallen ill, refused food, and even water. Wang Zhoucheng had cared for him after school, whispering promises that he would get better. He hadn’t.
“Jiejie…” he had whimpered one afternoon, holding Bao in his small hands, trembling as the little body went cold.
Somehow, in his panic, he had run to his sister first. She had been the only one who knew how to hold him, soothe him, carry the weight of his helplessness. That night, she had fed him when he didn’t want to eat, wrapped him when he shivered, let him cry until the tears ran dry. He had learned what it meant to feel powerless.
Now, standing over the innkeeper’s body, Wang Zhoucheng felt that same helplessness claw at him. Only this time, the stakes were impossibly higher. Someone had died, not a pet, not a small companion, but a person. And he had been unable to stop it.
The fan had come down from nowhere, sharp and precise, slicing the man’s throat as if he were nothing more than a piece of fruit. For speaking Wang Zhoucheng’s real name, not Jiang Cheng. He was killed because of me, the thought pounded in his head, like a drum echoing in a hollow cave. The shock made him want to run. To hide. To go home. Mama would have been disappointed. Jiejie would have scolded him for thinking only of himself. Rui-er… Rui-er would have held him, like he always did when Wang Zhoucheng was sad.
His hands shook uncontrollably. He wanted to cover the innkeeper, to protect him even in death. Lian would have wanted that if she were still alive, he thought. He was still her father even if he had killed or participated in Lian’s lover's death. The same woman’s ghost who had perished in Wang Zhoucheng’s arms, as if she were dust.
“Jiang Cheng.” Mo XuanYu’s voice sounded close, cautious. If not for Lan Wangji’s firm hand holding him steady, Wang Zhoucheng would have collapsed entirely, crawling forward to reach the corpse.
He couldn’t. He couldn’t even still his trembling hands to push Lan Wangji away.
“It’s okay,” Mo XuanYu said, unease shadowing his face. “Can’t say I expected him to be killed by a fan. We need to—Why are you so quiet?”
This wasn’t how Jiang Cheng would have reacted. Jiang Cheng had faced corpses on battlefields without blinking. Had sealed the dead, driven back resentful energy, commanded others with sharp words and a sharper glare. Jiang Cheng would not have crumpled like this.
“Mo,” Lan Wangji said quietly, “let him mourn.”
Mo XuanYu hesitated. “Of course. I’ll go check the corpse—”
Wang Zhoucheng’s hand shot out, finding the strength he couldn’t find before. He clutched at Lan Wangji’s robe. Lan Wangji released him.
“I… I’ll go.” His voice was small, fragile.
“Jiang Cheng, I should go with you—”
“Let him do this,” Lan Wangji said.
Mo XuanYu’s brows furrowed. “Okay, Lan Zhan.” His eyes remained focused on Wang Zhoucheng.
Wang Zhoucheng knelt, shutting out everything else. Carefully, he removed Lan Wangji’s outer robe, then his own, and laid them over the innkeeper. Blood soaked his hands, seeping into the fabric, warm and sticky. It made his stomach lurch, but he forced himself to stay. The scent was sharp, metallic, almost coppery, with a faint, sickly sweetness that made his stomach twist. It hung in the air, thick and choking. Even like this, the innkeeper deserved respect.
The robe was soft, warm against the cold floor, but it did nothing to stop the tears spilling down his face. Hands trembling, he whispered, almost without a thought in his head, “I… I’m so… so sor… sorry… you… you died… because of me… I… I’m sorry…”
A part of him still expected the innkeeper to stir, to open his eyes, to tell him it had all been an act. But he did not. His eyes remained closed, forever still, and the truth pressed down on Wang Zhoucheng like a weight he could not lift. The room was silent except for his broken, quiet sobs. The helplessness he had first known with Bao returned with full force, settling over him like a leaden shroud. Crushing. Suffocating. Inescapable.
The room felt unbearably silent, broken only by his uneven breaths and the soft, wet traces of tears on his cheeks.
It wasn’t until strong arms wrapped around his shoulders from behind that he realized he wasn’t alone. The hold wasn’t restrained, but just warm, steadying. Not Lan Wangji. Lan Wangji’s touch always carried hesitation, distance, as if even comfort had rules he wasn’t meant to cross. Lan Wangji stood a step away, gaze fixed on him, fingers curled tightly at his side, as if holding himself back from something he didn’t yet know how to do.
His blurred gaze drifted, catching Mo XuanYu across the room. Mo XuanYu’s hands were busy with the puppets. Not him either. The realization settled before he could stop it.
