Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Wei Wuxian wakes up.

This is not particularly strange nor out of the ordinary. Being awake is simply part of being alive.

Wei Wuxian is alive.

There is grass beneath his hands, cold strands weaving between his fingers. A gentle breeze billows past his ear and through his hair. The sky is a gentle shade of blue, and the sun greets him a gentle hello.

Welcome to the world, something inside him says.

This world is not kind, something inside him warns.

The world is what it is, that same something amends, softly, with acceptance. It is our own actions that make our end.

There is something in him that feels strange. He lays a hand to his chest. It doesn’t hurt, but the ache remains, like a scar that doesn’t exist. He is bleeding from a wound that has already healed.

Wei Wuxian lowers his hands and looks at them. His palms are soft and clean, and his fingers are long and nimble.

You have a perfectly good pair of hands, something inside him says. And you are much luckier than you know.

Wei Wuxian clenches his hands.

So, something inside him continues, with an emotion Wei Wuxian can’t discern, how about you go out there and prove that you deserve this second chance?

The world is not kind. The world has never been kind. But for some unknown reason, the world has decided been kind to Wei Wuxian.

By chance, by choice, or by some convoluted means far beyond his understanding, Wei Wuxian is alive, and he has a duty to this world.

So he tells himself, but the world is a very strange place.

It doesn’t take long for Wei Wuxian to settle into his body. Mannerisms that were probably once familiar to him settle in comfortably: lifting a hand to tuck a strand of long black hair behind his ear, bringing a smile to his lips, reaching for something at his waist that is no longer there.

He is confident in himself and in his body. It isn’t a foreign feeling, he thinks; whoever he was before, he knew himself well.

The only new factor is the divine hue that gently hugs his skin.

Under normal circumstances, it’s so faint that it barely exists. When he reaches out and tugs on the golden strings of fate, though, the aura around him glows a halcyon gold, warm and all-encompassing, as if to say, give yourself to me.

Wei Wuxian is a god. He has every right to ask anything of anyone.

But he doesn’t. He’s a god; he should, but for some reason, he feels that he has taken away too much from too many to carelessly ask for more things, only to break them.

Besides, he doesn’t have anyone to ask. He’s young, hardly old or wise enough to be revered as an all-powerful being, and he needs to find his place in this world.

So he travels.

He travels, he travels, he travels. He walks through forests and across streams. He never stops moving, watching as the sun rises and sets each day with wonder in his eyes. He hums songs with lyrics long forgotten and is delighted when animals begin to follow behind him. He stares down leopards and bows to deer. He finds himself walking faster when wolves begin giving him looks.

It is warm, and it rains. He keeps walking.

He dips his toes in cold water and grins when he comes across a lake spotted with lotus pods. He peels them with practiced ease and dances across the water, running his fingers through golden strings.

(He hears playful laughter and the sound of splashing water behind him. When he turns, there is nothing but a dying image of purple and the clear chime of a bell, too far out of his reach for him to ever grasp again.)

Laughing, Wei Wuxian leaves a trail of gold behind him, reaching his hands out and accepting all this world has to offer.

Soon enough, stray souls begin to follow him, lost and confused and hopelessly drawn to any warmth they can find. Wei Wuxian cups his hands and allows them to rest in his light, listening to the faint whispers asking about life after death, about legacies left behind, about finding peace.

Wei Wuxian is stunned. Humans are one of the many creatures that inhabit this earth. Of all the creatures he has met so far, why are they the only ones that are so confused about their existence?

I am lost, so many of the souls say, trapped in a despair of their own creation. I have died, my body is no more, but I have nowhere to go.

Wei Wuxian isn’t sure what to say. He barely knows anything about this world; if anything, the humans whose very souls he holds in his hands know better than he does.

But he is a god, he has a duty to bring joy to these people, and he knows how it feels to be lonely. It is an ache in his chest he knows he is intimately familiar with, although he can recall nothing about why he was so alone.

(Get out.)

He simply knows that it isn’t right for anyone in this world to die alone.

So he takes a breath.

“It’s alright,” he says.

“Everything will be fine even if you’re lost,” he says.

“All who are lost will be found,” he says.

“After all,” he finishes, smiling, “I found you, didn’t I?”

Every night, more souls come to him. Many of them come seeking release, and Wei Wuxian knows they are looking in the wrong place. Death is not what he governs. Only mortal beings can bring peace to these wandering souls.

So he keeps walking in hopes that he will find humans will the abilities of gods. The souls follow him, drifting behind him like a parade of fireflies. He leads the way through the night, promising that he will find someone who can help them, exchanging eager conversation along the way.

Who are you? someone asks, and Wei Wuxian says, “I’m a god.”

A god of what?

“A god of luck, I suppose.”

Why do you wear such ominous robes?

Wei Wuxian looks down. He doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with his robes. He likes them quite a lot, actually. “It’s what I was born in. Is there something wrong?”

You look like a demon.

For some reason, Wei Wuxian isn’t as surprised as he should be. “Appearances can be deceiving,” is all he says.

Are you here to save us? Or are you here to pass judgement?

Wei Wuxian doesn’t know, so he says nothing.

The souls don’t only ask questions. They tell him stories of their lives and their experiences, of the joys and sorrows of life. They speak of the innocence of childhood, the admiration and heartbreak that comes with love, the bitterness and despair that comes with loss, and the uncertain future.

Their stories are captivating. Although human life is so short, they live so brightly. They burn, burn, burn, and burn themselves out. Wei Wuxian can still see the remnants of flame within their silver souls.

Slowly, surely, the despair that had such a firm grip on the souls unravels. They begin speaking more freely, fluctuating wildly in emotions so powerful that Wei Wuxian is worried that his presence might be making them worse. He realizes only after something in him tugs back that the more emotion they show, the more human they are.

There was a war not too long ago, the souls tell him one day. The cultivation sects banded together against their oppressors and crushed them.

“I see,” says Wei Wuxian. The pain in his chest is back. He lifts his hand over a scar that no longer brands his skin.

A great villain was born from the bloodshed, the souls tell him. There’s something strange about the way they say it, as if they expect Wei Wuxian to answer. He can’t. He doesn’t know how.

It’s painful to dwell on it for too long. He doesn’t know how or why, but he doesn’t ask any further, and the souls fall silent.

In a complete change of topic, one of the souls chirps, Yunmeng is beautiful this time of year. If you ever have the chance to visit, you should absolutely go.

Wei Wuxian brightens considerably. He loves hearing about the many splendors the world has to offer. He asks eagerly about cultivators, about sects, and when the souls have nothing more to say but names that Wei Wuxian won’t (doesn’t) remember, he asks about good food and alcohol, about love, about every aspect of being alive.

“Being human sounds so wonderful,” Wei Wuxian says one night, a golden flame in his palm to light the way. “But why do you limit yourselves so much? Why not travel the world, become a cultivator if you aren’t one already, or – or do whatever makes you happiest?”

For a moment, there is silence. Then there are whispers among the souls. Then they turn to Wei Wuxian.

Life is about holding on, the souls say. Our lives are so short, and there is so much we want to do. We are only mortal, so it is incredibly hard to earn even one thing while it is so easy to lose. So we hold on as tight as we can, but you only ever have two hands.

A soul hovers over Wei Wuxian’s shoulder. He lifts his free hand up to let it rest on its palm. Its warmth is familiar. His heart aches.

If they’re already full, you have to let go of something first.

Wei Wuxian’s mouth is dry. He feels guilty for no good reason. “I see,” is all he manages.

The souls are patient teachers. They teach Wei Wuxian how to mend his robes when they rip (though he used golden, ethereal strings, it’s all the same). They tell him how to forage and what to eat and what to avoid. They share advice on all sorts of skills they learned in life, from fishing to bartering to dancing. They tell him of restaurants he should visit, people he should speak to, and sights he should see. They share songs and hymns with lyrics still in mortal memory.

In the coldest of nights, when the pain in his heart is too much to bear and he chokes on the weight of a life he can’t remember, Wei Wuxian will stop and light a fire. The souls around him will talk to and tease each other as animals peek in to find warmth.

Even though it hurts, he needn’t suffer alone.

The smaller souls — the younger ones — will huddle by his side or curl up contentedly on his lap. The others will talk through the night, their melodious voices lulling Wei Wuxian off to the land of sleep, and when he wakes up, they will all be there, waiting for him.

Slowly, surely, they teach Wei Wuxian how to live.

Together, they cross rivers, weave around mountains, and watch each day come and go. They laugh and they dance. They continue walking.

One early morning, Wei Wuxian comes across a small village. It’s a quaint little thing, nestled in a valley, surrounded by flush green forests on either side, neighbouring a wide lake and a wall of uneven, rocky peaks.

Here we are.

As if finally reaching home, the souls behind Wei Wuxian drift forward and upward into the darkened sky, glowing a beautiful, unblemished silver.

“Wait!” A surge of panic rises from within him as he chases after the veil of silver. He reaches out but doesn’t know what he’s looking for. He just doesn’t want to lose anyone again. “I haven’t found someone who can free you yet!”

The souls shiver. A stream of bell-like laughter dances through the wind.

We don’t want to burden you any longer. You have already done so much for us.

The guilt is back, and Wei Wuxian doesn’t know why. He feels like crying, and he doesn’t know why. There are a million words caught in his throat that he has never managed to say. “I... I haven’t done anything to deserve your thanks.”

Then keep walking until the day you feel worthy, the souls say, drifting higher and higher. One day, you will find someone who will help you like you have helped us.

There are many things Wei Wuxian wants to say. He wants to thank them for keeping him company, he wants to apologize for something he doesn’t understand, he wants to beg them to wait until he can see them off properly.

Instead, he bows.

“I’m sorry this world couldn’t keep you safe,” he says quietly. “May your journey home be a soft and peaceful one.”

He has no right to apologize on behalf of the world, and he has no right to assume that it is the world that has done them wrong. But he feels that it is necessary.

At the very least, may his blessing keep them safe until they finally find rest.

Thank you, the souls whisper, dancing just beyond Wei Wuxian’s reach. He reaches out, but he can never reach far enough. His fingers trace the steps of people who have already moved on. We can take it from here.

In a burst of light, those brilliant orbs of silver fly high into the sky, returning to places that Wei Wuxian has never been.

In his ear, one last whisper rings:

We’re all cheering for you, A-Xian.

Wei Wuxian turns. There is nothing behind him. Not anymore.

But there is so much in front of him.

The morning sun is still hidden behind the twilight sky, scattering gentle light across a gentle land, when Wei Wuxian falls in love with the world.

Wei Wuxian meets humans for the first time and is comfortable in their presence. His divine glow is unmistakable, and he’s relieved when he finally comes across some living souls.

The first humans who see him stop in their tracks, eyes wide. Wei Wuxian smiles and waves at them.

“Good morning,” he says, nodding. The villagers bow back in a flustered panic. “I apologize for the trouble, but I’ll be imposing on you for a little while.”

The villagers trip over each other assuring him that he’s not at fault and that they’d be honoured to have him stay in their humble homes. Although most of them seem so nervous that they’ll ascend to the heavens right there and then, they eagerly show him around their village with pride in their eyes.

They feed him, they house him, they tell him tales of recent miracles and disasters that have befallen their village. Whether or not they are aware of exactly what sort of divine being he is, they seem to know that Wei Wuxian is someone who is to be treated with respect.

Wei Wuxian doesn’t mind; he enjoys the company of these vivid beings. Though he’s quite sure that he was very much human before... all this, he finds it incredible how any single person can be laden with so many emotions and desires and remain so unique from anyone else. He finds it incredible how he himself was just like these strange, vibrant beings in a life he’s forgotten.

Slowly but surely, he begins realizing that he’s developing (regaining) a personality. Humor comes to him easily, conversation rolls off his tongue smoothly, and when all those painful feelings he’s been carrying for so long return with a vengeance, he crushes them mercilessly beneath his heel and throws the remains into the deepest recesses of his heart.

No one needs to know. He keeps smiling.

He stays in that little village for a while. There’s a celebration being held for the one year anniversary of the death of some notorious villain, but by what Wei Wuxian hears, nobody in the village has actually seen or been affected by the villain himself. The news is an excuse to bring joy to the people, and Wei Wuxian is fascinated.

It’s so easy to martyr someone, Wei Wuxian thinks to himself. Whether it’s the birth of a hero or the death of a villain, people will celebrate all the same.

Interesting, he thinks, ignoring the bitter laughter that rings in his ears. Very interesting.

Regardless of how utterly detached Wei Wuxian is from the situation, he finds the celebrations very entertaining. Stalls line the roads and people of all ages come out to enjoy the festivities. Children run through the streets, reenacting dramatic scenes of what appears to be the villain’s death, while adults and elderly enjoy good food and alcohol.

Wei Wuxian has never been someone to reject a good celebration.

“You must be new here,” the head waitress says to him one night. She smiles as she places the dishes onto the table, all gorgeous and colourful and entirely smothered in chilies. Both the sight and the smell are incredibly enticing. “That’s quite the bold palate you have. Most people cry when they see just how spicy we like our food.”

Another waitress cheerfully puts down two jars of the house wine onto the table. She politely pours a cup for Wei Wuxian, nods at her friend, then leaves to serve another customer. Wei Wuxian smiles sweetly at her, and she blushes as she steps away.

Lifting his cup to his lips, Wei Wuxian redirects his attention to the head waitress. “You’re right on both counts. This is my first time here, yes, and I’m aware that my tastes might scare some unenlightened folks.”

The waitress grins, leaning her weight on the table. Everyone in this town is so wonderfully casual, and it makes Wei Wuxian incredibly happy to see a group of people so closely connected and so caring toward each other. To hell with formality.

“You’re a funny one,” the waitress says, her voice teasing. She looks around the restaurant for a moment, judges the situation, and seats herself on a chair opposite to Wei Wuxian. “But you’re a traveller, aren’t you? What’s the world like out there?”

Wei Wuxian thinks for a moment. Then, with far more confidence than he should have, he declares, “It’s bigger than you’d ever expect.”

The waitress waits as if she’s expecting more. Upon realizing that Wei Wuxian has nothing more to say, she raises an eyebrow and bursts into laughter.

“Is that all?” She laughs, and although Wei Wuxian doesn’t understand what’s so funny, he humors her anyway and shrugs helplessly. “What, no bragging about all the places you’ve been and all the adventures you’ve had?”

Wei Wuxian chuckles. “You gravely overestimate me.”

The waitress pauses. She looks Wei Wuxian in the eyes, seems to find whatever she’s looking for, then hums an indistinct note of agreement. “Maybe. Then, good sir, if you don’t mind me asking, who exactly are you?”

Her tone is curious, and yet she watches Wei Wuxian carefully, not with suspicion, but with caution.

It’s a reasonable reaction. For the past few days, Wei Wuxian has been staying underneath their roof, eating their food, and walking among their people, all after strolling out of the forest with stars in his eyes and gold in his steps.

Ah, well. There’s no shame in saying it. Resting his chin on the back of his hand, he says, “I suppose you could say I’m a god.”

For a short moment, the waitress is silent. Then her measured expression melts into something more comfortable, and she lets out a relieved sigh. “Well, I guess that explains a lot!” She slaps her knee, as if she’s enjoying a good joke.

“You’re very calm about this,” says Wei Wuxian, a little surprised.

The waitress throws him a side glance. “I am,” she agrees. “Why? Is there something I should be grateful to you for?”

Wei Wuxian isn’t sure how to answer. “Not yet,” is what he decides on.

The waitress nods as if she was expecting such an answer from the beginning, then moves to refill his cup. Now that Wei Wuxian has finally heard her speak her mind, he realizes that her words aren’t thrown out casually, but given kindly. Bestowed.

“Either way, I can’t say I see the gods in any particular light. Divine, immortal, sure. I get it.” She looks at Wei Wuxian, past the gold in his eyes, and into someone he doesn’t remember. “But the scope of forever and eternity is too great for any mortal to understand. So if the gods want to preserve the world, they can go ahead and do it. If they want to destroy it, I won’t mind. Frankly, I don’t believe all too much in gods. If anything, I believe in a world that doesn’t care and people who do.”

There’s nothing Wei Wuxian can say to that. He can’t say I care because he isn’t the world, and he can’t say I agree because he isn’t human.

So he says the next best thing. “I understand.”

For the first time since the conversation began, surprise colours the waitress’ features.

“You do,” she says, not asks. The question only comes when she leans in closer and repeats, “You really do, don’t you?”

Wei Wuxian isn’t sure what she sees in him that lets her place such trust in someone she neither knows nor cares to know, but he’s grateful anyway.

“In all honesty, I’m a bit new around here,” he admits. Though he wasn’t trying to hide the fact that he’s been a god for no more than a few months, it feels a little embarrassing to know less about the world than the average mortal. Technically speaking, he’s younger than most of them, too. “I haven’t done anything very godly yet. If I were you, I don’t think I’d believe in the gods all too much either.”

The last of waitress’ wariness melts away. She props her head up on her hand and raises an eyebrow. Amusement lights her eyes. “I’m not sure if that’s blasphemy or some serious self-deprecation.”

“That’s me,” Wei Wuxian says, downing what’s left in the jar in one go. He reaches for the next jar. He can’t tell what sort of smile rises to his lips, but the waitress takes one look at him and snorts. “If the world hates me, what difference does one more person make?”

From there, the conversation steers toward friendlier topics. The waitress continues to make teasing jabs at Wei Wuxian’s supposed godhood, while Wei Wuxian responds in kind by either feigning ignorance or asking genuine questions that send the waitress into fits of boisterous laughter.

“You – you don’t know who the Yiling Patriarch is?” The waitress uses the table to keep upright, wheezing between choked breaths.

Wei Wuxian huffs and crosses his arms. Another waitress comes by to pick up the empty plates, sees his petulant look, and giggles. He pouts some more. “If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking.”

“Then,” the waitress declares, raising a hand dramatically, “let this undeserving servant tell you a story.”

It’s a story Wei Wuxian has never heard. It’s a story of a child, a prodigy, given every gift in the world: talent, beauty, a bright future. He is but a child, innocent and naive.

One day, he comes back, and he is no longer himself.

Thousands fall before him, and he watches on with blood-red eyes and a cold smile. He grabs the sun with his bare hands and tears it to pieces. He destroys his own sect and murders the only people who gave him love. He is all-powerful, a master of the dead, and yet he is an atrocity, a monster of his own creation, a murderer who revels in chaos, and he must be stopped.

The world bands together to destroy this great villain. His own brother leads the charge. He doesn’t care.

In the end, it is he who destroys himself. There is no body to bury. It doesn’t matter. Nobody mourns him.

And so the world is rid of another great evil. The people live in peace once more. Everything is good. Everything is how it should be.

Everyone is happy.

It’s a story Wei Wuxian has never heard. He wants to say something, interject with if only you knew, but he knows that a villain with a heart as black as the Yiling Patriarch's deserved everything he received.

As the waitress draws the tale to a close, she sighs. There’s an emotion on her face that Wei Wuxian can’t place. It’s something tired, like acceptance, but it’s also something sad, like pity. “They say his name was Wei Ying. At least, that’s what I’ve heard.”

Wei Wuxian’s heart stutters and fails. His breaths catch and his fists clench. “His – his name?”

“I might be wrong,” the waitress says, watching his expression carefully. He isn’t sure what kind of face he’s making right now. “Though I hear some of the cultivators who still call him by his courtesy call him Wei Wuxian.”

A-Xian. You... you should stop first.

Don’t... don’t...

There’s a pounding in his head that won’t stop. It hurts, but he’s used to pain. He smiles through it.

“That’s some awful irony right there,” he says. Every word that rolls off his tongue is bitter. “A child of ghosts, torn apart by ghosts. Born with no envies, died envying the world.” His smile is scornful. It sits on his lips like a scar. “A bright light always casts a long shadow. The fools who run toward their deaths and drag along others with them are the most despicable beings in this world. I’ll drink to his death.”

The waitress pours herself a cup, then raises it to meet Wei Wuxian’s. There is something in her eyes that reminds him of warm soup and a soft voice. There is something in her eyes that reminds him of the sheen of metal through flesh, words forever lost, and something breaking.

“I’ll drink to it too,” is all the waitress says, her every word measured.

It’s hard for Wei Wuxian to say anything after they drink. Dark thoughts lull in his mind, asking him, Was it you? Was it you?

Eventually, Wei Wuxian comes to the conclusion that it couldn’t have been him. Villains are to burn in hell for all eternity. Why would anyone so vile be given new life as a god?

It’s an impossibility. If anything, Wei Wuxian is just unfortunate to share a name with someone so horrible. Perhaps some higher power thought it would be fun to give him a name (and what he can infer from his conversations with the souls, an appearance) with a blood-stained legacy.

So Wei Wuxian is just Wei Wuxian, god of luck. That’s all there is to it, and nothing else.

“By the way,” says Wei Wuxian, just as he’s moving to clean up, “I’ve been awfully rude, exchanging so many words with you and never once asking your name. How should I address you, fair maiden?”

The waitress places a hand on her hip, eyes crinkling in amusement. “Shouldn’t you give your own name first before asking for a woman’s?”

That’s a rather unfortunate question to ask. Still, a question is a question, and Wei Wuxian won’t shy away from it.

“Some secrets are best kept close to your heart,” he answers coyly. Wei Wuxian raises a finger to his lips and winks. “I’d prefer it if you called me... Fuxing.”

The waitress pauses for a moment. Her eyes go wide. “Fuxing,” she repeats. After a brief silence, she hesitantly adds, “the god of prosperity?”

Wei Wuxian waves his hand dismissively. He doesn’t care much for titles, but it’d be unfortunate if people learned his true name. Besides, the title feels right. “Luck, prosperity, wealth, whatever you want to call it. It is what it is.”

“Huh.” The waitress leans on the table again, as if dazed. She blinks out of it quickly, then bows. “Thank you for telling me your title. You can call this humble servant Mie Yu.”

Oh, cringe. Nope. Wei Wuxian doesn’t like where this is headed. He really doesn’t.

“No formality,” he says flatly. When the waitress looks up and opens her mouth to speak, he holds up a hand. “Listen. I understand that prosperity is a big deal for you mortals, but...” He sighs, tucking a strand of loose hair behind his ear. “I’m just trying to do the best I can, and you’re trying to do the best you can. You can respect me if you want, you can revere me if you want, but please, don’t put me on a pedestal. It really isn’t comfortable up there.”

Mie Yu stares at him for a moment. A series of emotions cross her face: first surprise, then suspicion, and then mirth. Her posture relaxes, and she gives an exaggerated bow. “Whatever your divine lordship commands.”

The night is still young when Wei Wuxian begins to pace the streets. Mie Yu tells him to enjoy the festivities while they last, then says that she’ll ready a bath for when he returns. He nods his head in thanks, then steps out into the lantern-lit roads.

Despite how small the village is, the streets are so busy that Wei Wuxian feels like he’s – somewhere. Someplace familiar. Home, maybe. Even if he doesn’t know, it’s a good feeling. He isn’t a child anymore, but the grin that rises to his face when he watches children run between stalls and to their friends speaks of fond memories.

By now, most of the villagers know he’s some sort of divine being. Regardless of whether they believe he’s a servant of a god or an actual god, they bow their heads slightly when he passes, and Wei Wuxian nods back.

Some of the younger storekeepers call out to him and insist on giving him gifts. If he were human, he wouldn’t reject them, and as a god, he can’t reject them. So he carries them as best as he can, struggling to fit all the flowers and incense and charms and snacks in his sleeves and in his arms. Just as he’s considering returning to his residence to empty his hands, all the offerings disappear in a brilliant flash of gold.

Everyone turns to stare. The people who were staring to begin with continue to stare. Even Wei Wuxian stares down at his glowing hands.

He isn’t sure what to think, but he feels... stronger? It isn’t the right way to describe the sensation of fulfillment he gains, but it’s close. He feels warm, he feels good. Something swells inside him.

“Hey, hey, how’d you do that?”

A small hand tugs at his robes, and Wei Wuxian turns to see a small boy, no older than three or four at most, staring at him with wonder in his eyes.

Xian-gege!

For a moment, his breath catches. Something stabs him in the gut. The warmth in his chest subsides.

Despite everything, Wei Wuxian smiles. He kneels down and spreads his hands in front of the boy. Golden strings form between his fingers, five short threads stretched taught.

“Are you curious?” Wei Wuxian watches as the child nods eagerly, running his small hands down the shining strings reverently. Despite his young age, the boy seems to understand that the strings are important.

“I heard people say that you have special powers,” the boy says. He looks up at Wei Wuxian with hope in his eyes, and something within tells him, orphan. “Can you make people alive again?”

It’s a question Wei Wuxian has to answer carefully. He knows the answer is yes, but it’s an answer so cruel that it’d be kinder not to say anything at all.

Instead, Wei Wuxian’s expression softens. Nobody asks such a question without a reason, least of all a child. “I can make you lucky, and that can make you happy, but if someone is gone, it’s best to let them go.”

The boy deflates. “Oh.”

Something inside Wei Wuxian hurts. Is it pity? Empathy?

He doesn’t know. That’s alright; he doesn’t need to know.

“But,” says Wei Wuxian, in a voice he remembers using to put someone to sleep, to comfort someone, but who, and when, and what was his name? “If you become someone they’d be proud of, then there’s no reason not to keep them close to your heart.”

The boy looks at him so earnestly that it makes him want to turn away. But he doesn’t. He’s done enough running.

So he takes the boy’s hands and intertwines the golden strings between his fingers.

Wei Wuxian is a god, and this will be his first blessing.

With closed eyes, Wei Wuxian begins. “The first, for gentle fortune, so you may find light in the darkest of nights.”

All it takes is one phrase for everything to come to him. He breathes the very life of the world, he channels the spirit of all that is alive, and he speaks an oath the cosmos and the stars made long ago.

“The second, for a long and healthy life, so you may stand tall even as time walks on.”

What does it matter who he was before? Immortal or not, nobody can live in the past when the present is all there is.

“The third, for respect from and to all, so you may greet and be greeted kindly.”

The memories that seep through speak of pain and tragedy and loss. It doesn’t matter.

“The fourth, for bonds that will never break, so you may find a family that will never abandon you.”

It’s a new day. There are people praying for happiness every waking moment. Wei Wuxian will not let them suffer alone.

“And the fifth,” Wei Wuxian finishes, opening his eyes to a child who has stars in his eyes, “for happiness that no one can offer to you but yourself, so you may find peace within and without.”

The last of the strings vanishes in a burst of light, and Wei Wuxian lifts his hands. The boy looks down at his own small hands, so soft and young and innocent. He looks up again.

Then, with more force than Wei Wuxian expected from such a small child, the boy leaps at him with open arms, smothering him in a wordless hug.

The cost, Wei Wuxian thinks somewhere in the back of his mind. He raises his hands to gently pat the boy’s back.

“Why don’t you head back to your friends?” Wei Wuxian gestures toward a group of children who appear to be watching from a distance with bright eyes and wide mouths. “I’m sure they’ve been looking for you.”

The boy looks devastated. “You’re not coming?”

“Gege is very busy.” He gently runs a hand through the boy’s unruly hair. “But if we meet again, I’ll be sure to treat you to some delicious food. Okay?”

The boy beams. “Okay!”

As he runs to join his friends, Wei Wuxian smiles. It’s better this way. Although it’s an incredibly faint memory, he recalls attempting to raise a child as his own—

You’re such a good boy.

I love you.

Live for me.

-And the ending was-

It’s better if Wei Wuxian lives in reality and does his duty as a god instead of playing the parent.

He continues to walk through the streets, watching as the lanterns are put out as the night marches on. People look at him with a different light in their eyes, undoubtedly a change spurred on by witnessing a blessing. In a small village like this, word spreads fast, and Wei Wuxian knows that everyone will have heard of their local god of luck when morning comes.

When he returns for the night, Mie Yu grins knowingly. “You’ve been busy.”

“I just got busy,” Wei Wuxian corrects. He sighs. “I’ll take that bath and call it a day. I’ll be gone before the sun rises.”

Mie Yu lifts an eyebrow. “Leaving so soon?”

“Duty calls,” is all Wei Wuxian says. Now that he’s started, he can’t just stop.

As he’s heading upstairs to his room, he pauses. He looks down at Mie Yu, who peers up at him.

One good act begets another. Wei Wuxian leans on the banister, running his fingers along the sturdy wood, and casually says, “When I’m gone, I suggest you be the one to clean up after me.”

Being the smart woman she is, Mie Yu laughs. “If that’s what your divine lordship commands, how can I refuse?”

That night, Wei Wuxian snatches stray threads of gold and ties them into circles. By the time the sun is just beginning to scatter light across the valley, the bed is completely covered with gold coins.

Wei Wuxian makes eight more for himself. He slips them in his sleeve.

He’ll come back here someday. Gods are entitled to whatever they want, and he wants to return here once he’s made people happy, see how far that blessed boy has gone, have a drink with Mie Yu, and give her a true answer as to what the world is like.

There is an ache in his heart. He is bleeding from a wound that has already healed. There are days of darkness and despair behind him—

But the world is vast. And there will be plenty of other days.

He leaves the village just as dawn breaks.

Chapter Text

A-Qing runs.

Her feet are bleeding, her hands are shaking, every breath is choked on the memories of Daozhang, Daozhang, Daozhang.

Fear. That’s all there is. And anger, and despair, and the burning desire for revenge. There are a million emotions raging inside her, and they’re all so complicated but so simple.

Die, die, die. May the gods smite you from this earth. May you burn in hell for eternity. May your soul be torn to shreds. May you suffer the pain you inflicted onto the world tenfold. You don’t deserve a peaceful end, you monster, you monster, you monster—

The desperation in his broken voice, the sheen of cold steel, words forever lost, and something shattering into pieces.

It hurts, but what A-Qing feels is nothing in comparison to the pain suffered by Daozhang and his... his friend, lover, family, partner, irreplaceable, gone forever, because of him, because of her, because of that demon, because of the gods, because of the world.

All this time, Daozhang carried so many burdens. Song Daozhang must’ve been the same, and yet he didn’t make a single sound as he slowly slipped away.

What sort of horrible god made the world so cruel?

A-Qing isn’t blind. She’s young, but she can see far more than most people. The story that Daozhang never finished didn’t need finishing.

One who carried the other home and left without him, one who walked forward because looking back hurt too much and the other who chased after him because he knew how much it hurt, one who fell and the other that chased after him to a place A-Qing can’t go.

And there was nothing but silence to greet them.

A-Qing won’t ever know what they wanted to say to each other.

(She knows.

To someone who promised to stay by your side but couldn’t, to someone who gave you everything when you didn’t want it, to someone who was lost before you could reach out to them and bring them back—

What else can you say but “Thank you” and “I’m sorry”?)

A-Qing had a family. It was a lie, an illusion built by a demon who saw kindness in a man with nothing but good in his heart and exploited it. But no lies can last forever. The end comes with the truth, and the truth comes with the end. It doesn’t matter which one comes first, because both will come eventually, and when one comes, the other is never far behind.

A-Qing isn’t stupid. She knows that she can’t run or hide forever. You don’t realize how little time you have left until everyone around you has already run out of time.

So with the time she has left, she needs to find someone who can bring justice to all the innocent people who have fallen at Xue Yang’s disgusting hands.

This is for Daozhang, she tells herself, wandering through the same streets over and over again, asking for help, for strength, for anything at all.

This is for me, she knows, curling into herself when night falls and the cold comes with it. This is for me, who doesn’t deserve anything, but you took something away from me that I can never replace, and it hurts, and I’ll never forgive you.

Time is running out. There was never enough to begin with. Days pass, and A-Qing knows that Xue Yang will find her.

“Excuse me, are there any powerful cultivators here?”

No matter how desperately A-Qing asks, everyone snorts and turns away from her. They’re so ignorant and carefree and selfish that A-Qing wants to punch them in the face, pull them down to the ground, and scream, Why are you wasting your stupid life that Daozhang died to save!?

The sun is beginning to set. A-Qing feels weary and exhausted down to her very core.

She keeps walking. Her hands are shaking, but her grip on her bamboo pole is firm.

And there, strolling slowly through the streets, is a man with long black hair wearing a weimao with a golden veil. Black robes fall down his shoulders in many layers, tracing a pattern for white peonies to tumble down his arms and into a white pool at his feet.

As he passes, people turn to stop and stare in awe, eyes wide with reverence. Some give him a wide berth, others bow respectfully, and others still smile and turn away knowingly.

A-Qing can’t see his face, but she knows an important person when she sees one.

Using her newfound strength, A-Qing runs down the street, muttering half-apologies at those she collides with, ignoring the stinging pain in her feet, until she reaches out and grabs a handful of the man’s peony-patterned sleeve.

The man pauses. He barely has time to turn his head before A-Qing steels herself and tightens her grip.

“Excuse me,” she says resolutely, planting herself down and refusing to move until he listens, “do you know of any powerful cultivators around here?”

When the man fully turns to face her, A-Qing gapes.

He’s more beautiful than anyone A-Qing has ever seen. His skin is pale and clear and his features are elegant. He’s pretty in a real way, not like those other filthy men who dress like they’re kings and act like they’re criminals. His expression is bright but muted, as if he’s watching the sun slowly set into twilight. And...

There’s a legend of sorts going around these days about a god. It’s the kind of thing everyone knows in the back of their mind, but whether it’s real or not comes down to what you’ve seen.

A god descended to the mortal realm not too long ago.

They say he’s a god of luck. He’ll grant you the fortune that the world won’t give you. If you should ever find yourself lost, he’ll bring you home.

He’s a kind soul. He will treat you with respect before you treat him with respect. But he is a god, and no matter how friendly a god is, there is a line that mustn't be breached.

At the end of the day, though, he’s a friend. If you need his help, he won’t turn away. He understands what it’s like to be alone, and he won’t let you fall to the same fate.

His eyes are full of stars, but the stars he wants you to see are somewhere else.

“Your eyes,” A-Qing whispers.

It’s like looking at the stars at night when every other light has gone. Hundreds of golden dots linger in a landscape of grey and blue and purple, and when he blinks, the stars rearrange themselves and swirl endlessly in circles and circles, neverending, eternal, quietly breathing and dying.

The man—the god—takes one look at A-Qing and smiles. His expression softens. “You’re looking for a cultivator? Is there something wrong?”

His voice is a bit deeper than A-Qing expected, but it’s firm and kind. Snapping out of her trance, A-Qing nods furiously and tightens her grip. “Sir, your divine lordship, please, I beg you! I need your help. Please!”

This is a chance that A-Qing can’t lose. No matter how tricky or powerful Xue Yang is, it’s impossible to kill a god. And who better to enact justice for all those unfortunate innocents that died at Xue Yang’s dirty hands than a god of luck himself?

The god takes a moment to peer behind A-Qing. His eyes narrow.

When A-Qing turns to look, she sees nothing but the same dusty streets she’s been roaming for days.

“I can help you.”

With those words, A-Qing feels the tiniest bit of hope crawl forth from somewhere inside her. But she keeps it far from her heart. It’s that desperate hope that Xue Yang revels in crushing, and A-Qing refuses to waste the life that she’s been given by falling to the same cruel methods.

Bowing as deeply as she can, A-Qing bites down on her quivering lip and forces the tears back. “Thank you. Thank you. This... this undeserving servant will be forever grateful.”

“You don’t need to bow,” the god says, softly, gently. When A-Qing stands straight, he offers his hand. A-Qing hesitates, and he shakes his head with an emotion that’s too complicated to identify. “You don’t need to be scared. It’s my duty to help. Whatever it is you’re running from, I’ll help you face it.”

His hand is slender but calloused. His eyes are clear. They’re the hands and the eyes of someone who does good and asks for nothing in exchange.

The world really is vast, Daozhang.

In an act of—of what? Shedding the past? Running full-speed into the only option she has left?

A-Qing doesn’t know. She doesn’t care. She looks up at the god’s starry eyes that somehow still manage to convey so much genuine emotion, and takes his hand.

The god lets out a small breath. In an instant, his expression shifts from something somber to something lighter and more jovial.

“First things first,” he says, his voice lifting with a cheer that A-Qing finds herself appreciating, even in the midst of everything, “let’s get you cleaned up. You can tell me your story after dinner.”

The god calls himself Fuxing.

There’s a strange glint in his eyes when he tells A-Qing, as if he doesn’t really mean it. Even the way he says it is suspicious.

“You can call me Fuxing,” he says, his tone demonstrating that he’s introduced himself as such a thousand times over.

But A-Qing isn’t convinced. “I can call you Fuxing,” she says adamantly, “but what do you call yourself?”

For a moment, the god turns to her with wide eyes. It’s an expression of pleasant surprise. But he simply smiles and raises a finger to his lips. “Even gods are allowed to keep secrets. What about you, young maiden? How should I address you?”

A-Qing huffs. “You can call me A-Qing,” she parrots, annoyed.

Fuxing laughs, eyes bright. “Well, I guess that’s fair enough.”

Despite A-Qing’s insisting that Xue Yang needs to be stopped immediately, Fuxing brings her along to find new clothes. When he spots A-Qing’s bleeding feet, he frowns, takes off his weimao, turns around, and drops to one knee.

He makes a gesture with his hands while looking back. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride.”

“A what?”

At first, A-Qing rejects the offer because she’s pretty sure even touching a god is crossing some sort of line. But Fuxing keeps insisting, and A-Qing’s feet really do hurt, so she caves.

Fuxing hands A-Qing his weimao and grins when she puts it on her own head. He picks her up, and the two of them begin making their way down the streets, attracting a fair share of shocked looks.

It doesn’t take long for A-Qing to get changed into something that isn’t so torn up. Upon entering the shop, Fuxing gives a small “Hello, good sir” in greeting. The shopkeeper takes one look at Fuxing and A-Qing, goes pale, and scrambles to pull every suitable robe down.

The past few days have been particularly harrowing, but A-Qing’s new green and white aoqun improves her mood by leaps and bounds. Despite the very real danger of Xue Yang appearing from the shadows and cutting her up into pieces, Fuxing’s presence makes her feel safe.

Fuxing picks her up again, and they head off toward a hotel. The entire room goes quiet when they enter, but the owner simply exchanges an amused look with Fuxing and turns to speak to one of the wide-eyed employees.

A-Qing catches people staring at her and glares right back. It doesn’t matter what they think of her. These people don’t know anything, and they never cared to begin with. In the end, the only person in this entire town who listened to her was a god.

Well, it could’ve been much worse. For a god, Fuxing seems very kind.

Fuxing finally lets A-Qing down once they’re resting safely in a room. He seats her on the bed just as a young lady pokes her head meekly into the room, slides two servings of dinner onto the table, and escapes as quickly as possible.

“Let me take a look at your feet first,” Fuxing says, entirely unfazed. He’s probably used to being so divine to the point that people fear him. “You’ve been running for a while, haven’t you? It must be painful.”

“Uh-huh,” is all A-Qing can say as she lifts the weimao off her head.

The god raises a hand over her bloodied feet. A golden glow surrounds Fuxing’s hand, and with a whisper of something unknown, the same glow bathes A-Qing’s feet. She feels warm, she feels safe, and the glow subsides.

The cuts are gone. The pain is gone.

There... isn’t anything A-Qing can say. Fuxing’s a god. Healing such minor wounds and alleviating such pain must be child’s play for him.

It isn’t that A-Qing wants more, and she isn’t ungrateful. For Fuxing to turn away from whatever divine duties he has and listen to one tiny girl is already enough. To clothe her, feed her, and house her is far more than enough.

But if he truly is so powerful, why couldn’t he come sooner?

How many people could’ve been saved if he had just come sooner?

With a satisfied nod, Fuxing gestures to the table. “Now, if you’d like, you can tell me your story. But only after dinner.” The god smiles and runs the tips of his fingers over the smooth wood. “It’s always better to deal with pain on a full stomach.”

A-Qing has never been the sort of person to deny a free meal. Besides, she’s barely eaten anything over the past few days. After she gets rid of Xue Yang, who knows when or where she’ll get her next meal?

Without Daozhang here—

No. No. A-Qing has moped for long enough. She won’t let her emotions get the better of her, especially not when there’s a chance right in front of her.

Seating herself across the god, A-Qing grabs her chopsticks, picks up her bowl, and proceeds to inhale everything as quickly as possible.

Fuxing’s brows raise, but he says nothing. While A-Qing devours everything before her, he ignores his food, instead choosing to stare at the window and into the night. The gold stars remain stagnant as his eyes glaze over, lost in something nobody but him can see.

It’s weird. It’s really weird. Gods are supposed to be fickle and mercurial, but Fuxing’s different. His mood comes and goes in gentle motions; one moment, he’ll be teasing, the next, he’ll be amused, and the next, he’ll be melancholic.

For a god, he looks awfully lost.

A-Qing points to Fuxing’s bowl of rice, still untouched. “So, are you going to eat or what?”

The god startles for a moment, then looks down at his food. “Oh,” he says. “No, I think I’ll pass. You can take my share.”

A-Qing narrows her eyes. She slaps her chopsticks onto the table and glares at Fuxing. “Eat. What kind of dumb person skips meals?”

Fuxing’s brows raise again. He breaks into an amused smile. “Well, if you insist, then I can’t possibly say no.”

A-Qing only goes back to her own food once she’s made sure that Fuxing’s actually eating and not just poking at his food.

If there’s one thing A-Qing knows, it’s that even when you aren’t hungry, you should eat when you have to eat. Losing your appetite is always a bad sign. It means that you’re sick, you’re sad, or you’re so distracted by something that you don’t see the point in eating.

It’s bad news all around, and A-Qing isn’t about to throw a god at someone like Xue Yang without making sure Fuxing can kill that bastard dead.

By the time they’re both done, it’s dark outside. A-Qing moves back to the bed while Fuxing exchanges a short conversation with the lady who’s picking up their plates.

The door closes, and Fuxing turns back, no discernable expression on his features. The moon lights up his pale features, and for a moment, he really does look like he’s above everyone else.

Then: “Now, why don’t you tell me your story?”

A-Qing wants to think, About time!

In reality, she thinks, Oh.

It’s always easier to say things in the heat of the moment.

The words are hard to find.

Pain is an easy thing to feel, but it’s incredibly difficult to explain.

The beginning is the hardest to tell. Hindsight’s a stupid thing that way. Everything was so much before the truth was revealed. It’s so comfortable, living in arrogance. Who wants to face the truth? What good does it do?

(Then I’ll follow you from now on. You’re Blind Senior. I’m Blind Junior.

If we travel together, we can look after each other!)

A-Qing speaks of her first meeting with Daozhang, their cursed encounter with Xue Yang, their years of peace, her growing suspicion of Xue Yang, and—

(Excuse me, has anyone in this area seen a sword-wielding, blind Taoist?)

The ending is the easiest to tell.

(Spare me. Just... spare me.)

The words spill from her lips. She curses Xue Yang for being born into the world, laments the deaths of everyone who he deceived, and wonders if things could’ve been different if only luck was on her side.

When everything’s been said and done, A-Qing falls silent. She’s tired. She’s tired of crying. She’s tired of running. She’s tired of being scared.

In her mind is that same question, repeating endlessly: Why? You’re a god, aren’t you? Why didn’t you warn us? Why didn’t you do something?

Why?

“I know.”

Fuxing’s voice jolts A-Qing out of her reverie. “What?”

The god kneels before her. Without a gold veil obstructing either of their eyes, A-Qing can see them clearly up close for the first time.

They’re so beautiful, but they’re so sad.

It’s a sort of sadness that piles on top of itself, over and over again, until the hurt fades into acceptance. He looks like he’s about to cry, but not because it hurts. He’s fighting to hold on, but A-Qing doesn’t know what he’s trying to hold onto.

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? Regardless of how strong you are, it’s so easy for something to slip from your grasp. If you’re about to lose one thing and you struggle to reach out and grab it, you’ll lose whatever else you held in your hands. If you want to take on the weight of the world, you need to let go first.

Maybe, just maybe, that’s why Fuxing laughs so sadly when he reaches to grasp A-Qing’s hands. It’s like he’s saying, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let go.

A-Qing swallows the lump in her throat.

“I know,” Fuxing repeats softly. “You want to know why, don’t you?”

What does she say? What is she supposed to say when a god asks something like that? What do you say to someone who can read you just as well as you can read them?

“Yes,” A-Qing answers. It’s what’s in her heart.

Fuxing closes his eyes. Without the stars in his eyes, he looks so very human. And humans are so very fragile.

“You aren’t the first to ask, and you won’t be the last.” His voice is tired. He looks tired. He releases A-Qing’s hands but remains kneeled on the ground.

A-Qing wants to tell him to sit on the bed beside her and rest, but she won’t. It’s not her place.

“I follow chaos. I chase it down and I grant power to those who wish to put an end to it. I try to mitigate it as best as I can, but in the end, I don’t get to control who lives and who dies. The more chaos there is, the faster humans die. And there’s no such thing as a world without chaos, so someone will always be left behind.” Fuxing laughs bitterly, his gaze scornful. “It turns out that luck isn’t life.”

It’s just as sad as it is terrifying to hear a god admit such things. It’s the same as saying, at the end of the world, you’ll have to save yourselves.

As Fuxing speaks, his gaze lulls and the stars in his eyes slowly fade, one by one. “I won’t make excuses for myself. I left you behind, and you suffered for it. For that, I’m sorry.”

When Fuxing looks up at A-Qing, his eyes are simply an empty gray. There’s no trace of divinity, no sign of a not-so-all-powerful god. Before A-Qing is simply someone who wants to do good, and yet he’s forced to clean up the problems this world makes.

It hurts to know that even a god of luck isn’t above the whims of fate.

But if that’s the case... then none of them are. Whatever happens—it just happens. All anyone can ever do is try to salvage what’s left and piece it back together.

A-Qing takes a deep breath. With an unwavering gaze, she raises both her hands.

Confusion replaces the awful look of resigned, exhausted sorrow. Good. Anything is better than that self-condemning spiral of doom and gloom.

Then, with as much force as she can muster, A-Qing brings her hands down on either side of Fuxing’s face.

The resulting slap is a bit more violent and a lot louder than A-Qing intended, but it does the trick. Fuxing yelps and falls back, his hands cupping his face.

“What—why—” Fuxing pouts accusingly, and for a moment, A-Qing wonders how old he really is. “Why would you do that? I was—I was—”

“You were being sad,” A-Qing snaps. “I asked you why you couldn’t come earlier, and you told me why. I don’t need an apology. Anyone who asks for an apology is out of line!”

With her newly-healed feet, A-Qing stands and jabs a finger at Fuxing’s chest. She looks down at his bewildered form and narrows her eyes.

“You. Are. A. God.” Every one of A-Qing’s words corresponds with a fierce poke, and Fuxing’s eyes grow wider and wider as she speaks. “Everything you do is righteous! It’s good enough that you’re here in the mortal realm! What about those other gods that sit on their hands and watch as we all drop dead? At least if we die, you’ll be here to give us peace!”

With one last push, A-Qing drops down to her knees, grabs Fuxing’s robes by the collar, and refuses to let him look away. The stars are back and they’re swirling more vividly than ever.

“I’m sick of feeling sorry for myself,” A-Qing says, voice rising in volume, “and I’m sick of seeing you feel sorry for everyone else! What’s wrong with fixing problems once they’ve already happened? At least we have someone to help make things better! At least—”

A-Qing breaks and shatters into tiny pieces, but she pushes on anyway.

“At least you’re here,” A-Qing says, choking on half a sob. Her eyes are wet, there’s something caught in her throat, but her grip only tightens.

No matter how hard she tries to bite the tears back, she can’t. Once they start, they don’t stop.

So A-Qing sits there, her fingers tangled in Fuxing’s robes, tears streaming down her face for the last time, strangled sobs crawling out of her throat.

Why is it that the strongest people are the most fragile? Why is it that the best people end up with the worst fates? Why do people like Daozhang, who only want to do good despite the fact that they can only do so much, who owe the world absolutely nothing but give so freely anyway—why do good people with bleeding hearts destroy themselves? Why does the world let them? Why does the world punish them and then laugh at them?

A-Qing cries and cries, but it isn’t the same as before. Before, when she cried, it was because of fear, sorrow, and anger. Now, it’s because of frustration.

Good people never listen to the people who care about them. They run so quickly toward their deaths. They destroy themselves and inadvertently hurt everyone around them.

“You’re all so stupid,” A-Qing weeps, her sore fingers finally releasing Fuxing’s robes.

Fuxing’s breath catches in his throat. Then his shoulders fall slowly, his expression crumples like the entire world has just come down upon him, and he reaches out to wrap A-Qing in a hug.

It helps. It doesn’t. A-Qing doesn’t know anymore. All she can do is bunch her dumb, useless hands in Fuxing’s robes again, grabbing onto the last hope she has.

“Don’t go,” she begs, to Daozhang, to the trembling god. It doesn’t matter. As long as someone hears her, it doesn’t matter. “I don’t want to be alone! If you all leave, what... what am I supposed to do now?”

The next breath that Fuxing breathes shakes his entire being. His arms tighten around A-Qing, and, very gently, he pats her back at a slow, steady pace. He continues running his hand down A-Qing’s back like he’s comforting a young child until the last of A-Qing’s sobs subside into sniffles.

It’s dumb. A-Qing isn’t a child. She doesn’t need to be treated like one.

But it’s good enough. Being here is good enough.

“Okay,” Fuxing finally says. “Okay. I won’t go. I won’t leave you alone. If you don’t know what to do, you can...” His voice trails off, but when it returns, it’s unwavering and firm. “You can come with me, and I can give you something to live for.”

A-Qing’s breath hitches sporadically, but she manages to bring the words forward anyway. “Then promise,” she whispers. “I’m tired of people leaving without saying anything.”

For a long moment, Fuxing is silent. Then he pulls away from A-Qing, grasping her arms gently in his pale hands.

“I promise,” Fuxing says. The stars in his eyes dance in endless circles. The kaleidoscope of grey and purple darkens and darkens until it becomes night. His smile is sad but soft, as if he’s still halfway lost. “I’m tired of leaving people behind. So let’s promise to stick together until the end of the road, okay?”

The end of the road could be tomorrow; it could be in a hundred years.

It doesn’t matter. At the end of that road has to be another road, and another, and another. As long as Fuxing can lead A-Qing to the end of this one, then these dark days will be over.

A-Qing nods. She sniffles and wipes away the last tears in her eyes. “Yeah. Promise. Until the end of the road.”

Fuxing takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “Good,” he mutters. “Good.”

For a long time, there’s only silence to fill the room. Fuxing steadies himself while A-Qing sits until her breaths finally come normally.

And then that she realizes how stupid the situation is.

A girl and a god, kneeled on the ground and exhausted in more ways than one, neither one better off than the other. A-Qing came here to find help, and yet all she’s done is cry all over a god’s robes.

Fuxing isn’t much better, either. Stupid self-sacrificing idiots, trying to save everyone while pushing everyone away. If the path is so hard to walk that you can’t bring anyone along with you, it’s not worth it.

A clap of laughter breaks the silence. Fuxing runs a hand through his hair, then rises to his feet. A-Qing follows suit.

“What a night it’s been,” he says, shaking his head. Despite everything, that familiar amused glint returns to his features. “But at the very least, I don’t need to convince you to stop acting so formal around me. I think we jumped that hurdle when you decided to give me a friendly wake-up slap.”

A-Qing huffs and crosses her arms. “I won’t apologize.”

“You don’t need to.” Fuxing grins, all teeth. “In fact, it’s refreshing to meet someone who doesn’t trip over themselves bowing when they see me.”

“I’m not going to bow to someone unless they’ve already done something for me,” A-Qing says, a little heated. That, and when somebody has died for her.

Fuxing hums in agreement. “You’re absolutely right. So let me stop wasting time and act like a god.”

A-Qing doesn’t know why she’s surprised when a glorious golden aura bursts from Fuxing. As he spreads his hands and drags golden strings into existence from nothing, her mouth drops open, and Fuxing’s lips curl into a smile.

“Young maiden who runs alongside the wind,” the god declares, his fingers dancing between ethereal golden strands, “unto you, I bestow five blessings.”

Oh.

“The first, for strength of heart, so you may face your enemies without fear.”

I won’t let Xue Yang get away with this.

“The second, for strength of will, so you may seek out the end to your journeys with your own two hands.”

I’ll do this for all of us, Daozhang.

“The third, for peace of heart, so you may lay to rest the ghosts that haunt you.”

I’ll find a way to make things better.

“The fourth, for a future of freedom, so you may carve out the roads that you desire to travel.”

I’ll find a way to bring you back and give you the happiness you deserve.

“And the fifth,” the god finishes, tying the last knot in a stream of ever-changing gold, “for hands made for mending and creating, so you may weave bonds that will never break.”

Let’s travel together again one day, okay?

With a brilliant burst of light, the strings burst into ephemeral flecks of stardust, disappearing into the endless night as if they were never there to begin with.

A-Qing watches the gold slowly fade, then looks down at her hands. She feels warmer. Maybe not stronger, but... better.

Fuxing’s gold aura fades along with the strings. He lets out a breath, clenches his hands a few times, then leans down and peers into A-Qing’s eyes. After a moment, he reaches for her wrist and presses two fingers down to—to check her pulse?

“Hm,” he says contemplatively. A-Qing has no idea what he’s looking for, but it appears he finds it. With a satisfied nod, Fuxing releases her wrist and steps back. “I think I know someone who can take you in.”

“What? Really? Who?”

“Someone I know quite well,” is all Fuxing provides before he glances out the window and into the dark. “But we’ll leave that conversation for another time. It’s late, and we have a very big day ahead of us.”

A-Qing studies Fuxing’s expression carefully. Instead of his usual comedic grin, his lips are pulled upward into something sharp and thin and dangerous, like a knife. His eyes glint with an ominous tint, and for a split second, A-Qing swears she sees a spark of red light up the stars.

“Okay,” she says, choosing her words carefully. “I’ll go and sleep. What about you?”

Fuxing tilts his head to the side. It’s a strange motion, something not quite human. “Oh, don’t worry about me.” Lyrical: that’s what his voice is. Lyrical, smooth, and void of any genuine emotion. “Don’t you know? Monsters are most active at night.”

The god lifts his hand as if to study it. A dark hue clouds the tips of his fingers, swirling slowly, pacing, watching everyone and everywhere.

“Rest,” the god says, and no matter how hard A-Qing tries to stay awake, the lull of sleep tugs harder. “As long as I’m here, the nightmares won’t catch you.”

Before sleep takes her completely, in the corner of her eye, A-Qing sees a single red spider lily bloom.

Dawn has barely broken before A-Qing and Fuxing make their way out of town. Fuxing holds her hand in his grip, and A-Qing can’t find it in herself to complain.

They both feel it. Something’s following them, and it’s close.

“Fuxing,” A-Qing whispers, keeping close. “Where are we going?”

The god squeezes her hand but doesn’t look back. He keeps walking, and all A-Qing can do is follow.

That golden veil has never felt more like a wall than it has now.

They walk, walk, and walk, and for some time, A-Qing manages to convince herself that they’ve escaped, and that nobody, not even Xue Yang, would dare attack a god.

It happens the moment A-Qing hears the gentle trickle of a small stream.

A blur of black robes, the unmistakable sound of a blade cutting through air, and the inhuman grunts of a corpse.

A-Qing barely has time to scream before Fuxing snaps his sleeve outward.

It happens in an instant.

Eight golden coins fly out of the god’s sleeve. One moment, they’re nothing but tiny golden circles, and the next, they’re eight golden blades adorned with white flowers, catching the attack and returning it with ten times the force.

The figure smashes into a tree with a sickening crack, and A-Qing’s breath catches.

She’d recognize him anywhere. How could she forget, after sending him to his death?

“Song Daozhang,” she cries, her grip threatening to snap her bamboo pole in half. She looks up at the god and shakes his sleeve, begging him to the listen. “That’s Song Daozhang! Fuxing, you have to help him. You have to save him!”

Finally, the god peers downward. His eyes shine a brilliant gold as his swords dance around him, glowing with divine light. “I will.”

Song Daozhang makes an awful noise as he throws himself up and forward. Fuxing snaps his fingers.

A-Qing quickly learns why gods are not to be trifled with.

Even in death, Song Daozhang is elegant and immensely skilled. His sword flashes as he attacks relentlessly over and over again, leaving a streak of black behind him. If he were facing any lesser being, he would have them on the ground, bleeding, and in pieces.

But no matter how powerful a mortal is, gods will always be a step higher.

Without lifting a single finger, Fuxing watches with an empty expression as his blades land two blows after countering one. Regardless of which direction Song Daozhang’s Fuxue strikes, the god’s weapons refuse to leave even a single opening.

Then, suddenly, inexplicably, Song Daozhang slips, or trips, or hesitates. Fuxing sees it, and his eyes narrow.

A golden sword pierces through Song Daozhang’s bloodless chest and pins him to the ground. The earth beneath Song Daozhang’s struggling corpse bursts into light, painting an array that seals his movements entirely.

Bringing two fingers to his lips, Fuxing speaks a single word: “Purge.”

Brilliant gold light envelopes the array. Song Daozhang releases a series of awful roars that make A-Qing flinch, but as the light dies down, so does his grunts and spasms. When the light fades entirely, all that remains is a still corpse.

“What a shame,” Fuxing says calmly. His seven remaining swords return to float by his side. Slowly, almost lethargically, he reaches for one and wraps his hand around its hilt. “I’m not sure how long you thought you could hold me back, but you completely missed your opportunity for a sneak attack.”

At first, there is silence. Then, from the stillness, an eerie laugh winds and echoes out from the trees.

Rage and fear snap into place. A-Qing steps closer to Fuxing.

That laugh. That cursed, dirty, piece-of-shit laugh. The only people who should have to hear it is the murderers and demons that reside in hell, and if Fuxing doesn’t do it throw him down there, then A-Qing will kick him down herself.

From the shadows of the forest, Xue Yang steps out and into the early morning light, a smear of black against the dawn-lit trees, a monster wearing a pleasant smile on his face.

“How interesting,” Xue Yang says, light in both voice and demeanor. His steps are measured but bold. As he makes his way toward Fuxing, his eyes glint with hungry curiosity. “A gold veil, eight gold swords—why, you remind me very much of a certain god.”

Fuxing’s smile is sharper than any of his blades. He gently nudges A-Qing back with one hand and drags the tip of his sword in front of himself with the other. “Is that so? What a happy coincidence.”

Xue Yang turns to A-Qing, his smile widening. He bares his teeth and cocks his head to the side. Despite having a god’s protection, a violent shiver runs down A-Qing’s spine. “And if it isn’t A-Qing. You’re so good at making friends. You even earned the favour of a god!”

Disgusting, disgusting, disgusting. A-Qing’s expression twists, and her grip on Fuxing’s sleeve tightens. “Fuck you!”

“A-Qing,” Xue Yang says, his words honey-sweet with fake sadness, “why do you keep pushing me away? We’re friends, aren’t we? Come on, let me give you a hug.”

Xue Yang spreads his arms, his smile unfaltering. A-Qing feels sick to her stomach.

And that sword in his hand—

It’s Daozhang’s. It’s Daozhang’s!

“You filthy animal!” A-Qing doesn’t dare step closer, so she instead tugs Fuxing toward her. Rage boils inside her, threatening to consume her, yet the fear keeps her in place. “How dare you dirty Daozhang’s sword with your disgusting hands! If you have any human thoughts in that warped head of yours, you’ll cut off your own head before Fuxing skewers you like the pathetic sack of meat you are and shreds your black heart into pieces!”

Xue Yang’s smile widens into something more fitting, sharp and demented and something A-Qing would love to see hacked right off his face. “That’s quite the mouth you have! What happened to that stupid little girl who’d whine to Xiao Xingchen so often?” His features light up with a manic glint. “Or was that an act too? Congratulations, congratulations. You managed to fool me so well.”

Casually, deliberately, Xue Yang draws his own sword. He points both the blade and his gaze at Fuxing, who returns the motion as calmly as ever and with a confident grace.

“You’re a brave one,” Fuxing says. “It’s not often that someone decides to challenge me.”

“Oh, but don’t you know?” Xue Yang waves Shuanghua at Song Daozhang’s incapacitated form. “These past few days have been incredibly successful for me. Two of the world’s most renowned cultivators in the palm of my hand—it’s truly a dream come true!”

How dare he. How dare he.

A-Qing opens her mouth to unleash another stream of curses onto Xue Yang, only to fall silent as she sees the corner of Fuxing’s mouth inch upward. A low chuckle crawls out of the god’s throat, colder than A-Qing has ever heard. It isn’t friendly, and it most definitely isn’t kind.

She quickly shuts her mouth.

“Two,” Fuxing drawls. “Two, you say. Then pardon me if I’m counting wrong, but...” Fuxing leaves a deliberate pause, then makes a show of peering over to Song Daozhang. “Why, I only count one. Where, oh where is Xiao Xingchen?”

A-Qing freezes.

She remembers Daozhang’s death more vividly than anything. The fear that she’d be next to die, the pain in her limbs as she waited and waited for the nightmare to end, the gut-wrenching loneliness when she realized that she was truly and utterly alone again.

For some reason, Xue Yang couldn’t bring Daozhang back, and that hurt him more than any sword ever could. A-Qing won’t ever know why, and she won’t ever care. He killed Daozhang and then had the audacity to blame Daozhang for not coming back!

Fuxing makes an indistinct noise as if thinking to himself, then brightens. “Oh! Perhaps Xiao Xingchen was so disgusted by you that hearing your awful voice drove him away forever. Or maybe he shattered his soul into pieces knowing that you’d waste years and years trying to piece it together like a stupid dog who keeps returning to the master that hit him. Or...”

An expression of pity rises to Fuxing’s features. It’s so insincere that A-Qing draws back and holds her breath.

“My, my.” The god shakes his head, looking down at Xue Yang with cruel humour. “You really are a child. Don’t you know that if you hold onto something too tightly, it breaks?”

Xue Yang’s smile slides off his face. His expression falls terrifyingly flat, then darkens.

A-Qing lets out a scream as Xue Yang’s swords collide with Fuxing’s golden blades. There’s nothing but feral madness in his every swing, in his every step.

“You want Xiao Xingchen? You want to see him?” No sense remains in Xue Yang’s crazed laughter anymore. Between the shrieking of his voice and the shrieking of his blades, A-Qing isn’t sure which sound she detests more. “You’re a god, aren’t you? Bring him back, then! Bring his soul back, and we’ll ask him exactly why he left!”

Fuxing snorts. He holds his ground, one arm shielding A-Qing. “Why would I do that? After all, you went to such great lengths to send him on his way.” The god chuckles again. “But I have to admit I’m impressed. It’s exceedingly difficult to convince someone to send themselves off. Xue Yang, if there’s one thing you’re good at, it’s being such a disgusting creature that people would rather slit their own throats than listen to your incessant drivel for a single second longer.”

Xue Yang’s expression warps into something entirely inhuman and terrifying. If A-Qing were to face him alone, she has no doubt that she’d be killed in the most brutal, horrible way possible.

But as scared as A-Qing is that Fuxing is so readily provoking a crazed Xue Yang, with every word that the god says, she finds more and more respect for him.

Xue Yang stripped Daozhang and Song Daozhang of everything: their beliefs, their dignity, and then their lives. It’s only right that Fuxing does the same to Xue Yang.

What goes around comes around, asshole!

Fuxing’s words are sickly sweet, dripping with false emotion. “Xiao Xingchen, Xiao Xingchen. Don’t you know how to talk about anything else? At least when A-Qing cries for her Daozhang, it’s because she’s lamenting the death of family. But what about you? Why would a worthless murderer like you clutch so desperately to someone as righteous as Xiao Xingchen?”

In an arc of gold light, the blade in Fuxing’s grasp flashes forward.

It’s like when a sharp knife cuts skin—the blood has to catch up to the wound. Fuxing’s sword falls first, and for a moment, there is nothing. Then the forest itself seems to rend, folding inward as the god’s sword slashes open a golden wound into the forest floor and a flaying blow onto Xue Yang’s face with terrifying ease.

As Xue Yang hisses and steps back, Fuxing’s smile shapes into something cruel and hungry. If the blade had cut just a little higher, he would’ve taken out Xue Yang’s eyes entirely.

“What a loyal dog,” Fuxing praises, releasing A-Qing’s hand for what seems like the first time since they met. The god reaches to examine the blood on his blade nonchalantly, then swipes the sword downward, drawing an eerie red line in the forest floor with Xue Yang’s blood. “Why, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were in love with him!”

Silence. Xue Yang freezes and his expression goes completely blank.

A-Qing’s mind grinds to a halt.

Xue Yang, in love with Daozhang? That’s a joke, right?

In the silence of the early morning, Xue Yang’s ragged breaths rip through the shadows. “Don’t talk like you know a single thing about me,” he snarls. Blood runs freely down his face, painting a ghastly image of an insane creature. “You think you know me so well, don’t you? Who do you think you are?”

The words don’t need to be said. Xue Yang’s reaction says enough.

That... can’t be. It can’t be. That isn’t how love works. It isn’t how it works!

“Dream on!” A-Qing’s voice cuts through the battle. With one hand, she slams her bamboo pole down onto the ground, and with the other, she points accusingly at Xue Yang. “You think Daozhang would ever love someone as vile as you?” Despite everything, A-Qing lets out a laugh, a noise fuelled by hysteria and disbelief and anger. “He hated you until the very end! You’re so great of a liar that you even managed to fool yourself!”

Even when Xue Yang turns the full force of his monstrous gaze to A-Qing, she stands tall. How could Xue Yang ever think himself worthy of Daozhang’s affection when all he did was manipulate him and make him suffer?

“You bitch!” With a horrifying screech, Xue Yang brings Shuanghua down at A-Qing. She should be afraid, but she isn’t, because a gold blade parries it with ease, raising an ear-piercing ring through the clearing.

Fuxing raises an arm in front of her. He looks back with a strange expression. “Do what you believe is right,” is all he says before he turns back to face Xue Yang.

The battle is decided in an instant.

With a sword in hand, Fuxing makes quick work of Xue Yang. Although Xue Yang wields two powerful swords, and although a sharp sword is sharp no matter who’s cutting, if you don’t have hands to cut with, it doesn’t matter how hard you swing.

Fuxing opens gaping wounds with every attack. His blades dig into flesh and rip outward with terrifying force, spraying blood in every direction. With one stroke, Fuxing cuts Xue Yang’s right arm clean off. With another, Xue Yang’s left arm falls to the ground.

All it takes is one final cleave to his knees, not enough to sever but more than enough to incapacitate. Finally, Xue Yang drops to his knees, blood spurting from every new opening Fuxing has introduced onto his body.

Shuanghua and Jiangzai lie on the grass, free from Xue Yang’s grip, splattered with crimson.

A-Qing trembles.

Despite his mutilated form, Xue Yang somehow finds the will to laugh. He raises his head to stare down an approaching Fuxing, his crazed eyes glazed over with what can only be imminent death.

“Are you happy now? Well, your divine lordship? Have you derived enough pleasure from seeing me bloody and in pieces to live another day, or would you like me to offer you my head as well?”

The next burst of laughter brings a mouthful of blood up with it. Fuxing’s unflinching gaze reveals nothing.

“If that’s not enough to feed your self-righteous ego, then please, take my eyes, and my ears, and my tongue—whatever makes your gold heart shiver! Is that enough? Is it enough?”

With every word, Xue Yang sags more and more. His eyes narrow, not out of his own will, but because he simply can’t keep them open much longer. His insanity, his drive, all of it slowly fades.

“I hate you,” Xue Yang hisses, hatred bleeding from every facet of his person. “You gods must love sitting in your golden thrones, watching us all live and die and end each other. Is it fun? Is it entertaining, watching the world cut us open while you flay us alive? Doesn’t it make you laugh?”

Fuxing is silent.

Between struggling breaths, Xue Yang forces out empty laughter. “You would never know what it’s like to suffer. You would never know what it’s like to be hated. You would never know what it’s like to watch the world turn on you. Yes, you’re truly a god of luck. So lucky. You’re so lucky.”

Fuxing stands so close to Xue Yang, and yet the two are so far apart.

Then, in one smooth motion, Fuxing kneels down. Slowly, carefully, he leans forward and whispers something in Xue Yang’s ear.

Xue Yang’s eyes widen. For the second time, A-Qing watches shock colours his bloody features.

“No,” he whispers. A strange anxiety comes over Xue Yang, puppeteering a crippled body. His voice rises, hoarse and shrill. “You’re lying. You’re lying to me!”

It’s terrifying, watching Xue Yang rise from the ashes. He twitches sporadically, struggling to force what remaining limbs he up to stand.

“How could you?” It’s childish. It’s desperate, the way Xue Yang crawls on his knees and begs Fuxing to answer. When Fuxing stands and turns away, Xue Yang’s despair turns to rage. “How did you do it? Why was it you? Why was it you? I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I—”

Enough.

A-Qing has had enough.

Xue Yang doesn’t understand anything about how much he’s hurt everyone, yet he blames the world for everything. Immature, naive, selfish, pathetic—

Enough.

The hilt is cold in her grip, but the blood is warm on her hands.

Oh, thinks A-Qing, watching Xue Yang’s eyes drop to see his own proud Jiangzai piercing through his chest. It really is too easy to kill people in this world.

At first, there is silence. Fuxing stares on, undaunted, and Xue Yang continues to die. A-Qing’s grip on Jiangzai is unrelenting.

With what little life remains in Xue Yang’s body, he laughs. His entire body shakes with humour only those already out of time can understand. It’s the closest A-Qing and Xue Yang have ever been. It’s the closest they’ll ever be.

Xue Yang’s last words are something that A-Qing will never be able to clean herself of.

“A-Qing,” he whispers, blood spilling onto the earth, onto Jiangzai, onto A-Qing. “You’re a better actor than I ever was.”

Xue Yang falls silent, and this time, there is no more laughter.

A-Qing breathes.

Her hands are shaking, but she can’t let go.

Fuxing kneels behind her. He is utterly silent as he places his hands over A-Qing’s. Together, they pull Jiangzai back and free from Xue Yang.

The sword clatters to the ground. A-Qing falls back into Fuxing.

Both of them are covered in blood, and none of it is their own. A-Qing lets out a shaky breath and feels the god against her do the same.

It’s over. It’s finally over.

Fuxing looks to the sky. The sun has risen at last. “You did well, A-Qing.”

A-Qing nods numbly. Her palms are sticky and smell of iron. “Yeah.”

What is she supposed to feel? What is someone supposed to feel after they’ve put an end to a feral beast like Xue Yang?

Relief? Elation? Pity?

She doesn’t know. All she feels is an aching emptiness.

I did it, Daozhang. Xue Yang won’t ever hurt anyone else.

The night has passed, but A-Qing has lost people forever while wandering the darkness. It’s a pain that will never go away, and yet—

Fuxing is the first to move. He rises, supporting A-Qing’s exhausted limbs. His expression is complicated, yet he is silent as he cleans the blood off Shuanghua and Jiangzai in the nearby stream. Once both blades are clean, he holds a sheathed Jiangzai out toward A-Qing.

“Take it,” the god says.

A-Qing stares at the sword, then looks up at Fuxing. Even among the blood and gore, he looks divine, his eyes burning a brilliant gold.

Maybe it’s out of fear, respect, or pride. Maybe all of them, maybe none of them. It doesn’t matter. A-Qing reaches for Jiangzai and wraps her hand around its sheath.

She almost drops it. The weight is strange; almost unnatural. Having wielded it only once, A-Qing has no right to make any assumptions, yet that one time pierced the heart of a monster unlike any other. Maybe the sword took on some unknown curse or power after killing its own master.

Maybe Xue Yang’s monstrous talent for ending lives so easily came from his sword. Maybe his sword was just another sharp edge for Xue Yang to cut with.

With Xue Yang’s corpse lying in front of her, A-Qing should feel relief. Jiangzai should feel light in her hands, a trophy of her victory. Instead, it feel so much heavier than before.

As A-Qing struggles with Jiangzai, Fuxing makes his way over to Song Daozhang’s unmoving corpse. With a single flick of the wrist, Fuxing lifts his golden blade from this chest chest. The array collapses, and for another moment, Song Daozhang is still.

He... isn’t gone, is he?

At the very least, let one of them be safe.

“Song Daozhang,” A-Qing calls hesitantly, walking slowly toward the motionless corpse, clutching Jiangzai to her chest. “Are you there?”

Softly, so quietly that the sound of the river almost drowns it out entirely, Song Daozhang moans and lets his head fall to the side.

Fuxing rests his hand on Song Daozhang’s forehead, then turns to nod at A-Qing. “He’s still here,” the god says. “He just needs time. Let him rest.”

Time and rest. That’s what all of them need right now.

The night is over. Morning has come. Despite everything, the darkest hours have passed.

In the light of the rising sun, Fuxing stands, a figure of blood and gold that pierces through the shadows of the forest. He looks at the sky with stars in his eyes. He looks so lost.

A-Qing doesn’t know if he’ll ever find what he’s searching for.

Chapter Text

The journey back is always the hardest part.

Xiao Xingchen’s soul is so light, so small, and so silent. The spirit-trapping pouch pulses gently within Wei Wuxian’s robes, like a faint heartbeat, the only sign of life the feeble soul can give.

“Xue Yang was a monster, but he would never get rid of Daozhang’s body.” Though A-Qing’s steps are bold, it’s easy to see the weariness clinging to her petite form. Jiangzai rests on her back, tied and secured with a green sash. “I’ll lead the way. Just follow me.”

Wei Wuxian nods. A-Qing nods back. Somehow, despite everything, her eyes still burn bright.

(White on white in the dark of the night.

Limpid notes and limpid eyes. The sheen of a blade, pointed at him, challenging him?

Inevitable. That’s all it is. Inevitable, it can’t be helped, of course, of course. Hated by all, hating all, it doesn’t matter, it’s all the same anyway, isn’t it? Anyone and everyone—is there a single person in this world who sees him as anything but a monster?

No. Of course not.

Look at them, clamouring together and screaming like insects, bleeding red like the red he can’t believe still pours from his wounds—black, an endless void, maggots, nothing at all—but still red. The world is unravelling at the seams and he’s the one ripping out the string.

Who do you think you are? A bastion of hope? A hero in the moonlight? A friend, someone close, an enemy, an enemy, an enemy.

You’re just like the rest of them.

I always knew you hated me. If this is how it’s going to be, then everything can burn. You’ve come to kill me, haven’t you? You must be. You must be! Come at me, then! Kill me!

Wei Ying!

Don’t call to me; I won’t hear. Don’t sing for me; I won’t listen. Don’t look at me; I won’t look back. Don’t you dare get close, or I’ll kill you, I really will, I’ll ruin your life, I’ll bring calamity and destruction, and then you’ll wish you killed me from the beginning.

And I’ll wish you did as well.)

Wei Wuxian closes his eyes.

Ah, his head is a mess. Years of travelling and rewriting endings, yet he still can’t seem to shake it off. That isn’t him anymore, and yet it is, and no matter how hard you try, it’s impossible to live two lives at once.

It’s Xue Yang’s fault. Or, rather, it’s Xiao Xingchen’s fault.

When everything finally dies at your hands, when the world points the finger at you, accuses you of weakness, of failure, of ruin, what can you do but accept it all?

What an unwelcome reminder of the past. A noble soul, that Xiao Xingchen, playing the part of the hero not for fame nor wealth, but instead for a world that laughed at him and cut him down. Just like how originally, Wei Wuxian...

Xiao Xingchen, oh, Xiao Xingchen. Wei Wuxian’s head pounds and his heart hurts. Fate really is cruel to give you the same fate as it gave someone like me.

“I can’t wait to tell Daozhang how we took care of that bastard Xue Yang,” A-Qing says proudly. “One life isn’t a lot, but hopefully all the people who died at Xue Yang’s hands feel a bit more at peace now.”

Wei Wuxian hums a noise of agreement. “Let’s hope for the best.”

Through it all, A-Qing walks ahead of him, marching forward with her head held high. Her past isn’t a burden. It makes her stronger, gives her something to fight for. What an incredible feat of strength of heart.

To be perfectly fair, Wei Wuxian has never been particularly strong, whereas A-Qing is stronger than anyone he’s ever met. So it really isn’t surprising that he should fall in line with a girl who grabs everything the world throws at her and demands it work for her.

And if it refuses, she now has a fine blade she can use to cut down those who would threaten the people she loves.

After all, Xue Yang’s second chance has already started.

It must be nice. To try so desperately to make things better and actually succeed—that’s more impressive than any miracle a god can grant.

Wei Wuxian takes a breath. Releases it. Feels the wind blow, hears the gentle trickle of water.

(Feels blood on his hands much older than Xue Yang’s, hears the cries of his name that he never understood among all the rage and despair—)

The pain in his heart is just an ache. Just an ache. That’s all it is.

Yes. It must be nice.

A-Qing grumbles as the sword on her back begins to shift and slip. “Even in death, Xue Yang manages to find ways to annoy me. I’ll need to get a new sash.”

“You mean, I’ll need to get you a new sash.” Wei Wuxian shrugs helplessly when A-Qing turns around to glare. “Not just a sash, mind you. If anyone saw us now, I’m sure they’d run off screaming. You know, blood and all.”

“It’s not my fault! I mean, maybe it is a little, but I’m not the one with eight swords.”

She looks so proud, carrying Jiangzai. Surely she thinks that it’ll protect her, allow her to finally take action and bring down judgement on anyone who would hurt her loved ones. Surely she believes that she won’t be weak anymore.

Perhaps, one day, A-Qing will find find it in herself to forgive him.

With a huff, A-Qing turns her head and directs her gaze toward their new companion. “Between the three of us, there isn’t one person who looks decent. What sort of bad luck is that?”

It’s yet another attempt to provoke some sort of reaction. And yet Song Zichen walks on, several paces behind, his head down, entirely silent.

He doesn’t need to stay silent. Tiny miracles like growing a new tongue are inconsequential to Wei Wuxian.

His silence is a choice. He’s punishing himself.

Healing is more than a process; it’s an uphill climb against every force in the world that tries to keep you down. And the most powerful enemy is always yourself.

Sometimes, the only thing that can piece together what remains is time.

But sometimes isn’t good enough. Wei Wuxian is sick of sometimes. He hates that word, as well as maybeand eventually. How many people have died to promises that are only fulfilled after everyone has already died?

(I’ll be loyal to you and only you, I swear—

I’ll watch over him even if I should die, I swear—

I’ll protect all of you from the world, I swear—

I’ll bring them back home, I swear—

I’ll kill you all, I’ll kill you all, I swear, I swear, I swear—)

Patience is a virtue he’ll never have, and it’s one he can’t afford to learn.

“Song Zichen,” says Wei Wuxian, slowing his pace. A-Qing follows suit. “Song Daozhang. I know these days have been harrowing, but if you’re here with us, give us a sign.”

Song Zichen barely lifts his head. His grip around Shuanghua tightens.

He’s here, alright. They’re all here. Some of them just want to be here less than others.

“Song Daozhang, don’t worry!” It’s A-Qing who breaks the silence. She spins around, walking backward with equally as bold steps though she can’t see the path she’s treading. “Fuxing said he’d make things better, and he won’t go back on his promise.” A-Qing pins Wei Wuxian down with a gaze somewhere between desperate and demanding. “Right?”

Wei Wuxian nods. “I keep my promises.”

(Liar.)

A-Qing diverts her gaze back to Song Zichen, and Wei Wuxian breathes a sigh of relief.

She really does have an unbreakable will, doesn’t she?

Power and heart are on opposite sides of a scale, and if Wei Wuxian has anything to say about if, then it’d be better if everyone was a just little bit kinder.

Well, that’s wishful thinking. He’s never been good at granting wishes, mass murderer or god of luck.

“It wasn’t your fault,” A-Qing tells Song Zichen, running to him and clutching onto his sleeve. “You can’t do this to yourself! It was all Xue Yang’s fault. Don’t compare yourself to someone as disgusting as him!”

Corpses don’t need to breathe. They don’t need to feel. But Song Zichen takes a ragged breath and looks away.

It’s easy to tell someone they aren’t at fault. It’s infinitely harder to have them believe it.

“You feel terrible,” says Wei Wuxian. He looks back, and at the corner of his eye, he watches Song Zichen flinch. “I don’t blame you. It seems that you’ve convinced yourself that you’re to blame for Xiao Xingchen’s death.”

Song Zichen tenses and sinks even lower. A-Qing throws Wei Wuxian an acerbic look.

Wei Wuxian stops and turns, peering serenely through his veil. He smiles, tilts his head, and plays the part of the god he isn’t. “As impressive as your guilty conscience is... well, to be blunt, it’s a waste of time.”

“Fuxing!” A-Qing yells, shocked.

Not you, not you, it’s not you. That’s not my name. “If you keep blaming yourself, even after Xiao Xingchen wakes up, nothing will change between the two of you.” Take that guilt and break it into tiny pieces with your own hands, and then throw it into the deepest recesses of your heart. Crush it until it doesn’t hurt anymore. “Did you come here to repeat history all over again?”

“I—” It’s the first word Song Zichen has said since being freed of Xue Yang’s control, and it surprises all of them. Even Song Zichen startles, eyes wide, as if his heart has betrayed him.

It looks like Xiao Xingchen really is someone irreplaceable in Song Zichen’s eyes.

“If you run, Xiao Xingchen will chase after you,” Wei Wuxian continues. There’s something caught in his throat that he can’t dislodge. “You’ve seen how it ends ends. Which risk is greater: repeating a story you know ends in tragedy, or turning the page and writing something new?”

A-Qing nods adamantly, her grip unfaltering. “He’s right. Don’t you want to talk to Daozhang? Xue Yang didn’t ruin things forever. Can’t you see?” She shakes Song Zichen’s sleeve, demanding that he look at her. “Fuxing isn’t here to make things how they used to be. He’s here to make a better future!”

Song Zichen grips Fuxue and Shuanghua even tighter, but he doesn’t pull away. Even in death, it’s so easy to see the despair in his eyes. “We’ll be safer if things return to how they used to be. After everything, I can’t... I can’t face him.”

Wei Wuxian hums in agreement. He steps closer, peering at the (unfamiliar, unfamiliar) corpse with bright eyes. “Well, you certainly aren’t wrong. It’s always easier to fall back into the monotony of a life you’re used to, as painful as it is, than to step into an unknown future.” He smiles at Song Zichen and finds that he can’t fully suppress the surge of bitterness that rises within him. It makes him sick. “Am I right, Song Daozhang?”

Song Zichen is utterly silent.

His eyes are familiar. They say, Even if it’s inevitable that tomorrow will come, I didn’t ever say that I wanted to live for it.

Well, too bad. If there’s one thing Wei Wuxian has learned from his years of asking and receiving nothing but silence, reflecting and regretting, stumbling on roads that lead to the future while carrying burdens of the past, it’s that your life is your own until you die. Then the burden of your death becomes everyone else’s burden.

But Wei Wuxian is being quite unfair to Song Zichen, isn’t he?

Maybe Song Zichen doesn’t want to face his problems. Maybe he believes that it’s better to let Xiao Xingchen live a life without him, return to the days of one always chasing the other, than to risk bringing tragedy upon them once again.

Wei Wuxian’s been running away from his own problems for years. It hasn’t worked out so well, but he certainly won’t stop running because he’s a fool and a coward.

Song Zichen is neither. The very least Wei Wuxian could do is show some empathy.

So he sighs and folds his smile back into a empty expression. A blank canvas. Let the people put the stars in his eyes and the gold in his steps. Heavens know they aren’t there anyway.

“I don’t blame you,” Wei Wuxian says. “We all have days we’d like to return to, don’t we? But the one thing you can never take back is time.” He rests a hand on Song Zichen’s shoulder, feels the cold of death beneath his fingers. “Don’t punish yourself. No matter how far you run, your troubles will catch you one day.”

The words are bitter on his tongue, but it’s better to say them before it’s too late to turn back.

“You might believe that you’re doing everyone a favor by isolating yourself. You aren’t. When you fall, nobody will be there to catch you, and when you go, nobody will be there to see you off.” Don’t be a fool. You don’t deserve it. When he calls your name, don’t turn away. You’ll regret it for eternity. “You can’t imagine how much others will suffer if you make the decision for them.”

It’s so hard to look Song Zichen in the eye, but when Wei Wuxian lifts his gaze, he sees something curious and sad staring back at him.

“That isn’t divine knowledge,” says Song Zichen, his voice trembling. “You earned the right to say those words. You lived them.”

Wei Wuxian draws his hand back. For a moment, he hesitates, and his hand wavers, as if he’s grasping pathetically for something. He snatches his hand back, his sleeve snapping forward.

Ah, this is bad. Between A-Qing and Song Zichen, it seems that everyone can see right through him.

Turning away, Wei Wuxian walks forward and tilts his weimao downward. “Go ahead and make whatever narrative of me you want. My advice still stands, Song Daozhang. Take it or leave it. You don’t have many options.”

A-Qing tugs Song Zichen forward. “Come with us,” she urges. “I don’t know you as well as Daozhang, but if you’re anything like him, then I know the last thing you want to do is to let him wake up alone.”

Song Zichen reels back like he’s been attacked. A-Qing might as well have struck him; her words are so much heavier than someone her age should be able to say.

While Song Zichen mulls over the latest wake-up call he’s been given, A-Qing drags the stumbling Taoist over to Wei Wuxian and nods firmly. “Good work. But you could’ve been nicer, stupid.”

Her demeanor, her tone of voice, her unwavering expression—all of it comes together to form someone more mature than a god who keeps slipping into the past and a Taoist who wishes he could do the same.

Wei Wuxian laughs. For what seems like the first time, it’s genuine, light and clear and so, so thankful for the immovable rock that is A-Qing.

“Well, you heard her.” Waving his hand dismissively, Wei Wuxian grins, raising an eyebrow when a startled Song Zichen gapes at him. “I don’t make the decisions around here. I’d like to say you do, but...”

Wei Wuxian gestures to A-Qing, who puffs her chest out. With surprising ease, she draws Jiangzai from its sheath, flips the blade around, and stabs it into the ground. It’s equally as impressive as it is worrying.

“You’re coming with us, and you’re going to have a nice long talk with Daozhang.” A-Qing narrows her eyes. Though she’s short compared to both Wei Wuxian and Song Zichen, It’s very difficult to ignore the fact that she’s somehow terrifyingly adept at wielding a sword for a civilian. “And then you can try to run off. If you can.”

Normally, Wei Wuxian would laugh. Right now, he’s genuinely concerned that A-Qing might stick Jiangzai somewhere unfavourable, like his gut. The good news is that regardless of who A-Qing might skewer, neither Wei Wuxian nor Song Zichen can die. Not again, that is.

Wei Wuxian shakes his head helplessly. “You heard her. It seems you’ve been vetoed, Song Daozhang.”

Having made her point very clear, A-Qing huffs again, pulling Jiangzai from the ground with both hands and sheathing it. She trails after Wei Wuxian, then frowns when she sees that Song Zichen hasn’t moved.

Wei Wuxian smiles as he watches A-Qing drag a renowned, powerful, respected cultivator down a dusty, barren path with her small hands.

“Come on, come on,” says A-Qing. Her gaze is aimed ahead, down the road, and into a future that she doesn’t fear at all. “Let’s go see Daozhang together.”

She’s so strong. Just like—

(Protect him even if you die! Do you understand?)

(I’m sorry. And thank you.)

(I... I’m here to tell you...)

—Like three people Wei Wuxian brought ruin to.

Is this another chance, or is it a test? Has he grown at all? Has he learned?

No. This isn’t his choice. It’s A-Qing’s. Whether she wants to follow Xiao Xingchen or Wei Wuxian is no one’s decision but hers.

The five blessings that he gave to A-Qing are nothing compared to the strength she already possesses.

“I—this—” Through words choked by guilt, Song Zichen barely manages to form a coherent sentence. “You two—why are you doing this? You have nothing to gain. You...” Song Zichen’s expression twists. “Why are you going to such lengths?”

A-Qing frowns. “Daozhang always said that he fought to try and make the world a better place. He said that you didn’t need money or fame to do good.” With something akin to acceptance colouring her features, she wrings her hands together. “At first, I didn’t understand, and I still think it’s kind of stupid, but... it’d just be cruel to leave people when they’re suffering right in front of you, wouldn’t it?”

Wei Wuxian looks Song Zichen in the eye. “As for me, I’m not particularly fond of watching history repeat itself. Also, I am a god, and it’d be rude of me not to grant the wish you can’t bring yourself to ask for.”

“You and Daozhang should take a break,” A-Qing continues. “Instead of chasing each other’s backs, you can protect each other instead! Isn’t that great?”

Song Zichen’s eyes go wide, and he opens his mouth as if to say something. He hesitates, and hesitates, and hesitates again.

There’s nothing Song Zichen can say that hasn’t already been said. It’s his will against A-Qing’s, and the outcome of the battle has long been decided.

Strength is useless without heart. Believing in yourself, believing in your ability, grasping onto that pitiful belief even as the world falls apart around you—it culminates into a spectacular fall.

Sometimes, all you need is someone to catch you. But why fall if you have others to stop you from taking the road in the beginning?

Wei Wuxian refuses to let those right in front of his eyes make the same mistake. The path to isolation is a long and cruel one.

With a flourish of his robes, Wei Wuxian spreads his arms. Morning has come, and the sun is warm against his skin. “Rest easy, Song Daozhang. It takes time to trust, yes, but if we’re walking together, there’s no reason to remain so distant.”

The grin that rises to his lips is something from before, and even before that. From when careless laughter was reflex and his halcyon glow came from within.

Going back to those days is impossible, but he’d give anything to recreate them.

“When we get back, we’ll get a nice change of clothes and some food,” A-Qing declares. “With Fuxing here, I can finally eat at all the fancy restaurants! I’ll drag Daozhang along and finally show him that good money can buy good food!”

“Hey,” Wei Wuxian says, a little offended. A-Qing certainly moves on quickly, but how did she make the change between god of luck and cash cow so easily?

“You can make money from nothing. I saw you pay for food and clothing, you know. Stop being so cheap!”

“Wh—cheap? Pardon me, but I’m a god. It doesn’t matter how much money I have. If I go around town throwing money at everything that moves, how am I supposed to keep my serene, graceful image?”