Sion, he breathed, though he didn’t say the name aloud. His shoulders sagged, his knees buckling slightly, as if his body finally remembered how to breathe. The hold was easy to break free of if Wang Zhoucheng wanted to pull away, but he didn’t. Instead, he placed his palm over Sion’s hands without thinking.
Someone spoke. Wang Zhoucheng saw Mo XuanYu’s mouth moving, but didn’t hear the words clearly. It sounded urgent, but it didn’t sound like it was meant for him.
“Lan Zhan—” The words came in fragmented, like a disconnected phone call. “—Over here…. Need to see.”
Lan Wangji’s robes fluttered as he moved, stopping by Wang Zhoucheng’s side for a brief second before he went to join Mo XuanYu. He might have said something or nothing, Wang Zhoucheng didn’t know, couldn’t hear it if he did, didn’t see his lips moving. Instead, he handed Wang Zhoucheng his discarded weapons. Wang Zhoucheng looked up and accepted them, though they felt like sand in his hands. Wet, heavy sand.
Sion’s lips moved behind his ears. “It’s…. okay,” Sion’s words came through so low. “Should rest… leave… eat…”
Wang Zhoucheng tapped Sion’s hand. “Need to go,” he said. He had to go. Couldn’t stay here like this. Before the dead body, there was a reason why he had stepped into this room.
“You’re worried about the junior disciples.” Sion’s voice came into his ears. He removed his hands, standing up. He gently pulled Wang Zhoucheng up, letting him brace back onto him; his white robes were painted red from blood.
“I’ll be your voice till you find yours back,” Sion continued. “Let’s rejoin them. You don’t need to speak. I’ll do that for you.”
The little girl. He remembered her. She was supposed to be safe with Sion, but Sion was here.
He didn’t need to voice his concerns out loud. Sion said, “She’s safe back in the room. I won’t have come, if she wasn’t.”
He didn’t know how he moved, but somehow he did. The drapes fell around him, like dead leaves swept up in a sudden gust of wind, settling on his shoulders and arms. His hands stayed still, frozen, while some clung to his skin, the blood acting like a paste, pulling at his robes. The room felt colder now, causing him to shiver from the sudden chill. He was wearing only his inner robes, and every brush of fabric against his skin felt sharp, as if cold itself wanted to crush him.
Gently, someone in black robes brushed the red drapes away from his body. It must be Mo XuanYu. His eyes were concerned, lips pressed tight as if they wanted to say more, but chose not to. Instead, he heard, “Lan Zhan… too easy.”
“Mn.” A piece of red drape landed on Lan Wangji’s forehead, curling softly like a scattered bird taking rest.
“Adorable… red is your color,” Sion’s voice said, low and teasing.
“Be quiet,” Lan Wangji replied.
“I am quiet,” Sion said with a smile. “Are you? Your glares are as loud as the—”
“You two,” Mo XuanYu cut in, “as entertaining as this is, now is not the time for this petty little battle you two have going on.”
Wang Zhoucheng freed himself from Sion and staggered toward the altar, the same one they had found the innkeeper at before the puppet theater began. He lifted the small plate, fingers trembling at its unexpected weight.
The idol’s eyes moved.
They blinked slowly, deliberately, red light pooling beneath carved lids. A hollow sound followed. It was laughter, he realized, but it sounded wrong, like something that should not speak.
“She cries,” the idol said. “Cries for her people.” The voice faltered, repeating itself, as if caught in a groove. “He did not hear. He kept her.” The laughter stuttered again. “Step inside, if you dare.”
“Is this cursed?” Mo XuanYu began. “Jiang Cheng, stay still. Don’t pick that up!”
It was too late. Wang Zhoucheng’s hands shook as he reached for the idol. It was snatched away before he could touch it again. Behind where it had sat, writing was etched in traditional Chinese characters. He could not read them, but they were not unfamiliar.
“Cheng-Cheng,” Sion’s voice drifted in his head, his mouth not moving. “I’ll keep them busy. But please don’t pick up items like that. It’s dangerous.”
I can’t promise that, he wanted to say, but didn’t say anything.
“Look at the markings on this,” Sion said, holding the idol up, ignoring Lan Wangji’s glare. “It almost looks like someone we know, don’t you think?”
“Be quiet,” Lan Wangji said.
Wang Zhoucheng tried to focus on the writing once more, but his vision swam. Dried blood, a severed finger with a key attached, and an old wedding bell lay before him. His fingers trembled violently as he reached for the key and the wedding bell. The severed finger looked unnervingly fresh. Where could this lead? He scanned the room, but saw nothing.