“The only reason people think you’re serene is because you keep zoning out! Seriously! Are you even living in the present?”

“Come on, now. Don’t you think my face is gorgeous no matter what sort of expression I put on?”

A-Qing kicks Wei Wuxian in the shin, and wow, that actually hurts, why is this tiny girl so good at smacking him around?

“You’re so mean,” Wei Wuxian whines, skittering away. “Can’t you show me some face?”

“You literally wear a veil all the time,” A-Qing hisses. She jabs at Wei Wuxian with her bamboo pole, which he moves to avoid. “And you just said your face was the best thing to grace the mortal realm! If you want me to show you face, then stop making yourself look like a dumbass!”

Laughing, Wei Wuxian circles forward and backward as A-Qing chases him down with furious but well-meaning jabs. Her personality, her strength, her youth—it leaves a bittersweet taste on his tongue.

“Stop, stop,” he says, mostly laughs, when A-Qing catches up to him and slaps his arm for good measure. “What’ll we do if someone walks up on a girl, covered in blood, assaulting a god, covered in blood?”

A-Qing stares him down flatly. “Place bets.”

It’s been so long since Wei Wuxian had someone to share banter with. Mie Yu is one case; she’s so wise and world-weary that she must be some sort of divine beast in the shape of a human. But with A-Qing, it’s almost as if he’s sixteen again and living his life as loudly as possible, breaking rules, doing whatever he wants, giving smiles to everyone and everything.

The road to Yi City isn’t the longest, but walking any road alone is cold. A-Qing’s heated responses to Wei Wuxian’s teasing makes the journey infinitely warmer.

“You put chilis in congee?” A-Qing stares at Wei Wuxian with horror. “Are you an animal or just a masochist?”

Wei Wuxian makes a show of shrugging. “What can I say? I like my food as red as my eyes on a bad day. As for the second question—” He raises a finger to his lips and winks. “They say teachings that don’t speak of pain have no meaning, and I am very wise. I’d love to elaborate further, but unfortunately, that’s for adults only!”

A-Qing flushes a deep red, and this time, she swings Jiangzai off her back—still sheathed, thankfully—and proceeds to whack Wei Wuxian as hard as she can, screeching as she chases Wei Wuxian in circles again. “Then if you like pain so much, stand still!”

“I was just kidding, I didn’t mean—ow, ow, how is a sheathed sword so painful—give me a break, show me some mercy!”

Finally, inevitably, the despair in Song Zichen’s eyes gives way to something sad but peaceful and so very faintly amused. For the first time, he takes a step forward of his own volition and catches Jiangzai as it swings down to hit Wei Wuxian once more.

“It’s best not to resort to violence,” Song Zichen says, his voice subdued but still there. “We’ve... all had a harrowing week. Save your energy for when you need it.”

In a complete reversal of emotions, A-Qing looks Wei Wuxian in the eye and flashes a wide grin. He returns the favour.

Sadness isn’t always best dealt with by countering with smothering happiness. But Song Zichen doesn’t seem like the sort to lose his way forever; when there’s a will, there’s a way, and Wei Wuxian already has the way ready to go. It’s up to Song Zichen to decide whether or not he has the will.

(Oh, he does. Of course he does.

You’ve killed someone you love. Of course you want to say, I’m sorry. I can’t face you. I don’t need your forgiveness, but I just want you to know that I’m sorry.

Of course you want to be with them again. But you’ve ruined them once; what if it happens again?

Love is a special kind of suffering.)

“Let’s not waste Song Daozhang’s advice,” Wei Wuxian says. “After all, piecing together a soul isn’t just a matter of slapping fragments together until they stick.”

The mention of Xiao Xingchen’s soul immediately grabs both A-Qing and Song Zichen’s attention.

Surprisingly, or maybe not surprisingly at all, Song Zichen is the first to speak. He takes a deep breath of air he doesn’t need. “His soul, it’s—” There’s a hesitation so strong it’s almost a flinch. “It’s shattered beyond repair. The body is one thing, but there is no life without the soul.”

Wei Wuxian hums in agreement. “You’re right about there being no life without a soul. But in case you’ve forgotten, I’m a god.”

Spreading his hands, Wei Wuxian grins. Golden strings snap into existence at his beck and call, echoing with faint whispers of the souls that chase after his warmth and the prayers of those who have already passed.

“When humans want to do the impossible, they pray to the gods. The stars are within your reach, Song Daozhang. Let me guide the way.”

The stars are always closer than they seem, he wants to say. But that’s knowledge that only comes after death.

It’s something Xiao Xingchen and Song Zichen will be learning very soon.

With a flick of his wrists, Wei Wuxian dismisses the strings and continues down the road. “You can trust me. I’ve always been good at calling upon the souls of the dead. Or, rather, they’re good at calling to me.” He glances back at Song Zichen. “Either I find them or they find me. Xiao Xingchen isn’t as lost as you believe him to be.”

It’s like the weight of the world has been lifted off Song Zichen’s shoulders. He closes his eyes releases a breath he doesn’t have.

A-Qing simply nods along. Her trust in Wei Wuxian is incredibly special, but also so fragile.

“Thank you,” says Song Zichen, bowing from his waist. Fuxue and Shuanghua come together as he brings his hands in front of him. It almost seems cruel to let such a renowned cultivator bow to him. “I can’t thank you enough. I’m forever in your debt.”

Ah. That’s a phrase he doesn’t like.

Wei Wuxian shakes his head. “Please, no formalities. I only put on an act because it’s entertaining. So no ‘thank you’, alright? And I don’t need your debt. You and Xiao Xingchen have been apart for long enough. Do me a favour and spend the rest of your lives however you please.”

To his discomfort, Song Zichen only bows deeper. “I...” He no doubt wants to give his thanks again, but goes silent. Then, with an unwavering voice, he lifts his head and says, “I won’t ever forget you.”

Forget him?

Forget him?

(Somewhere right now, you’re the same as me.

If you’re existing in the midst of loneliness, if you’re lost in your tears—please, just forget everything about me.

I pray from the bottom of my heart. Please.)

It really is better to forget than to remember. All Wei Wuxian can do is laugh.

“Well, you can do whatever you want, but I suggest you forget about me.” He tries to convey amusement and finds himself absentmindedly tugging on the braids that dangle by his face. “My memory is notoriously bad, and I would hate to return your favor by treating you like a nobody the next time we meet. So—”

“No,” Song Zichen says, standing straight to his full height, an unbudging determination in his eyes. His posture is formal, well-trained, and perfect. Familiar. “Those who do good never remember the good they bestow unto others, but those who receive their generosity will always remember.”

As if it isn’t enough, A-Qing swings a fist at Wei Wuxian’s arm again. “That’s right! Besides, do you think you’re getting rid of us that quickly?”

Yes, he thinks. Xiao Xingchen and Song Zichen will go down their own road. A-Qing will most likely follow them. And then Wei Wuxian will keep walking.

But he can’t bring himself to hate the possibility of having some travelling companions. The world is a big place, and the silence is overwhelming at times.

He sighs.

“You can do whatever you want,” is what he decides to say.

It’s a conclusion. Whether it’s the right one is something only time will decide.

As Wei Wuxian walks forward, he waves for A-Qing and Song Zichen to follow. “Come on, then. For now, you’re stuck with me. After that, I won’t argue with whatever it is you choose to do.”

“Of course you won’t,” A-Qing mutters. “You’ll just complain about whatever we choose.”

“Complain? No, no, I’ll just gently persuade you to consider other options, like the good and gracious god I am.”

“Don’t push it!”

“That’s, uh, a pretty scary face you’re wearing, A-Qing. Maybe you could put Jiangzai down?”

“What, is this good and gracious god scared of a tiny girl?”

“I don’t want to repeat myself, but perhaps you two could save your energy for when you need it.”

“You’re a respected cultivator, Song Daozhang! Can’t you see that my life is at stake here?”

“With all due respect, your divine lordship, you sometimes act much younger than you seem.”

Companionship. It’s something Wei Wuxian hasn’t felt for a long time. He’s always been a proud, arrogant fool. To find people who neither look up to him as an all-powerful god nor fear him as a demon is a miracle.

If anyone wants to stay, despite everything, then maybe, just maybe, it’s worth taking the risk.

Things will be better this time.

Calling a soul back, in theory, is incredibly simple.

Around him, a cloud of stray souls peers in curiously, undoubtedly attracted by the divine warmth of a god. Wei Wuxian smiles at them when they float closer, whispering faint questions: Who are you? Who is this? What’s going on?

And the more familiar ones whisper gently: What an unfortunate young man. He’s not too far gone. Don’t bother him; come on, give him some space.

And a particularly familiar one: Don’t think you can get away with staying up for eight days straight because you’re a god. You couldn’t get away with it then; you aren’t getting away with it now. Don’t give me any of your excuses. I’ve heard all of them by now.

Wei Wuxian sighs. “I know, I know, I’ll try to take better care of myself. Is that better?”

The glowing orb slaps him upside the head, and that really hurts, souls are supposed to be incorporeal, why is he getting bullied so much today?

I am your doctor, she says not so kindly, a very obvious and very dangerous warning in her voice. Do you remember what happened last time you didn’t take care of yourself?

Wei Wuxian grumbles.

I didn’t hear you, she snaps.

“I died,” he grumbles, only slightly louder.

She smacks him again. So why do you keep destroying yourself, you idiot?

Wei Wuxian sighs again.

In the corner of the room, A-Qing coughs awkwardly. She shuffles a little closer, stepping around the cloud of gold. “Uh, Fuxing, is everything going okay?”

“Everything’s just fine,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. “A friend of mine is just getting a little restless.”

Restless, my ass, she snorts. Hovering above Xiao Xingchen’s immaculately preserved corpse, she peers down at the wound on his neck. Now let me have a look and do half the work for you.

There’s nothing Wei Wuxian can do when Wen Qing’s made up her mind.

So he steps aside, sweeping an arm to the side. “Be my guest.”

It happens quickly. Wen Qing’s had years’ worth of experience materializing herself, and if there’s one thing she would be good at, it’s using the sheer power of anger and determination to snatch back her human form long after her body has been turned to ash.

In a flash of bright light, Wen Qing huffs and rolls up her flame-licked sleeves. She glares at Wei Wuxian, then nods at both A-Qing and Song Zichen. “Thank you for keeping this idiot in line. His sense of direction is so bad that he gets lost in his own head.”

A-Qing grins, completely unfazed by the spirit before her. “It wasn’t much!”

Song Zichen, on the other hand, freezes when he sees Wen Qing’s robes. His hand inches toward Fuxue’s hilt.

“You don’t need to say anything,” says Wen Qing, tying her hair up with a ribbon. She fixes Song Zichen with an unflinching gaze, burning with steady flame. “But don’t bother asking any foolish questions either. Yes, my last name is Wen, but I’m also the best doctor you’ll ever meet, alive or dead.”

Wei Wuxian nods. “Rest easy, Song Daozhang. I can attest to her medical prowess. After all, not many people can cut your chest wide open and keep you alive for three days!”

“Quiet,” Wen Qing snaps, and Wei Wuxian clamps his mouth shut.

Slowly but surely, Song Zichen settles down.

It’s nice, having someone like Wen Qing around—that is, when she can be around. She’s a pillar of stability, unflinching and unmoving, but she’s also a raging fire, snapping at everything that stands in her way, burning those who try to lay their hands on those she loves.

But she’s dead. She’s dead, and all that’s left of her is her soul. And when Wei Wuxian loses himself to the currents of the past, not even Wen Qing can reach him.

It’s always been that way, and it’s unlikely to change. They both know it. All they can do is move on with what this new life has given them.

Wen Qing frowns as her fingers brush over the blood-stained blindfold. Song Zichen tenses.

But Wen Qing simply passes it over. “This isn’t nearly as bad as you’d expect. It’s a deep cut, yes, but it’s clean and it’s precise. It’s also been cleaned well, though I won’t leave anything to chance.”

“So he’ll be alright?” A-Qing asks. “But there was so much blood. You can’t replace that, can you?”

“That’s up to our resident god to do,” answers Wen Qing. “He can explain while I close the wound.”

Nobody breaks rules set by the world than Wei Wuxian. With a grin, he pulls his hands apart, weaving thin goldens strings from nothing. Wen Qing snatches them once they’ve materialized to a state which she can manipulate them, then proceeds to pull a set of thin, sharp tools from her sleeves.

Taking a seat on a nearby table, Wei Wuxian holds out his palm, gathering gold to supply Wen Qing’s surgical sutures. She works silently but diligently, and they ease into a practiced rhythm of weave, pull, stitch, weave, pull, stitch.

Wei Wuxian waves A-Qing and Song Zichen down to sit by the table. “Since you insisted on staying, let me explain how this whole ‘bringing back to life’ thing actually works.”

They don’t as much do it themselves as get nudged toward the chairs by the eavesdropping souls. A-Qing has to pull Song Zichen to sit, but they sit.

“First,” Wei Wuxian begins, “let me make things very clear. When a cultivator pulls someone back from the dead, it isn’t necessarily a revival. It’s simply reanimating. I hate to prod at an open wound, but Xue Yang’s strange talents are a perfect example.”

It’s a hell of a lot better than pointing at Song Zichen and saying, look at your body, which should be stiff and still.

If Song Zichen had any blood to spare, his knuckles would be white around Fuxue. “Demonic cultivation.”

A-Qing sneers. “Of course someone like Xue Yang would follow in the footsteps of a monster like the Yiling Patriarch. The worst thing you could do to someone after killing them is not letting them pass with dignity!” She slams her bamboo pole onto the floor in frustration. “People’s lives aren’t playthings!”

Wei Wuxian’s smile falters.

Wen Qing takes a long breath.

There’s nothing they can say. Sometimes, the apology never comes when it’s wanted, and when it comes, it’s neither wanted nor needed.

It hurts, but it’s an old ache. So Wei Wuxian clears his throat and continues. “Yes, well, no matter the method, once a human dies, they can’t be brought back to life by another human. As far as I know, not even the so-called Yiling Patriarch was able to find a way to force life back into a corpse.”

“But he came close.” Wen Qing turns to fix Wei Wuxian with a gaze that demands, Stop it. You’re doing it again.

Time to get back on topic, then. “Simply put, only gods can grant new life to someone who’s lost theirs. Cultivators have already figured out how to manipulate the body and the soul—that isn’t where the difficulty lies.” He tilts his head toward Wen Qing. “In our case, I’ve got the soul covered, and my friend’s working on the body right now.”

A-Qing shifts in her seat impatiently. “Then what is it? You told us to wait for eight days and eight nights. Why? For what?”

Wei Wuxian smiles. “Piecing Xiao Xingchen’s soul together, and then easing him into accepting my blood.”

“Wait, wait—doing what with your blood?”

Wen Qing rolls her eyes.

“I’m not too well connected with other gods,” says Wei Wuxian. “But as far as I know, the safest way to bring someone back is to give them a divine touch.” He lifts his arm, letting his sleeve fall down to expose his skin. “Why not give them some of my blood, then?”

Song Zichen is silent, but the way he sits as if he has a metal rod for a spine speaks for itself.

Fair enough. Wei Wuxian hasn’t met a single divine being since he was revived as one, but he doesn’t need to think too hard to realize that what he’s doing is most likely walking the line between making a miracle and challenging the fundamental workings of the world.

“You’re being insufferable,” Wen Qing snaps. Though her gaze is still trained on her work, it’s clear that she’s fully involved in the conversation. “Don’t listen to him. A god’s blood has incredible rejuvenating properties because they’re immortal. If you spill his blood over dead crops, they’ll flourish. It’s the same idea as passing spiritual energy to someone, but in this case, the source is from someone who can cultivate miracles.”

Wei Wuxian shrugs when A-Qing swings back to glare at him.

“This is... wrong.”

When Song Zichen finally speaks, Wei Wuxian isn’t surprised. The Taoist looks incredibly conflicted, denial going one way in his eyes and careful hope going the other.

“Life isn’t something given that easily,” Song Zichen says. “Even if the gods should choose to give life to someone who has died, it shouldn’t be through such unnatural means. What you’re doing now—repairing the body, inserting the soul, and sparking new life with blood—what makes it different from demonic cultivation?”

Guilty as charged.

To be accurate, it isn’t demonic cultivation simply because Wei Wuxian’s a god. It would be if he were brought back as a demon, which would make so much more sense and help align his worldview, but no, fate is fickle like that. As it is, all he’s doing is subverting the natural order a little.

(He’s always been good a breaking things. His hands weren’t made for nurturing, for caring, for saving—no, everything he tries to hold onto shatters in his hands.

The very least he could do is break something for the good of others.)

Wei Wuxian catches a thin string and twirls it gently around his finger. “I understand your concerns, but keep in mind that I'm a god. Demonic cultivation and miracles only look similar because everyone thinks they’re impossible. As for Xiao Xingchen...”

He looks Song Zichen in the eye. This is the one thing he can’t deny.

“I’m reviving him because I believe his life is too precious to be cut short so early.”

The despair in Song Zichen’s eyes ebbs forward like the tide. He looks away.

I’m reviving him because I see myself in him, is what Wei Wuxian doesn’t say. I’m selfish, I’m arrogant, and I’m foolishly hopefully. I want to believe that it’s possible to move on even after dying and coming back.

Someone has to have a happy ending.

“Settle down,” Wen Qing says, irritation seeing from every word. She finally raises her hands from Xiao Xingchen’s neck, rolling down her sleeves and stepping away. “Regardless of what you think, I’m done here.”

A-Qing jumps up and scurries to peer at Xiao Xingchen. She gasps. “It’s gone! The cut’s gone! It’s like—” Running her fingers over his neck, A-Qing trembles. “It’s like nothing ever happened.”

Wen Qing, in all her methodical, steady glory, has already moved on. “Once he wakes up, you’ll have to make sure he gets plenty of rest, drinks plenty of water, eats well, and doesn’t do any rash, like bleeding out all the blood he’s been given back.”

Wen Qing throws a completely unjustified glare at Wei Wuxian before scribbling something down on a piece of parchment. She hands it to Song Zichen, who frowns once he reads it.
“These are... dishes?”

“You know one fool, you know them all.” Wen Qing crosses her arms, her stare flat. “Being brought back to life ruins your appetite. I don’t mean to sound cruel, but I have no doubt that Xiao Xingchen won’t feel well once he realizes he’s alive and has to face the problems he was trying to run away from.”

What she doesn’t say is, His memories will try to destroy him, and if nobody’s there to hold him up, he might as well die again.

With a sigh, Wen Qing gestures dismissively to the parchment. “It can be hard to get anything down when your mind’s working against you. Soups and broths tend to work well, and medicinal teas can’t hurt. Watch him carefully. Make sure he eats.”

A-Qing frowns. “You’re not staying?”

Wen Qing pauses.

“Ah, about that,” says Wei Wuxian, hastily interjecting, “She’s a special spirit. She’s powerful, but she can’t stay for long. So we have to do what she says, because she knows best.”

“You’re right about that,” murmurs Wen Qing, not quite under her breath. She blinks slowly, then yawns. Her form flickers like a flame. “I hate to be rude, but I think my time’s nearly up. A-Qing, Song Daozhang, it was nice meeting you.”

A-Qing bows. Song Zichen nods his head.

Flicker, flicker, flicker. Wen Qing wavers a little. “Oh, and do me a favour and look after this idiot.” She levels her gaze at Wei Wuxian. The corners of her lips curl into a thin smile. “He’s always been awful at taking care of himself. I’ll be counting on you to make sure he doesn’t destroy himself or do anything equally as stupid.”

Ah, it’s cold. The night has passed, the sun in the sky has risen, and the sun on the ground is falling—

“Hey,” is all Wei Wuxian can say, his voice shaking.

In the corner of his eye, he sees Song Zichen give him a strange look. The Taoist moves to usher A-Qing out, and the two dismiss themselves quickly and quietly.

Wen Qing sighs a breath of stardust. With steps so confident, so unfaltering, so characteristic of everything that makes her her, she moves to stand in front of Wei Wuxian.

She lifts her hands and parts his veil. She rests her hands on either side of his face, and for a moment, they can fool each other into believing that everything’s alright, that everyone’s okay, that their troubles only reach as far as finding potatoes that aren’t too shabby and making sure A-Yuan’s eating properly.

Slowly, methodically, Wen Qing brushes Wei Wuxian’s hair from his face. Her fingers work out knots, always steady, always fixing. It’s a rare gesture of affection that says, Look at yourself. What are you doing?

“You idiot,” she murmurs, hands following his braids down to his shoulders. Her grip is firm and warm. “Just because you’re a god now doesn’t mean you get to tear yourself to pieces trying to give everyone their happily ever after.”

Wei Wuxian smiles. There’s nothing else he can do. “That’s me. An overachiever in every sense of the word.”

“I know that better than anyone else.” Wen Qing steps back. “You have a big, bleeding heart. You couldn’t fool me then, and you won’t fool me now. But you’ve managed to fool yourself all over again, and you know it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Wen Qing gives him an impressed look. He clenches his hands.

Eventually, Wen Qing sighs. She’s tired. He’s tired. They’re running on time they shouldn’t have.

(Wei Wuxian doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget the gut-wrenching panic at the thought of losing one of the only people who stood by him until the end.

So small, so cold, so broken—souls aren’t supposed to be like that, they aren’t, and yet there she was, by some miracle, still hanging on.

Piece by piece, one by one, but there was something wrong, something very, very wrong, warping and distorting, and what Wei Wuxian managed to salvage was nothing more than dying embers.

But embers can still burn.)

“Fuxing,” Wen Qing says. Wei Wuxian, she doesn’t say. “Don’t you want to be alive?”

Of course he does. Of course he doesn’t. He doesn’t deserve it. He’s fooling himself. He isn’t.

He doesn’t know anymore. Perhaps he never really knew.

It the end, Wei Wuxian doesn’t get to give his answer. Wen Qing’s form flickers violently, jerking the colour from her eyes, and she sighs.

“Find yourself to find the answer.”

In a burst of brilliant white light, Wen Qing scatters into golden fragments, small and warm and silent.

The souls rush to catch the tiny particles, and slowly, one by one, they fade away, whispering reassurances Wei Wuxian doesn’t want to hear.

It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay. As fragmented as Wen Qing’s soul is, she’s always been incredibly strong. She’ll be back before they know it, and then she can slap Wei Wuxian upside the head again and tell him to figure out what he wants from life. Again.

(You break everything you touch.)

Wei Wuxian lets out a breath. He’s breathing. He’s alive, and he isn’t sure if he wants to be at all.

He tries a smile on. He’s always been good at smiling. He’s a handsome, stupid thing. He’ll smile even when people don’t want him too. He isn’t sure what else he can do.

As Wei Wuxian pulls himself together, he forces the ache back. He steps past the cold walls of the coffin home and into the sunlight. A-Qing and Song Zichen are waiting for him, after all.

The world is beautiful but cruel, and Wei Wuxian is a fool for falling in love with it. The world is vast. The world is cold. The world doesn’t care for love. The world takes love and trades it for tragedy.

It’s good nobody ever loved him as he was before. He’s caused enough pain.

(And yet—

And yet—

Why do you still want to be loved, you idiot?)

Wake

Up.

Wake

Up.

Wake up.

Wake up.

So you can hear me, can you?

This isn’t a request. It’s an order, you fool.

You’re lucky enough to have people who love you, who’ll die for you, who have died for you.

This is your second chance. A second chance! Do you know how rare that is? Do you know how stupidly lucky you are to be able to keep walking onward?

Don’t run. Don’t push them away. What do you expect to achieve? What do you think you’ll gain?

Do you really want your story to end in tragedy?

Do you want their story to end in tragedy?

Yes? No?

It doesn’t matter. It isn’t your choice to make.

So why are you making the choice for them?

You’re lucky. You’re so lucky. The world may not love you, but the people who suffer through it do.

So why are you still hiding?

Burn away your unfulfilled wishes. Burn away your unrealized dreams. Burn away your fruitless despair. Burn away the nights that never fully died. Even there’s no such thing as absolute, we made a word for it anyway.

So to you, who can’t quite die: go on and live!

Wake up.

(I can’t say for certain that we’ll be the ones defeated, nor can I say with any certainty that we’ll stand victorious.

All we can do is simply rise to the challenge.)

And yet—

Even so—

Despite it all—

On the morning of the ninth day—

Xiao Xingchen opens his eyes.

Chapter Text

“Long story short, people have been going missing because of the night-eating sun!”

A-Qing is both very tired and very unimpressed.

She stares down the vendor with flat impatience. The vendor glances nervously to A-Qing’s hand, which just so happens to be deliberately placed on Jiangzai’s hilt. He clears his throat in a rattle of a-hem-hem, then moves to quickly package two servings of congee. He throws in an extra egg for good measure when A-Qing narrows her eyes.

“Alright, listen,” says A-Qing, feeling that it’s way too early for this, “I know rumours can get blown way out of proportion, but this is the first time I’ve ever heard of people getting eaten by the sun.”

“No, no, no!” The vendor shakes his head aggressively. “Not the sun. A sun.” He points up and at the mountain range in the distance, where the early morning sun is just starting to peek over the ridges. “See where the two tallest peaks meet? Every day, a dark sun rises over the valley. And someone always goes missing right after it sets! Even stranger is the fact that all of them are cultivators!”

That’s... probably the weirdest thing A-Qing has heard yet, and she’s been travelling with a god of luck for a full year.

“Give me two steamed buns while you’re at it,” A-Qing says, tossing a few coins over to the vendor. “Thanks for the information, sir. We’ll look into it shortly.”

The vendor hesitates, but his curiosity gets the best of him. “Uh, ‘look into it’?”

A-Qing huffs. She lifts the jade ornament by her waist just high enough so the vendor can see. Even in the bustle of the early morning market, the crystal bell chimes high and clear, an undeniable sign of divinity from anyone who knows anything about recent happenings.

The vendor’s eyes go wide. He tries and fails on three separate attempts to speak, sputtering and tripping over his own tongue. “You—you’re—you’re a vassal of the golden god?”

Oh, here we go again.

How Fuxing introduces himself so casually to people who look at him like he put the stars in the sky is a complete and utter mystery. Stiffly, A-Qing bows. “Wei Chengfeng, the first disciple.”

The vendor’s jaw drops. He scrambles and practically folds in half at the waist in an attempt to bow lower. He apologizes over and over again, and as funny as it is, it’s kind of annoying.

If there’s one thing Fuxing’s right about, it’s that formalities are a pain. They’re stupid, they’re useless, and they’re a waste of time. It’s not like strength or respect from others makes you better than anyone else. Everyone bleeds the same blood, right?

“This undeserving servant was unaware that the golden god returned,” the vendor says, his head still dropped down low. “It’s an honour to host his divine lordship again!”

A-Qing frowns. Fuxing did say he was familiar with this town, but it seems like everyone in the town is intimately familiar with him. It’s probably one of those things Fuxing doesn’t bother saying because he knows A-Qing will figure it out sooner or later.

For someone who loves running his mouth so much, there sure are a lot of things he won’t tell her.

Eventually, A-Qing manages to pull herself away from the vendor, who seems intent on offering his business, his firstborn, and his life to the revered golden god of fortune, which is actually starting to get kind of creepy. And then it just gets weird when he runs into his house and comes back with an expensive and ancient-looking comb, saying something about how it’s been passed down his family for generations.

“No—no, I don’t want your family heirlooms, seriously, let go, I’ll tell Fuxing, and then you’ll really get it then!”

At that, the vendor breaks into hysterics, which makes no sense whatsoever. What’s Fuxing going to do to him? Talk him to death? Flirt with him until he cries? Strangle him with his ribbons?

Nope, nope, nope. This is weird and A-Qing wants none of it.

So A-Qing sprints down the street, putting a year’s worth of training to use by keeping every drop of congee in their respective bowls while juggling steamed buns between her arms.

As she runs back to the hotel at breakneck speed, people give her strange looks. Some people stare at her with something between fear and reverence, which is disturbing, while others smile like they know more than they’re letting on, which is even more disturbing.

When A-Qing steps back into the hotel, maneuvering the steamed buns onto a table with justified annoyance, the hostess gives her a sly grin. She leans casually on the counter, eyes glimmering with amusement. “Had some trouble with the locals?”

“No,” A-Qing says adamantly, stomping her way toward the stairs. “The locals had trouble with me!”

The hostess hums an indistinct note of agreement. “Well, it isn’t too surprising. After all, Fuxing was born here.”

A-Qing almost chokes on her own tongue. “Fuxing was what?”

With a sigh, the hostess shakes her head. “He’s still as tight-lipped as ever. Really, you’d think he’d at least tell his disciple a bit more. But...” She trails off, then fixes A-Qing with a strange look. It’s a look that Fuxing wears a lot. “It could be a lot worse. It was a lot worse. So I guess I can’t complain!”

Then the hostess laughs a good, hearty laugh, like she’s just told the best joke in the world.

It’s unfair to be mad at her, but A-Qing’s mad anyway, because that’s the exact laugh Fuxing loves to throw out when he says something completely nonsensical that he knows only he understands.

A-Qing wants to grab someone by the collar, shake all the answers out of them, and yell, Wow, so funny, I’d love to be in on it, too!

Instead, she stands her ground and glares at the hostess. “I don’t know how it can get worse. I had to set a bedtime for him. A bedtime! That idiot doesn’t know when to sleep!”

The hostess doesn’t look surprised at all. In fact, her smile only widens.

“And he just forgets to eat,” A-Qing continues heatedly. Just talking about Fuxing’s bad habits makes her angrier. “Maybe if he spent less time complaining and more time shoving food into that big, dumb mouth of his, he’d remember that something needs to feed him other than his ego!”

Sometimes she’s mad, and sometimes she’s not as mad, but travelling with Fuxing is like watching over the world’s biggest baby. On a normal day, it’ll be, go to sleep, eat this, clean yourself up. On a weird day, it’ll be, don’t touch that, don’t activate that demonic array, stop bleeding all over your food. On a bad day, it’ll be, stop throwing chilis into the pan, I can’t see or smell anything, you dumbass, are you trying to clear my sinuses or kill them, get that death sludge away from me, it literally looks like something crawled into a pool of blood and died, you could feed that to a fierce corpse and they’d die again, incinerate that immediately or I’ll incinerate you.

So maybe Fuxing says that A-Qing’s reckless and hasty. No matter what, it’s still better than actively practicing self-sabotage, right?

A-Qing hasn’t met any other gods, but if they’re anything like Fuxing, then maybe it’s better if they all stay as far away from her as possible.

While A-Qing fumes, the hostess chuckles.

“You’re very reliable,” she says, resting her chin in the palm of her hand. “For someone so young, you do a good job of looking out for others.”

“I really think you need to raise your standards if you think I’m doing a good job.”

The hostess shrugs. “Standards are always relative. Before Fuxing became, well, Fuxing, I don’t think he took good care of himself. He’s always been the sort to ignore what others tell him if he thinks he knows better.”

That’s spot-on. Fuxing’s the sort of person to stay quiet about a wound if he thinks he can deal with it himself no matter how much it hurts, which is exactly why A-Qing sits him down after every scuffle with bandages in one hand and poultice in the other.

“But things are different now,” the hostess continues, contemplative. Why she’s contemplating Fuxing’s multi-part life is a mystery. “He didn’t take care of himself, and he didn’t let anyone else take care of him. Now, he still doesn’t take care of himself, but he’s letting you take care of him.” The smile the hostess gives is genuine and proud. “I’d say that’s a big step forward. Wouldn’t you?”

And, well, it’s hard not to agree.

Although Fuxing’s first impression wasn’t the most accurate demonstration of his character, it was still him. That first meeting between a girl desperate for justice and a god drifting aimlessly through life is something A-Qing will never be able to forget.

He looked so lost. He still looks lost, sometimes.

It’s better now that A-Qing’s around. It sounds selfish and arrogant, but at least Fuxing has someone to train and protect. Any reason is better than no reason. Maybe it makes him feel better. It makes A-Qing feel better.

She huffs and looks away. “He’s got a long way to go.”

“Oh, for sure,” the hostess agrees. “Anyhow, I don’t want to keep you any longer. I’m sure you two have a busy day ahead of you.”

Then the amusement drops from the hostess’ face like a stone, and something severe takes its place.

She folds her hands over each other. Her nails are short and her hands are calloused. “Be careful,” she warns. “I’m no cultivator, but even we civilians can tell that something dark and powerful is living up on those mountains.”

“We can handle dark and powerful,” A-Qing says. In fact, they basically specialize in dealing with dark and powerful. On a bad day, Fuxing’s the one who’s dark and powerful.

“Just because you can handle it doesn’t mean you’ll come out in one piece.” With a tired expression, the hostess’ gaze wanders up the stairs. “But I’m sure you’ve realized that already.”

It’s still early into the morning when A-Qing creeks open the door to the room. She sighs, dropping their food onto the table, then turns her attention to their resident god.

As usual, he’s buried in yet another book, using the glow of his divine aura as a source of light, which still seems blasphemous no matter how many times A-Qing catches him doing it. His gaze flickers once upward, then down, and up again when he finally processes that A-Qing has returned.

“Oh, nice,” Fuxing says cheerfully, tossing the pages onto the bed. They flutter haphazardly over the sheets he’s twisted into some sort of messy hybrid between of a nest and a a tent. He trudges over to the table with his robes dragging off his shoulders and his hair strewn in every direction. “It’s been a while since I last visited Yinhe. I was hoping they’d have forgotten all about me, but...”

“But now they’re rabid believers who would set themselves on fire if you told them to,” A-Qing grumbles, pushing the window open to let some real light in.

Fuxing squints and shies away. He only gets as far as the edge of his bed before A-Qing grabs a fistfull of his hair and pulls him down into a chair.

“Ow, ow, that’s not nice,” he whines, seating himself petulantly. He yelps when A-Qing pulls a comb through his infuriatingly long hair in one swift tug, yanking his entire head back. “Wait! I can do it myself, stop, are you trying to rip my neck off?”

A-Qing hurls the comb at Fuxing. “When it happens, it’ll be your fault!”

She throws a handful of red ribbons at the god, followed by the white flower pendants he hangs from his braids, and finally his weimao, which smacks him square in the face.

He’s so annoying, he’s insufferable, but A-Qing suffers him anyway, and she hates herself for being so dumb and she hates Fuxing for being so stupidly and unjustly likeable.

The god wails despairingly, combing his hair with such dramatic and fake sadness that A-Qing wants to tie his hair to the bedpost and leave him there. “I know that we argue sometimes, but I didn’t know you wanted to kill me!”

“I’ll feed you to that stupid man-eating sun myself!”

Something subtle shifts in Fuxing’s starry eyes. It isn’t so much a change in mood as it is a change in atmosphere.

The room gets a little bit colder, and A-Qing can tell that it’s probably time to address the very obvious, very pressing issue that’s brought them to this sprawling valley town.

“Maybe we’ll catch a look at the so-called man-eating sun while we’re here,” A-Qing says, measuring her words. She stirs her congee slowly in an attempt to do anything but look Fuxing in the eye. “It’ll make for some pretty special sightseeing.”

Every single one of Fuxing’s actions are a little slower, a little more methodical. His fingers move fluidly through his hair, weaving crimson ribbons into small braids, so smoothly and that it almost looks unnatural.

It’s a bit weird, for sure, but A-Qing’s seen it happen a thousand times over by now. All he’s doing is thinking, piecing things together in that admittedly brilliant mind of his.

“A man-eating sun,” Fuxing repeats, rolling the words over his tongue. It isn’t just a name or an outlandish rumour when he says it; it’s a tangible thing, a being, a threat that must be eliminated. “Is that what the townsfolk call it?”

A-Qing nods curtly. “I’ve also heard ‘night-eating’ sun. Either way, they’re really trying to push the fact that it’s eating something.”

Maybe A-Qing only has a year’s worth of experience dealing with monsters and ghouls and things that go bump in the night, but she’s travelling with a god who never stops looking for evil to root out. Fuxing could tell her right now that some divine beast punched a hole in the sky and she’d be hesitant to dismiss it as a possibility.

See, the thing is, rumours tend to get exaggerated to the point where the truth behind them might as well be a big, black void. So the town might be in a panic because they think a dark sun is eating people, but is it really the sun they need to be worrying about, or is something else at work?

The steamed buns are a little cold by now, but A-Qing digs in regardless. “They can call it whatever they want,” she says between bites. “But until I see a giant black sun chew someone up, I say it could be anything.”

Fuxing hums in agreement. “You’re right.”

There’s something weird on his face. It’s a mask on top of a mask, and he isn’t taking off either of them.

He knows more than he’s letting on, but he won’t say what it is until he needs to.

A-Qing doesn’t need his hand-holding, anyway. A year of non-stop night-hunting doesn’t just go to waste, and she’s going to punch that dumb night-eating sun in the face. She’s going to pummel whatever monster’s eating cultivators with her bare hands, and then she’ll see exactly what Fuxing’s hiding.

While A-Qing grumbles, Fuxing’s expression flips from contemplative to cheerful in an instant. “What a curious situation. Then I suppose we have a mountain to climb, don’t we?”

Oh.

Slowly, silently, A-Qing moves to peek out the window and up, up, up at the looming mountain range around them.

That is certainly a very tall mountain. That… yeah, that’s probably the tallest mountain A-Qing’s ever seen. It wasn’t always that tall, was it? It has to be the perspective, or the angle, or something.

When she turns back with a stiff grimace, Fuxing simply beams.

A-Qing hates her job sometimes.

They’re halfway up the mountain when something clicks into place in A-Qing’s mind.

“Wait,” she demands, her breath coming in wheezes. She keels over and clutches her knees for a long moment, then swings around to glare at Fuxing once her lungs start cooperating again. “You’re training me to be a cultivator, aren’t you? Why haven’t you taught me how to do that sword-riding thing yet?”

It’s silent for a while.

Fuxing blinks. He stares for a moment, then blinks again.

“Oh,” is all he says, like he’s just realized something very important.

A-Qing wonders how far Fuxing would roll if she threw him off the mountain this instant.

As she storms ahead with righteous fury, Fuxing scampers after her, rambling and wasting precious air. “To be fair, I haven’t done it in a long time, and I’m not even sure I remember how!”

He throws out a golden coin, summoning one of his swords in a quick flash of gold. His brow furrows, but he hops onto the thin blade anyway—

And he immediately rises into the air and starts flying circles around A-Qing’s head.

It’s like when a fly starts buzzing around your head. Your first reaction is to want it dead.

“Um,” says Fuxing. “Okay, so we all make mistakes sometimes—“

A-Qing breathes. In, out. In, out.

Then she unsheathes Jiangzai, swings her arm back, and hurls the blade as hard as she can at Fuxing, who shrieks and dives out of the way.

The ebony sword cuts across the afternoon sky and arcs downward far, far away in the distance somewhere below them. Fuxing looks over his shoulder.

“Uh,” he begins.

“Shut up,” A-Qing snaps, feeling a twitch rise to her eye.

“That’s your sword,” Fuxing says for good measure.

“I will cut your entire face off.”

Fuxing wisely decides to clamp his mouth shut. He’s silent even as A-Qing scrambles up the tallest tree she can find, takes a deep breath, and yells, “Get back here, you dumbass!”

She hears it before she sees it: the sound of metal flying through the air, followed by a streak of black. It almost knocks Fuxing clean off his sword, which would be for the best, but the world is cruel and the god narrowly dodges out of the way and regains his balance.

A-Qing holds up her sheath, and Jiangzai shoots back in with an irritated grumble.

“Stop complaining,” A-Qing snaps, smacking the hilt of the sword and receiving a hiss in reply. “If you really wanted to be useful, you would’ve opened a hole in his stupid gut.”

It’s not like Fuxing would die from such a small injury, anyway. In fact, all he’d do is wail dramatically and dance around a little, bleeding over everything like an idiot just because he can, and then he’d pass out and leave A-Qing to drag him somewhere safe.

She knows this because it’s happened before. It’s happened before, and it’s happened way too many times to just be brushed off. So next time Fuxing tells A-Qing to stop throwing herself at people with swords, maybe he should take a good, long look at himself first.

(At least he trusts her.

That’s something. His trust isn’t easy to earn. He doesn’t even trust himself, for heaven’s sake.

He’s the sort of idiot who tries not to trust because it hurts when that trust is broken. It doesn’t matter who’s breaking it.

The thing is: yes, it hurts. Of course it hurts. But it doesn’t hurt as much if you’re expecting the pain, right?

Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. It hurts all the same. You can never get used to pain. You simply learn how to tolerate it, how to nurse your aches and your wounds quietly.

So, yes, it’s stupid. Trust is a precious thing, but it’s something that has to be given to someone. Otherwise the whole world is your enemy, and the world isn’t kind.

Step by step it is, then.

Someone’s got to keep you alive.)

Fuxing spends the next few minutes trying to gently coerce A-Qing into just hiking up the mountain normally, saying something about it not being safe to practice hovering on a sword on a mountain. He offers to carry her on one of his own swords when A-Qing falls face-first into a tree.

She tells him to go gut himself and refuses to budge until she’s standing atop Jiangzai confidently, staring the brainless god down with vengeance in her eyes.

Among the many things she’s seen and done over the past year, her greatest achievement is instilling a semi-permanent sense of fear into the so-called golden god.

Fuxing floats further as A-Qing moves forward. “Hey there, my treasured vassal, my honourable disciple, my, uh, sword-wielding prodigy.” Star-dotted eyes shift nervously as the god raises his hands in surrender. “We’re here to solve this, um, curious case of the night-eating sun, aren’t we? Don’t you think it’s a little early to start bleeding already?”

“If you know you’ll end of bleeding eventually,” says A-Qing, her voice as sharp and thin as a knife, “then what’s the problem?”

“I think the problem lies in the fact that I don’t like getting stabbed.”

A-Qing hurls a handful of explosive talismans at Fuxing, who leaps out of the way with a scream and lands on another one of his golden swords.

The god immediately darts off after regaining his balance. “I don’t like getting blown up, either!”

“Great,” says A-Qing, with no particular inflection. She reaches into her sleeves and pulls out every talisman Fuxing told her she wasn’t allowed to use because of collateral damage and excessive force and other stupid reasons that she can’t be bothered to think of. It’s hard to think of anything else when you’re fixated on murder. “Now stay still! You’re going to make me waste a whole bunch of talismans if you keep moving!”

“How about you just don’t use them to begin with?”

The rest of the trip up the mountain goes by in the blink of an eye, partly because Fuxing’s infuriatingly fast on his swords, mostly because A-Qing’s called the Wind-Swept Maiden for a reason, and entirely because panic and fury are both great motivators.

There’s a lot of screaming and yelling involved, but they fly up in record time.

A job well done is still a job well done no matter how said job goes about getting done. You’re welcome, you ungrateful god.

Can you hear me?

My flower—

If you’re here, then speak, please, give me a sign, anything at all.

I’ve waited for so long.

(Tonight, we dance again.)

A-Qing gapes. She stands there, mouth hanging wide like an animal that’s seeing the sky for the first time, staring up at a sun that has eaten the night sky.

It’s just the sun, she tells herself, except it’s not.

Up there, up where that golden orb should be, is a hole. Black on black and swirling with tiny stars that glimmer in and out of existence, dipping their toes into the waters of the mortal realm.

They stand on the rocky shores of waters that stretch on and on, far into the distance, where clear blues become inky blacks. The waters are still as death, undisturbed by mortal touch, a mirror of sorts, peering into the mortal world that’s so imperfect and warped and rejecting all that it sees, inverting everything within its reflection in some immature attempt to fix what isn’t broken.

A-Qing knows better than to touch those waters carelessly. She’s seen innocent people get dragged into a world that they don’t belong to, and she’s beginning to suspect that’s exactly what’s been happening.

The remnants of life around them give a good hint as to the cause of the recent disappearances.

Hanging in the air, suspended in time, are thousands of shattered, golden shards. They’re silent and unmoving, pulsing with a heartbeat that doesn’t belong to them.

It leaves a cold sort of nausea in A-Qing’s stomach.

There’s no saving them. Something crushed all those souls into pieces and left them here, in a place where the mortal realm crosses over into something stranger, in a place where time and space mean little under the domain of something that doesn’t want them to exist.

This, of course, is happening all while they stand under warmth and light that’s coming from somewhere and something, and wow, this is probably what they mean by eating your words, isn’t it?

The words just barely rise to her lips, stumbling over her tongue in an attempt to find some sort of coherence or sense. “What—what on earth is this?”

Fuxing laughs. With a sweep of his arm, he gestures upward. “Can’t you tell? It’s the sun, A-Qing. You haven’t forgotten what the sun looks like, have you?”

A-Qing lands a solid hit on Fuxing’s arm. “Last time I checked, the sun didn’t look like that! This is—” She gestures wildly and helplessly. Her fingers brush the unnaturally cold glow of a broken soul, and she snatches her hand back. “The sun’s gone, there’s a hole in the sky, and the world’s turning like everything’s perfectly fine!”

Behind his golden veil, Fuxing smiles. It’s something weird, something uncanny and otherworldly, begging for more questions while warning any foolish, loose-lipped fools with bared teeth.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Fuxing. His eyes glow just like the sun above their heads: two vast, empty holes with only the light of the stars to guide the way. “Stay focused. Remember, we’re here to investigate a few disappearances. Just that. No more.”

A-Qing holds Fuxing’s gaze. She’s gotten a lot better at it over the past year.

Something weird’s going on, and they both know it. It doesn’t matter if Fuxing won’t tell her. He doesn’t tell her a lot of things, but A-Qing figures them out anyway.

Just how it always is.

With a deep breath, A-Qing peers into the waters. She hates crossing over, but she’ll be damned if she runs away from her responsibility. People have gone missing (have died in the worst way possible, their souls crushed and shattered, never to be reborn or saved) and something wicked is at work.

Well, at least the food’s good. Not everything in the Other Side can be bad.

“Fine,” A-Qing says, her grip on Jiangzai tightening. “Then let’s hurry up and get something to eat first. I’m starving, and I’m not working on an empty stomach.”

The human spark returns to Fuxing’s eyes, and A-Qing relaxes a little.

“Of course,” the god agrees, smiling. He steps forward and into the waters, breaking the silence, sending ripples in every direction. Just like that, the serenity shatters, and the reflected image distorts more and more until all that’s left is something entirely unrecognizable.

Fuxing holds out his hand. A-Qing takes it. With one swift tug, he pulls them below the rift and into the darkness below.

It’s cold.

Is that you?

No.

You are—

One of us?

Where have you been all this time?

Why have you come?

What misfortune has befallen you, my friend?

“That’s a very pretty sword you have there, young maiden.”

A-Qing takes a breath. It smells of death, impossibly old and cold, hanging in the air so tangibly that she swears she can feel the haze of rot around her. The weight of death pulls at A-Qing’s robes, eagerly beckoning, whispering foul promises of peace and rest.

Lies. All of their sweet words are lies. If there’s one thing she’s certain of, it’s that death is never the end.

(Look here, A-Qing.

They’re like fireflies, aren’t they? Lighting up the night sky, bright and beautiful. I’ve always found it amazing how mortal souls burn so brightly, even after death. And they sing so loudly. How can I ignore them?

All these lost souls, struggling, crying... can you hear them? Can you see them?

Can you save them?

Don’t look at me like that. Come on, give me an answer. Can you save them, my disciple? Can you give them peace—or, at least, can you lead them to salvation?

Well, Wind-Swept Maiden?

You’re fast. You’re swift. But can you find run quickly enough to answer their prayers for deliverance before the night takes them?

Ha ha! I didn’t mean to offend you. I just wanted to ask you. I ask myself that every day. There’s no answer to that question. What you do is simply what you do, but of course, we’re all partial to wanting to be heroes. Isn’t that right?

We live so they can die. We don’t decide who dies. Humans do that well enough for each other, burning each other to ashes, cutting each other into pieces, burying each other beneath the weight of their sins. Do you understand? We clean up what’s left.

Ah, humans really are cruel.

The worst thing you can do to someone after you’ve killed them is leave them to die again.)

Death isn’t necessarily an ally or a companion, but on this strange, twisted road that A-Qing’s chosen, it walks close beside her.

“It’s not for sale,” A-Qing says carefully, turning to face the... lady, monster, spirit, thing.

She’s pretty like all inhuman things are. Skin as pale as death, robes as pale as her skin, long ebony hair, blood-red eyes and lips.

The woman shifts, and her robes shift with her. She raises one hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, allowing her sleeve to slide down and reveal a skinless, fleshless limb, all brilliant white bone. When she steps closer, her leg peeks out, just as undead as half of her body.

Great. Wonderful! It’s so kind of Fuxing to leave A-Qing to deal with someone who’s only half undead. She’s going to kill him when he gets back.

“Oh, my apologies. I didn’t mean to upset you.” The woman smiles, her lips curling upward without moving the rest of her face. Her skin doesn’t even stretch. It’s like she’s taking off one expression and putting on another one. “I was just curious, you see. It isn’t everyday you see such a powerful sword in a city like this.”

This particular city is by far the biggest settlement on this side that A-Qing’s ever seen. Though the sun shines a bright gold, the skies are pitch black. Tens of thousands of coloured lanterns—red, yellow, blue, purple, everything and anything—light up the bustling streets. Everyone’s dressed in fine clothing, wearing intricately patterned robes that even Fuxing would hesitate to shovel out coins for. The sound of music is everywhere at once, playing the same song.

It’s a nice song. The problem is that it’s been playing on repeat for half a day, and A-Qing’s starting to get a headache.

But people walk by, talking and laughing without a care in the world, because existing of any kind is too short to be taken seriously, in life or in death alike.

A-Qing frowns and shifts to the side, blocking Jiangzai from the woman’s view. “It’s not all that powerful. It just has a bit of spiritual energy.”

“Yes, that’s what I mean,” the woman says. With a ceramic smile, she leans down, her entire form contorting and warping like ink in water. She stares directly into A-Qing’s eyes, two endless voids trying to find... something. “How interesting. How curious. Are you a cultivator, young maiden?”

A-Qing refuses to look away. Jiangzai shivers beneath A-Qing’s grasp.

Yeah, I know, she snaps. I’m not an idiot like you, dumbass.

So she breathes. In, out, and again and again. She’s alive in this world of death, and she refuses to be scared. After all, she knows someone much more terrifying than anything this realm can throw at her.

Formality is something she’s never bothered with, but even she’s not stupid enough to draw her sword before knowing what she’s up against. Luckily, Fuxing happens to be a master of wearing masks of all sorts, and A-Qing learns quickly.

(Listen up, now. What I’m about to teach you is very important.

You’ll be asked all sorts of questions in this life that you won’t want to answer. Who are you, for one. What’s your name, for another.

Of course, there are also questions nobody else will ask you. Why do I have to go through all this? Why did I choose to walk this path to begin with? Why did I make myself like this? What do others see me as? Just what have I gained?

Have I gone mad? What’s left for me now?

No one will ask you. Sometimes, you’ll want someone to ask. But you won’t want to answer, and that’s what’s important.

So I’ll teach you a magic phrase: nobody needs to know.

It’s the answer to everything. Who are you? Nobody needs to know. What am I supposed to do know? Nobody needs to know. Does my life mean anything? Nobody needs to know.

Hm? Why nobody needs to know instead of nobody knows?

Well, that’s a simple question.

It feels much better to pretend like you already know the answer than to admit you have no idea what to say.

So, repeat after me—)

A-Qing brings a smile to her lips. With a little dip of her head, she spreads her arms and recites, “Nobody needs to know.”

Running away isn’t always cowardly. Sometimes, it’s the smartest choice. Fuxing’s great at running away. A-Qing’s great at running. So maybe they’re both running away from something that’s chasing after Fuxing, but it’s not that bad. All they need to do is cut it down when it comes searching.

“Yes, very true, very true,” the woman agrees easily. “But you must at least be a mercenary of some sort, no? Work for hire, chasing chaos, all very heroic and noble.”

A-Qing shrugs. “I guess you could say it’s something like that.”

The woman cocks her head. There’s a sickening crack that comes with the jerking motion, like her entire neck is about to fall off. “Really? Even with eyes like yours?”

It’s been a long time since anyone’s asked about A-Qing’s eyes, and for a moment, she feels offended. Then she lifts a hand to her face and remembers that, oh yeah, her eyes have been bleeding since she stepped into this stupid realm, haven’t they?

A-Qing leaves the blood where it is. It’s not real, anyway—at least, not now, and not ever.

It could’ve been very real. Things could’ve ended very differently. Things could’ve started very differently.

She beams at the woman, offering a golden smile for a golden girl. “It’s not so bad once you get used to it!”

Fuxing mentioned something of the sort. This realm twists what you are, he had said. It takes your reflection and turns it into something horrible and disgusting.

And A-Qing took one look at his black robes, the crimson flames licking at his sleeves, the single red ribbon in his long black hair, the ebony dizi tucked into his sash. She took one look into his blood-red eyes, the bitterness and exhaustion hidden behind a fragile smile that wanted nothing more than to simply disappear, and thought, why do you hate yourself so much?

This realm doesn’t turn you into a monster. It inverts your best traits and your appearance. It turns you into the exact opposite of what you truly are. For A-Qing, it’s taken her eyes and made her appear as if she’s completely blind.

(What A-Qing wants to say is, doesn’t this prove that you’re a good person?

But she doesn’t say it. Because if she does, it’s the same as saying, the person you were before is unforgivable, a monster, someone who will be hated forever by everyone, who deserves nothing, who died alone, who bears the hatred of the entire world because nobody else will take it, and without a common enemy, humanity turns on itself—

It’s an awful thought. Everyone loves a martyr and hates a villain. So they pretend that those two aren’t the same thing and raise the flag of war.

It’s for the greater good!

You don’t even know what good is, you cowards.)

Maybe it’s best to just leave it at that. Besides, A-Qing has a job to do.

“If it’s not too much trouble, I want to ask about that weird thing up there,” says A-Qing, pointing up at the sky.

The woman looks up. Her robes slip below her collarbones, and A-Qing can see nothing but bone below her shoulders, which is a wonderful sight that isn’t disturbing in the slightest. “Oh, the day-eating moon? It’s strange, isn’t it?”

Strange doesn’t even begin to explain it, but sure. “Yeah! It’s really weird. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Of course not,” the woman says. “It’s a blessing of sorts around here.”

Raising her flesh arm to the sky, fingertips trailing the image of blazing gold against endless black, the woman sighs, and for a moment, she looks incredibly human.

Then she lowers her arm, and an awful, wide smile tears through her pale complexion, carving a deep gash of red into her porcelain skin. “The favour of the mighty and generous Shouxing rains upon us, young maiden. Only one night a year—that’s all. Isn’t that why you’re here? To celebrate with us and honour the revered goddess?”

It takes a decent amount of effort not to choke on nothing.

Shouxing? As in the god of longevity, Shouxing? Shouxing, who’s practically on par with Fuxing? Wouldn’t they sort of be family, in a weird way? And what’s this about only one night a year? Haven’t people from the other side been going missing for weeks now?

“Of course,” A-Qing says, a little too quickly. She clears her throat. “I mean, it’s only half the story. I just heard about some day-eating moon, and I didn’t know anything about it, so...”

The woman nods understandingly. Her eyes, two pools of crimson, soften in a way that A-Qing’s only seen on one other person. “Ah, yes. I’m not surprised. After all, cultivators love sticking their noses into strange happenings.”

There it is again. Every other moment, the woman flickers between monstrous and perfectly human. Is it one of the realm’s workings, or is she just out of her mind?

Just as A-Qing’s about to continue with her questions, someone plows directly into her, sending her sprawling forward and into the woman.

And, oh wow, those are definitely bones under her robes, so fragile even to someone as small as A-Qing. Faintly, hidden somewhere in the woman’s robes, A-Qing smells orchids.

The woman laughs lightly, propping A-Qing up with her flesh arm. She seems completely unbothered. “Careful, now.”

A-Qing spins around to tell off whatever blind idiot can’t see two people talking in the middle of the street and finds herself glaring at a panicked Fuxing.

It’s still jarring, seeing him dressed in such ominous robes. No white or gold on him at all; just red on black, no divine aura, either; just a haze of resentful energy that A-Qing’s more or less become accustomed to.

Either way, it’s about time. Where has he been? And why does he look like he’s just pissed off every canine in existence?

“I’m supposed to be the blind one,” A-Qing snaps, slapping Fuxing on the arm. “You’re finally back, are you? Done wandering around like an idiot?”

The god doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he looks around wildly, moving in full-body jerks, which in turn makes A-Qing try to glance at whatever he’s looking at. Before she can find anything unusual, Fuxing grabs both her wrist and the woman’s flesh wrist, dragging them into a small space between two stalls. The stall owners peek over for a moment, but don’t seem to care at all.

“Hey!” A-Qing wrenches her wrist from Fuxing’s grasp. What’s going on with him today? “What do you think you’re doing?”

The woman stares at Fuxing for a while, trailing over his black robes and red eyes. There’s something uncomfortable about how she surveys the god, dragging her gaze over his entire being with no expression at all on her pale features.

But she says nothing. Instead, she shifts her gaze. A-Qing follows it. Fuxing tries his best to melt into the wall.

There, in the middle of the street, is a man dressed entirely in white robes patterned with clouds. Going by the ribbon tied around his forehead and the sword by his side, he’s probably part of the Gusu Lan Sect, which is kind of strange. Nobody in Yinhe mentioned anything about other cultivators getting involved, but it’s not like they’re obligated to tell them anything.

Teamwork is fine, but not when it turns into meddling. Besides, there’s something weird about this particular cultivator. It’s the aura he carries with him; it’s not quite sad, more melancholic if anything, like he’s been mourning for a long time.

A-Qing doesn’t know who he is, and frankly, she doesn’t care.

(But what a resolute will they must have, to be the same person within and without.)

She and Fuxing never hang around other cultivators for too long: all others do is get in the way. The Yunmeng Jiang Sect and the Gusu Lan Sect are typically no-goes due to, uh, personal reasons, and the Lanling Jin Sect is just one giant, shiny, expensive headache. Out of the big four, only the Qinghe Nie Sect’s worth considering. They do have cool sabers, after all.

“Looks like we have some competition,” A-Qing huffs, annoyed. She turns back to face Fuxing and freezes.

That’s a look she never wants to see on his face.

Panic. Sheer, unadulterated panic. It’s a sort of fear that’s gut-deep and cuts like a knife. It’s a vice grip, a chokehold that cuts breath short and won’t let go. Fuxing’s terrified out of his mind, eyes blown wide, breaths stuttering, limbs locked in place.

(But beneath all that fear, there’s an expression that she recognizes. No one should ever die wearing that expression. No one should live wearing that expression.)

A-Qing immediately reaches for Jiangzai. Even the woman tenses, her eyes bleeding with the aura of blood. If a god is scared of something—no, if Fuxing’s scared of something, then that something needs to be taken care of immediately.

The Gusu Lan cultivator passes by without even sparing a glance in their direction.

Fuxing lets out a strangled breath.

The three of them are silent for a little while. Surprisingly, it’s the woman who breaks the silence.

“Tonight is just full of surprises,” she says, lifting her sleeve to her lips. There’s something strange about her remark, her tone a little off-kilter, a little too knowing. “It’s not everyday you get to see the revered Hanguang-Jun.”

Huh. That’s a name. That’s... a name A-Qing knows. In fact, that’s a name she explicitly remembers Fuxing labelling as someone they should stay away at all costs.

It was funny at first. Fuxing’s one of those people who’ll drink everyone under the table and flaunt his superiority in everyone’s faces. He’s probably made just as many enemies as friends using his stupid tactic of downing alcohol until he’s the last one standing, and there’s really no guessing how many people he’s humiliated by destroying them with his indomitable liver and unfortunately high tolerance.

It really is funny. A-Qing doesn’t care for alcohol, and someone needs to be sober to make sure they all get home in one piece, so she likes watching people who’d normally be terrified of Fuxing relax and exchange heated but well-meaning banter with the god, talking and laughing over food and drink.

It’s funny until Fuxing drinks and drinks until he can’t remember his own name, can’t remember where he is or why he’s alive at all. It’s funny until A-Qing has to hold him up and help him to someplace lonely and quiet so no one will hear him cry.

It’s funny until Fuxing cries and clutches onto A-Qing’s sleeves, eyes unseeing, begging, No, I’m sorry, Lan Zhan, Lan Wangji, Hanguang-Jun, please, please, give me another chance, I promise I’ll do better, I’ll be better, don’t leave me alone.

And that’s how you learn to hate someone you’ve never met.

Whoever this Hanguang-Jun is, he’s dangerous. He’s a threat. If A-Qing can’t get rid of him, the very least she could do is make sure he never, ever does anything to hurt Fuxing again.

Jiangzai shivers beneath her grip. A-Qing turns to the woman, who raises an eyebrow.

“You know what’s going on,” A-Qing says, eyes narrowed.

The woman’s smile widens. She tilts her head a little to the side, gaze glimmering with some convoluted layering of amusement and unspoken knowledge, which is another look A-Qing hates seeing, because it means she’ll effectively be trying to fact-check with a wall.

It doesn’t matter. Her silence is just as good as an answer.

In one swift movement, A-Qing snatches Fuxing’s coin pouch from his sleeves, drags him to the nearest accessory stall, and glares down the vendor until he reluctantly hands over a weimao.

A-Qing holds the weimao out toward Fuxing. The god, still rattled, stares for a moment. Slowly, he takes the weimao and places it gingerly on his head. His hands shake.

It’s not a good night for this sort of business. Maybe Fuxing will feel better after a meal, a bath, and a good night’s sleep.

Turning to the ghostly woman, A-Qing bows quickly. “Sorry, but you’ll have to excuse us. It’s been a long day.”

“Of course,” the woman says. Her expression hasn’t changed one bit. “Then you’ll be needing someplace to stay, won’t you? I know a very nice hotel around here. Would you like me to take you there?”

A-Qing hesitates. She’s not too eager to follow a woman who looks like a ghoul and knows more than she’s letting on, but wandering around aimlessly among these bustling streets and stumbling into that nasty Hanguang-Jun is an even worse prospect.

Behind her, Fuxing takes a deep breath. “A-Qing,” he says, a faint tremor still in his voice, “it’s alright.”

The smile that rises to his lips doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s a fragile thing, easily given and easily broken.

He’s doing it again. He’s doing the stupid thing where he pretends like everything’s perfectly fine even though he’s coming apart at the seams, and A-Qing isn’t having any of it.

“Sure,” answers A-Qing, snatching Fuxing’s sleeve violently when he tries to interject. “That’s very kind of you, miss, um…”

“Hui Hua.” The woman smiles again, but it’s different, kinder in a weird way, softer around the edges. “I take if you’re A-Qing?”

A-Qing nods.

The woman—Hui Hua, what a strange name, Ash Blossom, must be a title—turns to Fuxing, and bows deeply.

“My lord,” she says reverently, posture perfect despite her disheveled appearance, “it’s an honour to host you.”

Fuxing’s panic fades in part to suspicion. “You recognize me?”

It’s hard to blame him. Usually he’s much more courteous, but as he is now (a demon dressed in the black of death and the red of blood, walking among the hatred of malevolent spirits screaming for revenge), nobody in their right mind would assume he’s anything divine.

Hui Hua keeps her head down and her expression hidden behind her white sleeves. “This humble servant believes both names your prosperous self carries deserve respect.”

Both A-Qing and Fuxing stare in silence.

That’s impossible. Fuxing’s divine aura is so utterly smothered in resentful energy that not even someone like Hanguang-Jun would be able to identify him as a god.

And… for some reason, Hui Hua knows. She knows about Fuxing’s other name. His true name.

Fuxing didn’t have a lot of friends, but he sure made a lot of enemies, and a lot of those enemies would love to see him dead for good. Well, too bad for them! If they want at Fuxing, they’ll have to go through A-Qing and Jiangzai first, and she’ll lop off the hands of every idiot who even thinks about digging up the sins Fuxing’s already paying for with his immortal life.

A-Qing moves to unsheath Jiangzai. Fuxing reaches for the dizi at his waist.

“I mean no harm,” says Hui Hua. “I have no ill intentions toward you or your disciple. There is nothing for me to hide, and there is nothing from you I wish to take.”

The ghostly woman finally rises. Her eyes are flat and empty.

“I simply wish to guide you through this realm, and pray for your success in your endeavours here.”

“Don’t try and pretend like you don’t want something from us,” A-Qing snaps, unsheathing Jiangzai in one swift motion. The sword laughs. Leveling the blade at Hui Hua’s chest, she narrows her eyes and prepares to stand her ground. “Of all people, you chose to talk to us. You know too much about Fuxing, and I’ll bet you know exactly why we’re here!”

Something’s very wrong with this realm, and A-Qing hates how it feels. She literally has a sword pointed at a lady missing half the flesh from her body, and nobody seems to care. In fact, they don’t even spare a glance.

This doesn’t feel like all the other times A-Qing’s visited the Other Side. Something vile is at work here.

Before A-Qing can do anything else, Fuxing lays a hand on her shoulder. “Calm down,” he says, not so much gentle as exhausted. “We shouldn’t jump to conclusions yet. Remember: some people keep secrets not because they want to, but because they have to.”

He’s right, and that’s what makes it annoying. “Fine,” A-QIng grumbles, reluctantly sheathing Jiangzai, who snorts. “Whatever. It’s too late for this, anyway.”

“We’ll take your offer for boarding,” says Fuxing. “For now, you have our thanks.”

Returning to glare at Hui Hua, A-Qing sneers. “But don’t think I trust you even for a second! I don’t know what you are, and if it turns out you’re lying, then it won’t matter, because you’ll just be food for Jiangzai!”

Jiangzai shakes eagerly. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Hui Hua simply bows again, unfazed. “Of course. Now, shall we be off?”

The fact that she isn’t even remotely threatened is both annoying and concerning.

A-Qing isn’t sure how late it is, but the celebrations are still going strong. It’s almost hard on the eyes to look around; lanterns of every colour dot the streets and flowers rain from the balconies and roofs, as if someone keeps throwing them down. Everyone’s laughing and enjoying the festivities, eating and drinking and singing, and something feels very fake about it all.

Nobody bats an eye as they weave their way through the crowds. Even with A-Qing’s bleeding eyes, Fuxing’s ominous robes, and Hui Hua’s warped form, they continue to make merry, all while the same song plays:

Ash blossoms fall amidst a desolate spring,
A stone-cold heart catches fallen stars,
The fools weeping crimson and laughing gold
Have nothing but bleeding fingers and broken souls!

Hark! The song of the golden gods, three strong, three fallen
Pierces through the endless abyss and goes unheard!
Ten thousand flowers for the hands clasped in prayer
That wilt and are born again!

In circles, in circles,
Repeating, repeating,
We’re breathing, we’re crying,
And healing, and dying—

Behold the majesty of the golden gods!

It isn’t a happy song. For such a vibrant celebration in the name of a god of luck, isn’t it sort of out of place?

A-Qing sighs in irritation as the voices fades away only to start all over again. “Don’t they have any other songs to sing?”

“None,” Hui Hua says succinctly. She twists her head in an awful jerking motion. “It’s a song that the venerated Shouxing wrote herself. To honour her greatness, we sing her song until day comes.”

“Yeah? And when is that?”

Hui Hua’s expression is terribly empty. Even though her lips carve an unnaturally wide smile through her face, she looks like she feels nothing. “It comes when it comes. But until it does, we sing.”

The crash of drums startles A-Qing into tripping over her own feet. Fuxing steadies her, staring onward with blank eyes.

As if the festival wasn’t lively enough, a procession of red and gold breaks through the crowds with ease. Everyone immediately breaks into near-manic cheers, scooping up fallen flowers and tossing them into the air again with frightening vigor. Orchids and lilies drown out the night sky, swept up in the frantic waving of silks and banners.

What a weird night to get married. Whoever the bride is, she has serious guts, celebrating her own happiness before her patron god’s.

Someone tosses a peach in A-Qing’s direction. She grabs it out of the air and takes a bite out of it, because it really is a very nice peach, but are these people really throwing fruit around?

The women in the procession toss out peonies in waves. They empty their baskets, then reach into their robes, grabbing and throwing, grabbing and throwing, until their cheerful smiles turn into rigid half-grimaces.

It’s difficult to see among the parade of red, but A-Qing swears she sees a trickle of blood drip from a flower-bearer’s sleeve. It falls to the ground, where it’s immediately trampled by the marching feet of those who follow behind.

A-Qing feels nauseous. The peach in her hands feels like a stone.

These flower-bearers are ripping flowers from their skin.

“Fuxing,” A-Qing whispers. Among the noise of the procession, it’s impossible to hear. “Fuxing,” she repeats, louder. “Those girls—”

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

The look Fuxing gives her is one she recognizes immediately. It says: something is very wrong, but if you call attention to it, it’ll make things worse.

So A-Qing pretends like everything’s okay, because she’s a fast learner. “Yeah! If the wedding procession is this big, the bride must look absolutely divine!”

“She does,” says Hui Hua, who watches with unblinking eyes. No annoying flowers or fruits come her way. “The maiden is the merciful Shouxing’s vassal-turned-goddess.”

A-Qing chokes on her peach. “This is a wedding procession for a goddess?”

Hui Hua nods. “The goddess of lanterns and flowers, Ying Huohua.”

That does make sense, in hindsight. So this city isn’t just obsessed with lanterns and flowers. Well, maybe they are, but for a reason.

And then the marriage sedan rises into view, and A-Qing almost chokes on her peach again.

Red and gold, woven into delicate patterns of flowers and dragons and intricate paintings somehow made of thread. Golden ornaments adorn every corner and edge in a blinding and gaudy show of wealth, glistening with an eye-aching shine under the light of the lanterns. The satin curtain sways with each step the carriers take, and in the moment that the marriage sedan passes by, A-Qing swears she can smell orchids.

The three of them stand there for a while, watching as the procession marches into the distance and the cheers subside to their usual volume. The shower of flowers eases as well, and the sickly floral scent returns to just barely tolerable.

“Well then,” Hui Hua says, turning with a gentle wave of her robes. “We should be off.”

Without the hysterical energy of the marriage procession, the walk to the hotel is short. Hui Hua walks through the streets like she’s walked them a thousand times. Maybe she has.

“Please, let me handle this.” Hui Hua waves at them to stay by the door, then moves to speak with one of the employees.

He nods eagerly, then motions for Hui Hua to follow. Hui Hua in turn beckons to A-Qing and Fuxing.

And, uh, the hotel really is something.

For a small establishment, it’s awfully shiny. Red and gold decorations are practically plastered on every flat surface or hanging off the tables. Some sort of dragon winds up the stairs, entirely constructed out of paper and flowers. Patrons chat cheerfully, calling for more dishes and alcohol.

A waitress passes by with a jar of alcohol, and heavens, what on earth is that stuff made of?

Even Fuxing’s expression twists, with confusion going one way and surprise going the other. “That’s some fragrant stuff.”

A-Qing watches with horror as the waitress pours a cup for a customer. The liquid that comes out looks like water and smells like perfume, which is great, but then an entire peony plops out and into the bowl.

“Sorry,” A-Qing chokes out, unable to look away as the customer downs the bowl in one go, peony and all. “But did that man just swallow a flower?”

“It’s tradition,” is all Hui Hua says. She grins, and something black trickles from her lips.

Great. Everybody in this city is crazy, and not just in the weird way. They love their Shouxing and Ying Huohua so much that they’re willing to eat flowers. And if those flowers are grown from flesh and skin—

What in the world is going on?

Hui Hua directs to their room. “Here you are, honoured guests. Please don’t worry about payment. From such a revered being such as yourself, none is necessary.”

“How kind of you,” Fuxing says, words honey-sweet. “Then if you’ll excuse us.”

The ghostly woman bows deeply, posture perfect as always. A-Qing follows after Fuxing, and in the moment before the door shuts completely, she sees Hui Hua raise a finger to her crimson lips.

The door shuts, and A-Qing lets go of a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

As usual, Fuxing’s the first one to collapse onto a bed. This time, though, there’s no breathy laugh as he begins his battle with the sheets; instead, he folds his robes neatly underneath him and settles down onto the bed in silence.

A-Qing rests Jiangzai by her own bed. She tries not to look too much. It feels wrong, like she’s seeing something she shouldn’t, and she won’t betray his trust like that, but it’s impossible to miss how Fuxing reaches for the dizi at his waist.

His fingers brush the ebony instrument. Maybe it’s a trick of the light, or maybe A-Qing’s just tired, but he looks paler than he normally does.

Time for food, then.

At least Hui Hua was right about the hotel being nice. A-Qing barely takes a step out the door before she comes face-to-face with a young man holding a tray of food that looks like it’s more expensive than all of A-Qing’s belongings combined.

For a moment, A-Qing just stares. Two enormous peaches sit on beds of flower petals, both of them half the size of her head, and that’s not normal, is it? There’s no way that’s normal.

“That’s the biggest peach I’ve ever seen!”

“It’s a local specialty,” the man chirps, eyes sparkling, way too happy about peaches. “The golden god of longevity, divine Shouxing, blessed our land with bountiful fruit!”

The man continues to wax lyrical about the almighty Shouxing and her abundant mercy, which is really starting to get old. A-Qing pretends to listen and manages to pry the tray from the man’s hands as he continues with his spiel. He keeps talking until A-Qing shuts the door in his face.

“Food’s here,” she says, placing the tray on the table.

Fuxing blinks, then looks up. “Oh,” is his simple reply. He doesn’t move.

Of course he doesn’t move, because he’s the world’s biggest idiot.

A-Qing picks up her spoon. Fuxing stares blankly. A-Qing tosses it up and down; it’s heavier than it looks. Fuxing’s gaze follows the up-and-down motion.

Then A-Qing hurls the spoon at Fuxing’s face. The ceramic utensil greets Fuxing’s forehead with a mighty and solid thwack.

“Ow, ow, ow,” cries Fuxing, curling into a tiny ball. He raises his hands to nurse his battered forehead and gives A-Qing an accusing pout between his arms. “That was a ceramic spoon, you know? Ceramic! And you threw it at my face!”

“Why else do you think I threw it at you, dumbass?”

“I didn’t raise you like this,” Fuxing wails, scrambling up the bed and against the wall. “What went wrong, A-Qing? Was it me? Am I a bad father?”

A-Qing reaches for the second spoon. Fuxing clamps his mouth shut.

The two of them stare in silence. To be accurate, A-Qing glares and Fuxing tries his best to keep her gaze. Doesn’t matter. It’s a silent standoff that A-Qing has never lost.

After a few moments of silence, Fuxing sighs. It’s long and deep, like he’s squeezing out all the breath in his lungs.

Good. He doesn’t need any painful memories dragging him down. Fuxing is just Fuxing, the most insufferable person A-Qing’s ever met and will ever meet, and he’s fine just the way he is, because people can grow, and they will grow. It just takes time. Luckily for Fuxing, he’s got all the time in the world.

(There’s remembering, and then there’s being remembered.

Someone who loves the world will want the former and won’t care too much for the latter. Someone hated by the world will have the latter thrust upon them and reject the former with all their might.

Then there’s someone like Fuxing, who wants neither.

How can you blame him? For him, the past is a curse. Maybe if he was reborn as someone with more freedom, he’d be happier.

But he’s Fuxing, the golden god of prosperity, and he has a duty to this world. If he won’t be there for the people, no one will, and the thought of even more innocents dying as a result of his incompetence is one of his greatest fears.

For a god, there sure are a lot of things Fuxing’s afraid of. That’s what makes him so human.)

A-Qing gestures impatiently at the table. “Food’s here,” she repeats.

Fuxing’s black robes drag across the white sheets as he pushes himself up. “Sure, sure. But you didn’t need to be so violent. I can take care of myself.”

“So you’ll lie to my face, but not Wen Qing-Jie’s,” A-Qing snaps, catching the spoon when Fuxing tosses it back.

“Oh, no,” Fuxing interjects. “I lie to everyone. Don’t take it personally.”

Unamused, A-Qing crosses her arms. “I’ll go ask for more spoons.”

The god pales instantly. “Wait, no, don’t!” He practically scrambles to the table, seating himself and shovelling food into his bowl, peeking up at A-Qing every so often. “See? No harm done. It’d be a shame to let all this go cold, wouldn’t it?”

That’s one of the only reasonable things he’s said all day. But food is still food, and good food is good food.

The night passes without much fanfare. Outside, the streets are somehow still packed with singing festival-goers. Lanterns pass by their window, occasionally lighting the room up in strange hues, all while the same song echoes on.

In circles, in circles,
Repeating, repeating,
We’re breathing, we’re crying,
And healing, and dying—

Behold the majesty of the golden gods!

“Doesn’t seem like Shouxing has too much faith in herself,” A-Qing murmurs.

She rests on her bed, fresh out of the bath, rolling her jade ornament back and forth in her hands. The crystal bell jingles lightly, its ethereal chime drowned out by the neverending chorus of upsettingly cheerful voices.

Across the room, Fuxing sighs. He’s been reading the same page for a while now.

For another moment, A-Qing is silent. She wants to ask, she really wants to ask, but she knows she’s walking a fine line.

“Why are you running away from Hanguang-Jun?”

Fuxing looks up slowly. His eyes glow blood-red in the dark of the room.

“I think,” the god says, his voice bleeding with lost emotion, “that you already know why.”

Exhaustion and grief are painted across his pale features. He looks tired, bone-achingly weary, sick of the world and everything in it. He looks like all he wants is to drift off to sleep and never wake up.

The past always makes Fuxing like this, and A-Qing hates that she can’t do anything about it. She doesn’t know as much about Fuxing as she wants to, and she doesn’t know a single thing about Wei Wuxian.

See, the problem isn’t that Fuxing’s scared that Hanguang-Jun will punish him or capture him. It’s annoying, it’s infuriating, but Fuxing’s never been afraid of getting hurt.

The problem is that Fuxing looks at Hanguang-Jun with the same expression Song Daozhang wore when Daozhang struck him down.

Muffled cries of pain, a mantra of he mustn't know, he mustn't know, all while lamenting the fate that’s been given to them, burying the truth where it’ll never be found, accepting that a happy ending will never come.

Fuxing—no, Wei Wuxian—looks at Hanguang-Jun like he’s terrified that if they should ever meet again, an even worse fate will befall them.

A-Qing can’t say anything. She doesn't know enough. It isn’t her place.

But when she does know enough, oh boy, is Fuxing in for the lecture of his dumb, divine life.

(If Wei Wuxian and Hanguang-Jun were anything like Song Zichen and Xiao Xingchen—)

As much as she doesn’t want to, it’s probably best if A-Qing actually, you know, talks to Hanguang-Jun.

“Don’t worry about it,” says A-Qing, patting Jiangzai’s hilt. Game face, game face. Fuxing can’t know. “If that nasty, stuck-up Hanguang-Jun tries anything, I’ll gut him and roast him like a pig!”

Fuxing tries to smile. It’s more of a grimace than anything else. “No. No matter what, don’t fight him.” His expression falters, and he looks down at his hands. “Especially not for me. We’ve... fought enough.”

He’s sad, and A-Qing hates it. Sadness is exhausting. It’s draining, it’s heavy, and it doesn’t do anything to help at all.

So she does what she knows how to do.

With a snap of her sleeve, A-Qing puts the lamp out. Darkness falls over the room like a blanket.

“It’s late. If we want to get an early start tomorrow, we should sleep.”

There’s no reprieve for those lost in the past in sleep. But there is rest, and that’s all that matters.

On the other side of the room, Fuxing breathes.

“You’re right,” the god says. His glowing red eyes close. “Let’s get some rest. Good night, A-Qing.”

“Uh-huh. Good night.”

It isn’t the first time A-Qing’s stayed up later than Fuxing. On nights like these, she always makes sure to wait and listen until Fuxing’s short, measured breathes slow and fall into the realm of dreams.

Outside, the lanterns burn bright and the flowers fall slowly.

In circles, in circles,
Repeating, repeating,
We’re breathing, we’re crying,
And healing, and dying—

A-Qing wakes up to the sound of fireworks.

Needless to say, it scares her to death and back, because for the love of all that is good and just in this stupid world, who lights fireworks this early in the morning?

By instinct, she leaps up, snatching up Jiangzai with one hand and grabbing a handful of talismans with the other. For some reason, it’s still dark outside, and the glow of lanterns and smell of flowers is impossible to ignore.

“Quite a rude awakening, wouldn’t you say?”

Oh, you have got to be kidding.

Sitting calmly at the table, legs crossed over each other, is Hui Hua. She doesn’t even flinch when A-Qing draws Jiangzai.

“You,” A-Qing snarls, ready to run her through if need be. “What are you doing here? Why are you still here?”

It’s oddly silent. A-Qing looks to the other bed in the room, which is tidied neatly and devoid of a certain god of prosperity.

She’s going to kill that asshole when he gets back.

While A-Qing seethes silently, Hui Hua slides a plate of assorted fruit across the table. Screw the fireworks—waking up to a half-undead lady with pools of blood for eyes is the stuff of nightmares. “As you’ve noticed, the generous Fuxing has chosen to investigate by his lonesome. In order to ensure your safety, he asked me to watch over you as you, inevitably, conduct your own investigation.”

How kind of him to send a ghoul lady after her. Apparently this Hanguang-Jun business was a bigger blow to the head than A-Qing originally anticipated, because Fuxing’s gone full rogue in what she knows is an attempt to stay as far away from the supposedly terrifying Second Jade.

“I’ll tie his hair to a dog and throw spoons at him until he dies,” A-Qing spits, pulling her robes on violently.

Hui Hua laughs. It’s a high, bell-like sound, entirely unfitting for someone as ghastly as her. “I have no right to interfere with matters between a god and his vassal; however, I’d advise you leave that for after you end matters here.”

She’s right, and that makes it even worse.

Breakfast is a plate of fruit so abnormally large that even A-Qing pauses to consider how exactly they were grown. Then she remembers the flower-bearers and decides that it’s probably best if she doesn’t know at all.

As A-Qing finishes off an apricot, Hui Hua sighs.

“That song really never stops,” she murmurs, resting her head in her flesh hand. Her other hand, the fleshless, dead limb, taps lightly on her leg.

A-Qing frowns, wiping her mouth. “I thought you liked that song.”

Hui Hua laughs again. Now that A-Qing listens closely, her voice really does sound like bells. “A tragic hymn like that? Who in their right mind would like such a sad song?”

“It sounds nice,” A-Qing argues. She might not be the most avid musician, but she can appreciate a pretty song when she hears one. The more she learns, the more she and Fuxing have to pass time on the road. “It’s just they only sing that one song. Does Shouxing not want any other songs or something?”

A strange expression drapes over Hui Hua’s face like a veil. Her smile, her gaze, everything about her seems very distant and almost ethereal. “Only for one night.”

“Maybe you haven’t noticed yet, but it’s been one night already. Besides, why’s everyone still celebrating? Didn’t you say—”

A-Qing cuts herself off.

One night a year.

The lanterns, the flowers, the eternal night, in circles, in circles—

No way. There’s no way that’s possible, right? Not even for a god. Not... not even for a god.

Tripping over herself to slide the door to the balcony open, A-Qing bursts out and into the celebrations. The sleeve of her robe catches onto a nearby lantern, and she shakes it out into the street, where it’s swept up by the manic energy of the festivities.

Everything looks the same as it did last night. That’s fine, right? Maybe there’s something special about this realm in particular. Sure, maybe it doesn’t make sense because the Other Side is supposed to be a reflection of the real world and therefore should reflect everything into its opposite, but maybe things are just weird like that sometimes.

Or, of course, there’s the absolutely ridiculous idea that this realm is repeating the same night over and over again.

If this realm is under the domain of Shouxing, then everything within it should be under Shouxing’s command. And if she’s the one looping time, then there’s no way any of these fake civilians would admit anything’s off.

There is one person, though, who’s been an anomaly from the very beginning.

“Hui Hua,” A-Qing calls, steadying her voice, “how long has the festival been going on for?”

Silence.

Then: “One night. One thousand years. It depends how you choose to look at it.”

A city of red and gold, of lanterns and flowers, perpetually trapped in a festival that celebrates a goddess who refuses to see the sun rise.

A-Qing swallows the lump in her throat. “A thousand years.”

The laugher around her is grating. The same song rings into the skies, begging for help from the gods that’ll never come, because it’s the gods themselves who’ve condemned the people.

Then what about all those missing townspeople from Yinhe? And all those shattered souls along the border of the realms—was that a god’s work?

Would a being like Fuxing be capable of such tremendous cruelty?

A-Qing turns, her grip on the balcony railing tightening. “Fuxing said you’d help me, so start helping.”

Hui Hua rises to her feet and bows. “Of course. I can be very helpful. What would you like me to do?”

“Answer my questions,” A-Qing demands. “Answer them truthfully. Or, at the very least, answer them to the best of your ability.”

“Questions,” Hui Hua repeats, as if testing it on her tongue.

There’s always something off about Hui Hua, but not in the same way as the rest of the people in this god-forsaken city. While the others sing and cheer like puppets, with smiles painted onto their faces that have been eroding away for years under the light of day-eating moon and a song stitched onto their lips that’s long become an elegy, Hui Hua walks through the streets, a twisted figure among a beautiful celebration; an exception, free from the will of the goddess who rules over the domain.

Why is her form so twisted? Why is she here?

But those aren’t the questions A-Qing needs to ask right now. She doubts Hui Hua would be able to answer them. Free will is only as free as your masters let it be.

“Let’s get the pressing issue out of the way.” A-Qing gestures to the festival. Behind her, more fireworks light up the night sky, lighting up her silhouette. “This city, this realm—is it stuck in time?”

“Yes,” answers Hui Hua.

The woman smiles when A-Qing’s eyes narrow. So she can answer questions about the realm. That’s already much better than standing in the corner, twisting unnaturally, bleeding black.

“Next question. Is Shouxing the manipulating time?”

Hui Hua smiles pleasantly, but remains silent.

That’s a yes, then.

“Next. Why is she repeating this one night?”

No change. Hui Hua tilts her head to the side a little, raises her shoulders.

She can’t answer questions about Shouxing, then. Fair enough. It makes sense. But why would Shouxing keep her intentions hidden? Gods can do whatever they want. They’re entitled to whatever they please, as long as they maintain divine order.

If Shouxing’s hiding something, that means she’s doing something very, very wrong. A-Qing has a few ideas, but there’s no way she’s going to spit on a god without knowing the full story.

“Next,” A-Qing continues. “Do you know about the Yinhe disappearances?”

Hui Hua shakes her head. “I’m not familiar with them.”

And why would she? A-Qing isn’t sure how much information travels in and out between realms, but if Hui Hua’s being held here against her will, then this realm must be completely sealed off. It doesn’t matter how powerful or weak she really is; desperation is a powerful motivator. Try hard enough, and with time, even the weakest person can fell a god.

Could it be that Hui Hua... doesn’t want to escape?

No, that’s impossible. A thousand years is a long time, and living the same chaotic night for that long would drive anyone insane.

(Then how does she know about Fuxing? About Wei Wuxian?)

A-Qing studies Hui Hua for a moment longer. She’s unhinged, alright, twisted in both appearance and behaviour. But her personality seems perfectly intact, and despite the occasional display of ghoulish behaviour, she seems normal. As normal as someone stuck in his hell of a place can be, that is.

“Alright.” There are a few more questions A-Qing needs to ask, and then she’s off to get her feet on the ground and see what’s happening for herself. “The rift between this realm and the real world—is it as it should be?”

The Other Side doesn’t have protective boundaries. People slip into it all the time and manage to live out their entire lives without ever finding their way back.

“It isn’t.” Hui Hua’s answer is succinct. “The almighty Shouxing protects us from outsiders. In her endless kindness, she has chosen to play the role of gatekeeper by her lonesome.”

So the answer is basically, Shouxing gets to choose who comes in and who goes out.

Which of course spurs on the next question: “Then why let in three strangers?”

Hui Hua’s shoulders fall with her breath. She brings her hands together in an awful contrast of life and death. “The divine Fuxing is a god of equal standing to the merciful Shouxing’s. Though he may not be able to manipulate this realm, he can still come and go as he pleases.”

And A-Qing came with him, so that’s two accounted for. “Then what about Hanguang-Jun? Why let him in?”

Finally, inevitably, Hui Hua is silent. Her gaze trails the floor, where the shadows of lanterns drifting by paint a sea of flickering images.

“Everybody loves a happy ending,” is what the woman says, something forlorn and so hopelessly lost in her voice. “If you’ve lived a tragedy all your life, wouldn’t you want prove to yourself that happiness exists somewhere?”

A-Qing doesn’t answer. She isn’t obligated to, and she doesn’t want to. This isn’t a question for her to answer; the person who should be facing such an inquiry isn’t even here right now.

So A-Qing snatches her belongings up and ties her pendant neatly to her sash. It sways gently against her hip, ringing out with a promise and an oath Fuxing and A-Qing have both given to the world:

I’ll save you, but it’s up to you to hold strong until I reach you.

“Anyway,” A-Qing quips, walking over to whack Hui Hua on her flesh arm, “that’s enough for now. You’re with me until we figure this out. So let’s go endure that stupid festival once more.”

It’s impossible to describe, but Hui Hua’s features soften like she’s leaving something behind. A-Qing recognizes it, that strange not-quite-acceptance of something new over something old, but where has she seen it before?

Whatever. It doesn’t matter now, anyway.

“Into the depths we go,” A-Qing mutters, pushing the door open.

“Again,” Hui Hua adds, and if that one word doesn’t sum up this mess they’ve taken the leap into, then nothing does.

A disturbing discovery occurs almost immediately after they leave the hotel.

A-Qing wants to punch herself in the face for not noticing earlier. She wants to punch Fuxing in the face for not saying anything, because of all people, he’s the specialist when it comes to demonic cultivation.

The orchid in her hands is perfectly normal, if not unnaturally fragrant. It looks exactly the same as all the other flowers that fall from the sky.

It was out of frustration, really, but results are still results. One of A-Qing’s bad habits that even Fuxing told her off about is her tendency to channel her qi into her hands whenever she gets upset.

Usually, it’s just Jiangzai in her hands, so it’s not a problem. She only found out when she punched a tree during their travels and the entire dumb thing decided to snap in half.