He staggered toward the puppets, hands trembling as he lifted those resembling the women. Red threads twisted and frayed, binding them like a spider’s web. On the back of the puppet shaped like the ghost woman, a carved slot waited. Did Mo XuanYu notice this, too? Wang Zhoucheng’s fingers shook as he pressed the key in.
The threads snapped taut, shivering violently. The floorboards groaned. A hidden stairwell yawned open beneath them. It was dark and narrow. He couldn't see much else, but the smell was rank, pungent even. Barely, but surely, he heard light scuffling from below. Someone or something waited behind those stairs.
“Zhoucheng, don’t go there!” Sion’s voice pressed into his mind.
“The juniors—”
“Your beloved Wangji and Mo are more than capable of rescuing them. Plus, I can handle any… complications.” He scrunched up his nose, mock-disgusted. “Honestly, you charging headfirst like a damsel into danger… I might need to train you.”
“No… have to go. Need to…. Do…. Something.”
“You’re not a cultivator, Zhoucheng. You don’t have to be a hero. I should have never told you to follow the script.” He sighed. “Something is wrong, Zhoucheng. When I was holding you, I sensed something foreign in your body…. Something that shouldn’t exist.”
Wang Zhoucheng remained silent. His body felt too heavy, too weak to say anything.
“Jiang Cheng, you seriously think I’m going to let you go there alone?” Mo XuanYu’s hands caught him, pulling him back. Wang Zhoucheng squirmed, but the effort fizzled; his limbs wouldn’t obey.
Footsteps scurried up from below.
“That is definitely not something friendly,” Sion said, pulling a clip free from his hair.
“Where’s your sword?” Mo XuanYu asked.
“I don’t need it,” Sion said calmly, almost mischievously.
“Stop lying,” Lan Wangji interjected, glancing at him with the faintest twitch of irritation.
“You two, stop! And you, stay still!” Mo XuanYu shouted, catching Wang Zhoucheng mid-struggle. “Jiang Cheng! Did you just kick me?” His voice was sharp but playful, frustration lacing every word. “I’m really hurt now.”
Wang Zhoucheng’s heart pounded. He wanted to run toward the sound, toward whatever awaited below, but his body refused.
“After you, of course, Hanguang-jun. A lowly cultivator like me needs protection,” Sion said, smiling at Lan Wangji.
Lan Wangji’s lips pressed into a thin line, a faint scoff escaping. He stepped ahead, movements precise, eyes flicking briefly toward Wang Zhoucheng to ensure he was steady. Sion followed, keeping Wang Zhoucheng squarely in his line of sight, as well, ready to intervene at the first sign of trouble.
Wang Zhoucheng descended the dark stairwell, hands clinging to the railing. The idol’s grating voice and laughter filled his ears. It was raw and terrifying. The wedding bell in his hand rang discordantly. Too sharp, too modern.
A firm hand grabbed him. Candlelight flared in his eyes. “You’re hurt,” a voice said evenly, concern threading through the calm in his tone. “This—is that blood?”
He swallowed, frozen in place.
“Xichen-ge, Sect Leader Jiang is unharmed, yes?” Jin Guangyao’s voice floated above the idol’s laughter, polite but tinged with impatience. “Could someone please silence that infernal sound?
“Lan Xichen? Sect Leader Jin?” Mo XuanYu stepped forward, eyes darting between them and the dark stairwell. “How did you two end up down here?”
“We came across a cellar in the back,” Jin Guangyao explained. “This place is heavily guarded. Traps lie everywhere. It’s odd.” He paused, shaking his head. “There are bodies of women in Wen robes,” he continued, voice smooth, almost clinical. “Most… unfortunate, though hardly unexpected, given the reputation of the Wens. But I believe the junior disciples are down there. I’m not sure how A-Ling found himself down here.”
“A-Yao isn’t wrong,” Lan Xichen said, still holding Wang Zhoucheng’s hand.
Somehow, Wang Zhoucheng’s eyes found Lan Wangji, then flicked toward Sion, and he whispered, barely audible, “Sion…”
More dead bodies? Why Wen women? Why women draped in red robes? The innkeeper… could he really be this vile? And the little girl… she came from here. God, it made him want to throw up.
Oh god… I was mourning him… a man like that… how could I have—
Jin… Ling… the others… Zizhen? Jingyi? Sizhui? God… just sixteen… still kids! Please… please be alive.