But she’s gotten better! Things don’t explode in her hands anymore, but her hands can still make things explode. It’s useful for dealing with cultivators who think they’re way stronger than they actually are. Internal bleeding is fine because that’s where the blood’s supposed to be, and no, Fuxing, complaints aren’t being accepted right now, shut up, it’s for your own good.

A-Qing forces some of her qi into the flower. The moment she sparks the connection, tendrils of resentful energy lash out at her hand, too weak to cause any damage, but the fact that this one tiny flower carries resentful energy is enough to send A-Qing into a controlled but anxious frenzy.

Hui Hua passes more flowers to A-Qing. For once, she’s thankful that everyone in this city’s out of their minds, otherwise she’d definitely be chased away for her frantic behaviour.

“This one too!” It’s impossible not to curse in this kind of situation. Tossing a lotus flower over her shoulder, she picks up an iris, and then a lily, and a magnolia, and a peony, again and again. All of them carry the same haze of resentful energy.

Behind her, Hui Hua asks, “What do you think?”

And really, what does she think?

As far as A-Qing knows, Gods of luck can’t harness resentful energy. In fact, they’re resentful energy repellent. She knows this because Fuxing’s accidentally dispelled too many curses not to get the hint.

(Of course, if gods fall, or if the core of their identities change, it’s a different story.)

Regardless of who or what’s behind this, resentful energy is no joke. There’s only been one case of someone mastering demonic cultivation, and that story didn’t end well.

“I think,” A-Qing finally decides, “that I need to talk to the local goddess of flowers.”

It theory, it’s a great idea. It makes perfect sense to talk to the being that all these demonic flowers are for.

In practice, it makes A-Qing want to wring the necks of every one of these goddamn puppets, because they refuse to let her see Ying Huohua.

“Get off,” A-Qing demands, pushing yet another wailing idiot away from her. She struggles up the steps leading to the temple, forcing her way through the crowd of people who apparently can’t live with the idea of someone even talking to their honoured goddess. “This is urgent! Your flower goddess has some explaining to do!”

“You mustn't,” the festival-goers screech. Their voices are an assault on the ears, crying and shrieking and all repeating the same phrase over and over again. “You mustn’t! You mustn’t!”

Despite the fact that the entire city has apparently decided to try and stop A-Qing, they barely put up a fight. All they do is grab her sleeves and wave their limbs around uselessly, which is irritating, but hardly the most troublesome obstacle she’s had to deal with.

Hui Hua walks a little away from her. For some reason, everyone avoids her like she’s about to eat someone. To be fair, she does look like she could unhinge her jaw and start popping people down like candy, but A-Qing gets the feeling that it’s not just her appearance that’s driving people away.

After a short fight with the entire population of this garbage city, A-Qing stomps into the temple and unsheathes Jiangzai.

“Alright, you mindless dogs,” she snarls, levelling the blade at the terrified attendants. “The next person to tell me what I can and can’t do becomes a smear on the wall. Get out, or I’ll personally escort you to the hell!”

Fear is always more powerful than fake devotion, and nowhere is that on better display than now. The girls scramble to make their escape, tripping over their long red robes and each other.

Except for one, that is.

A single figure kneels on a plush golden cushion, entirely silent. The robes hanging off her shoulders are by far the most extravagant clothing A-Qing’s ever seen, and she travels with a god who can afford every material pleasure in existence. Gold and gold and even more gold on red that never ends, flowers and phoenixes stitched into winding patterns, a long veil that hides a smile A-Qing knows the goddess is wearing.

“Ying Huohua,” A-Qing says, bowing curtly. “My name is Wei Chengfeng. I’m the first disciple of Fuxing, the god of prosperity.”

The goddess doesn’t speak. She doesn’t even move. All she does is sit there, her hands folded on her lap.

Okay, that’s rude, but gods are like that sometimes. “I’m sorry for the rude entrance, but I need to know why your flowers are imbued with resentful energy.” Raising a peony as evidence, A-Qing tries to force her qi into the flower, then tosses it in front of the goddess as inky tendrils begin to pour out. “What do you think you’re doing? Just what do you think you’re messing with?”

Ying Huohua is utterly silent.

Oh, so it’s like that, is it?

The good thing about travelling with Fuxing is that A-Qing isn’t scared of gods. The bad thing about travelling with Fuxing is that A-Qing isn’t scared of gods.

So when she swings Jiangzai across the room, cutting a deep gash into the pillars and banners while also slicing the goddess’ veil in half, A-Qing doesn’t feel the tiniest bit of fear. She has a question, and she wants answers. That’s all there is.

The two halves of the red veil float gently onto the cushion.

A-Qing gapes.

“Hey there, Hui Hua.”

“Yes?”

“When where you going to tell me that Ying Huohua looks exactly like you?”

The resemblance is so uncanny there’s no way it’s a coincidence. The pale of death on Hui Hua is the pale of fine beauty on Ying Huohua. Startlingly red lips and red eyes, hair as black as night, the same vacant smile—it’s all the same. It’s all the same.

A-Qing can’t help but look between the goddess and her ghastly doppelganger. Why do they look the same? Why does such a venerated goddess have such a warped lookalike? What does this mean for Shouxing, who has to know of all this?

Through it all, Ying Huohua sits peacefully. While Hui Hua also wears her crimson eyes, their gazes are as different as they could possibly be. Ying Huohua’s eyes are glassy and distantly happy, whereas Hui Hua’s swirl with vivid emotion A-Qing can’t identify.

Approaching the goddess with unfaltering steps, A-Qing sheaths Jiangzai. “Looks like you have even more to answer to, Ying Huohua. Answer my questions, and I’ll leave you in peace to enjoy your wedding.”

The goddess is silent and silent as a stone.

“Hey,” A-Qing snaps, impatient. “You aren’t ignoring me, are you? You used to be a disciple, too, so don’t think you have any right to just pretend I don’t exist!”

“A-Qing.”

At the sound of her name, A-Qing turns. Hui Hua’s face is carefully devoid of any emotion, but the way she presses her lips together tells A-Qing that she’s putting a substantial amount of effort to look like a blank slate.

“Perhaps you should try giving her a little shake,” the woman suggests, her voice just as blank as her expression.

Well, if Hui Hua’s the one suggesting it, that means A-Qing can’t be blamed for being blasphemous.

So she reaches out to the goddess, lays a hand on her shoulder, and jostles her around a little.

Despite how beautiful the robes appear, they feel old. “Hi,” A-Qing tries greeting. “You can hear me, can’t you?”

Ying Huohua is surprisingly cold—too cold, actually. She’s cold and as stiff as death, unmoving, unblinking, unbreathing, oh no, no way, no way—

A-Qing jerks her hand back as if she’s been bitten. She stumbles back into Hui Hua, who steadies her with both hands.

It can’t be. There’s no way.

“Is she—” The words catch halfway up, and A-Qing has to take another breath to force them out. “Is she dead?”

Hui Hua sighs. There’s no surprise, no shock, nothing to demonstrate that she didn’t already know. Only exhaustion and acceptance. “No, she isn’t.”

She isn’t?

Ying Huohua is stiff and cold as death, alright, but when A-Qing presses her hand against the goddess’ wrist, she feels the faint pulse of life and the unmistakable beat of a golden core.

Impossibly, inexplicably, She’s alive. Or rather, this body is being preserved by a powerful blessing of life, nowhere near as powerful as Fuxing’s but still incredibly potent, and a golden core that’s so shattered it’s a miracle it hasn’t dissipated into nothingness.

The golden core, the golden core, something terrible has happened and cracked it into tiny pieces. No—no, it was in pieces to begin with. It writhes under A-Qing’s touch, trying to escape, to go back to what it used to be, but it can’t. The divine touch of eternity traps it together, stitches it up into some horrible abomination of a thing.

What in the world happened here? This—this shouldn’t be. This is wrong! Nobody deserves to have half a life forced upon them, flaunted for everyone to see through a city cursed to never die.

It’s wrong, it’s disgusting, it’s the most awful sort of fate someone could ever be bound to.

A-Qing moves her hand away. She takes a few steps back, breathes in, breathes out.

“Change of plans,” she says, finally turning. “We’re trashing the wedding procession.”

Hui Hua blinks in surprise. “Pardon?”

“We’re trashing the wedding procession,” A-Qing repeats heatedly, marching out of the temple and onto the goddamn warpath. Hui Hua follows after her, much closer than before. “We’re burning the entire thing down if we have to. I’m going to mess it up so bad Shouxing will need to kick me out herself!”

“I don’t think that’s a particularly good idea,” Hui Hua says, and is that tension A-Qing hears in her voice?

It doesn’t matter. A-Qing has a plan, and she’s going to figure this all out in one fell swoop.

The attendants that fled flinch violently when A-Qing passes by the door. They whisper to each other as they hurry back into the temple, no doubt to prepare the unresponsive bride for a wedding that’ll never come.

All the wailing festival-goers turn and stare nervously. They fidget and mumble, fidget and mumble, and this is all energy that A-Qing thinks they should be spending worrying about their meaningless existence, or at least preparing for the procession.

So she lets her qi flow to her right hand and punches a nearby statue. It shatters into thousands of tiny pieces in a glorious bang, which sends the crowd screaming and scattering in all directions.

“Yeah, you’d better run!” A-Qing yells after the fleeing civilians.

Now that her head’s a little cleared up, A-Qing can put two and two together.

Yes, Ying Huohua’s fate leaves a lot to be desired, and yes, whoever made her that way deserves to burn, but the fact that the goddess doesn’t have any real life in her is a particularly interesting mystery.

The thing about the Other Side is that it reflects the real world. Specifically, it inverts life in the real world and creates an opposite image of it. Night is day, rich is poor, and so on.

But it can never reverse life and death. The Other Side only inverts the appearances of the living; the dead have no place here. The dead don’t have souls to invert, so they’re absent. It’s a simple rule that makes sense.

It’s just like a mirror. If there’s nothing to reflect, there won’t be a reflection.

But Ying Huohua is an anomaly. She’s alive in the broadest definition of the word, barely clutching to the life that’s been thrust into her, and even then, it’s not her life to live.

To put it simply: functionally, she’s dead. She has no life of her own, and even her golden core is of questionable origin. There’s no way the Other Side would even give Ying Huohua a reflection when she might as well be a corpse.

It doesn’t make sense! In other words, Ying Huohua is an anomaly, just like Hui Hua. They’re both alive in very vague terms, and they both shouldn’t even be in the Other Side to begin with.

Obviously, that means they were brought from the outside in.

With all that said and done, what’s the best course of action? Wreck the wedding procession, see if that’ll draw Fuxing out, and demand answers.

The wait for the procession to start is almost unbearable. Now that A-Qing has a plan to get some answers, listening to that same stupid song and watching the same stupid lanterns float by makes her want to gut herself. The fact that Fuxing isn’t here to entertain her with his usual dumb antics makes it even worse.

So they wait it out on the rooftops, watching as the last of the fireworks fade and lanterns take over the night sky. Up above, the blazing gold moon shines brilliantly, a reminder that A-Qing has a place she needs to return to.

Hui Hua is the first to stand. “It’s time.”

Drums, manic cheering, endless showers of flowers—yeah, it’s time, alright.

“This isn’t the most cautious plan,” Hui Hua warns, trailing behind A-Qing. She pulls two fans from her sleeves, pretty little things.

A-Qing unsheathes Jiangzai and grabs a handful of flame talismans. “I mean, that’s sort of the point. I’m going to see just how patient this Shouxing is!”

If there’s one thing A-Qing’s gotten exceptional good at, it’s causing havoc for the sole purpose of getting people to run. Civilians just get in the way when it comes to dealing with monsters and ghouls, so it’s easier to drive them away first.

With a flick of her wrist, A-Qing commands Jiangzai to just go wild, which, knowing Xue Yang and his love of seeing people panic, is the easiest command she’s ever given.

Jiangzai shoots forward in a streak of black, cutting across the red and gold of the procession. The blade cuts into anything that isn’t flesh: robes, fruit, flowers, nearby buildings and stalls.

Needless to say, a flying sword hacking and slashing its way through town is terrifying no matter what god you serve. Everyone starts screaming like it’s the end of the world and A-Qing’s set Jiangzai loose on them with a personal vendetta, but it’s all for a very good reason.

No reaction from Shouxing, yet. Then it’s time to up the ante.

A-Qing throws the flame talismans forward. They dart into the sky, forming a five-pointed formation, and light ablaze. Every flower that passes through immediately becomes a flaming projectile, dropping down and in turn lighting everything around in on fire.

“Ghost fire,” A-Qing says to a disapproving Hui Hua. “It’s just a trick. It acts like real fire, and it hurts like real fire, but it doesn’t actually cause any real damage.”

Hui Hua sighs. It’s the familiar sound of someone conceding because they know they can’t win an argument with A-Qing. “Very well. Allow me to help speed up the process.”

With a snap of her fans, Hui Hua spreads her arms and steps forward, steps back, and oh, she’s dancing, isn’t she?

It’s something simple and reserved, but the way Hui Hua moves speaks of years upon years of practice. She’s fluid, graceful, and confident in every action, and when she snaps her fans closed, a storm of flowers drops from the sky like every blossom in the world happened to fall in the same place.

The shower of flowers turns into a torrent, spreading the ghost fire onto buildings, and then to neighbouring streets, all while people below scream in phantom pain, and come on, Shouxing, isn’t this enough?

The flames lick the wedding sedan, and everything twists.

(I’ve got you.)

(We’re not done just yet, Wind-Swept Maiden.)

“A-Qing?”

A-Qing wakes up to someone calling her name.

Immediately, she prepares for a fight, because when Fuxing needs her, it means he can’t deal with something himself, and that’s never good news, because it means something from his past wants him dead.

She jerks up and slams her head directly into Hui Hua’s. They both go tumbling back, one hissing in pain and the other decently startled.

“You certainly have a hard head,” Hui Hua mumbles, smoothing out her robes.

A-Qing glares venomously. “Can you please stop waking me up so rudely?”

“Do excuse me,” Hui Hua says blandly, standing and pulling A-Qing up with her, “but I did try my best to keep you here in this realm when Shouxing tried to throw you out.”

So the mighty Shouxing has her limits, does she?

Chest puffing with pride, A-Qing crosses her arms and grins a wide grin. “There you have it! All it took to convince the merciful Shouxing to breach her own border was a bit of arson.”

This is a huge victory! They’ve put cracks in the thousand-year system, and now all they have to do is keep kicking.

Now that A-Qing takes the time to look around, she notices that they’re back in the hotel room. The same song, the same floral scent, the same view of the balcony with lanterns drifting by, the same looping time, it’s all there, and it’s really starting to grate on her nerves.

“We’re back at the start,” A-Qing notes with some annoyance. It isn’t surprising, but it does mean they’ll have to go through this hell of a night again.

Hui Hua sighs. With every passing minute, she seems more and more human, and it makes A-Qing think strange thoughts.

It doesn’t matter right now. Once they figure out how to shatter this fake realm into pieces and drag Shouxing from her divine throne, this fanciful illusion will finally dispel, and Ying Huohua and Hui Hua will be able to walk free.

And then A-Qing will give Shouxing the the longest, most brutal lecture of her immortal life. Fuxing can watch and throw in his own quips every now and then. Alternatively, he can keep running away from this problems. Which one’s more likely? Nobody knows.

As A-Qing spreads her talismans onto the bed, checking how many she has left and wondering how angry Fuxing would be if she wrote up some more without his supervision, she fully processes Hui Hua‘s words.

“What do you mean, ‘try your best to keep me in’?”

Hui Hua looks down at her hands. “It means what it sounds like,” she says. For some unknown reason, her voice shakes, and her hands tremble. “Shouxing tried to throw you out, and I couldn’t allow that.”

That’s interesting for a few reasons. First, because it proves that Hui Hua has enough control over the realm to fight against Shouxing’s attempt to kick A-Qing out, but not enough to break herself free. And second, because it definitely puts Hui Hua on the opposing side to Shouxing.

But they aren’t enemies. It doesn’t sound like it, and it doesn’t feel like it, either. Their relationship is more complicated than that.

Something about her reminds A-Qing of Fuxing. “Why couldn’t you let that happen?”

“This night must end.” The ghoulish woman clenches her hands, both flesh and bone. Black blood drips from her lips as she looks up, two crimson orbs gazing into still-bleeding eyes. “There are promises that must be kept and broken. For the good of the world, for the good of the innocents who’ve already been sacrificed.”

A-Qing listens silently. Hui Hua knows exactly what’s happening here. Either she can’t or doesn’t want to explain. Maybe it’s a bit of both.

Most importantly, her words are just like Fuxing’s. They say, something very sad happened here, people were hurt because of me, and they’re my problems to resolve.

At least Hui Hua isn’t as stupid as Fuxing. She’s willing to reach out and find help—or, at least, accept the help that’s fallen into her lap.

“Well,” says A-Qing, stacking her talismans and shoving them back into her sleeves, “I guess we should keep at it until Shouxing gives in!”

“The divine Shouxing hasn’t given in for a thousand years.” Hui Hua laughs bitterly. “It will take much more to convince her to stop.”

That’s not so difficult to deal with. Why? It’s simple, really.

Slamming open the doors to the balcony, A-Qing reaches out to the nearest lantern and snatches it down. The flame wavers violently, but still burns bright. Behind her, Hui Hua watches. Her expression softens as A-Qing runs her fingers gently over the fine paper.

It’s just a single lantern out of thousands, floating through the night with no destination, no possible end. But they still light up the darkness, and even though the wishes that were made on that very first night have long since died, the lanterns don’t know that. They keep searching, braving the night, forever carrying the memories that the hands that once held it have forgotten.

“You can’t go at it alone forever,” A-Qing says. “No matter how strong you are, there’ll be a day where you can’t keep on fighting. When that happens, it’s okay to reach out to others. It isn’t weak. It’s human.”

Before all this, A-Qing thought of the gods as some distant deities, too divine to ever breach the mortal realm. Then she met Fuxing and realized that the gods are too human for their own good.

A-Qing holds the lantern out to Hui Hua. The orange flame illuminates the woman’s face with the hue of life, giving a faint glimpse into what she might’ve looked like. “I don’t know about you, but I believe that nobody truly dies alone. In life, your life isn’t just your own. People come, people go. And that’s the thing, isn’t it? When someone you love leaves—when you push them away—it’s the most awful kind of pain.”

Hui Hua takes the lantern. Her hands shake, as if she’s afraid it’ll break in her hands.

“That sort of pain can drive you crazy. It’ll eat away at you until it kills you, and when that happens, all the words you left unsaid won’t mean much to anyone.”

A-Qing knows very well that sometimes, no matter how much you say, in the end, it’s useless. Sometimes, they’re too far gone. You can dig and dig until your hands bleed and there’s nothing but stone beneath you, but you’ll never find them again.

The thing about second chances is that they’re always sad, because it means the first one ended in tragedy.

And yet—

“I’m not going to give up,” A-Qing declares, “and neither should you.”

Pulling Hui Hua to the balcony, A-Qing lights a flame talisman. It burns a brilliant, true gold. When the woman stumbles forward, the lantern still in her hands, A-Qing holds the talisman to the steady orange flame.

It immediately bursts into a halcyon gold, warm and kind, one single wish that’s been beaten and broken, but never forgotten.

With her hands over Hui Hua’s, A-Qing raises the lantern to the sky. It drifts up gently, far past those that drift too close to be called prayers, up and up into the sky, toward the day-eating moon, where not even Shouxing will be able to extinguish it.

“A chance is always a chance!” A-Qing gives a wide grin. “You never know, right?”

For a long moment, Hui Hua is silent. She stares up at the lantern until its golden flame is too distant to be seen.

Then the woman sighs something deep and old. The smile that rises to her lips is the most human expression A-Qing’s seen on her yet. “A chance is a chance,” she repeats. “I suppose I’d have to be the world’s greatest fool to give up on it after all we’ve done.”

There it is. What sort of idiot walks halfway and then turns back? It’s the same distance to the end, so you might as well march forward.

“Obviously,” A-Qing says, already moving to leave. “What until I tell Fuxing about this! ‘Don’t set things on fire’, he says. Well, take a look and how far we’ve come and say that to my face!”

With Hui Hua beside her, A-Qing marches into the same night.

She has a few ideas. Shouxing won’t like them at all, but she’s not really an unbiased party here. Then again, neither is A-Qing, but murder is murder no matter what it’s for.

It’s time to raise hell for the second time.

Things go much smoother now that everyone’s terrified of A-Qing.

When she looks in their direction, they flee. When she approaches them, they clear the way. Time may have turned back, but they seem to remember exactly how terrifying A-Qing is.

So she holds her head up with pride and walks through the streets like she owns them. It’s a good feeling.

“I’ll say it again, even though I highly doubt you’ll listen.” Hui Hua looks incredibly tired and exasperated. “Doing anything to Ying Huohua is sure to antagonize Shouxing.”

“So what? I’m Fuxing’s disciple. She messes with me, she messes with Fuxing.”

The woman rubs her temple like she’s having the headache of her life. “Perhaps it’s slipped your mind, but at the moment, Fuxing isn’t as divine as he usually is.”

And what about it?

What Hui Hua has apparently forgotten is that Wei Wuxian and Fuxing are the same person. Godhood hasn’t changed who he is. He’s just as big of an idiot as he was before, cutting his heart open and giving it to people who don’t deserve it.

Besides, who said the Yiling Patriarch isn’t as powerful as a god? He did literally raise hell, after all. In the end, the only person who managed to kill him was himself.

A-Qing snorts. “Divine, demonic, it’s all the same.” She crosses her arms. This is the one thing she won’t back down on. “I trust him. If I’m in trouble, he’ll come, and he’ll save me, no matter what sort of god or demon wants me dead.”

The way Hui Hua’s features twist is familiar. “You trust him with your life.”

“I gave him my life,” A-Qing says. She gestures to the jade ornament and crystal bell hanging by her waist. “I’m his first disciple. You see, he saved me from a terrible fate. So wherever he goes, I’ll follow, because he said he’d give me somewhere to belong.”

Hui Hua’s expression is so, so melancholic. She listens with rapt attention as A-Qing describes even the smallest details of their journey so far, from her favourite cheap snacks in every city to Fuxing’s incredible ability to summon crowds of stray souls with his voice alone.

The past year has been more than A-Qing ever expected out of life. Looking back isn’t as hard as should be because things turned out alright in the end, which is a miracle by itself.

Things have changed. People who died are alive, people who have killed are taking the road to redemption, and things could’ve been so different.

“Here we are again.”

This time around, there’s no crowd in their way. The crowd is behind them instead, whispering fearfully from a respectable distance.

A-Qing rolls her eyes. They’re acting like Shouxing’s going to smite them all, which isn’t going to happen yet. “Let’s go mess with our resident god of luck, then.”

Hui Hua hesitates, but follows after A-Qing regardless. She tucks her sleeves together, walking up the steps with rigid formality. “What do you plan on doing this time around?”

“Nothing much,” A-Qing says dismissively. “I slapped Ying Huohua around a little last time, so you’ll do it this time.”

Watching the fear unravel in Hui Hua’s blood-red eyes is kind of disturbing. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re both anomalies, and you know it.” When Hui Hua tries to argue, A-Qing stares her into silence. “Ying Huohua’s the centre of attention, whereas nobody here even looks in your direction. Plus, she’s half-alive, and you’re half-dead.”

Hui Hua looks away, and A-Qing knows she’s hit home.

People have a habit of underestimating A-Qing just because she’s young, which is hilarious, because it shows just how dumb they are. Apparently they’ve completely forgotten the fact that a certain young cultivator mastered demonic cultivation when he was seventeen, but whatever.

A-Qing survived all those years on the streets for a reason. Despite everything, she’s alive. There’s no way she’s getting taken out by a god, of all things.

“I’m not sure how much you know about gods, but as far as I know, they’re kind of like ghosts.” A-Qing waves around an exorcism talisman for good measure. “They’re split between soul and body in a way that’s a lot more defined than the normal human, probably because they’re so powerful.”

“Is that so,” says Hui Hua, her voice measured.

“Yeah! I mean, they’re supposed to be knit together, but if they come unravelled, the soul takes on a form of its own.”

“Like a ghost who haunts its grave in seek of rest.”

A-Qing studies Hui Hua’s expression. The woman’s face is carefully blank, but not blank enough. Travelling with someone who loves keeping hurt to himself has taught A-Qing some very useful tricks. “That’s exactly my point. So, basically, what I’m trying to say is—“

“You think I’m Ying Huohua’s soul.”

That was a lot easier than A-Qing expected. It’s great that she didn’t need to coerce Hui Hua into just spilling the truth, because then things get awkward, and then they get annoying, and then coercing turns into threatening.

“You didn’t let me finish, but yeah,” A-Qing says. “When I touched Ying Huohua, I could tell that her soul was badly damaged. Almost, you know, like it was ripped in half.”

Hui Hua is utterly silent.

“So if the body isn’t completely vacant and still has half a soul, then wherever the other half Ying Huohua’s soul went, it’s bound to be in pretty poor condition.” A-Qing quickly adds, “No offense.”

“None taken,” Hui Hua says distantly.

“I’m saying the soul would reflect an appearance of being half alive, half dead.” A pause. A-Qing frowns. “I don’t need to get a mirror, do I?”

Hui Hua sighs in defeat. The steel in her spine folds, and her shoulders slump. “No, you don’t.”

“Great!” Clapping her hands together, A-Qing beams. It’s so nice working with someone so cooperative for a change. “Then, Hui Hua, Ying Huohua’s tattered soul, let’s get you pieced together, okay?”

For a long moment, Hui Hua is silent.

Which, in hindsight, makes sense. Her body’s been sitting in the same place for a thousand years, yet she hasn’t attempted to take it back until now.

The obvious question is short and simple: why?

For a god ruling over this realm, Shouxing’s awfully lenient. Even when A-Qing terrorized the entire town and broke into Ying Huohua’s temple, she didn’t react. It was only when Ying Huohua was put at risk of harm that Shouxing decided that, hey, maybe this is a bit much.

Long story short: the centre of this whole mess is Ying Huohua. More specifically, it’s Ying Huohua’s relationship to Shouxing.

And isn’t that just a bundle of fun.

Why this night, of all nights? Why repeat a wedding procession that never reaches its wedding? In fact, who’s Ying Huohua being married to? Why does nobody seem to care?

The answer is obvious.

Shouxing wants to see Ying Huohua happy, but can’t bear to see her be married to someone else.

Who doesn’t like living an illusion? It’s peaceful, it’s pleasant, it’s happy. And most importantly, it’s all a dream.

That day-eating moon up there in the sky, the night-eating sun back in the real world—it’s all a distortion, a sign that something is false and wrong, that evil is being done for good.

A-Qing would bet anything that Shouxing’s wearing red robes right now.

Love is an awful thing. It drives people mad, it makes them reach desperately for things they can’t have, and when they realize they can’t have it, they destroy everyone, including themselves, to even live the possibility of attaining it.

Why do people say love is a blessing when all their tragedies end the way they do because of love? The heart is a weapon and a burden. Wield it carelessly, collapse under its weight, and it’ll destroy you.

“Can I ask you another question?”

Hui Hua bows her head. “Of course.”

“How exactly did you earn the title Ash Blossom?”

The breath Hui Hua takes is sharp and quick. Her breath catches in lungs she doesn’t have, and she focuses all her energy on looking downward. It’s a question she can’t answer—no, it’s a question she doesn’t want to answer. The only one keeping her secrets is herself, this time.

It’s a rude question, but it’s one A-Qing has to ask. At least she asked nicely this time; just spitting out how exactly did you die? doesn’t always go so well.

Anyway, if Hui Hua isn’t going to help, then A-Qing will go right ahead and help herself.

“Let me throw out a few wild guesses,” A-Qing says. “Something obviously happened to Ying Huohua while she was alive to make her, well, dead.” When Hui Hua turns to stare flatly at her, A-Qing crosses her arms. “Just getting it all out of the way! Seriously, for someone immortal, you’re impatient.”

It’s a debrief, and besides, what’s the rush?

Clearing her throat, A-Qing continues to lay it all out on the table. “Going by how messed up Ying Huohua’s soul is, I can only guess that she died. While her soul was separated from her body, something got to it and tore it up.”

Hui Hua flinches, a full-body jerk. Spot-on. But also, ouch, because if she remembers what happened even after a thousand years, it couldn’t have been something enjoyable.

“Obviously, without a soul, her golden core disappeared. But that doesn’t explain why Ying Huohua’s golden core is so nasty right now, does it?”

“No,” Hui Hua admits. “It doesn’t.”

Golden cores die when the soul dies. They... um, shatter isn’t really the right word. The point is, they break irreparably and disappear, leaving no trace behind. So the very fact that Ying Huohua has a golden core to begin with is a horrible prospect, because it means that travesty of a thing inside her was put there by someone else.

It isn’t hard to guess who managed such a thing. After all, there’s only one person in this realm capable of something like that.

“You know, there’s something really weird about golden cores,” A-Qing comments, almost casually. “They’re supposed to be incorporeal, but if you have the know-how, it’s actually possible to kind of do surgery on them. You know, cut them up, put them somewhere else.”

Hui Hua doesn’t even flinch when A-Qing swings Jiangzai through a nearby statue. The blade rends the stone like water, splitting the entire thing in half.

“And would you look at all those shattered souls at the boundary, not dead, not alive, perfect for picking and choosing golden cores like you’re picking potatoes.”

Gods. Who needs them? The only gods worth saving are the ones who’ve already died. At least they know what’s at stake.

Fucking Shouxing. You think you can do whatever you want? Devotion, love, no, that’s no it at all. This is obsession, a child who can’t let go of something that’s already been lost, so they trample over everything in their path trying to chase an illusion.

How can someone devote their entire being to someone without wanting anything in return? Or—no, it’s not quite right. How can someone devote their entire being to someone without receiving anything in return?

It doesn’t make sense! You can only give so much to one person, and if they don’t even turn back to look at you, what’s the point?

“And you,” A-Qing snaps, leveling Jiangzai at Hui Hua, who, for the first time, flinches. “How’d you harness resentful energy? What are you planning to do with it?”

Hui Hua actually has the nerve to pull out one of her fans and nudge Jiangzai away with it. Her red eyes burn with something between indignation and guilt, which is so conflicting A-Qing wants to smack her over the head and just tell her choose one or the other. “I’m honoured you assume I have the ability to control such dark powers, but if you wish to find the source, perhaps you should be looking somewhere else.”

So this mess is even bigger than A-Qing thought. “This is Shouxing’s doing?”

Gods of luck can’t harness resentful energy! Their whole thing is purging negative energies and warding them away, which obviously means better luck.

Fuxing can only make use of his past talents when he’s in the Other Side, but that doesn’t apply to Shouxing, because if she had the same oops-I’m-human-now reflection, this realm would just fold in on itself like a crappy bamboo hut.

So if Shouxing somehow has the ability hold up this realm and mess with resentful energy at the same time—

Oh.

Oh.

“Oh, shit.”

Oh, no. No, no, no. If this is going where she thinks it’s going, then they need to end this as quickly as possible.

A-Qing would love to run Hui Hua through right now, but she doesn’t have time. Instead, she takes the steps two at a time, and why the hell does the temple seem so far away?

“You know, for someone who said they were going to help me, you’re being really unhelpful right now,” A-Qing spits, glaring at Hui Hua with murder in her eyes. “When were you going to tell me that we’re being played around with by a demon lord?”

Hui Hua looks away, almost as if she’s ashamed.

She should be! A demon lord! A demon lord!

Hindsight is great and all, but right now, it’s arming itself with a thousand knives and telling A-Qing to draw her stupid blade, because everything makes sense if Shouxing’s a demon lord.

The resentful energy, the shattered souls, the god-like ability to hold up a realm for a thousand years.

If Ying Huohua died when Shouxing was still a god of luck, then Shouxing would obviously want her back. And if a revered god of luck tried to revive someone by stealing the souls of cultivators, hacking them into pieces, and building a demented golden core to give to her beloved Ying Huohua, there’s no way the other gods would just sit around and let that happen.

Ying Huohua must’ve died an awful death. If Shouxing had to go find a golden core for her, it means that something happened to Ying Huohua before she died that destroyed all possibility of her cultivating a new golden core.

Worse still—

Can you even replace one god’s golden core—the literal core of their being, what makes a god who they are—with another god’s? That’s not possible, is it?

Mortal cultivators have golden cores, but there’s no way they’re on par with a cultivator who’s reached immortality. And to recreate a god’s golden core, just how many immortals would it take?

Who exactly did Shouxing steal souls from?

Did she actually kill off would-be gods? Did she actually kill gods?

A-Qing’s beginning to get a good idea of exactly who tore up Ying Huohua’s soul, and why they did it. A flame can’t burn if it doesn’t have kindling, and A-Qing’s willing to bet that the gods decided to just grind the kindling into nothing.

From there, well, it’s just a story of a goddess falling and then falling even further, retreating into the recesses of the Other Side, creating a realm where she can live under the illusion that Ying Huohua’s enjoying her happiest day, all while she begins her work all over again, working slower this time, picking off small-time cultivators that the gods can’t be bothered to care about, travelling the land in search for new prey, luring in innocents with the allure of the mysterious night-eating sun.

And her beloved Ying Huohua, a goddess of flowers and lanterns, falls with her. Hui Hua, indeed.

That’s it. A-Qing’s going to skewer Shouxing.

It could’ve been so different!

Why couldn’t Shouxing have just been happy living with a mortal Ying Huohua?

Reviving someone as a mortal is simple! Take the soul, mess around with it a little, convince it to wake up with some divine elements, and you’re done! One perfectly fine, mortal human, coming up.

Immature, naive, selfish, pathetic—

This is exactly why love is a special kind of suffering!

“You know, I’ve put together a really nice picture of what’s going on,” A-Qing says, her grip on Jiangzai tightening. “It involves a goddess who loved someone so much they ruined everything for them. Sound familiar?”

Hui Hua looks so, so tired. Her breaths rattle and her hands shake. “It does.”

A-Qing presses onward. “Does this someone love the goddess—the demon lord—back?”

Say no, say no, say no, it’s for the best, let go, you idiot, let go before she pulls you under for good—

“Yes.”

When A-Qing’s expression twists into confusion, Hui Hua simply shakes her head. It’s the same reaction she gives when A-Qing asks her a question she can’t answer.

There’s nothing A-Qing can say to that. She’s not surprised. She’s just disappointed, and angry, and lost.

Love is—love isn’t that hard! If you love someone, you love them for a reason. A-Qing loves Song Daozhang for his unwavering strength, Daozhang for his unending kindness, and stupid, stupid Fuxing for how he’s given her a home, a mission, and a life!

(At the same time, A-Qing really does understand, and she hates it.

Shouxing’s committed unforgivable crimes, and while the gods may hate her, Hui Hua still loves her.

How can you love someone when the entire world hates them?

You have to see something in them worth saving that nobody else does.)

A-Qing takes a deep breath. “Hasn’t she broken your heart enough?”

“You can’t break a heart you don’t have,” Hui Hua says softly. “I gave mine away a very long time ago.”

It’s an answer A-Qing doesn’t understand. It’s an answer she hopes she’ll never have to understand.

After what seems like an eternity, they finally arrive at the temple. The attendants are long gone. Ying Huohua sits vacantly, as always, smiling like nothing’s wrong at all.

“Oh, A-Qing! You made it here, did you?”

That’s a voice and a face A-Qing would love to punch.

Fuxing stands casually by a pillar, twirling his dizi in one hand. The cheap weimao A-Qing bought for him still rests neatly on his head. He smiles brightly even as A-Qing stomps toward him.

“Where were you?” she demands, landing a solid punch on his arm, to which Fuxing whines. “There’s no way you don’t know what we’re up against!”

“Nice to see that we’ve both done come to the same conclusion,” Fuxing says lightly, gesturing at Ying Huohua’s body. “Shall we get on with it, then?”

There’s no use arguing with Fuxing when he doesn’t want to talk. “Fine,” A-Qing grumbles. Walking back over to Hui Hua, she tugs on the woman’s sleeve to get her moving. “Okay, we’re all set. Go get your body back.”

Hui Hua jerks her sleeve free violently. Surprisingly—or maybe not so surprisingly, who knows at this point—she looks panicked. “I shouldn’t. I... I can’t.”

Fuxing laughs something low and melodious. He moves like the shadow he casts, the darkness that follows in the footsteps of his brilliance no matter where he on this earth he walks. His smile is beautiful but flat, a single red flower pressed between the pages of a book nobody will ever read again, that, by a miracle he didn’t ask for and never wanted, lives on.

“Oh, please.”

A-Qing steps away.

She doesn’t like when he gets like this. It’s hard to describe why. It’s not that he feels bad or evil, that’s not Fuxing, not ever, but seeing him confront people he sees himself in and watching as he slowly tears them apart is just... tragic.

Fuxing feels so much all the time but tries to feel nothing, and nobody can live like that forever.

“Of course you can. You’re Shouxing’s beloved flower, her lantern in the night, the very reason she’s survived for a thousand years on a broken dream.” Every one of Fuxing’s words cuts like a knife, and with each gash, Hui Hua’s gaze flickers and falters. “Shouxing waged war with the heavens for you. She led countless immortals to a fate even worse than death for you. She killed for you, she bled for you, she challenged the entire world and lost for you.”

Whatever it is that lifts Fuxing’s lips into a smile, it’s sickly sweet and leaves his eyes cold.

“Why is it, then,” Fuxing asks, “that you can’t find it within yourself to end this awful cycle?”

Hui Hua moves too quickly for A-Qing to follow.

A resonating, sharp noise echoes across the empty temple as Hui Hua strikes Fuxing across the face in a shocking display of both blasphemy and guts that makes A-Qing’s jaw drop.

For a moment, Fuxing just stands silently.

Then, as he turns back to face Hui Hua, he lets out a clap of laughter. “Well, I can’t say I expected that.”

Yeah, neither did A-Qing!

Is A-Qing supposed to be doing something? She really doesn’t want to get between Fuxing and Hui Hua, especially not when the former smiles with warning in his eyes and the latter burns with justified fury.

“How dare you,” Hui Hua says, her voice shaking violently. Her hands are clenched into fists, her shoulders raised in defiance, and she looks so unbearably human next to Fuxing, who plays the role of a god so well. “For you, of all people, to say that to me—”

Fuxing’s expression falls dangerously flat. “I can say whatever I want to you.”

It’s Hui Hua’s turn to laugh. The sound is bitter and harsh, a complete departure from the clear bells that chime in her voice. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about, merciful Fuxing.”

“You’d do well to watch your words.”

“Perhaps you ought to heed your own guidance, o golden one!” With a snap of her white sleeves, Hui Hua spreads her arms wide. Black drips from her awful, twisted smile. “You tell me to end this cycle, but what have you done but run away? You tell me to face the one who’s sacrificed everything for me, but what have you done but push him away?”

A-Qing can’t say anything. It’s not her place, not when she doesn’t have the full story, and especially not when the god inhales sharply, the darkness around his feet clawing at the hem of his robes in a burst of inky black.

“As for my words,” the half-goddess says with finality, “in your last moments of life, even in death, what did you leave with him but scars?”

Silence. The faint song of broken prayers marches onward.

Slowly, inexplicably, inevitably, two trails of bright red blood trail down Fuxing’s face, falling onto his robes, which have already known too much blood, and onto the floor of the temple, which was built upon blood.

A-Qing doesn’t understand what’s going on. Fuxing and Hui Hua’s words are so similar to each other’s, so cruel and cold, all because they know exactly what it feels like to hurt and be hurt.

But who’s this he Hui Hua keeps mentioning? Who loved Fuxing—who loved Wei Wuxian so much that he fought for him, even after everything?

(A-Qing feels like she knows. It’s not a good feeling, because she knows that Fuxing is a master of embracing hatred and pain and pretending like it doesn’t hurt him at all. And she knows that Fuxing is terrified of being loved, because everyone who has ever loved him has ended in catastrophe.)

But this is enough, isn’t it? Hui Hua’s hurting, Fuxing’s hurting, and they’ve thrown words around that don’t mean anything, because neither of them will cave first.

So A-Qing steps forward as the only one here who’s managed to let the past make her stronger. She puts herself between Fuxing and Hui Hua, who both avert their gazes. She stands on her tiptoes and raises her sleeve, wiping away the blood that’s fallen from Fuxing’s eyes. It smudges against his pale skin, so she raises her other sleeve.

Fuxing catches her wrist. His touch is just like his eyes: cold but gentle.

“Don’t squirm,” A-Qing scolds, wiping away the smudges as best she can. “We’ve got a job to do here, don’t we? Let’s finish up, and then we can figure out where we need to go next.”

“Where we need to go next,” Fuxing repeats. He sighs, a quiet, short breath, and closes his eyes. “You’re right.”

Always moving forward, never looking back. It’s how it always is.

Turning to face Hui Hua, A-Qing lifts her chin and narrows her eyes. She doesn’t care if she has to fight half a goddess and then a demon lord after that. This night has been long enough.

“Fuxing might not have any right to tell you what to do, but I do,” she declares, knowing very well that Hui Hua can’t refute it. “You told me that you have promises to keep and promises to break. Everybody’s lost something here, and they’ll keep losing until this ends!”

A-Qing watches as Hui Hua’s expression folds back in on itself. She’s weary, she’s tired, she hates what this love has become, and she wants an ending.

She knows what she has to do, but it’s something she doesn’t want to do. It’s always like that.

Hui Hua’s red eyes burn like lanterns. “You find so much strength in tragedy,” she says. “How?”

A-Qing crosses her arms. It’s a question she’s been asked before, and it’s one she knows how to answer. “As long as you’re alive, you’ve got to keep living. Of all people, you lived and they didn’t. I refuse to let them become collateral damage!”

“And you find meaning, somehow.”

“I make meaning,” A-Qing answers. “It doesn’t matter if you find meaning or if it finds you. You can find anything and everything, but it won’t be anything until you make it into something of your own.”

For a long moment, Hui Hua simply stares. A-Qing doesn’t know what she’s looking for or even if she finds it, but the half-goddess finally averts her gaze and turns toward Ying Huohua.

“Do you think people can live on in others?”

A-Qing frowns. That’s not a question she was expecting. “Of course, but I think the best way to make something out of your life is to live in yourself.”

Hui Hua smiles something sad, which doesn’t make sense, why is she sad when this’ll all be over soon? Time will flow again, they’ll be free of this neverending nightmare, everything will be alright.

“Ah,” Hui Hua says, breathless, “that’s not an option I have.”

Not... an option?

Ice runs down A-Qing’s spine, down her her fingertips and her toes. “Hui Hua, you—what’s going to happen once you regain your true form?”

When Hui Hua doesn’t answer, A-Qing turns to Fuxing. His eyes look exactly like Hui Hua’s.

That’s not right. This can’t be. It’s not how things are supposed to work out!

“Once this realm shatters and time begins flowing again, things will work out, won’t they?” A-Qing isn’t begging. She doesn’t beg, but she has to know.

“Once this realm shatters,” Fuxing answers in a tone no different than how he usually mentors A-Qing, “once Ying Huohua becomes whole again, her soul will destroy itself.”

No, no, no—

“The most likely outcome is that the two halves of her soul, having been separated for so long, will tear each other to pieces. Even if they do manage to fuse, the resentful energy that’s been collecting within that warped golden core will eat her alive.”

“Then we’ll find another way!” A-Qing grabs Hui Hua’s sleeve, pulling her back. There’s no way she’d willingly go ahead with this, right? “Shouxing threw me out once! If we work together, we’ll find a way!”

Why isn’t Hui Hua looking at her? Why’s she looking at Fuxing? Didn’t they just finish yelling at each other? Why are they looking at each other like they understanding something she doesn’t?

Hui Hua lays a hand on A-Qing’s shoulder. A-Qing shrugs it away, jerking back from her cold, dead touch. “You’re going to die! Don’t you get it? If you die, how are you going to talk to Shouxing? Don’t you want to see her again?”

“A-Qing.”

When Fuxing calls her name like that, it means he needs help or he wants her to stop. It’s neither, it’s both, and she hates it.

“Ying Huohua,” says Fuxing, expression and voice both clear and empty, “you understand that once you disappear, Shouxing will follow soon after.”

What? But why?

Hui Hua bows her head. “I’m aware.”

“Is that what you truly want?”

“We died a thousand years ago.” Despite everything, there’s steel in her spine and in her words. She stands tall in the face of her own death, and even worse, she’s willing to go with Shouxing. “We’re ghosts of the past. It’s far past our time to go.”

But that’s—there has to be another way! People can’t just die like that! How can—how can—

Hui Hua looks down at her hands. “Every tragedy must come to an end one day. Once it ends, if the world is kind, a new story can take its place.” She looks up with stars in her eyes, a night sky filled with lanterns and wishes. “Perhaps things will be better next time.”

Why is it always next time? What if there is no next time? How can someone who’s been cursed by the world believe in it so much?

It doesn’t make sense!

As if she can hear A-Qing’s thoughts, Hui Hua smiles. “I believe that we’ll have better luck next time. After all, I trust that Fuxing will see things through to the end.”

Fuxing laughs. He laughs! And it’s genuine, too! “Somebody has to, don’t they?”

“It wasn’t such a bad choice to choose you,” Hui Hua says. “It’s reassuring to know that even the mightiest of gods have experienced the deepest depths of despair.”

There’s something going on here that A-Qing can’t follow. Maybe she isn’t old enough, or maybe it’s because she isn’t a god.

Is it rest Hui Hua’s looking for? It wasn’t reconciliation? Or are rest and reconciliation the same thing?

A second chance in rebirth. That’s...

With one last exchange of understanding nods, Hui Hua turns and makes her way toward Ying Huohua’s—her vacant body.

A-Qing wants to—she wants to—

She doesn’t know what she wants to do anymore. Does she have any right to try to force her opinion on someone who knows so readily want they want?

It’s an ending she hates, but at least it’s an ending. And that’s what Hui Hua wanted from the very beginning.

“A-Qing.”

Why, why, why does Hui Hua call her name exactly like Fuxing does?

A-Qing forces herself to look the half-goddess in the eye. If this is her funeral procession, it would be a horrible insult to ignore her.

“You’re so strong and kind,” Hui Hua says, with such meaning and weight that A-Qing feels something inside her shatter. “You don’t carry burdens; you build them into foundations for strength. You’re young, but you understand so much. It is my belief that the world would be much kinder if more people were like you.”

And what’s A-Qing supposed to say to that?

She doesn’t know. All she can do is stand tall, face the world, and say, “I’ll try my best.”

Hui Hua’s expression softens. “I know you will.”

It happens so fast.

Hui Hua reaches out to touch Ying Huohua, a brilliant gold light blooms forth, consuming everything, breaking apart the false barriers, breaking, breaking, breaking—

(Here.)

(I’m here.)

(Can you hear me?)

(It’s over.)

I’ll find an answer.

Somewhere, in that long, long life she lived, in that life I made her live, I made a mistake. Something happened along the way and broke everything.

It was my fault. Something happened and I didn’t see it. I just need time.

Yes, that’s right. I’ll find it eventually. As long as I keep searching, never stop looking, I can find it, and then I’ll know.

And then we’ll be happy.

(I’m here.)

(I’m here.)

(I don’t have much time left, but I have so much I want to say.)

I thought I knew her heart best. That was my mistake. I’m such a fool. I’ll always be a fool.

What went wrong? Was it me? Was it them? The god, the girl, the star-crossed lover?

In the end, can I still say I tried my best?

Or did I just make things worse?

(I never wanted you to live for me. I wanted you to live for yourself.)

(I can’t show you how to love yourself. I can love you, I can spend every waking moment and every breath telling you how much I adore you, but when the time comes, I need you to know that there is something in you worth saving.)

Ah, but I guess it’s too late to ask.

Now, there’s truly nothing left to save.

All those years—

All those lives—

Were they even worth anything?

Why did I take this path in the beginning?

(Can you hear me?)

I told myself, ah, what a beautiful night, because every second of it was hell.

Were those words you gave me even real?

I can’t remember anymore. Perhaps I’m the one living a dream.

(Please, can you hear me?)

If you’re out there, if you’re still listening—

(Can... can you hear me?)

I want you to know—

(I...)

I loved you then, I love you now, and I’ll always love you.

If we should meet again, let it be in a better life.

I’m sorry. Thank you.

“There’s a reason star-crossed lovers are star-crossed,” says Fuxing, his eyes glassy with an emotion A-Qing never wants to feel.

The god laughs, something breathless and tired and so utterly, heart-wrenchingly mournful.

There they stand, a god and a girl, atop a mountain with the sun shining brilliantly upon them. It’s a beautiful day, and A-Qing wants to cry.

She doesn’t. She’s done with crying. It doesn’t mean she can’t hurt, though.

Fuxing, in all his divine, golden glory, spreads his arms wide and faces the sun. He closes his eyes.

“It’s a beautiful story, isn’t it? A goddess who raised the flag of war against the entire world because she fell in love with a girl who raised lanterns and flowers into the sky, living peacefully, happily, and then spiralling chaotically.” When Fuxing turns to face A-Qing, that bitter smile is back on his lips. “It’s such a pretty story.”

The wind sweeps by them. It rings of laughter that nobody will ever hear again.

A-Qing feels sick.

There’s nothing to be gained from tragedies. It’s better for all stories to end as happily as they possibly can, because tomorrow isn’t always as close as it appears.

In the end, though, there’s nothing she can do about it. Fuxing’s the god here, not her. She hates how he acts so carefree about something that’s clearly ripped out his heart and run a knife through it, but that’s how he always is.

A-Qing won’t cry, and neither will Fuxing. Their tears have been left in the past.

The journey down the mountain is quiet. The two of them mount their swords and descend into the bustling town that is Yinhe, into life as it truly is.

A-Qing looks back over her shoulder one last time.

The sun shines brightly down upon her.

Despite it all, after a good rest, both Fuxing and A-Qing’s moods improve dramatically.

Say what you want, but isn’t it like that for everyone? It’s always better to face matters after a good night’s sleep and over food.

The hostess, Mie Yu, as Fuxing eagerly introduced, already has a meal prepared when they make their way downstairs, both rightfully exhausted and disoriented from spending who knows how long within an endless cycle of night.

Half the dishes Mie Yu brings out look like someone shaved an entire stick of cinnabar on each plate, and the other half looks normal and respectable and not something a heathen would eat.

“Ash blossom, desolate spring.”

A-Qing frowns. Fuxing’s hunched over a manuscript again, eating with one hand and reading with the other. It’s the same manuscript he was reading before this entire mess, and it looks like he’s pretty eager to finish it.

For him, reading isn’t just a passive task; he runs his fingers over each character, each line, memorizing each work page by page. The occasional word slips from his lips, and most of the time, he isn’t even aware of it.

Mie Yu walks by and smacks him on the head as if she’s done it a thousand times. Fuxing sputters and almost drops his chopsticks.

“Serves you right,” A-Qing says flatly. “Eat or read, but don’t do both at the same time! Besides, what’s so interesting about whatever you’re reading?”

Fuxing raises an eyebrow. “Ash blossom, desolate spring,” he repeats, with emphasis.

Ash blossom, desolate spring, ash blossom, desolate spring, ash blossom?

“What are you reading,” A-Qing demands, not asks, because she’s getting an answer no matter what.

“Oh, nothing much.” There’s that punchable sing-song tone again. “Just an ancient manuscript detailing ancient legends about ancient gods.”

And how in the world did he get his hands on that? There isn’t a divine novel study group around these parts, is there?

Fuxing watches with amusement as A-Qing’s eyebrows furrow. “I borrowed it off one of the shrines we stayed at. It wasn’t too long ago... back when we were in Yiling, I think.”

(The fact that he can casually say when we were in Yiling is a really, really good sign.

That was a pretty rough time. It wasn’t his fault, it wasn’t her fault, it was just something that had to be done.

At least the Burial Mounds look a lot prettier now.)

Fuxing taps his fingers on the manuscript, pointing at characters A-Qing doesn’t entirely recognize. “Would you believe my luck? Halfway through reading about all these fantastical fables, I find a certain tale of the Ash Blossom, Desolate Spring.”

“And?” A-Qing leans forward, almost standing, her palms set firmly on the table. “What’d it say? How’d it end?”

It’s a useless question. A-Qing saw how it ended herself. All she’s doing now is grabbing onto what broken pieces of their story she can find, trying to write happiness out of tragedy.

For a moment, there’s silence. Fuxing’s smile doesn’t falter, but something about it changes along the edges, like a blade worn dull.

He looks down at the page, then moves it toward A-Qing. He pulls his chair over from where he’s seated on the other side of the table, then makes himself comfortable beside her. A-Qing pulls in close as well, pushing some plates away to make some room.

“This right here,” the god says, his long, pale fingers tracing one paragraph in particular. “This is how it ends.”

Following Fuxing’s guidance, A-Qing lifts her hand, runs it over the ink that’s long since dried, over words written by someone who saw love burn to ashes.

Fuxing’s voice is melodious, a lull in time that converges inward on this one strange god who pours over legends of those who came before him, in search of something A-Qing doesn’t know if he’ll ever find.

What she does know is that Fuxing is a guide, a mentor, a teacher, someone who laughs when she fumbles with Jiangzai but is quick to correct her posture. She knows he’ll run through forms alongside her until she gets them right no matter how many times it takes.

She silently wonders if he’s trying to live the best of the memories he keeps running away from when he forgets that he’s the master and A-Qing’s the disciple, nudging her playfully and boasting about his superior talent, not to A-Qing, but to the few people that died calling him a friend.

But she indulges him. As much as she wants to tell him to stop running away from his past, it’s not fair of her to say that to him.

So when the sun sets below the horizon and all that’s left between them is the gentle flickering of a golden flame, A-Qing will stare up into the endless night. The stars flicker in, and they flicker out.

Fuxing will turn a page. He’ll look up, see A-Qing’s gaze directed toward that skyward abyss, something meaningless but still very present, and he’ll clear his throat.

He’ll talk like he was born with a golden tongue, weaving emotion into stories and poems that speaks more of who he really was before all this than any rumours ever will.

He reads, he speaks, and he doesn’t expect a response. He doesn’t need to look up to know that A-Qing’s listening, she’ll always listen, and she knows it makes him... not happy (too generous, too bright, too fake), but content.

It isn’t rare for her to fall asleep to the rise and fall of Fuxing’s voice these days. And for each story A-Qing doesn’t quite catch the ending of, Fuxing will smile and first ask, what sort of ending would you give it?

As if I have the power the change endings that have already been written, she used to say.

But then one day:

Oh.

Rewrittening endings—

That’s exactly what Fuxing does, isn’t it?

Depending on where they are and what sort of mood they’re in, sometimes A-Qing will pull out paper and cinnabar, sometimes she’ll draw into dirt with a stick, sometimes she’ll trace invisible words with her fingers. Always, every time, without fail, she’ll write words she finds pretty with the same hands she uses to create talismans that burn and purge.

Now, as Fuxing runs his fingers beside each character, A-Qing listens. She looks and tries to find beauty in a story she already knows ends in tragedy.

“Once the first petal falls, the rest are sure to follow.
What can tarnish gold is nothing but gold itself.
What can fell the gods is nothing but the gods themselves.
Love yourself, lest the world should fall at your feet
Because you tore it down for a heart you broke.”

Fuxing is silent. He breathes in deeply, then turns to A-Qing. It’s almost a relief when she sees his smile falter.

“That’s how the story ends.”

A-Qing doesn’t ask for how it begins or how it evolves; she doesn’t need it, and she doesn’t want it. Every love story, while so ridiculously different, is always stupidly and stubbornly the same.

Sacrifice is supposed to be a romantic thing. Oh, how you give for those you love, oh, how you bleed for those you’ve sworn to protect, oh, what a pretty thing, oh, what utter bullshit.

What’s so romantic about losing something? What’s so romantic about losing someone?

Love is a blessing, a curse, a burden, a fleeting memory. It’s everything and nothing all at once.

A-Qing used to think she knew how love worked, but now she knows that she doesn’t know anything at all.

She can’t help anyone with love—no, that’s not right. It’s romance she doesn’t understand. Love is—love is contentment with those you trust, talking late into the night around a dim flame about nonsense, buying little things for each other when something reminds you of the other. It’s understanding each other, trusting each other, being able to fall asleep in each other’s presence.

Is romance something more than that? Does love really drive people to wait a thousand years, to kill thousands, to want someone so badly that... that...

That what?

A-Qing doesn’t know. She isn’t sure she ever wants to find out.

(This is okay as it is.)

She silently traces the characters, dragging her fingers over each stroke, again and again and again until it’s engraved in her memory.

To Hui Hua, A-Qing wasn’t able to say anything. She didn’t understand, and she couldn’t find the words to reassure her that everything would be alright.

But Fuxing understood. He’s loved before.

With an ending like his, A-Qing knows it must’ve been a curse.

“Okay,” she finally says, lifting her hands from the table. “Alright. I’ve got it down, I think.”

Fuxing closes the book and tucks it into his robes. “You’ll remember it, then?”

“Only if you stop bothering me with that big mouth of yours!”

They banter, they tease each other, they move on. It’ll take some time for the ache to fade, but that’s just how healing works.

A-Qing tucks Jiangzai back into her sash. Fuxing puts his weimao back on his head. There’s nothing much left to do, and the sun is already beginning to set over the valley. On days like these, it’s nice to turn in early.

“I’m heading up first,” A-Qing says, already halfway out the window of their room.

Fuxing hums an indistinct noise. “Sure. I’ll be up soon.”

With Jiangzai tied onto her back for convenience, A-Qing flips herself onto the roof. She carefully maneuvers her way up until she’s seated comfortably at the highest point. It isn’t as high as she normally likes it, but it’ll do.

The streets of Yinhe slowly begin to empty as the sun sets and a blanket of darkness sets over the valley. No festivities, no processions, no burning red and blazing gold.

Just peace and quiet. Everyday life, punctuated by the occasional visit from a god.

As the stars begin to creep out from the night sky, Fuxing finally leaps up and onto the roof. He makes his way up and settles down beside A-Qing. A long sigh escapes him. “Not tired yet?”

“No,” A-Qing answers. It’s only half a lie: of course she’s still tired, even after resting for a bit. She suspects she’ll be tired for at least a while. But tonight, she wants to sit here on the rooftops and just revel in streets without of wedding processions, winds that only carry whispers and not hymns, and skies free of lanterns and flowers.

Fuxing laughs. He takes his weimao off and rests it on his lap. His eyes reflect stars that A-Qing can’t see. “That makes two of us. We really got a lot more than we were expecting with this job.”

“I think we didn’t get enough.”

I think we didn’t do enough, is what A-Qing doesn’t say, because she knows Fuxing’s thinking the same thing.

It isn’t the first time something like this has happened, and there’s no way it’ll be the last time. That’s what makes it awful, and that’s why they need to keep travelling.

The next best thing after a happy ending is closure.

A-Qing isn’t sure how long they sit up there in silence. On nights like these, time doesn’t hold any meaning. The irony isn’t lost on her, but she can’t bring herself to care.

It begins slowly. Softly.

Fuxing’s voice has always been more honest than he has. He can laugh, he can tease, he can sink into shadows and pretend as if he doesn’t care. But when he reads, even more so when he sings, he finds himself.

His voice rises and falls, shakes and falters, climbs and ascends, echoes hauntingly in darkness and resounds nobly in light.

On nights likes these, new legends are born. They tell stories of a golden god descended to the mortal realm, travelling the land on his own two feet, eternally searching for chaos. He gives power to the people, he makes them lucky, and he saves them.

But not everyone can be saved. And for those that fall before he can catch them, he sings into the night.

Ash blossoms fall amidst a desolate spring,
A stone-cold heart catches fallen stars,
The fools weeping crimson and laughing gold
Have nothing but bleeding fingers and broken souls!

Hark! The song of the golden gods, three strong, three fallen
Pierces through the endless abyss and goes unheard!
Ten thousand flowers for the hands clasped in prayer
That wilt and are born again!

It’s that same cursed song, but A-Qing can’t find it in herself to hate it. Not when Fuxing’s the one singing it, laughing bitterly at the misfortune the golden gods bring unto the world, lamenting the cries for help that disappear before they can be found, and wishing the best for two goddesses who lived too long but left too soon.

But once is enough. Repeating it won’t do. So when Fuxing’s voice trails off, A-Qing picks up with a new song.

Flowers circling above my head,
Dance without care or a single regret.
As a child, as a hero, as someone dead,
They keep dancing, and dancing, at everything’s end.

When one song ends, another begins. They’ve done this too many times not to know how to continue each other’s verses. Someone has to be there to send those who’ve been wandering for too long off to the next life.

The song of catastrophe morphs men into beasts;
A flower that rots and sings to the sky.
The song of true love echoes far,
And plants seeds that have already died.

And again—

Within the darkness, I traced your back
And remembered your outline so clearly.
I pray we never meet, for the only thing that won’t stop falling
Will be my tears.

And again, and again, and again. They sit on the rooftop, a girl and a god, singing for lost souls, for themselves, for each other, for anyone who’s listening.

It ends as it started: softly. Slowly.

Fuxing knows many songs, and A-Qing’s most of them. This one, though, she doesn’t recognize.

There are no lyrics, but Fuxing weaves meaning into each note regardless.

Tranquil: that’s what it is. Eyes closed, swaying gently, Fuxing draws from within him and lets it all echo into the night. He’s always felt so much, and this is his way of allowing himself to accept it.

A-Qing doesn’t hum along, even when the melody repeats. The song means something special to Fuxing. He looks far, far past what’s in front of him, toward something nobody else can see. The stars in his eyes shine brilliantly, and he sings.

Who is he singing for?

Something shuffles behind them. A-Qing hears it before Fuxing does, and naturally, her first reaction is to draw her sword.

Fuxing’s well known around these parts. Nobody in their right mind would interrupt one of their nightly rituals! It’s disrespectful beyond measure, and even A-Qing feels a surge of anger as Fuxing’s song cuts off abruptly.

“Impudent,” she recites, her mouth moving faster than her mind. “Don’t you know not to disturb a god—”

Oh.

Oh, no.

She’s already drawn her sword, and she’s not going to stand down. But this situation is very, very bad.

Hanguang-Jun’s white robes almost glow under the light of the moon.

Ethereal, ephemeral; the famed Light-Bearer, chaser of chaos and discord, is exactly as the rumours make him out to be. His eyes, clear gold pools, are focused on the god behind A-Qing.

Fuxing hasn’t moved. He stands there, his back turned to the disaster currently unfolding, utterly frozen, his hands slowly tightening around his robes, his shoulders beginning to tremble.

No, no, no. Not now. Not now, of all times!

Fuxing isn’t ready, he won’t be ready for some time, and he doesn’t deserve this now. Not after he just watched another story end in flames.

So A-Qing raises Jiangzai. The sword laughs bitterly. They both know she has no hope of keeping up with Hanguang-Jun if they should start a duel. It doesn’t matter.

“The revered Hanguang-Jun,” A-Qing spits. There’s wind in her hair and fire in her throat. “Does the Gusu Lan Sect not have any respect for the gods that ward away chaos from your lands?”

Hanguang-Jun’s gaze flickers momentarily to A-Qing. Her breath immediately catches.

His eyes have no right to look so much like Fuxing’s. That same molten gold, burning bright and then resting still, always mourning, always searching—no, no!

She won’t be intimidated. She won’t let Fuxing destroy himself again, and she won’t let anyone else destroy him.

“A god,” Hanguang-Jun repeats. His voice shakes imperceptibly; anyone else wouldn’t be able to tell. But A-Qing can.

She levels Jiangzai at Hanguang-Jun, who won’t look at her, why won’t he look, why does he want to drag Fuxing back into the past? “The divine and merciful Fuxing, god of wealth and prosperity, no less! Who are you to question him? If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave and repent—”

“Wei Ying.”

A-Qing loses her grip on her words. Fuxing flinches.

He knows.

He knows, how does he know? What went wrong?

Fuxing isn’t a coward. He’s fearless, but he’s also so kind, and that awful combination of noble traits eats away at him. Even so, he’s terrified of so much that A-Qing doesn’t understand. All she knows is that it hurts him, and he doesn’t deserve to go through that sort of pain.

She can’t do this, she has to, she doesn’t want to, she wants to, why, why, why does Hanguang-Jun call that name like he’s been waiting, searching, chasing—

(Waiting? For the Yiling Patriarch? To do what?

Searching? Why? What more is there to say?

Chasing? To what end? Which one of those brilliant figures is he chasing after? The boy, the martyr, or the god?

Is that what love sounds like?)

What can she say? What can she do? Should she do anything? Is this the right choice?

All A-Qing has is questions that nobody will ever answer. It doesn’t matter. Nobody needs to know.

“Don’t call that name like it means anything to you,” she says, putting herself between Hanguang-Jun and Fuxing. She can’t lie to someone like Hanguang-Jun; she can’t. But she refuses to see Fuxing hurt more than he already is. So she’ll do the hurting and take the hurt, because that’s all she can do. “Go away! You don’t have any right to be here!”

But what is one girl in the face of someone who’s been searching for one person for years?

(Has anyone in this area seen a sword-wielding, blind Taoist?)

The memory is like venom in her veins. It burns hot, then cold, but it hurts all the same. It screams, Don’t you remember what happened before? Will you let it happen again?

It’s not the same, yet it is. It’s so similar it cuts into A-Qing’s heart and carves out the pieces she’s just barely managed to rebuild over the past year.

So when Hanguang-Jun steps forward, a beacon of light in the dark, all A-Qing can do is stand her ground and pray he doesn’t come closer, knowing very well that nobody out there is listening. “Don’t. Don’t! There’s nothing for you here. There’s... nothing at all.”

Fuxing takes a deep, rattling breath. It shakes and stutters, stumbles and falls. But he breathes, he’s alive.

“A-Qing,” the god says, turning with his head held high and his eyes glowing bright, “you don’t need to do this.”

A-Qing hates the expression on his face. It’s something molded from fear and pain, a mask he’s worn a thousand times that was cracked to begin with.

Fuxing pulls on a bitter smile. He breathes ice and shadow. He’s thrown himself into the depths in order to hide, and he’s willing to die there. “Tonight is just full of surprises. What curious matters have brought the famed Hanguang-Jun all the way to Yinhe?”

Something very small and very quiet breaks in Hanguang-Jun’s eyes. “Wei Ying,” he repeats, softly. The name is precious in his hands, something fragile that he desperately wants to hold onto. “You’re here.”

(If you hold on too tight, it’ll break. He knows. Why does he know?)

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Fuxing says, his tone light but vacant. Tension roars beneath his carefully controlled voice like he’ll break at any moment. “In case you so rudely ignored what my disciple told you, my name is Fuxing. That name, of course, isn’t for someone like you to use casually.”

That’s the thing about lying, Fuxing, you idiot. You can’t lie to someone when it’s so obvious the only person you want to fool is yourself.

“Now, I’m usually quite generous when it comes to prayers, but I’m sorry to say that I have no interest in you whatsoever.” A cruel glint colours Fuxing’s eyes crimson. A-Qing has seen it too many times not to realize the only one he’s pointing a blade at is himself. “You see, I have absolutely no interest in the sort of person who would fall for me.”

Something breaks a little more, but it doesn’t shatter. Hanguang-Jun truly is formidable. “You came back.” A pause, not a hesitation. Golden eyes take in this strange, unconventional god, and the utter yearning makes A-Qing want to look away. “You’re alive.”

“Of course I am,” Fuxing says sharply, the first threads of his patience snapping. “I never left.”

It’s so like him to answer everything in reverse. It’s so like him to give away everything he’s trying to hide.

As if realizing the weight of his words, Fuxing’s breath hitches. His eyes widen and he quickly looks away. He takes a step back, but his feet catch over the materialization of his own hesitation and denial, and he falls back, back, back—

A-Qing doesn’t need to take action if it’s taken for her. She watches as Hanguang-Jun follows after him without hesitation, reaching out a hand and wrapping it around Fuxing’s wrist.

Hanguang-Jun pulls Fuxing in close. Safe. Away from harm, away from this world.

Ah, thinks A-Qing. Fuxing, you idiot.

How did you not see how much he loved you before you died?

The touch is like fire. Fuxing jerks away violently, ripping his wrist away in a snap of white peonies, beautiful yet fleeting. “Don’t touch me!”

Hysteria bubbles within Fuxing’s voice, and A-Qing knows that he can’t do this. It’s not the right time or place. He needs to find himself before others try to find him. His happy ending will come one day—

But that day isn’t today.

When Hanguang-Jun takes a step forward, Fuxing takes two steps back. “I don’t know you,” he lies. “I don’t know who you are. You don’t know who I am. Stop talking to me.”

“Wei Ying,” Hanguang-Jun calls once more. With every word, the pain in his eyes that he can’t show on his face hurts more and more.

“Stop following me. I don’t know you.” The dam is breaking, he’s drowning and the only one holding him down is himself, he can’t breathe, and it’s all his own fault, but it isn’t. “Go away. Go away!”

This time, A-Qing’s the one that grabs onto Fuxing. She tugs hard on his sleeve as he begins to slip in both body and in mind. “Fuxing, Fuxing, it’s okay, everything’s okay!”

Something like this should be terrifying. Seeing a god—seeing anyone lose themselves to a time that no longer exists is scary. But A-Qing has seen Fuxing at his very worst and at his very best. He’s more than this.

He used to say, that’s not my name. It is now. He’s made it his, and in doing so, he’s torn apart who he was before.

“Stop it!”

It’s a command. A-Qing listens, because she knows if she goes any further, all she’ll do is hurt Fuxing even more.

So she lets go and watches Wei Wuxian break before her eyes.

“Stop—don’t—I won’t go with you, I won’t, you can’t make me!” Red swallows his eyes, he clutches his head like it hurts, and it does, it hurts like nothing’s ever hurt before. “It’s too late, it’s too far gone, I don’t want it! Don’t—don’t touch me. Don’t touch me!”

This isn’t how A-Qing wants Fuxing’s voice to ring out. He wasn’t made for begging. He wasn’t made for this, but it’s who he’s become.

They’ve done this too many times. They both know it.

With a flick of her sleeve, A-Qing grabs a simple purging array. It’s reflex to throw it at the god, who doesn’t move, who never moves out of the way.

Something as simple as a purging array won’t hurt him. All it’ll do is dissipate the resentful energy clinging to his skin and knock him out for a bit.

The talisman isn’t like the rest of A-Qing’s arsenal. It blooms into life, a burst of qi that says, it’s okay, everything’s okay, just close your eyes for a moment and it’ll all be alright.

Fuxing’s crimson eyes swirl once, twice, and fade into empty grey. The burdens that he carries within him ease, the strings that he’s weaved into every part of his being loosen, and he slips.

He needs the rest, anyway. As long as he’s unconscious, he won’t be able to tear himself to pieces, and neither will Hanguang-Jun. All any of them will be able to do is wait for the sun to rise. By then, they’ll all be able to go back to walking their own paths.

A-Qing is used to being the one who has to catch Fuxing when he falls. She finds that, surprisingly, it isn’t too bad letting someone else do it for once.

Hanguang-Jun catches Fuxing’s limp form in his arms like he’s been waiting to do it his entire life. The breath he releases sounds like something he’s been holding for years. And that’s just it, isn’t it? He breathes, he’s alive, the world is still and monotone, then suddenly it creaks, cracks, and bursts into every colour at once. Suddenly, the world is running away from him, and it leaves nothing but miracles and peonies in its wake.

You can’t live a life chasing after someone. That’s what A-Qing thinks. If that’s what you choose to do, you aren’t living an entire life, because half of what you’re living is for someone that isn’t there.

That’s why love needs to be shared. Someone lives half your life, you live half of theirs.

Is that how love works?

A-Qing doesn’t know. But she’d have to be blind, deaf, and dumb not to realize just what Fuxing means to Hanguang-Jun by the way he lifts the man-turned-god, holding him so gently yet refusing to let go.

She wants to call Hanguang-Jun stupid for thinking that Fuxing needs protecting. Gods are the ones who do the protecting, after all.

But if recent events have taught A-Qing anything, it’s that all gods fall, and when they fall, nobody will be there to catch them. Which means, of course, she'll be there to fill in the void.

It’s a job she’d be absolutely fine doing herself. Turns out she isn’t the only one with one foot on the path already, and that might not be an entirely bad thing.

With a sigh, A-Qing sheaths Jiangzai. Everything’s spinning out of control so quickly she can barely keep up. Then again, she’s the Wind-Swept Maiden for a reason. Things can move as fast as they want. It doesn’t matter. The wind will always be there first.

“Hanguang-Jun,” A-Qing says. “Let’s take this conversation somewhere else. It’s been a long day for all of us, I think, so the least we could do is sit down, right?”

For what seems like the first time, Hanguang-Jun looks at A-Qing and actually sees her. He makes a simple sound of agreement that reveals nothing and everything at the same time: “Mn.”

It’s sort of funny, watching such an esteemed cultivator step through the window and into the room, carrying an utterly dead to the world Fuxing in his arms. It’s only sort of funny because it’s also sad, and that’s something A-Qing doesn’t want any more of.

Hanguang-Jun sets Fuxing down on the bed. He falters for the slightest moment as his fingertips brush over the sleeping god’s robes, something between longing and acceptance flashes over his face, and he moves away.

A-Qing can’t be the only one sitting. She feels kind of awkward, loitering at the table when it’s obvious that Hanguang-Jun doesn’t even want to let go of Fuxing. So she stands, bringing both her chair and the vacant one with her, and sets them down beside the bed.

“You can see him just as well sitting as standing,” A-Qing says when Hanguang-Jun doesn’t move. “It’s not like we care about formality or anything. It’s a waste of time. So just sit down already!”

Hanguang-Jun frowns but sits regardless, and there, was that so hard?

With a short inhale, A-Qing bows her head a little. She hates apologies, she hates apologizing even more, but she’s got to pay her dues. “I said a lot of hurtful things. You didn’t deserve most of it. Sorry.”

Silence. Then: “Your name is Wei Chengfeng. The Wind-Swept Maiden.”

That’s not the response A-Qing expected, but it isn’t necessarily a bad thing. The fact that even Hanguang-Jun has heard of her is a pretty big deal, anyway. “I mean, Fuxing calls me A-Qing, and to be honest, that’s what I prefer.” She sits up straight and crosses her arms. “He said I was long overdue for a courtesy name, so he came up with one for me.”

“He gave you the name Wei?”

What’s that tone? What’s that in his voice? It’s so hard to tell with Hanguang-Jun. For this, though, it doesn’t take a genius to guess.

Don’t you dare say I took him from you, is what A-Qing doesn’t say. Don’t you dare say you’re the only one who sees good in him, because there’s nothing more tragic than love born out of loneliness, and we both know that the world has been cruel enough to all of us already.

She can’t be angry here. A-Qing feels like a stranger between Fuxing and the man who knows his heart best; Hanguang-Jun feels like a stranger between a god and his only disciple.

“He gave me my name,” A-Qing confirms. “I doubt someone from the Gusu Lan Sect would understand, but before I was a disciple, I was just another street rat. It’s hell out there, especially when everyone looks at you like you’re less than the dirt beneath their feet.” Hooking her pendant onto her finger, A-Qing plucks the bell from her sash. It releases a small chime, a quiet and clear sound. “Fuxing really gave me a lot, but to me, it’s not the name that matters.”

A name is just a name. What’s a name in the grand scheme of things, anyway? It isn’t Fuxing’s name she respects; it’s the kindness in his voice and the strength in his hands.

With a sigh, A-Qing wraps her fingers around the crystal bell. She drops her hands to her lap. “I guess it means a lot to Fuxing, though. I think he wanted to see the name Wei become something good.”

Hanguang-Jun’s next breath is longer than usual. Is he acting, or do his emotions really not show on his face? “It has never been something evil.”

“That’s you saying it to me! Try telling that to anyone else. You can try as hard as you can to convince people that there’s more to the story, but you can’t deny the fact that thousands of people died at his hands.” Her grip around the bell tightens. It’s fine. It’s never as fragile as it seems. “Do you get it? You can’t make people see something they don’t want to see. They’d rather carve out their own eyes. So when I call Fuxing Fuxing, it isn’t because I think Wei Wuxian was a bad person. It’s because there’s nothing to be gained from calling him by a name that everyone, including himself, hates!”

Fuxing’s even breaths stutter. His head lolls to the side, his brows furrow, and an indistinct noise, something weak and pained, escapes his lips.

A-Qing shuts her mouth immediately.

Hanguang-Jun’s piercing gold eyes study the god’s form, how even in sleep, the tension in his limbs never seems to go away entirely.

Slowly, gently, with visible hesitation, Hanguang-Jun reaches out and brushes the stray strands of Fuxing’s hair from his face. He tucks them behind Fuxing’s ear, and his touch lingers, wavers, and begins to pull away.

Fuxing’s breath hitches again, and he turns toward Hanguang-Jun, seeking a warmth he undoubtedly remembers only from the dreams of the past. Even in sleep, he can’t lie to himself.

Hanguang-Jun is perfectly still as Fuxing’s pale, calloused hands reach for a comfort he’ll never allow himself to accept in his waking hours.

(There’s a reason star-crossed lovers are star-crossed.)

But the impossible is meant to be brought to its knees. Even stars can meet.

Something so, so utterly soft and quiet comes over Hanguang-Jun’s features. When Fuxing reaches for him, he reaches back. Here, in this small room of a small town in a big world, the impossible begins to happen.

With a deep sigh, A-Qing presses her palms to her eyes.

Is it right to feel... guilty, in a weird way? Because she’s here, Hanguang-Jun has living, breathing proof that the last thing Fuxing wants to do is return to the past. Because she’s here, Hanguang-Jun knows that no matter what anyone feels, Fuxing will keep running until the day he finds himself.

Fine. Whatever. It doesn’t matter what A-Qing feels right now. Hanguang-Jun now knows Fuxing without and within: the god who chases chaos nobly and refuses to look back, and the god who clings desperately onto chaos as a reason for being, whispering lies to himself about his cursed touch and poisonous words. One is a god who shapes miracles from nothing, and the other is a god who brings calamity upon himself from nothing.

It’s good enough for now. There’s no telling when Fuxing will finally be able to face the legacy he’s left behind. But someday is always better than never.

When Fuxing wakes, he’ll run. It’ll hurt both himself and Hanguang-Jun. It’s better to just let everyone go their separate ways before the sun rises.

“Listen,” says A-Qing, keeping her voice soft. She doesn’t say, look at me, because she knows that Hanguang-Jun only has eyes for one person. “I don’t think I need to say this, but... Fuxing doesn’t like his past.”

Hanguang-Jun closes his eyes. Keeps them shut. Opens them with a swirling in that endless gold.

He’s listening. That’s good. A-Qing’s beginning to realize that, with Hanguang-Jun, his actions speak much louder than his words. It’s one or the other. Both are reserved for someone else.

So A-Qing talks. She talks enough for two, three, however many people she feels necessary. And she has a lot to say.

“He says it was all his fault, but he’s stupid like that. He’ll take all the blame if it means people are happier that way. He’s been like that for as long as I’ve known him, and I’m sure that’s how he was before.”

(This is the boy who grew up loved and had that love ripped away from him. Why? Because of himself, because of fate, because of a world spinning wildly out of his control.)

“I don’t think he’s a bad person. But the past hurts him, and it hasn’t helped him. Not yet. So, for now, it’s probably better to let him find himself first.”

(This is a god who needs to save himself before he can save others.)

“Does it really matter, in the end? He says he’s paying the world back for everything he’s done, so no matter what name people call him, it doesn’t change the fact that he’s fixing things.”

It’s a question A-Qing can answer because she isn’t bound to the past. It’s a question Fuxing can lie to because he rejects the past. It’s a question Hanguang-Jun can answer because he understands the consequences of leaving words unsaid.

Lifting her eyes up and gesturing faintly to Fuxing is harder than A-Qing expects. Everything’s harder when emotions are involved.

“You knew him once. As things are right now, he doesn’t want to know you. Well, half of him doesn’t want to know you. The other half...” A-Qing trails off into silence. Hanguang-Jun knows what he’s doing, because silence really does speak louder than words sometimes. “I think you already know.”

Hanguang-Jun lowers his head. His hand tightens around Fuxing’s ever so slightly.

A-Qing clenches her own hands together. Why are the words so bitter all of a sudden? “But all of him wants to move on with his life, and the worst thing anyone can do is drag him back into the past. It might seem selfish, but there’s no way around it. It’s always been all or nothing with him, hasn’t it?”

Life’s too short to be taken too seriously, but that doesn’t mean you should work to make it even shorter. That’s just—no.

A sigh slips from A-Qing’s lips. The bonds between people are the strongest and most tangled things she’s ever seen. Love, regret, denial, and all those sharp strings just waiting for someone to reach in and cut themselves open.

But—

“But I suppose the fact that you’ve grown apart means you were united at one point in time,” says A-Qing, gesturing weakly at Fuxing. “And hear me out, okay? Because I’ve seen it happen more than once. You can’t want to say these sorts of things. You’ll wait and wait until you lose him, and by that point, the words you wanted to say won’t mean anything to anyone.”

Something unnamed in Hanguang-Jun’s eyes changes. He looks at her a little differently, a bit clearer, maybe. A bit more honest, for sure.

So A-Qing looks down at her shoes. Honesty goes both ways, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. “Maybe you should’ve checked if love was there from the beginning. But we all make mistakes, I guess. Some are just bigger than others.”

Some literally kill you. She doesn’t say. They both know it.

This one-sided conversation has really gone on for too long. Is A-Qing even saying anything meaningful? Do her words even matter to someone like Hanguang-Jun, who has to know how much it hurts already?

It’s okay. At the very least, Hanguang-Jun will know that he has an ally standing by Fuxing. Even if they can’t both chase Fuxing at the same time, one of them will always be there to make sure he doesn’t destroy himself. And that’s meaningful.

It feels weird, considering A-Qing barely knows Hanguang-Jun. At the same time, though, she knows him startlingly well for someone she’s just met. “I don’t think you’re a bad person, either. I think you two both deserved to be loved, and you just don’t know how to do it yet.” With half a laugh and half a huff, A-Qing levels an exasperated gaze at both the esteemed Light-Bearer and the Golden God of Prosperity. “I guess you’re both kind of stupid like that, huh?”

Hanguang-Jun’s brows furrow. It wears strangely on him. “We are not stupid,” he says succinctly, as if trying to explain it clearly to A-Qing.

At that, A-Qing almost wants to laugh. She disguises it as a sporadic cough because even she has dignity.

Really? He’s just going to try and say they’re not stupid? Being quiet is one thing; being emotionally stunted is another. Similarly, being proud is one thing, while being completely and utterly ignorant is definitely a whole other thing.

Whatever. It’s far too late for this sort of harrowing business. For a stuck-up Gusu Lan cultivator, Hanguang-Jun isn’t so bad. He looks at Fuxing like he wants to hold him and never let go, but he knows that doing so will just scare Fuxing away. So he understands that freedom is the first step to healing, and from there, maybe a kinder story can be written.

A-Qing leans back in her chair, tilting it back onto its hind legs. “Love’s a stupid thing, but people have to chase after it for a reason. I don’t really get it, so I don’t get a say in it. However!”

Her voice rises, and with it, so does Fuxing’s breath. She pauses for a moment, watching as the god’s chest rises and falls with a sort of peace he hasn’t had in a long time.

“Even so,” A-Qing continues, softer, “despite it all, I want to see a happy ending. Between you and Fuxing, I’d bet one of you can get things rolling, right?”

She grins a wide grin at Hanguang-Jun, who, surprisingly, holds her gaze without any trouble. All he does is nod his head a little. “Mn.”

“Then everything will be just fine.” A-Qing moves to grab a pillow and a couple of blankets from her own bed. Once she has a decent haul, she turns toward Hanguang-Jun. “As Wei Chengfeng, I’m going to have to ask you go your own way before sunrise, but as A-Qing, I’m going to let you take your time until then. In the meantime, I’ll be upstairs.”

By upstairs, she obviously means the roof, which doesn’t slip by Hanguang-Jun. “No need,” he says. “You have been through many trials. Rest.”

A-Qing shakes her head. “This isn’t just for you, dummy. It’s a nice night out, and a change of scenery would be nice.” She shrugs helplessly when Hanguang-Jun tries to stare her down, which doesn’t work too well, because that’s what she does, too. “I guess Fuxing’s going to miss out on one thing to get in on another. It’s not so bad.”

For a moment, there’s silence. Is he going to be annoying and insist, is A-Qing going to have to keep rambling, or—

“Thank you.” Hanguang-Jun bows his head, which feels very wrong. His voice trembles. “I... will be gone before morning.”

A-Qing smiles. “Got it.” Immediately, a little something pops into her mind. “And just so you know, Fuxing doesn’t like that. ‘Thank you’, I mean. Just some advice for when you meet again.”

Hanguang-Jun nods. He might not say much, but the words that are given to him will never be lost.

With all that said and done, A-Qing steps out the window, dragging the sheets through the frame. She’s only halfway out when she decides that, well, Fuxing’s always been good at running away. But he gave A-Qing the name Chengfeng, and he bestowed the title Wind-Swept Maiden upon her.

So this wind is going to slowly but surely blow the sails in a different direction.

“One last thing.” She hesitates, but pushes onward as she always has. “Do you... mind if you get letters every now and then?”

Hanguang-Jun’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly.

This is embarrassing, A-Qing wants to end herself immediately, but for the sake of everyone here, she’ll do it. “Fuxing’s teaching me how to write, but I don’t really have anything to write to! And if I write to you, I could keep tabs on Fuxing for you, and maybe that’d be, I don’t know, peace of mind or something. Does the Gusu Lan Sect even take mail? I’d probably have to use a talisman... some sort of tracking talisman? But what about the protective array? I can’t just blow up the entire mountain, even that’s a bit much for me—”

“Wei Chengfeng.”

When Hanguang-Jun calls her courtesy name like that, it feels like it has a bit more meaning.

The Light-Bearer fixes A-Qing with an unwavering gaze. He isn’t looking down on her or demanding her attention. All he’s doing is looking, and yet it feels so heavy.

“Address your letters to the name Lan Wangji,” says Hanguang-Jun. “I will answer.”

There a problem with his name: A-Qing doesn’t know how to write it.

Trying her very best not to flush up to the cheeks, A-Qing scurries back in and flicks a talisman and a stick of cinnabar free from her sleeves. “Um,” she begins. “The lan part’s easy, and I think I know the wang part, but ji...”

Hanguang-Jun takes the blank talisman and cinnabar from A-Qing. In doing so, he lets go of Fuxing’s hands.

By now, though, the god sleeps soundly. The tension in his body has faded somewhat, giving way to natural exhaustion.

“Watch,” says Hanguang-Jun. His flowing handwriting is perfect, almost too perfect, and a complete contrast to Fuxing’s manic scrawl.

When Hanguang-Jun hands the paper back, A-Qing almost feels bad when she slips it back into her sleeve. Oh, she can’t wait to get letters back from him. She can only hope he’ll be able to read the travesties she sends him.

With the name matter settled, A-Qing climbs out the window. “You’ve been very kind,” she tells Hanguang-Jun for good measure. “You didn’t need to be, but you were anyway. You’re too good, and that’s what makes you a great fit for Fuxing.”

A-Qing grins when Hanguang-Jun nods firmly again. One of them has to be true to their emotions, and thank god it’s the more sensible of the two.

“Rest well,” Hanguang-Jun says. The gold in his eyes is almost divine. “May the winds of fortune bless your journey.”

“The winds of fortune will be blessing you,” A-Qing answers. “You ran into me, after all.”

As she makes her way onto the roof, she settles the pillows and sheets down as comfortably as she can. Even if it’s bumpy and uneven, she’s tired enough to feel the lull of sleep pull at her the moment she settles down.

Somewhere beneath her, Hanguang-Jun is sitting by Wei Wuxian, cherishing every moment. When the sun rises, he’ll be gone without saying goodbye, and A-Qing won’t even be angry for once.

He can leave goodbyes for when he writes back. But first, she needs to write to him first.

Underneath a sky free from lanterns and flowers that will one day be born again, A-Qing thinks of what her first words should be.

Chapter Text

It’s cold.

But it’s been that way for a long time now, so it doesn’t matter too much. It’s just a fact, a way of life, something that comes with living. It’s just as meaningless as saying it hurts.

Maybe it means something when others say it. When Mo Xuanyu says it, the world just...doesn’t seem to care all too much.

That’s okay. Love is a luxury, anyway. Frankly, it’s a luxury he can’t afford and would rather stay far, far away from, because love bites, cuts, and leaves scars like none other, and those scars ache for a long time.

Mo Xuanyu rolls over. It’s one of those nights, where no matter how long he tosses and turns, he just can’t seem to get comfortable. The ground is too cold, the air is too cold, his breath is too cold. His hands tremble as he lifts them to his cheeks.

They’re cold too. It’s not very surprising. There’s not much to be offered in this house. Or this village. Or this world in general. It’s all very cold.

Well, it’s not so bad. Living is just a battle of attrition. It’s a test of endurance, and there’s not much to be gained from winning. Losing just...doesn’t seem so bad. Nowadays, it might just be easier to fall asleep and drift off.

Is it selfish?

It can’t be. To be selfish, you’d have to be doing someone wrong to do yourself right. Who would he doing wrong by leaving? Nobody would care all too much, would they?

Mo Xuanyu takes a breath. He’s alive, and it doesn’t even feel like he’s living.

It’s strange, being here. There are a lot of things he’s scared of, but at the same time, he can’t be scared of them anymore. It can’t get too much worse. No matter what others do to him, no matter what he does to others, no matter what does to himself, he can’t be afraid anymore.

Besides, it’s cowardly to be afraid. What’s there to be afraid of?

It’s cold tonight, isn’t it?

Ah.

It’s cold.

“Are you dumb or deaf? Answer me!”

“P-please, honoured vassal, if we could take this conversation somewhere else—”

“Somewhere else? You think I have time for somewhere else? Is everyone in this household as much of a coward as you are? Stand up straight! Look me in the eye! Stop acting like I’m going to eat you!”

“Please put down your sword! If you could just—if you could just—”

“If I could just what? Speak up, you idiot!”

It’s, um, very noisy out today.

Mornings usually start with a meal. Sometimes it comes, sometimes it doesn’t. It depends on how the servants in the main house are feeling. Even if they’re in a good mood, they don’t show it around Mo Xuanyu. He tends to sour any situation he’s put in. It’s understandable. Personally, he’d rather they go about their day happy, because when they’re not happy, they tend to take it out on him.

This morning, though, seems a bit livelier than usual.

“At least answer this: is this the Mo household?”

“Yes! Yes, revered vassal, it is, but please, if you could speak with the masters before intruding, it would be very much appreciated!”

Mo Xuanyu frowns. A vassal? To whom? And to say revered with so much fear...

It’s odd, to say the least. Mo Village isn’t exactly a notable place. Merchants and cultivators come and go, but nobody would visit otherwise.

Oh. Unless it’s the Lanling Jin Sect.

His breath stutters, and something tightens in his chest. It hurts, it won’t go away, it’ll never go away. But he can ignore it as best as he can.

“There’s nothing to fear,” Mo Xuanyu says to himself, as if it helps at all. It doesn’t. It does. It’s all the same. “There’s nothing to fear, nothing at all.”

Leaning against the space where the door meets the wall, Mo Xuanyu listens. The voices fade in and out, with A-Tong’s frantic begging frequently interrupted by what sounds like a girl’s voice. It isn’t familiar, but the pride in it could certainly belong to a disciple from the Lanling Jin Sect.

If they’ve come for him, there’s nothing he can do. If they haven’t, it...it doesn’t matter, but he needs to know anyway. At the very least, he can control what he knows. He doesn’t have much left, but this is something he can hold close to himself.

A loud thump shakes the door. Mo Xuanyu flinches back.

A groan, followed by a whimper, and then that same young, proud voice, filled with so much anger and outrage Mo Xuanyu slowly backs away: “You’ve done what?”

The walls shake again as something hits them. Is someone trying to knock the house down? They can’t—none of the servants in the main house could even do such a thing!

It must really be a cultivator, then. A...a cultivator...

Mo Xuanyu breathes, he feels air fill his lungs, and he wishes he could sleep through this.

“So you’ll act like a obedient dog around those above you, but you’ll spit on anyone below you!”

“You must understand, honoured vassal! He’s insane! He’s a disgrace! You mustn’t—you mustn’t—”

“I mustn’t? You think you have any right to tell me what to do?” The unmistakable sound of something being set ablaze suddenly fills the air, and Mo Xuanyu flinches. “Get out of my sight! You’re useless! Go tell your masters that we can do anything we like, and none of your pathetic babbling will do anything to change that!”

There’s a very familiar sound. Metal on metal, the sound of a sword being unsheathed. A-Tong screams, and his rambling slowly fades away into the distance.

For a moment, there’s only silence. Mo Xuanyu hesitates, but moves closer to the door.

The supposed vassal takes a breath so audible even he can hear it. It’s partly out of frustration, partly out of anger, and it makes him nervous. Are they here for him? If they really are, then what in the world do they want?

(At least they want him.)

Three quick but firm knocks sound off from the other side of the door. Mo Xuanyu jolts up, knocking over a stack of loose manuscripts. The papers scatter, and he fumbles to collect them.

“Hello?” It’s the vassal’s voice again, nowhere near as angry as before. It’s almost kind, in a strange way. Regardless, that’s good. That’s very good. “Is anyone in there? Or, rather, are you okay in there?”

It’s...been a while since anyone’s asked him that.

He isn’t even sure if he remembers how to answer. He isn’t sure what he should say.

Is he okay? Well, he’s alive, for one. That’s something.

(But are you living?)

He has food, water, shelter. He has everything he needs. He should be fine.

(But is it enough?)

He expected too much from life, so he has no right to be disappointed. Maybe he deserved everything that happened, maybe he didn’t, but it doesn’t change the fact that it happened.

(But don’t you want more?)

Justice is a word that only works when you’ve been wronged. And to enact justice on others means to do as much hurt to them as they’ve done to you.

Justice is...it’s...

(I only wanted to prove that I was worth something.

I trusted you. You gave me so much, you looked at me, you told me I was useful, that I was more than what they all said.

What did you have to gain from being so cruel?

Why did you give me everything and then rip it away from me?)

Mo Xuanyu takes a breath.

“I...” His own voice sounds so foreign. He feels nauseous, and he doesn’t know why. The words he longs to say won’t come. “I’m not...”

The words fall off his tongue and disappear. No matter how far he reaches with his feeble hands, he won’t be able to reach them.

For a moment, there’s silence. Then: “Can I open the door?”

When Mo Xuanyu can’t speak, she fills in the void. She doesn’t speak over him; she waits until he has nothing more to say, and then she steps into the silence without hesitation.

Light footsteps scuffle across the ground, and Mo Xuanyu swears he can feel her presence just on the other side of the door.

“Let’s get you someplace better,” she says, and Mo Xuanyu’s heart catches in his throat. “I don’t know the whole story, but I know that you don’t deserve to be treated this way. But I don’t want to force you to do something you don’t want to do. I’ll open this door only if you want me to.”

Her voice is so confident. It’s so expressive. Mo Xuanyu can hear a thousand colours and emotions in every word. It sounds incredible. It sounds like living.

Who is she?

Why does she sound like she’s giving him a chance?

(You are you, and you are something, simply by the fact you’re here.

Yet you live as if you’re nothing, a harrowing, bleak existence, by the will of those who wish harm upon you, and a world who has cast you aside.

Then only one question remains:

At the end of the world as you know it, will you cast yourself away?

Or is there more beyond the wounds you carry?)

Mo Xuanyu is alive. But he wants to live. The life he was given before wasn’t living at all, because in the end, it was a lie. It’s okay. It was his mistake. He should’ve known better. Life isn’t something others give to you; it’s something you take hold of yourself.

“You can open it,” says Mo Xuanyu. His hands shake and his voice wavers, but the words are there. And that’s good enough.

There’s a quiet sigh on the other side of the door.

“Okay,” the vassal says, relief in her voice. She’s so honest with her feelings. Isn’t she scared of what others will say? Isn’t she scared of how others might try to manipulate her? “It might be rude of me to say this, but frankly, your family’s rotten to the core!” The sound of metal rending through metal rings out, and something heavy falls to the ground. “They all deserves to burn for doing this to you.”

He can’t—there’s nothing he can say to that.

He knows very well that what he shouldn’t be here. At the same time, he can’t blame anyone for putting him here. It’s not their fault. All they know is that Mo Xuanyu is insane, out of his mind, a failure of the highest calibre. To them, he’s not human. It’s not their fault.

The blame rests with Mo Xuanyu. He was a fool for blindly trusting the first person to reach out to him. Kindness is just as potent a weapon as it is a gift. And Mo Xuanyu let himself be cut over and over and over again, all for the sake of someone who tossed him aside and left him to die.

He knows it’s wrong. He doesn’t want to be here. But the only person he can blame is himself.

The door slowly creaks open. The morning light spills into the room, bathing the walls in a gentle hue Mo Xuanyu has never appreciated until now.

And before him, dressed in green and gold robes fit for a goddess, a young girl stands tall and proud. She brushes a strand of hair from her face without much care, and the golden flowers in her hair clack against each other. Everything about her, from how she wears her heavy robes with fluid grace to how she holds her head nobly high, speaks of something divine.

For a moment, all Mo Xuanyu can do is stare. Then he catches sight of the jade pendant and the crystal bell hanging from her sash, and oh, for the love of all that is good in this world (which...isn’t saying much), is this—is this the revered Yufeng-Zhe?

Yufeng-Zhe frowns as she studies Mo Xuanyu’s slack-jawed expression. “I guess you recognize me,” she mutters, which is very much fair to say.

Who hasn’t heard of Yufeng-Zhe? The Wind-Swept Maiden, the Windrider, the first disciple of the Golden God of Prosperity, she who brings the wind, she who dances with flowers, she who ushers in reconciliation and change; she who is strong, bears strength, gives strength, and never stops moving forward.

Even here, in Mo Village, stories of Yufeng-Zhe’s feats are wide and varied. Even so, nobody can get the story quite right. Some call her a young genius born with luck on her side, and others call her a divine beast in the form of a human.

With Yufeng-Zhe standing right in front of him, Mo Xuanyu thinks he understands.

She’s just a girl with an exceptionally strong will.

As Yufeng-Zhe sheathes her sword and steps closer, Mo Xuanyu has to remind himself not to flinch away. Someone as noble as her wouldn’t...wouldn’t do anything to him.

Her cloudy eyes pierce through Mo Xuanyu. There’s something strange on her face, a clashing of anger and another emotion he can’t quite decipher.

That’s not for him, is it?

Mo Xuanyu tries to shrink down as best he can. Angering the servants is one thing. Angering the vassal of a golden god would truly his final hurrah. His life is—his life must be worth more than finding freedom by leaving the world behind. He wants there to be more, because he wants to be more, and...and....

“Your name,” says Yufeng-Zhe, starling Mo Xuanyu out of his reverie. The anger has mostly faded from her expression, leaving something gentler in its place. “It’s Mo Xuanyu, isn’t it?

His heart sinks.

Yufeng-Zhe know, and she believes it. Why wouldn’t she? It’s just...it’s just so exhausting, trying to deny what everyone already believes. It’s better just to work with it.

So Mo Xuanyu keeps his eyes on the ground. He nods, a sharp jerk of the head.

Yufeng-Zhe huffs to herself. “I guess that snake can say something useful once in a while.”

That snake?

“Um,” Mo Xuanyu blurts out, immediately cursing his awful, awful mouth, “if you know who I am, and if you know what—what I’ve done, why...what is it you want with me?”

Yufeng-Zhe’s cloudy eyes are more honest that anything Mo Xuanyu has ever seen. Despite her short stature, her presence is so incredibly heavy. The crystal bell hanging by her waist chimes with an ethereal song, pleasant and peaceful. “What I want with you,” she repeats slowly, as if testing the words.

Mo Xuanyu wrings his hands together. There’s no reason for a cultivator as noble as Yufeng-Zhe to seek out someone as lowly as himself.

“I don’t want anything from you.” Yufeng-Zhe crosses her arms and frowns. The way she frowns is so different from the sneers and the glares everyone else throws his way. The displeasure on her features is directed inward, at herself, and Mo Xuanyu can’t even begin to understand why. “I heard that Jin Guangyao is a piece of shit. I also heard that he did you wrong. We’re not about to let a coward like him get away with everything he’s done, and we’re sure as hell not going to let everyone he’s hurt suffer for the rest of their lives.”

That’s—

She—

How—

How does she know?

“You—” The words won’t come. He doesn’t know how to say them. “But you—you shouldn’t—”

“I shouldn’t know.” Yufeng-Zhe’s displeasure darkens and darkens until she’s levelling a gaze as sharp as a knife at someone unseen. “Of course I shouldn’t know! That pompous bastard really did a good job of killing everyone who saw into his gaping hole of a heart.”

He did. He really did. Mo Xuanyu hates it.

It was so nice before everything. Being able to call one of the most renowned cultivators of the generation your brother was nice, but the fact that Mo Xuanyu finally had someone he could call family without shying away was something precious and irreplaceable.

To have someone who saw worth in you, who trusted you with secrets no one else was privy to, until those secrets became sharp and deadly and smelled of old blood; to have family, even for as short and fleeting a time as those broken, jaded pieces rested in Mo Xuanyu’s hands, was something special.

(I had a heart and you didn’t.

You turned the entire world against me.

I hate you for it, I hate myself for it, but why—why—why—

Why do I still want you to acknowledge me as something greater than the fate you forced upon me?)

“I’m not sure how much you know, but I can tell you know plenty.” Yufeng-Zhe’s expression softens as much as it can. She sighs, then gently places a hand on Mo Xuanyu’s arm. To his own surprise, he doesn’t flinch away. “I know it hurts, and it isn’t fair.”

Her grip tightens around his arm. It’s warm. It’s firm. It doesn’t hurt. It simply says, don’t go away just yet.

And Mo Xuanyu can’t. Is it because of this unyielding girl, or is this what he wants?

What does he really want?

Has he ever bothered to ask himself?

Six years. It’s been six years since he’s been named the disgrace of the Lanling Jin Sect, chased out of that small, golden world he so foolishly called his home. It’s been six years since his half-brother smiled at him and plunged a dagger into his gut.

Since then, this big, empty house has been his life and his prison. Ah, but it’s not fair to call it a prison. Perhaps someone else threw him in here and locked the door, but the key’s been in his hands the entire time.

His hands smell of ink that never dries. He writes and he writes and he writes and he doesn’t know why.

There’s nowhere for him to go. At least, here, he belongs somewhere. He has a purpose to be hated, and even though it’s painful, it means that he’s alive for a reason.

(Somewhere in those six years, I suddenly realized that I don’t have a place I want to go.

Even so—

It wasn’t that I wanted to go somewhere, but rather that I just wanted to end up going somewhere.

If I can get there, then everything should be alright.

If I can get there...

If I can just get there...

If I don’t have too much hope, if I can just accept emptiness, if I can just stop thinking...

Then this is the goal.

So here I am.

And so there was no more. No more reason to forge ahead. Not a single reason left at all.)

“We’re moving against Jin Guangyao,” Yufeng-Zhe declares. Her glassy eyes burn with an unwavering determination worthy of her namesake. “He’s gotten away with more than any of us can accept. He’s lying to the world, and there’s no way we’re letting his filthy mouth lead to the deaths of even more people!”

There’s no fear at all in her words, no hesitation. Just unbridled anger against what she believes is unjust.

Mo Xuanyu knows it’s unjust. People have died. People have been hurt. Lives have been taken and ruined forever.

So he breathes. In, out, and over again. Like usual. Like always.

“You want me to...fight against Jin Guangyao?”

The thought of facing him again—the thought of losing even more—it’s—

“As I said, I don’t want you to do anything. It’s your decision.” Yufeng-Zhe crosses her arms. All she’s doing is standing in from of him, speaking words that make all the sense in the world, yet it feels like she’s doing so much more. When she stands, she stands her ground, and when she speaks, she demands that choices be made.

While Mo Xuanyu stands at this sad, pathetic goal he’s created for himself, Yufeng-Zhe never stops moving forward. The wind at her feet runs wild and free, ripping apart the illusions he’s written for himself.

The stories couldn’t be more accurate. Unparalleled strength, an unbreakable will, unmatched determination, anything and everything; that’s what this girl-turned-vassal has. She makes it sound so easy. She makes it look so easy. She’s a fighter, a warrior, but before that, she’s human. That’s what makes it so incredible.

Yufeng-Zhe stares into Mo Xuanyu’s eyes. Her expression reveals some sort of emotion, but it’s so foreign that he can’t hope to identify it. “Whether or not you want to fight is up to you. For me, I just want to talk, get your story, see if we can put some pieces together.”

Two firm steps even closer, and a finger pointed at his chest. He can almost feel Yufeng-Zhe’s steady breaths, a whirling tempest contained in a mortal form, and it makes him dizzy.

“But you’re different!” There it is: the raging winds that sweep away everything. Yufeng-Zhe holds on tight, and in doing so, brings Mo Xuanyu along with her. “You have a choice to make. And the question isn’t if you should fight against Jin Guangyao or not! Instead, ask yourself what you really want! Will you leave this place behind or stay here for the rest of your life until something takes it away from you?”

Ah, but...

He doesn’t know how to answer that question.

If he knew, he’d be gone already. Or perhaps he’d turn away and continue to sleep.

(What is justice?)

Fire burns in Yufeng-Zhe’s eyes. They’re cloudy but so unbearably clear, and Mo Xuanyu doesn’t know what to think.

As much as he wants to turn away, he can’t. Doing so would be repeating what he’s been doing for years. He hasn’t been running away, but all he’s been doing is finding reasons not to move. Backward, forward, it doesn’t matter.

Right now, as he is, all Mo Xuanyu is, all he has to show for himself is a goal with no meaning and the broken pieces of something that once was in his hands.

Through the open door, a breeze billows through. It hums, sings gently, picks up the pages Mo Xuanyu has spent years writing and sends them into disarray.

Black on white falls around them, and Mo Xuanyu can’t bring himself to pay attention to it. The answer Yufeng-Zhe demanded from him rests on his tongue, and he doesn’t even know if he’ll ever be able to live it.

“I want to leave,” he says, feeling something move within him. His throat feels tight and something inside him wants to escape. This barren, cold house is nothing but a sea of trees, and Mo Xuanyu has spent so long tangled in this overwhelming something, the possibility of what could be. All this time, he’s been slowly choked by something entirely and utterly silent. “I don’t want to be here anymore.”

Is it right, to say those words?

Yufeng-Zhe breaks into a wide grin. She releases her grip on Mo Xuanyu’s arm and steps back, her arms spread wide. “Then that’s it, right? That’s the answer. That’s your choice.”

Well, it doesn’t matter all too much.

He wants to go somewhere. If that’s not possible, he simply wants to go away from here. Everything else can come afterward.

Like the whirlwind she is, Yufeng-Zhe begins to walk around, picking up the papers that’ve been scattered like fallen leaves. “Let’s go, then.” She frowns when she reads over Mo Xuanyu’s writings. “Huh. So you’re researching cultivation? I guess there really isn’t much you can do here.”

“Um, they’re not all that interesting,” Mo Xuanyu mutters, rushing to help. “Most of it’s based off of what I read back when I—” The words fumble over themselves, but he pushes onward. In the face of the storm, he doesn’t want to be left behind, not when the storm is what will lead him to somewhere new. “It’s based off what I read when I was with the Lanling Jin Sect.”

As Yufeng-Zhe continues to scan over the pages, her eyes widen, bit by bit. “Whose works did you read while you were there?”

Mo Xuanyu hesitates. A vassal of the Golden God of Prosperity couldn’t possibly understand, but he won’t lie to her. “I...I mainly read the Yiling Patriarch’s writings.”

Yufeng-Zhe is silent. Her eyes are wide with shock, an emotion he hasn’t seen on her young features yet, but one that’s just as vivid as the rest. She looks up at Mo Xuanyu with that unfaltering gaze, and it takes an incredible amount of will not to look away. “The Yiling Patriarch’s—weren’t they destroyed?”

“Um, the Lanling Jin Sect recovered most of his belongings. His writings, his tools, his sword, most of what he brought with him to the Burial Mounds.”

The following silence is laden with unspoken words.

Yufeng-Zhe takes a breath. The papers in her hands crinkle under her grip, and she puts them down on the table. “His dizi. Chenqing. Is it with the Lanling Jin Sect, too?”

“Chenqing?”

Mo Xuanyu has always found the Yiling Patriarch to be strange. Not in the way that everyone says—not insane, cruel, and cold, but rather whimsical.

It’s undoubtedly an uncommon opinion. A man who, without even drawing a weapon, killed thousands of people and turned the entire cultivation world against him, only to meet his end at his own hands...it’s almost unthinkable to even use the word whimsical to describe a so-called monster like him.

But Mo Xuanyu doesn’t think it’s quite right.

A man like the Yiling Patriarch, who had nothing to gain and everything to lose, would have no reason to lie.

His writings on demonic cultivation were ingenious, of course, but they weren’t the ramblings of a madman. Whenever the days were hard, or whenever Mo Xuanyu found it difficult to breathe, he’d find a little joy in reading over flame-licked pages decorated with drawings of rabbits and reminders to buy more potatoes.

Sometime in the past, a boy who named his sword Suibian existed. Perhaps he died, or perhaps he simply grew up. The man who named his dizi Chenqing couldn’t have been the same person.

Somewhere along the way, he began to care. Or—no. Perhaps he always cared. Somewhere along the way, everything he cared about shattered in his hands.

“I think the Yunmeng Jiang Sect took Chenqing,” Mo Xuanyu says. He wrings his hands again, squeezing the skin between his fingers. “Although nobody’s ever asked Sandu Shengshou. He doesn’t take well to demonic cultivators, and even the slightest mention of the Yiling Patriarch infuriates him.”

“Oh?”

That’s not a good tone. That’s a very bad tone.

Mo Xuanyu’s eyes creep up to gaze at Yufeng-Zhe, and he immediately feels like he’s unearthed something that should’ve stayed dead and decaying.

Yufeng-Zhe laughs. It’s something far too deep and archaic for a girl of her size to be able to physically produce, echoing deep and resounding far. Mo Xuanyu feels a few years shave off his lifespan.

“That repressed idiot had even more he was hiding, did he?” Something terrifying glints in her eyes, and Mo Xuanyu fights desperately against his sense of self-preservation telling him to flee. “That’s brave of him. Be true to yourself, I said. Rely on others, I said. I guess he really is stupid!”

With a smile that promises bloodshed in the near future, Yufeng-Zhe brings her hands together. A horrible series of small cracks accompanies the stretch of her palms.

“Mo Xuanyu, I appreciate your help,” Yufeng-Zhe sings more than says, a dark smile pulling at the corners of her lips. “Turns out I didn’t hit that dumbass hard enough last time. That’s alright.” Her lips curl into something dangerous, and oh no, absolutely not, that’s not a smile anymore, that’s a predator baring her teeth, ready to rip out the throats of anyone who looks her way. “I’ll just have to knock his entire head off this time. If I lop it all off, he’ll die with the knowledge that he’s the most emotionally crippled idiot to ever have the misfortune of being born.”

This conversation has taken a very strange turn very quickly, leaving Mo Xuanyu shaking and terrified for his life.

Yufeng-Zhe knows Sandu Shengshou? Not only that, but she knows him well enough to speak so casually of him? Why is she making death threats? Why does she talk like she’s already made those threats to Sandu Shengshou? Why, oh why does she talk like she’s already acted on those threats?

With a frustrated sigh, Yufeng-Zhe massages her temples. Her brows are furrowed when she finally returns to look at Mo Xuanyu. “That’s one more on the list of things to do when we visit Lotus Pier again. Do you want to come?”

The question is so abrupt that Mo Xuanyu’s words trip over silence. “I—you want—”

“I don’t want anything,” Yufeng-Zhe repeats for the third time. Despite Mo Xuanyu’s incompetence, she grins, leveling the brilliance of her kaleidoscopic emotions at him. It’s blinding, it’s confusing, it’s amazing, and it’s everything at once. “I’m asking what you want. If you have nowhere else to go, why don’t you come with us?”

But that’s...

Why?

Yufeng-Zhe doesn’t know him at all. She says she’s heard what happened, what really happened, but why would someone as noble and as powerful as her even consider reaching out to Mo Xuanyu?

Every opportunity that’s been presented to him has been crushed to nothing. He’s squandered every chance. If there’s one thing in this life he’s proven, it’s that as he is now, all that he’ll ever amount to is nothing.

As if hearing every single one of Mo Xuanyu’s thoughts, Yufeng-Zhe’s eyes soften ever so slightly. The long strands of her hair billow gently with the wind, and the morning light paints her green robes in a gentle hue of gold. “Are you scared?”

It’s another question Mo Xuanyu doesn’t know how to answer. He parts his lips to speak, to say anything at all, and finds the grip of silence pressing against his throat, squeezing tighter and tighter.

For a moment, Yufeng-Zhe peers into his eyes. Mo Xuanyu isn’t sure if she finds what she’s looking for, but she holds out her hands toward him, almost as if she’s receiving something precious.

Oh.

She’s—she’s waiting, isn’t she?

Mo Xuanyu raises his shaking hands. It’s not so cold anymore, but his hands still tremble.

He hesitates, but lays his palms against Yufeng-Zhe’s. Her hands are warm. They’re calloused, yet they’re more gentle than any touch Mo Xuanyu has ever been given.

The vassal smiles. She doesn’t know Mo Xuanyu, not at all, but even so, she looks at him like he’s her equal, and he doesn’t know how to feel, what to think, because the last person to reach out to him with a smile didn’t have a fraction of the warmth that Yufeng-Zhe carries so easily in her eyes, in her smile, in her hands.

(Is this...what kindness really looks like?)

Mo Xuanyu really is a fool.

Yufeng-Zhe runs her thumbs over Mo Xuanyu’s hands. “It’s okay to be scared. What’ll happen if you leave? Is it safer here? Is what you really want out there?” Every one of her words speaks of stories Mo Xuanyu doesn’t understand. “They’re all perfectly good questions. What’s the guarantee you’ll find your place? It’s scary, right?”

There’s nothing Mo Xuanyu can say. He doesn’t need to say anything in front of this strange, miraculous girl, who shines like she has stars in her eyes.

“Fear and loneliness are vital human emotions, I think. Having the courage to reach your hands out to new worlds because of loneliness and hurt, we grow our little worlds bit by bit.” Yufeng-Zhe raises her hands, and in doing so, cups Mo Xuanyu’s and brings it up to his eyes, as if to say, see? “They say the world isn’t kind. I’m not going to go and say it isn’t, but if the world isn’t kind, then why don’t you go out there and find a world that is kind?”

Mo Xuanyu...feels something unfold inside him.

It’s hard to describe. It isn’t the birth of something new, and it isn’t the death of something old. It’s a strange something that’s been there for a long time yet is still so new to him. He’s been protecting it all this time, and he didn’t even know.

It’s warm. He doesn’t know what it is, but it’s so, so warm.

This is a chance, isn’t it? It’s a chance that he needs to take. If he doesn’t, he’ll be trapped here forever. And even if he should find a way to leave later on, every step of whatever journey he takes next will be laden with the reminder that you ran away, you ran away, you had all the kindness in the world in your hands and you threw it away.

(Is it a mistake to trust so readily?

It’s always been like this. At the end of everything, when nothing’s left, someone will reach out to him.

He reaches back. It’s always his fault. He trusts too easily. When that trust is broken, it’s his fault. He’s the fool.

And yet—

And yet—

Cloudy eyes, a short stature, a legacy of strength, hands that reach out to anyone and everyone because kindness isn’t just a weapon, it’s a gift—

Ah.

He’ll always be a fool.)

For himself. That’s who he needs to move on from and for. The Mo Xuanyu of the past, dressed in robes that didn’t fit and a peony that wasn’t his, and the Mo Xuanyu of the future, who he hasn’t met and will never meet.

He can’t—he can’t let them be the same person. If they are, then it’ll be as if he never lived at all.

So he breathes and looks Yufeng-Zhe in the eye. The words elude him, always just a little out of his reach. Instead, he tries on a smile, something small, something nervous, but...it’s there. And it’s good enough.

Yufeng-Zhe beams. Mo Xuanyu hasn’t said a word, but she can read him so clearly. Why? How? “What do you say? You’ll be safe with us. We’re pretty hospitable, being the ragtag group of nobodies and everybodies we are!”

She releases Mo Xuanyu’s hands, and for a moment, he finds himself seeking something he can’t see.

“We’ve got a god on board, so you don’t have to worry about money, and we also have a cook too, so you don’t have to worry about food.” Yufeng-Zhe sighs, a noise that’s only superficially exasperated.

She can’t quite disguise the gentle humour or fondness that creeps into her voice and onto her lips.

“And we’ve all seen the best and worst of humanity. Some of us have been the worst, but they’re trying to be their best. I’ve been with Fuxing for four years now, and a lot has changed. And just so you know, I may be short, but I’m already twenty, alright? That’s, what, only four years younger than you!”

Mo Xuanyu swears he sees the sword by Yufeng-Zhe’s side shiver. When he looks down, it’s perfectly still.

The ebony sheen whispers something he doesn’t understand.

Following his gaze, Yufeng-Zhe looks down at her sword. She looks up again, then down, and finally up once more. With an odd lilt to her voice, she asks, “Can you hear him?”

Hear who?

“I...I don’t think so,” is the answer Mo Xuanyu decides on. He tries not to fidget under Yufeng-Zhe’s scrutiny.

“Huh,” says Yufeng-Zhe. She leaves her gaze on Mo Xuanyu for a little longer, then smiles. That’s the thing about her: one moment, she’ll roar like a storm, and the next, she’ll ebb like the tide. “Well, whatever.” Yufeng-Zhe nudges him gently. “So? What do you say? If you don’t have a place to go, we can find you one.”

It’s incredible, unbelievable, almost, how quickly Mo Xuanyu’s small, quiet world has been cracked open.

“I’ll go with you.”

Ah, that’s—

That’s his voice.

His own words echo endlessly through his mind, resounding loud and clear for the first time in six years. Mo Xuanyu feels like crying and he doesn’t know why.

Yufeng-Zhe simply nods her head. The brilliance of her smile is almost blinding in the way it reaches every part of her person; the corners of her eyes crinkle, her shoulders rise, and her hands move to secure the future she’s set into motion. “Great! Then it’s nice to meet you, Mo Xuanyu!”

Mo Xuanyu feels faint when Yufeng-Zhe bows to him. In a flailing mess of limbs, he splutters helplessly. Why—why is she bowing? Why is a vassal bowing to someone like him? “Y-you don’t need to bow, Yufeng-Zhe, not to me, it’s—”

“If you want to call me by any name, I prefer A-Qing,” says Yufeng-Zhe, moving to gather the books and brushes scattered around the room. She says it so casually that it’s almost horrifying, because there is no way in hell, heaven, or whatever great beyond awaits Mo Xuanyu once his feeble heart succumbs to Yufeng-Zhe’s blatant disregard for formality that he’s calling the first disciple of the Golden God of Prosperity A-Qing.

No, absolutely not, it just doesn’t work like that! Not at all, not even a little bit.

It’s apparent Yufeng-Zhe can see Mo Xuanyu’s face explode into red, because she huffs as she hands him a pouch. He fumbles with it. “Guess not. Then you can call me Wei Chengfeng. That’s okay, right?”

No, it isn’t, it really isn’t!

“I don’t think I can do that,” Mo Xuanyu says lightly, feeling his soul slowly tug away from his body. “I don’t...I shouldn’t...”

“Then Yufeng-Zhe it is.” The vassal shrugs, dropping a few books into the pouch, and oh, it’s a qiankun pouch. That’s nice. “It doesn’t make a huge different to me, anyway. A-Qing is Wei Chengfeng, and Wei Chengfeng is Yufeng-Zhe.” A few brushes disappear into the void within the bag, followed by more books, a couple of loose pages, and some half-finished and very half-baked talismans that make Yufeng-Zhe’s expression change into one of curiosity, hey, wait a second.

Mo Xuanyu stands there helplessly as Yufeng-Zhe traces over one of his talismans with her fingers.

“It’s square,” says the vassal.

“It is,” Mo Xuanyu mumbles.

“I’ve never seen something like this before.” Yufeng-Zhe’s brows furrow and her fingers move in peculiar ways, almost as if she’s writing something in her mind. “Not characters, but symbols instead. What’s the circle for?”

Everyone called his research the ramblings of a madman, and recently, he’s beginning to agree. But Yufeng-Zhe’s eyes sparkle with genuine curiosity, and it makes Mo Xuanyu feel warm inside, like he’s stuffed within cotton.

Here goes nothing.

Mo Xuanyu composes himself to the best of his ability. “Um,” he says, his hands clenching into tight fists, “the circle represents the flow of life and the cyclical pattern of nature. Life, death, and rebirth. It’s—it’s a conduit for energy.”

“A conduit for energy,” Yufeng-Zhe repeats. Her eyes widen. “Not for your own energy, but for the energy of nature?”

She...understood?

She understood!

While Mo Xuanyu is preoccupied mulling over the fact that someone is acknowledging his work for the first time and not attacking him or tearing his research to shreds, Yufeng-Zhe mutters under her breath, one hand holding the talisman, the other tracing furiously in the air.

“Oh, wow!”

Yufeng-Zhe stops. She turns the full force of her gaze to Mo Xuanyu. Mo Xuanyu immediately freezes.

“You’re incredible,” the vassal suddenly says. “If you actually manage to manipulate the five elements—or, even crazier, if you actually figure out a way to harness the flow of nature, then you’d be doing the unprecedented! You’d revolutionize cultivation! Would it even be called cultivation anymore? That’s crazy!”

The admiration in Yufeng-Zhe’s eyes makes him want to dig a hole and just lie in there. It makes him feel weird and tingly and he doesn’t know why, but someone listened, and they understood so quickly, and they believe he’ll actually be able to go somewhere with it.

“Let’s finish packing your belongings,” Yufeng-Zhe says, tossing another pouch at Mo Xuanyu. “Clothes, personal items, research, whatever you want to bring, feel free to pack it.”

Impatience crossed with excitement seeps into Yufeng-Zhe’s voice. She moves about one room while Mo Xuanyu folds his robes as quickly as possible, taken in by the vassal’s contagious emotions.

It’s almost unreal to think back on the night before, when it was so cold and he was so prepared to simply sink into nothing.

But the morning sun has risen, and with it, a storm has swept into the village, wearing green robes and gold flowers, and Mo Xuanyu has been entirely and utterly torn apart.

He meets Yufeng-Zhe outside once he’s done. The vassal peers up at him. “All set to go?”

Mo Xuanyu nods. “I’m done.”

“Okay,” Yufeng-Zhe simply says, grabbing Mo Xuanyu’s sleeve and tugging him forward, forward, forward. He stumbles for the first few steps, then finds his footing. “Time to meet the others! Fuxing’s going to love you, with how you both love alternative methods of cultivation and everything.”

Okay, that’s good, except Fuxing’s going to what?

Fuxing, one of the revered Sanxing, the Golden God of Prosperity, the merciful deity descended from the heavens, the saviour of mortals, a miracle incarnate, is going to—is going to—

But that doesn’t—it just doesn’t—why would a god be interested in Mo Xuanyu’s baseless theories? Well, they aren’t exactly baseless, since the Yiling Patriarch proved it was possible to harness stagnant resentful energy, so it should be possible to employ similar methods to the five elements, which are so abundant but much more difficult to understand, and wait, that isn’t the point!

Mo Xuanyu feels dizzy, and this time, he knows why. “You’re taking me to meet the revered Fuxing? Now?”

“Well, yeah,” Yufeng-Zhe answers, a single eyebrow raised. “And maybe a few others. It’ll be okay. They’re a great bunch of people!” An ominous twitch makes its way onto her face. “And by that, I mean they’re smart and powerful. Unfortunately, they wouldn’t know love if it stabbed them in the gut and kept stabbing until they died, came back to life, and died again.”

Mo Xuanyu glances nervously at the sword by her side and how her fingers keep twitching toward the hilt. “That’s, um, nice.”

Yufeng-Zhe smiles darkly, and Mo Xuanyu immediately feels like she’s about to walk up to the nearest tree and punch it to splinters with her bare hands. “Oh, it’s nice. It’s so nice. I love love. I love dealing with man-children. It’s the best. It’s the greatest.”

For a vassal of a god of prosperity, Yufeng-Zhe can certainly look very demonic sometimes.

“You said you travel around a lot,” Mo Xuanyu blurts out, partly out of curiosity, mostly to change the topic. “I-I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but where are you trying to go?”

Yufeng-Zhe looks back at him with a frown. “Where? I mean, we don’t really have a set destination. We just roam.”

That’s...interesting.

For a god to stay for so long in the mortal realm is already strange, but for a god, his vassals, and his allies to simply wander around in search of chaos is a little peculiar and very human.

Mo Xuanyu isn’t sure what to do with that information.

“It’s a good thing we travel, otherwise we would’ve never gotten wind of Jin Guangyao’s scheming.” Yufeng-Zhe sneers, and her grip tightens on Mo Xuanyu’s sleeve. “He’s a real piece of work, killing his own sworn brother and chopping him into pieces.” Though Yufeng-Zhe’s words are cold, she looks at Mo Xuanyu with respect and—and something akin to pride? What? Why? “You did good to make it here.”

Right.

At least...at least he’s here.

He’s here, and that’s okay.

There’s so much he hasn’t seen, and he gets to see it now. It’s okay, because he’s here, he’s breathing, and life has just begun.

(That cold, empty house can stay as it is.

Nobody will ever live in it again.

Needless to say,

He doesn’t look back.)

As they make their way out of the Mo manor and through town, a familiar wave of nausea slowly begins to sweep over Mo Xuanyu. It’s a deep, festering thing that digs its claws in slowly. Every passing second hurts more and more, his breath is lost on a life he left behind, and he can’t feel his fingers.

Yufeng-Zhe glances up at him. Her expression hardens resolutely, and she moves to hold his hand. “We’re almost there,” she says, her steps falling a little faster. When the townspeople begin to throw glances their way, she fires back a burning glare that sends them fleeing. “I can’t wait until we leave. This village is poison.”

“It isn’t their fault,” Mo Xuan tries to argue. His hand tightens around Yufeng-Zhe’s, his eyes trail the ground beneath him as if it’ll show him the way forward, and he feels as if he’s drowning. “They don’t know any better. It’s—it’s just how things turned out.”

Yufeng-Zhe takes a deep breath. Holds it. Releases it slowly.

For once, she stays silent. Yet she keeps walking forward, treading a path for Mo Xuanyu to follow.

There’s nothing you can say to something you know is the undeniable truth.

There’s a hum in his head that won’t go away; through his chest, to his fingers, it’s a heavy rain that drowns out everything. It’s a gentle lapping in his ears that roars like a torrent and escapes out to the sea that is his thoughts, returns, leaves, and repeats. Around him, the townsfolk whisper vitriolic nothings, their lips moving and eyes narrowing in complete silence.

The sound of Yufeng-Zhe’s footsteps thud against the road. Each step is a string pulled tight and released, breaking apart the cacophony in his head, battling against the rain.

Clack.

Clack.

Clack.

Everything that is isn’t, his head hurts, something’s pressing against his chest, and he’s free.

Mo Village isn’t particularly large. It hasn’t grown much in the past few years. It’s stagnant, a little pocket of the world repeating the same days over and over again. Nothing changes, nothing is new, and yet Mo Xuanyu has never felt more out of place.

The memories he has of these worn, dusty streets are distant. Running from shop to shop, laughing without any understanding of how heavy the burden of expectation was, only to leave with whispers following behind him and return with the scorn of his entire world awaiting him.

It’s no surprise that the memories of what once was are so much brighter than the images reflected in his eyes now.

He can’t look anyone in the eye. He doesn’t get to. Yufeng-Zhe wards them all off with her head held high and the crystal bell at her waist chiming clear, resonating notes.

It’s so—

(“Are you okay?”)

It’s so easy—

(“Keep it up. We’re almost there.”)

It’s so easy to get lost out here.

(“Seriously, where did he—hey! Hey! Fuxing!”)

It really is hard to walk a new path when the ruins of what you’ve destroyed are always behind you.

(“Oh, A-Qing! Welcome back.”)

Welcome back. That’s such a warm phrase. It means you belong somewhere, and you’ll always have someplace to return to, because there will be someone there to welcome you home.

(“Where’d you run off to? If I can’t find you, how do you expect Daozhang to?”)

(“You always find me. Who’s this?”)

(“Xue Yang’s request. Between him and that snake, we’ve got a lot of running around to do.”)

There’s something in the air. It’s dense, not heavy, as if he’s moving through water. It’s hard to hear, it’s hard to move, it’s hard to breathe, but here he is, stumbling after those who cut through the haze and seek out what lies beyond the storm.

He’s—

(“The servants didn’t put up much of a fight. I didn’t tell them much, and frankly, I don’t care.”)

(“If they come after us, they can speak to me. That should be an interesting conversation.”)

(“Ha! They’d be too busy cutting off their own tongues.”)

(“Is...he alright?”)

(“Oh. He’s had a rough day. Uh, he’s had a rough couple of years, from what I heard. The sooner we leave this place, the better.”)

(“A-Qing. You should go look for Song Zichen and Xiao Xingchen.”)

(“Huh? Now? Well...okay. Don’t go too far!”)

(“I never do.”)

(“Uh-huh. Sure. Anyway, see you soon, Mo Xuanyu! Fuxing isn't as scary as he looks, I promise. If he does anything stupid, tell me, and I’ll take care of him. I’m off, then.”)

(“Don’t take too long.”)

Yufeng-Zhe’s light steps echo in his mind. Each one fades, and fades, and fades, until the smell of rain gives way to something new.

Mo Xuanyu lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. It shakes, trembles, and stutters in an attempt to escape his body. He feels empty, like the storm that swept through so furiously and so quickly took everything with it.

He feels—

He’s—

“Mo Xuanyu?”

He’s here.

He’s here.

(Then why don’t you act like it, you idiot?)

The world snaps back into place, everything flings itself right in an instant, colours burst to life like he’s opened his eyes for the very first time, sound roars in his ears in a cacophony of nonsense, and—

The stars whirl and pass in front of his very eyes. They shine, they dance, and they move on, all while a hand raises to gently cup Mo Xuanyu’s cheek.

Ah.

It’s warm, this is what he wants, what he’s searching for.

“Are you alright?”

There’s a man with long ebony hair and a weimao with a golden veil before him. He smells of flowers, a perfect and beautiful embodiment of everything worth living for. Black and white robes fall down his shoulders, guiding silver peonies down his arms and his sleeves.

He’s beautiful, otherworldly, unlike anyone Mo Xuanyu has ever seen, and there’s nothing Mo Xuanyu can do except marvel at star-dotted eyes that carry so much weight yet so much kindness.

The hand lingers for a little longer, then moves to tuck a strand of Mo Xuanyu’s stupid, unruly hair behind his ear.

The god smiles. It’s a radiant, gorgeous thing, and oh, the stories really were right, the revered Fuxing really is beautiful beyond measure, he’s perfect in every way, and Mo Xuanyu can feel his traitorous face flushing red all the way too his ears, oh no, time to lie down and return to the earth, he’s made a fool of himself already and he hasn’t even spoken—

A clap of laughter cuts his thoughts in half. He freezes, his eyes blown wide, as Fuxing pulls his hand back. “There we are. Good morning, Mo Xuanyu. I hope A-Qing didn’t make things too difficult for you.”

Wind billows by, dragging loose leaves through the trees, and oh, they’re already on the outskirts of the village, how did Mo Xuanyu blindly follow Yufeng-Zhe through all of Mo Village with half a mind to spare?

“Mo Xuanyu?”

He’s so stupid, what is he doing, why is he still trying to run away from problems he’s already escaped?

With his eyes averted to the ground, Mo Xuanyu bows, knowing very well how disheveled and awful he must look. It’s shameful, but at least he’s used to it by now. “I—your divine lordship, I beg your forgiveness. This undeserving servant has—has taken advantage of your noble quest.”

“Gods exist to be taken advantage of,” says Fuxing, still smiling, as if it makes anything better. Why is he smiling? What’s there to smile about? “We serve the world. It’s my responsibility to ensure that you all live as wildly and as freely as possible.”

Mo Xuanyu hasn’t been doing that all. He must be such a failure, wasting all the opportunities to live the life Fuxing says that all people should be living.

Yufeng-Zhe isn’t back yet, but Mo Xuanyu hopes she returns quickly. The kindness in Fuxing’s eyes and hands is undeniable, the physical manifestation of a miracle, but Mo Xuanyu feels very small and very wrong in the presence of someone who’s so unbelievably right.

But she isn’t back, so Mo Xuanyu stands as far away from Fuxing as possible in order to be within his presence but not necessarily within his reach. He tries to shrink down as best he can, which isn’t saying too much, since the god’s presence is already so overwhelming.

For a moment, Fuxing simply stares at Mo Xuanyu. All he’s doing is looking, but it makes Mo Xuanyu feel so heavy. He’s done something wrong, he must have, if there’s one person in this world who can squander the generosity of even the kindest of gods, it’s him—

The wind is blowing. It carries Fuxing’s voice to places Mo Xuanyu will never see.

“Come here,” says the starry-eyed god, gesturing to himself.

Maybe he sees Mo Xuanyu hesitate, or maybe he doesn’t like it when people beneath him ignore his call. Either way, the smile slides off his face and something akin to petulance takes its place, which is a thought Fuxing doesn’t need to know.

“I don’t bite,” the god huffs, hands on his hips, lips jutted out into a pout. Mo Xuanyu has to remind himself to look away. “Your hair’s all over the place. A face as beautiful as yours shouldn’t be hidden, don’t you think?”

For a moment, Mo Xuanyu just stands there.

A god—this god—the revered Golden God of Prosperity—the generous, the merciful, the divine Fuxing—he just—he just—

Beautiful?

Mo Xuanyu blushes, his ears burn, and a heat rises to his chest. He can tell because it feels like he’s just set himself on fire, which he would very much like to do. Alternatively, he could just drop dead here and now. At least the worms would appreciate him then.

The god—honorable Fuxing! Fuxing!—simply smiles, and oh, he really is pretty, isn’t he? “What’s wrong? Anyone would say you’re an attractive young man.” The god pauses, as if contemplating something. Then he steps toward Mo Xuanyu. “Your hair is remarkably similar to mine. Do you mind if I…?”

Fuxing reaches out, and Mo Xuanyu feels his face ignite. He flinches back, ashamed of his own cowardice.

Fuxing pauses. “Ah, I don’t mean to make you do something you don’t want to.”

“Not at all, of course not,” Mo Xuanyu blurts out, immediately wishing for the earth to open up and swallow him whole. He takes a deep breath and tries to brush off the dirt on his sleeves. “I mean, um, okay. It’s okay. I’m...okay with it.”

Fuxing doesn’t seem to mind the fact that Mo Xuanyu is a living, breathing, walking disaster. Instead, he steps close and runs his hand through the knotted, awful mess Mo Xuanyu has the misfortune of calling hair. With one practiced motion, Fuxing tugs the ribbon from Mo Xuanyu’s ponytail, and his hair spills out at once, tumbling haphazardly down his neck and shoulders.

The god sighs, and Mo Xuanyu feels ice run down his spine. He’s displeased Fuxing, he’s going to die, he’s going to finally leave this world—

“It must’ve been hard.”

What...what’s with that tone of voice?

There’s nothing in Fuxing’s eyes but stars. They swirl on endlessly, living and dying in an instant, dancing in ways no mortal could ever hope to understand. And through it all, he looks so kind, so quiet, so understanding.

He knows what it feels like.

He...knows what it feels like?

To be abandoned, to be martyred, to be saved.

Which one is it? What is it that fills Fuxing’s brilliant eyes with an unspoken agreement, a gentle nod, and a melancholy that’s softer than it is sad?

Fuxing’s fingers tug at the knots in Mo Xuanyu’s hair, but it doesn’t hurt. The gentle pulling grounds him and gives him something to focus on. It’s...extraordinary and stifling all at once, to have a god run his fingers through your hair, over your scalp. It’s such an intimate thing, but Fuxing moves as if he has all the love in the world to give and not enough people to accept it.

“I’ve heard some of your story. You don’t deserve everything that’s happened to you.” A firm determination draws a haze of grey into Fuxing’s eyes, but the warmth never fades. “You’ve done well to make it this far, Mo Xuanyu.”

Two hands cup his face, tilting his chin up to peer into endless pools of gold. They burn with—with that same something that makes Yufeng-Zhe’s storm roar, dragging in all whom it passes, leaving them shaking and startled but not scared.

“To receive a fate like yours is a testament to how unfair luck can be. But to make something more out of what you’ve been given is also a testament to your strength.” Lyrical: that’s what the god’s voice is. He’s singing a hymn of victory, and Mo Xuanyu is already lost in it. His thumbs trace the sensitive skin below Mo Xuanyu’s eyes. “Destiny is what it is. Whether or not it becomes something more depends on strength of will, and more importantly, strength of heart.”

Fuxing grins. It’s a bright, cheerful thing, almost childish, yet it’s heavy with the weight of the world. His hands draw back, only for one to point gently at Mo Xuanyu’s chest.

Maybe Fuxing can feel how Mo Xuanyu’s heart is beating out of his chest. His ears thud with the distant sound of each beat. His fingers feel hot, and he wrenches them together. “I...you honour me. But I’m not worry of your praise.”

I’m not strong, he doesn’t say. It doesn’t matter. Fuxing hears it anyway.

Pulling Mo Xuanyu’s hair up into a ponytail, Fuxing pulls a crimson ribbon from his hair—from his own hair— and ties it once, twice, as many times as he deems necessary. “It’s easy to see strength in others. Seeing strength in yourself is why we’re alive.” Fuxing steps back, a hand raised to his chin. “I think you’d look wonderful in longer robes. If you’d like, A-Qing can go shopping with you later.”

Why is it so easy for Fuxing to say such heavy words as if they’re nothing at all? Mo Xuanyu can’t understand. His own words won’t come; they don’t come. Sometimes they aren’t there at all.

But it’s...it’s undeniably nice, having someone to fill the silence.

He reaches up to his hair. His fingers brush the ribbon the god bestowed upon him, and his entire face flushes red like he’s one of Yufeng-Zhe’s blessed lanterns.

Of course the revered Golden God of Prosperity would be beautiful, but there’s something about the warmth behind those stars and the gentle touch of those hands that makes Mo Xuanyu’s tiny heart shred itself into pieces, and oh no, no, no, it’s time to take all those thoughts and shove them somewhere very deep and very quiet.

“Fuxing! I found them!”

Yufeng-Zhe’s voice is accompanied by a violent gust of wind that scatters flower petals from the trees in a veil of white. The vassal wears a wide grin, marching forward with purpose. Two Taoists follow a few steps behind her, swords by their sides, smiling faintly.

“That was quick,” Fuxing says. As the group approaches, he dips his head. “Sect Leader Song, Xiao Xingchen Daozhang, it’s a pleasure to meet you again.”

Sect Leader Song and Xiao Xingchen. Two Taoists who appear to know each other very well.

Oh, hang oh, no way, there's no way, it can’t be right, can it?

Song Zichen and Xiao Xingchen?

Didn’t they go missing years ago? There were rumours that they died, or that someone killed them, but apparently the stories were all wrong, because here they are, standing tall, having founded their own cultivation sect.

Why does Fuxing know them? Why do they know Fuxing? How has Mo Xuanyu stumbled into such a complicated narrative by pure chance?

He shuffles awkwardly behind Fuxing. The god either doesn’t notice or pretends not to notice. Either way, Mo Xuanyu appreciates it greatly. It feels like he’s intruding on something he shouldn’t be.

Song Zichen—Sect Leader Song—bows, low and deep. Xiao Xingchen follows suit.

“It’s been too long,” says Sect Leader Song. There’s half a smile in his words, hinting toward some story Mo Xuanyu doesn’t know. “I had hoped to meet on more casual terms, but it seems the world insists on working you to death.”

Fuxing huffs indignantly as both Taoists rise. “I work hard, but the world works harder. Besides, dying once was enough.”

Both Sect Leader Song and Xiao Xingchen sigh in unison, which is very worrying. Maybe it’s better if Mo Xuanyu stays as ignorant as possible, because he really doesn’t like what this conversation is implying.

“We’re sorry for dragging you into this mess,” Yufeng-Zhe apologizes sheepishly. She levels a glare at Fuxing, then kicks him in the leg. The god yelps as Yufeng-Zhe grabs a hold of one of his braids and drags him down into a bow. “You really didn’t have to come all the way from Yinhe for something like this!”

Yinhe? If Mo Xuanyu remembers correctly, that’s a city even further south than Yunmeng. To come all the way to Gusu to do anything is a bit...drastic.

Xiao Xingchen shakes his head. “We owe Fuxing more than we could ever repay. Something like this is the least we could do.”

“You’ll be antagonizing Jin Guangyao,” Yufeng-Zhe warns. “He can’t do anything to us, but his words still have an enormous amount of influence over the rest of the cultivation world.”

Oh.

So Sect Leader Song and Xiao Xingchen are here to expose his lies to the world.

That’s—

It’s—

Mo Xuanyu breathes.

That’s fine. It’s fine. He’s the only one here who’s trapped in the past. The four before him are the ones carving out the future.

So he stands a bit taller, peeks out a little more behind Fuxing and Yufeng-Zhe. He’s here too. He said it himself: he wants to be here. He’s tired of letting time slip away from him.

“If we move carefully, Jin Guangyao won’t have the opportunity to do anything,” Sect Leader Song says. He rests one hand on his sword. It’s the exact same motion Yufeng-Zhe so frequently defaults to, which raises some interesting questions.

Fuxing hums in agreement. “Between Huaisang and Jin Guangyao, I’d bet on the former.” A flicker of irritation flashes by his eyes. “The games they play aren’t something I look kindly upon, but I believe A-Qing’s doing her best to, ah, make things right.”

Something dark crawls onto Yufeng-Zhe’s features. It’s the basic human instinct of self-preservation that shoots a shiver down Mo Xuanyu’s spine and urges him to run far, far away. “I’ll lecture him until he cries,” she hisses, eyes narrowed. “And then I’ll kick his ass with his own saber, and then he'll really cry!”

By Huaisang, they couldn’t possibly mean Nie Huaisang, right?

Right?

Before anyone can throw in their opinions, Yufeng-Zhe jolts up. Realization crossed with panic lights up her face, and she scrambles to pull a piece of paper out of her sleeve.

“Give me a second,” she says quickly, pouring over the paper with determined fervour. “You can introduce yourself, Mo Xuanyu. Just, uh, let me...”

She trails off and doesn’t finish. With the silence comes a surge of anxiety that rages violently in his gut as three pairs of eyes move to look his way.

Fuxing simply nods, as if he’s perfectly used to this. “Well, that’s not a bad idea. You’ll be travelling with us for a while at least, so we might as well get acquainted.”

“Acquainted,” Mo Xuanyu repeats, blurting out words like he has no control over his idiotic mouth. His hands squeeze together, his fingernails digging deep into his palms, but he forces the words out. “I mean—yes, of course. My name is Mo Xuanyu. I’ll...I’ll be imposing on you.”

He makes sure to bow long and deep. Good first impressions are wasted on him because he’ll always find a way to ruin them, but the very least he could do is try and be a good person.

Sect Leader Song and Xiao Xingchen bow back, which is entirely unexpected but not unappreciated. People have been bowing to him all day and it’s making all the thoughts in his head crash against each other and shatter into little pieces.

Fuxing rests a hand on Mo Xuanyu’s back. He doesn’t push him forward. He simply supports him, tells him that it’s alright to stand tall, and it makes Mo Xuanyu flush. “Mo Xuanyu has a history with Jin Guangyao,” the god says, no particular inflection in his voice. “He’ll be coming with us for as long as he likes.”

Mo Xuanyu bows again. “I’ll do my best,” he promises, feeling very small among people who are all larger than life. “I...I won’t be much use in combat, but I can...”

What can he do? There must be something he can do. He’s a mess, a burning wreckage of a person, but there must be something even he can admit he’s alright at.

“I can create talismans of all sorts,” is what he decides on.

And then, of course, he immediately wants to leap into the nearby pond and stay there forever, why, why, why did he say that, what use are stupid talismans to two notable Taoists, a vassal, and a literal god?

(Ink on his hands, on his face, in his blood. He may not have much to his name, but the smell of ink and the feeling of a brush in his hands eases his heart.

I would like to be happy before useful, he doesn’t say. It’s too selfish. He’ll never say it.)

“Talismans?”

What’s in his voice? What’s that which lilts his voice, raises it, proves that the past really was just a facsimile?

When Mo Xuanyu looks up, expecting disdain, he’s met with—with unadulterated curiosity instead?

Fuxing leans in closer, stars swirling in his eyes like a current out of control. He beams, pride seeping into his grin with no clear rhyme or reason. “I never thought I’d meet another cultivator who appreciates the art of creating talismans! They’re wonderful, aren’t they? What sort do you study? What do you prefer to use them for?”

He—but that isn’t—it’s not—

“Creating talismans is a difficult art to master,” Xiao Xingchen says, nodding a little. “Most cultivators will only learn how to draw basic exorcism talismans.”

Sect Leader Song nods along, as if musing over something. “A sword can only do so much. Talismans are especially important to cultivators who lack the means to forge a sword of their own.”

It’s not anything special. Not even a little. All Mo Xuanyu can do is read and write and draw. His hands bleed, shake, and hesitate. He’s not—why is Fuxing grabbing his hands, what is going on—

“You studied with the Lanling Jin Sect for a while,” says the god, his words eager and quick. “Their library isn’t as impressive as the Gusu Lan Sect’s, but surely you picked up on some inside knowledge. What do you think about their arrays? Too much gold and splendor, right?”

The Lanling Jin Sect, arrays, gold, splendor, oh, he can answer this question. “Y-yes, I think they’re too costly. They...don’t have the best understanding of how to draw qi from sources outside of golden cores.”

Of course, money isn’t an issue for the Lanling Jin Sect. But it’s the main barrier between other cultivators and higher grounds, which of course means it’s a point of interest, and hang on, this is veering violently off topic, and this time, it isn’t Mo Xuanyu’s fault!

“Yufeng-Zhe,” he begs helplessly, trying his very best not to make it seem like he’s trying to run away when, in fact, he very much would like to scream into his hands for the rest of his measly existence. He shuffles his feet and tries not to writhe too much, but it proves to be exceedingly difficult when there’s a god looking at you like you put the stars in his eyes. “Yufeng-Zhe, you...you said there was a chef in your ranks! Is that, um, you?”

It’s an awful and obvious method of taking the attention of off of himself, but it works. Sect Leader Song and Xiao Xingchen exchange a look, emphasis required and fully justified.

Yufeng-Zhe peers up from the paper, leveling the most unimpressed expression Mo Xuanyu’s ever seen at Fuxing. “I can’t cook. Fuxing once put a hole through a wok.”

That’s terrifying, but it’s a skill in and of itself. Destruction and creation walk the same road, hand-in-hand, two ends of the same circle, and wow, Mo Xuanyu is really putting in one-hundred-and-one percent trying to convince himself that’s normal divine behaviour.

Slowly, nervously, Mo Xuanyu looks up at Fuxing.

“By accident,” the god tries to amend, releasing his grip on Mo Xuanyu’s hands, only to loop an arm around Mo Xuanyu shoulders, which means it’s time to wake up from this fever dream, because he’s completely and utterly lost as to what’s going on anymore. “Nobody can appreciate my taste in food, unfortunately.”

“Your taste in food is repulsive,” Yufeng-Zhe sneers.

“I’ll second that,” says Xiao Xingchen, raising his hand.

“Third,” Sect Leader Song finishes. His lips are drawn into a tight line. “My apologies, but your cooking brings literal tears to my eyes.”

“In a good way?”

“Not quite.”

With a wail of despair, Fuxing leans his weight onto Mo Xuanyu. It’s not enough to make him stumble, but it is most certainly enough to send all the blood in his tiny body rushing to his face. “How dare you! I’ll have you know I cultivated my tongue in the finest kitchens of Yunmeng!”

Yufeng-Zhe remains unimpressed. The paper—no, letter, going by how she keeps looking down and scanning line by line—crumples under her tightening grip, then folds back as she takes a deep breath. Through gritted teeth and with impressive control, she says, “Give me a moment.”

In a snap of green robes, Yufeng-Zhe walks some paces away, leaning against a tree sitting beside the pond. She studies the letter with renewed determination, effectively abandoning Mo Xuanyu again.

He kind of wants to cry. But he won’t, because that would be mortifying.

“Anyway,” Fuxing begins once more, swinging the full force of his radiant smile around, “talismans!” He gestures at the two amused Taoists. “I’m sure Sect Leader Song and Xiao Xingchen would be interested in your research, too.”

“Accessible methods of cultivation will help break the monopoly the four sects have held for the past eight years,” Xiao Xingchen explains, his words kind and his voice measured. It’s like he can tell that Mo Xuanyu is a hair away from combusting right there and then. Needless to say, it’s a gesture that is immensely appreciated.

Mo Xuanyu shuffles his feet. He wrings his hands in an attempt to wrestle the life out of his thumbs. He takes a breath, and then another one.

It can’t hurt to spill a little of his research, right? At worst, they’ll be a little disappointed. After all, he’s far beneath them, so they can’t be expecting much to begin with.

So he looks up. “I think,” he starts, coughing to clear his throat. “I think it’s more efficient and, um, more effective to draw on the natural energy from the surrounding environment instead of, um, golden cores.”

Silence. Nobody moves, nobody speaks. They all just stare at Mo Xuanyu.

Well then. The weather’s great today. Perfect for him to just descend to hell immediately.

Then, in a flash of movement too fast for Mo Xuanyu to follow, Fuxing spins him around and splits into a brilliant smile, all wonder and amazement, like he’s just caught the stars in his hands. He looks so beautiful, lips curved up in a declaration of his love for the world and all that exists within it.

Mo Xuanyu’s gut is at war with itself, dropping like a stone one moment, then flip-flopping like a dying fish the next. He blames Fuxing, he blames Yufeng-Zhe, and, as always, he blames himself.

“External cultivation! Why, I didn’t know there was someone out there who still researched such a thing!” That same pride sweeps back onto Fuxing’s face. “I’m so glad someone sees that energy is energy all the same.”

It’s all Mo Xuanyu can do to stay upright. “I didn’t—I’m only working off previously existing works.”

A blink, followed by a tilt of the head. It makes Mo Xuanyu’s heart clench. “Really? Whose works?”

Peering in Yufeng-Zhe’s direction has no effect. She’s still pouring over the letter, a little slowly, actually, now that Mo Xuanyu thinks about it. But she looks like she’s focusing her entire being on parsing through whatever characters are on that page, and it’d be disrespectful to ask for help again.

Looking at his feet, Mo Xuanyu steps back a little. “I wanted to study works that weren’t commonly known,” he says.

“Respectable,” says Fuxing, nodding.

“And I had...I had access to some works that only a select few knew existed.”

“Respectable,” repeats Fuxing, slower this time.

“And by works only a select few knew existed, I mean Sect Leader Yao and maybe a few others.”

“Huh,” says Fuxing. It sounds very strange coming from a god’s mouth, but today has been a very strange day. “So...”

Good thing Mo Xuanyu can’t possibly sink any lower, because it’s time to dig this hole straight to hell. “I read the Yiling Patriarch’s works,” he says. If he’s going to bleed, he might as well bleed out all at once. “Despite what everyone says, he knew far more about harnessing energy than anyone else, and his writings were supported by documented experiments, which makes them more reliable than the vast majority of popular works. That is, um, when his handwriting was legible, and he wasn’t, uh...” Mo Xuanyu winces. “Consumed by the paranoia and insanity that comes with manipulating resentful energy.”

The final works of the Yiling Patriarch weren’t as much writings as they were despair-driven ramblings. It was awful to see such a brilliant person descend slowly into madness over the course of three years, sinking deeper and deeper until something surely broke him. Yet there were moments of heart-wrenching lucidity, a final attempt to fix matters and make them right, that scattered as quickly as they came.

As expected, everyone turns blankly, sans Yufeng-Zhe. She does, however, peek up and glance around.

Mo Xuanyu prepares for—for something. To be hit, to be yelled at, any of those normal reactions, he’s already braced himself.

Despite everything, Fuxing rubs his temple and sighs. It’s a long, frustrated thing, directed toward himself, not Mo Xuanyu, which is very confusing. “Fair enough,” he mutters. “If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s injecting my opinion into everything I write.”

“Okay,” says Mo Xuanyu, mostly out of reflex.

The use of first person is an interesting choice. It’s...an interesting choice...

Hm. Okay. Fuxing, Sect Leader Song, and Xiao Xingchen are all looking at him like they’re waiting for something to happen.

Oh.

Well then.

Okay, okay, okay, that's nice, that's great, that's absolutely wonderful, because it makes no sense but it sort of does and today has been a very, very long day.

Mo Xuanyu gapes.

Oh, no, no, there’s no way that’s possible, the Yiling Patriarch is done and dead, torn to shreds by his own undead army, never to return to the world, but then again, esteemed cultivators can be born as gods, can’t they?

The sound that escapes from Mo Xuanyu’s lips is far from human. In fact, he feels like a corpse himself. Maybe he already is one. Frankly, it wouldn’t make much of a difference.

Sect Leader Song frowns. “I understand that you aren’t as protective of your identity anymore, but subtlety is a very useful trait.”

“It’s fine,” says Fuxing—Fuxing? Is that even his name? “A-Qing found out in, what, half a year?” With a nudge, Fuxing-not-Fuxing grins at Mo Xuanyu. It almost knocks his soul right out of his body. “Besides, we’re research partners, aren’t we?”

Research partners?

Research partners?

When was this decided? Mo Xuanyu didn’t sign any contract. He didn’t agree to this. Not that he would mind being researching partners with either the Golden God of Prosperity or the Yiling Patriarch, because both would be incredible opportunities to gather experience and oh god everything is falling to pieces, Mo Xuanyu can feel the tension in his limbs evaporating from the sheer heat of his cheeks.

“Resmuhh,” he sounds out pathetically. “Resmuhh. Resmurch. Research?”

The Yiling Fuxingiarch beams. “Partners!”

Yufeng-Zhe isn’t helping. She isn’t helping. Why isn’t she helping? Why are Sect Leader Song and Xiao Xingchen smiling? He’s dying. He’s dying here, and they’re all having a good time.

“I’m going to cry,” whispers Mo Xuanyu.

Fuxing-Yiling lets out a clap of laughter. “Well, it’s certainly better than running away screaming.”

He doesn’t need to know that Mo Xuanyu has considered doing so more than once over the course of this conversation.

A finger raised to his lips and a coy wink is enough to give Mo Xuanyu some serious emotional whiplash. “Now, I know this might be very overwhelming, but I go by Fuxing these days.”

“Uh-huh,” Mo Xuanyu agrees faintly.

“I’ll be happy to explain on the way,” Fuxing says.

“Uh-huh,” Mo Xuanyu repeats.

“You look a bit red,” Fuxing suddenly points out, worry blinking into his eyes. “Are you alright?”

“Uh-huh,” Mo Xuanyu blurts out by force of sheer panic, backpedalling as hard and as fast as he can. Like the fool he is, he trips over his own feet.

Fuxing reaches out and catches him by the arm. “Whoa there,” the god chirps, all too cheerful for the sheer pandemonium that’s parading down Mo Xuanyu’s tiny brain, “don’t hurt yourself.”

With one gentle tug, Fuxing pulls Mo Xuanyu close. He blinks, narrows his eyes, then raises a hand to Mo Xuanyu’s chin again and oh god there’s almost no space between them, is this allowed, go away, stupid blush, begone, demons—

Tilting Mo Xuanyu’s chin from side to side, Fuxing hums a single note of affirmation to himself.

“Uh,” Mo Xuanyu drolls like an idiot, feeling heat crawl rapidly up his neck. The wheels on this wagon have long since run off into the sunset.

“These are old bruises,” Fuxing says, a frown resting on his perfectly cut features.

Mo Xuanyu ducks his head down. They don’t hurt, but they’re proof how how weak he is. “I...yes.” In an attempt to salvage what little dignity he has left, Mo Xuanyu clenches his fists and tries on a smile. “Please don’t be worried. I—I’m very good at handling injuries.”

The frown on Fuxing’s face deepens. Even Sect Leader Song wears a severe expression, while Xiao Xingchen shakes his head. Mo Xuanyu tries to curl in on himself even further.

This has suddenly taken a turn he really doesn’t like. Between displeasing the Golden God of Prosperity or the Yiling Patriarch, he’d rather leap to his doom and just get things over with.

“Oh, no.”

Yufeng-Zhe’s voice cuts through the silence. She looks up from her letter, wide-eyed, glancing between Fuxing and the town gates behind them. If Mo Xuanyu isn’t crazy (which...is a long shot), she almost seems panicked.

“Quick question,” Yufeng-Zhe says. “How far are the Cloud Recesses from Mo Village?”

Finally, a question Mo Xuanyu can answer. “Not very,” he supplies. “Um, Gusu Lan Sect cultivators could probably make it in a day, I think.”

“Oh no,” repeats Yufeng-Zhe, with emphasis.

That isn’t a good sign. Fuxing frowns, which is actually sort of great, because it means his attention isn’t directed exclusively toward Mo Xuanyu anymore.

“Is there something wrong?” asks Xiao Xingchen.

Yufeng-Zhe folds the letter and slips it back into her sleeve. With shifty eyes, she says, “Uh. No.”

Needless to say, it isn’t very convincing.

Fuxing clearly isn’t buying it. With a raised brow, he crosses his arms. “Of course. Sure. What is it?”

Yufeng-Zhe shuffles her feet. Her fingers tap on the hilt of her sword. “So, you know how we’re on a pilgrimage of sorts?”

Mo Xuanyu didn’t know that. That’s interesting. He’s heard stories of how the glorious Fuxing travels across the land, rooting out evil and chaos, but he’s never heard of any pilgrimage. Maybe it’s a ritual of some kind?

“I do know that,” says Fuxing.

“We’ve been to Yunmeng and Lanling. Right?”

“I also remember that.”

“And we’re heading to Qinghe.”

“Shockingly, I also know that.”

“Well, okay, smartass,” Yufeng-Zhe snaps. Then she looks away, her lips pressed into a thin, determined line. “Kinda weird how you haven’t said anything about visiting Gusu.”

It’s strange, it’s undeniably weird, but Mo Xuanyu swears he sees Fuxing pale. “That’s not true,” the god lies.

Yufeng-Zhe snorts. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to, because Fuxing pales even more even without provocation. Something strange creeps onto his face, right there between denial and panic.

“Hang on.” Startling realization slaps Fuxing rigid. “What’s that have to do with anything?”

Tap, tap, tap. “Well,” says Yufeng-Zhe, “I mean. Hanguang-Jun said he’d be dropping by and I forgot to tell him that we were preoccupied. So.” She looks up at the sky, as if expecting someone to just drop out of the clouds. “Guess we should expect another guest. I told him our plan, but I wasn’t going to get him involved. He’d be a big help, though.”

Sect Leader Song brightens. “Ah, so we’ll finally have a chance to meet the revered Hanguang-Jun.”

“And,” says Xiao Xingchen, giving Fuxing an amused look, “we’ll have the opportunity to introduce him to Fuxing again.”

They both chuckle, having a good laugh at whatever’s going on right now. Everything’s happening so quickly, and there’s no way Mo Xuanyu’s ever catching up.

Also, everyone here apparently knows Hanguang-Jun. That’s not too surprising, given that the four before him are all legendary names in the cultivation world, but the fact that they talk about Hanguang-Jun like he’s just another friend is confounding. And why does Yufeng-Zhe have a supposed letter from him? Are they...actually, genuinely friends?

That’s—that’s an image. It’s an image, alright. What is going on?

Fuxing looks like he’s about to pass out, which is very worrying, so Mo Xuanyu does what a good person should do and presses a hand to his back in an attempt to steady him, which is a decision he instantly regrets, because wow wow wow, Fuxing is a very healthy person.

“Great!” Mo Xuanyu blurts out, desperately trying to drive the flush from his cheeks. “Um, if we’re waiting for, ah, Hanguang-Jun, then I’d like to ask, who exactly is the chef among your companions, Yufeng-Zhe?”

Yufeng-Zhe blinks. She stops tapping on her sword. “Oh, that?” For some reason, she gives Sect Leader Song and Xiao Xingchen a nervous glance. “Uh, he’s an interesting character.”

“Okay,” says Mo Xuanyu.

“I mean really interesting,” Yufeng-Zhe explains.

“Okay,” says Mo Xuanyu, more hesitant this time.

With a huff, Yufeng-Zhe swings her sword off her hip and holds it out in front of her. “He kind of has two names,” she says, still giving the two Taoists strange looks.

Mo Xuanyu stares at the sword. Now that he has the chance to get a proper look, it really doesn’t seem like a sword he’d expect a vassal of a prosperous god to carry. It’s a fairly ornate thing, its hilt adorned with a red gem and folding out like black wings. The weapon seems a bit ominous, and Mo Xuanyu doesn’t really know why.

The characters on the sheath read Jiangzai.

That’s...interesting. To bring down disaster doesn’t seem too in line with Yufeng-Zhe’s righteous ways.

Even stranger, Sect Leader Song and Xiao Xingchen’s expressions instantly darken. They eye the sword like it’s the literal embodiment of its name.

Yufeng-Zhe heaves a sigh. She grasps the hilt of the sword. “No point hiding the inevitable, I guess.”

Immediately after she speaks, Fuxing steps forward cautiously. “A-Qing, I don’t think—”

That’s a good idea, he doesn’t get to finish, because Yufeng-Zhe unsheathes Jiangzai with a resonating ring of metal on metal. The blade slips free, and Yufeng-Zhe studies it for a minute. She narrows her eyes. “Wake up, dumbass! Time to work.”

She’s talking to her sword. Mo Xuanyu wants to ask if she’s alright, but that would be incredibly insulting. Instead, he stands there and watches as something shimmers once, twice, three times, then snaps into form behind Yufeng-Zhe.

It’s...a teenager. An angry teenager. Specifically, an angry teenager who looks like he’s been rudely awoken from a pleasant nap. He yawns, and wow, those are some sharp canines.

He’s familiar, shockingly so, but it can’t be. He’s dead.

Despite his grumpy grogginess, he’s dressed in fairly ornate robes, with long sleeves cut like wings and swirling red patterns on black robes and oh god, he’s a sword spirit, isn’t he?

“What,” the sword spirit—Jiangzai—snaps. He throws one leg over the other and crosses his arms, floating petulantly in place. “Did Fuxing poison your food with—huh.”

Jiangzai cuts off when he sees Sect Leader Song and Xiao Xingchen, who in turn stare at him, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. They immediately draw their swords, which is followed by Yufeng-Zhe stepping in as if to shield Jiangzai, which leads Fuxing to step beside his disciple, which obviously makes Mo Xuanyu take a good number of steps back.

“Step back, A-Qing,” Sect Leader Song commands, leveling his blade at Jiangzai. His voice is cold and flat. “I don’t know how you’re alive, or how you returned, but—”

“That was me,” Fuxing says, as if that explains anything at all.

Xiao Xingchen shoots him an incredulous look. “You brought him back? But why?”

Yufeng-Zhe looks like she’s having the headache of her life. “It’s a long story, but I swear it makes sense.”

“It really doesn’t,” Jiangzai snorts.

“Shut the fuck up,” Yufeng-Zhe snarls.

Jiangzai clamps his mouth shut and looks away, viciously displeased, but silent nonetheless.

As if remembering that Mo Xuanyu does, in fact, exist (unfortunately), Yufeng-Zhe gestures at Jiangzai dismissively. “Just so you know, his formal name is supposed to be Jiangzai, but he still goes by Xue Yang.”

That’s a familiar name. In fact, that’s a worryingly familiar name, because Mo Xuanyu remembers crossing paths with a certain Xue Yang back at Koi Tower, and okay, this is bad, this is very bad.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” Mo Xuanyu half-shouts, the volume of his voice surprising himself.

Jiangzai—Xue Yang? Xue Yang rolls his eyes. “Yeah, haven’t heard that one before.”

Yufeng-Zhe turns and grabs hold of Xue Yang’s ear. She tugs hard, sending the sword spirit stumbling forward. “For the last goddamn time, can you stop being such an asshole, asshole?”

Xue Yang’s eyes flash dangerously, and a shiver runs down Mo Xuanyu’s spine. “Maybe if you stopped being such a fucking idiot, I would!”

Fuxing shakes his head as he watches this disaster unfold before him. He smiles fondly, which makes no sense at all. “Children are so lively.”

From what Mo Xuanyu can see, Xue Yang’s pulling on Yufeng-Zhe’s hair while Yufeng-Zhe has her hands locked around Xue Yang’s cheeks. They’re both yelling and screeching impressively barbaric profanities at each other as they kick and stumble.

Even Sect Leader Song and Xiao Xingchen appear to be at a loss for words, which is an enormous relief. Finally, someone understands.

“Is...is everything alright, Young Master?”

An unfamiliar voice just barely cuts through the yowling. When Mo Xuanyu turns, expecting a villager, he’s instead greeted by gaunt, dead eyes, grey skin, and thick, matted hair, wait a second, this is a corpse, but it’s talking and shuffling nervously, so it’s a fierce corpse, and it called Fuxing ‘Young Master’, so that means—

“It’s the Ghost General,” Mo Xuanyu rasps, abandoning the shreds of his dignity in favour of preserving his life. He stumbles behind Fuxing, reeling from all these people stumbling into his life, and please, please, someone explain what in the world is going on.

Fuxing peers back at Mo Xuanyu with a grin. Then he turns to the Ghost General. “It seems like you still have quite a reputation.”

“It’s always been like that, Young Master,” the Ghost General says miserably. He wrings his hands together, and in the darkest corners of Mo Xuanyu’s mind, something tells him it’s actually kind of endearing.

Yufeng-Zhe stumbles over, her hair a complete mess. She smiles at the Ghost General, giving him a smack on the arm. “It’s been a while, Wen Ning! How’ve you been? How’s Wen Qing-Jie?”

The Ghost General smiles back shyly. “Um, I’ve been alright. And—”

“I’ve been fine, too,” says the now fully corporeal ghost beside the Ghost General, dressed in flame-licked robes that can only belong to one decimated sect. She crosses her arms and studies the situation with a faint irritation or pride that never seems to leave her expression. “Why are we travelling as such a large group? Don’t you understand what subtlety is?”

“No,” Fuxing chirps cheerfully. “Besides, isn’t it fun? We’re all here now!”

Oh, they’re all here, alright. Everyone’s here, and Mo Xuanyu hasn’t got a single clue as to what’s happening. Everyone knows each other, and then there’s him, a failure of a person in every respect.

While he attempts to confine his meltdown to a mental one, the ghost—what was her name? Wen Qing? Right, Wen Qing, the renowned medical cultivator known for her pioneering ways, no big deal, no big deal at all—engages in a heated conversation with Fuxing. They chat comfortably despite wearing drastically different expressions.

Meanwhile, Yufeng-Zhe has made her way over to Sect Leader Song and Xiao Xingchen, gesturing wildly as she undoubtedly explains what’s going on with her sword spirit in hushed tones.

That leaves, of course, Xue Yang, the Ghost General, and Mo Xuanyu. They somehow end up standing awkwardly beside each other, some fidgeting more than others.

His heart is pounding out of his chest, but Mo Xuanyu takes a deep breath and tries to smile. He bows, praying that he’ll at least be able to greet someone here normally. “Um, hello. I’m Mo Xuanyu. I’ll...be travelling with you from now on.”

The Ghost General bows back. For some reason, he seems just as nervous as Mo Xuanyu. “I’m Wen Ning. It’s very nice to meet you.”

As they both rise, they exchange a look. It’s a look of camaraderie, unity in social incompetence, and Mo Xuanyu has never felt more relieved. He almost feels like crying.

Xue Yang watches their interaction with faint interest. There’s something odd about the way he looks at Mo Xuanyu, and that isn’t a good thing.

Then he smiles, his canines jutting out to his lip, and Mo Xuanyu feels something in his stomach drop. “Well, well, well. It’s certainly been a while, Mo Xuanyu.”

It really has been a while. The last time they met, their robes were gold and their futures were bright. It’s strange, to remember the days in which they’d sit at the same table, strewn over works lost to the world, denying the fates they’d been given.

In the end, things didn’t work out for either of them.

Slinging an arm casually over Mo Xuanyu’s shoulders, Xue Yang chuckles. It sounds different; a little lighter, less crazed, more...genuine. “Looks like you’ve been doing some research on your own,” he says lightly. “That’s nice, very nice. Between a god that never shuts up and a whining baby—”

“I heard that, asshole!”

“At least one of us is normal,” Xue Yang continues, ignoring Yufeng-Zhe’s cry. He makes a very rude gesture in her direction, which is returned with twice the rage.

Mo Xuanyu looks up at Wen Ning. “But Wen Ning seems very nice,” he says.

If corpses could blush, Wen Ning would probably be red to his ears. Instead, he makes a strangled noise and brings his hands to his chest.

Xue Yang sighs. “I mean, he’s a literal corpse, but compared to the psychos over there, he’s perfectly normal. Too bad he doesn’t travel with us.”

That’s very worrying for two reasons: first, the fact that Xue Yang has excluded himself from said psychos, which, if Mo Xuanyu remembers the rumours correctly, isn’t entirely accurate, and second, the fact that the Ghost General is just galavanting across the land, doing god knows what.

But Wen Ning doesn’t seem like the type to cause destruction. Um, excluding what he did eight years ago. That...that was kind of bad.

“You’ll be stuck with us,” Xue Yang says. “If you think it’s bad now, just wait until Fuxing tries to feed you his death sludge. And A-Qing never stops yapping, either, so brace yourself.”

Despite the disdain in his voice, there’s something about the curl of his lips that speaks what he won’t say. So Mo Xuanyu simply nods.

From there, the conversation actually picks up a little. Xue Yang is a lot less, um, unhinged than before, which is nice. Wen Ning proves to be very kind and very passionate about archery, which Mo Xuanyu knows little about, but it’s fun to talk anyway. Stranger still, Xue Yang goes off on a tangent about cooking, which turns into an impromptu lecture of sorts. His knowledge of knives is worrying, and a name occasionally stutters on his tongue fearfully—Mie Yu or something of the sort—but it’s nice to see Xue Yang genuinely interested in something that isn’t. You know. Murderous.

Being in the company of people who treat you as an equal is nice. A little foreign, but undeniably nice.

Among them all, Wen Ning that hears it first.

In the middle of a sentence, he looks around nervously, glancing to the sky. “Um,” he says, “I think—I think we should be expecting someone soon.”

Mo Xuanyu looks up as well. “Oh. It’s Hanguang-Jun, isn’t it?”

“Oh, it’s Hanguang-Jun, alright,” Xue Yang confirms, his lips pulled into a devious smile. “Just sit back and watch the show. It’s going to be great.”

Before Mo Xuanyu can ask why it’s going to be great, a wave of white in the corner of his eye catches his attention.

It’s only right that he who seeks chaos should seek them out.

Every single cultivators knows Hanguang-Jun. He’s the pinnacle of etiquette, a cultivator with skills beyond compare; the Gusu Lan Sect’s perfect disciple, as beautiful as the reflection of the moon on still waters, as noble as the light he bears on his shoulders, righteous and infallible.

It’s good that Mo Xuanyu’s already confused to death and back, otherwise he’d be stuttering and stumbling over this new arrival.

Mo Xuanyu’s already bowing when Hanguang-Jun descends from his sword. Wen Ning’s the only one who bows alongside him. Everyone else seems to be very comfortable with this new, cold presence, and it only makes Mo Xuanyu even more grateful to have someone who understands him.

Yufeng-Zhe beams as Hanguang-Jun sheaths his sword. “It’s nice to finally see you again, Hanguang-Jun!” She laughs sheepishly. “Sorry for the confusion. I completely forgot to write back.”

The revered Hanguang-Jun’s response is a single sound: “Mn.”

“You kind of came at a weird time,” Yufeng-Zhe continues, gesturing to the crowd of people before them. “We’re actually all planning to head to Qinghe together. You know. For reasons.”

“The reasons you disclosed in your letters,” Hanguang-Jun says.

“That’s right.” Yufeng-Zhe’s brows knit. “You didn’t tell Zewu-Jun, did you?”

“I did not.”

“Oh, good.” Yufeng-Zhe sighs a breath of relief. The fact that she needs to be relieved is slightly alarming. “It’s better if we figure things out first. Then we can tell him.” A short pause is all that’s needed for her to spin around and put a smile back on her face. “Anyway, I’m sure everyone’s happy to meet you!”

Just like that, Yufeng-Zhe begins leading Hanguang-Jun around, introducing everyone eagerly. Hanguang-Jun wears the same expression no matter who he’s talking to, and Mo Xuanyu can’t bring himself to look into those gold eyes, so it’s difficult to tell what exactly Hanguang-Jun thinks of...all this.

Curiously, Fuxing slips away as soon as Yufeng-Zhe mediates a conversation with Wen Qing. The god more or less flees to Wen Ning in what appears to be an attempt to hide behind someone shorter than him. It’s not very effective, and Wen Qing gives him a withering glare before turning back to Hanguang-Jun.

“Um, Young Master,” Wen Ning begins.

“Do not,” Fuxing whisper-shouts, eyes blown wide. He peers desperately at Mo Xuanyu and Xue Yang, which isn’t a good idea at all, because they won’t be able to answer his questions. “What am I supposed to do? That’s Lan Wangji!” Gesturing helplessly at Hanguang-Jun, the god makes a noise between a whine and groan. “I was so awful to him. If I could go back and punch myself, I would do it in a heartbeat.”

Is this about his disputes with Hanguang-Jun back when he was the Yiling Patriarch? That would make sense, to a degree. But there’s something about the way Fuxing looks at Hanguang-Jun that’s more complicated than it appears, that speaks of hidden depths.

(Mo Xuanyu knows that look. He’s seen it in the mirror too many times. Regret is easy to spot. It’s an obvious look on anyone.

But then—

Could it be—

Is that—is that yearning?)

Xue Yang looks at his nails casually. “He’s here now, and this time, there’s no escaping him.” Sweetly, almost sadistically, he sing-songs, “What a troublesome situation.”

Fuxing releases the world’s longest, deepest sigh into his hands.

But neither Hanguang-Jun nor Fuxing seem like they hold any particular animosity toward each other; if anything, it seems as if the latter is dying to talk to the former, but for some reason, he can’t, he doesn’t want to, and that’s a little confusing, because Hanguang-Jun keeps peering over out of the corner of his eye, it really isn’t all that subtle, and—

Oh.

Ohhhh.

At this point, Mo Xuanyu thinks he’s starting to understand a little more.

Yes, he’s entirely useless as a cultivator, and yes, he has a tendency to panic, but at the very least, he can tell unrequited love from mutual pining.

That isn’t to say he knows anything about love. Love is dangerous; it’s a tool and a weapon, but before that, it’s an emotion, something born of fate and destiny and something far beyond mortal understanding. It hurts as much as it comforts, and when it hurts, it’s the most unbearable pain. But Mo Xuanyu isn’t about to make any decisions for others.

“Um,” he starts. Fuxing peeks at him, and Mo Xuanyu wrings his hands. “If...if you want to talk to Hanguang-Jun, I’m sure he’d listen. He seems like someone who’s very good at listening.”

Xue Yang grins, baring his teeth. “Well, well. Even the new kid gets it.” When Fuxing glares at him, he shrugs. “You do this every time. Oh, help me, I don’t know how to talk to him, boo hoo. You keep digging for a solution, but it’s so easy! Just go over there and say, Hello, Hanguang-Jun, could I please sit on your di—”

“Do not finish that sentence.”

“Your loss.” With a yawn, Xue Yang stretches, his robes falling down to reveal arms covered in bandages. He doesn’t seem bothered by them, though, so maybe they’re just, um, an aesthetic choice? “I’m bored. I’ll be in a tree somewhere. Don’t wake me up again.”

In the blink of an eye, Xue Yang’s form vanishes, leaving empty space where he stood.

Mo Xuanyu stares for a moment. “Um,” he tries. He trails off when Fuxing sighs again.

“Young Master, you should just get it off your chest,” Wen Ning suggests, though the steel in his voice implies it isn’t much of a suggestion at all. “You both deserve better than this.”

Fuxing is silent.

It doesn’t seem like Wen Ning’s going to say any more, so to drive the point home, Mo Xuanyu takes a deep breath, braces himself, and says, “If you keep putting it off and saying you’ll try again next time, you’ll never get to that next time. And if you part ways here, there’s no guarantee you’ll ever see each other again.”

An awful, awful expression twists Fuxing’s features into something painful, and Mo Xuanyu knows he’s hit where it hurts.

He immediately feels terrible. He’s pushed too hard. He has no right to tell anyone to do anything, and he especially has no right to tell a god how to handle his very complicated relationships that overlap with a life he isn’t living anymore.

“Only if you want to,” Mo Xuanyu adds pathetically. “I don’t—I don’t mean to imply anything.”

“No, I understand.” Fuxing raises his head, smooths out his robes, and levels his clear, star-filled gaze at Mo Xuanyu. “I suppose trying and failing is better than never having tried at all.”

Wen Ning nods along eagerly. Mo Xuanyu wrings his hands.

With one final sigh, the god brushes his hair out of his face and runs his hands down the braids by his face. He clears his throat, adjusts his weimao, oh, he’s checking his appearance, isn’t he?

It’s oddly endearing, and Mo Xuanyu finds himself biting back a smile. “Your sash is a little crooked,” he says.

Fuxing looks down. “Oh! Thank you.” He fiddles with it a little, and the resonating notes of the crystal bell ring far. Then, with such unbridled confidence and certainty that Mo Xuanyu feels that the sky would rend if the god told it to, Fuxing declares, “Things will be different this time.”

It’s unclear who he’s talking to. Himself, Hanguang-Jun, the world—it doesn’t matter. What matters is that Fuxing closes his eyes, opens them, and walks toward Hanguang-Jun with his head held high.

As if thinking the same thoughts, everyone immediately begins to slowly move away. They all carry the same weight of knowledge in their eyes, and for once, Mo Xuanyu feels like he knows what’s going on.

“I suppose we should go see what Yufeng-Zhe’s up to,” says Mo Xuanyu.

Wen Ning nods. “We should prepare for the journey to come.”

In the span of a single morning, Mo Xuanyu’s entire world has been flipped, shaken, and shattered. In this one morning, he’s lived more than he has for the past six years.

It’s okay. It’s alright. He has a long road ahead of him, and maybe, just maybe, he can help those he’s walking with. This journey isn’t about revealing Jin Guangyao’s crimes to the world; it’s about fixing things that have been broken. Sometimes, that means fixing yourself.

There’s no guessing what tomorrow has in store, but Mo Xuanyu’s alright with that. What’s important is that he’s overcome yesterday, and today, he’s alive.

And this time, he’ll be living.

Once, when Lan Wangji was young, he saw a bolt of lighting in broad daylight.

A fleeting flash of light tumbled like whirling silver across the deep blue sky of the Cloud Recesses. In that short, ephemeral moment, his breath was stolen, taken away by something that captured it utterly and entirely, even though that radiance was soon followed by heavy and violent rain.

(In that final parting, met with an exhausted smile and eyes weary of the world and everything in it, there was nothing Lan Wangji could say.

His hair, as he turned his back, caught the sunlight for an instant.

Then, ultimately, that light would bring on a storm.)

Wei Wuxian used to be so lonely.

His pride was just as radiant as his smile; golden and precious, not just another facet of his character, but everything he was, given freely, generously, without a single care for what he was losing. He gave himself to everyone.

He bled for all those he loved. He tore his heart to pieces until his smile cracked and shattered into something biting and bitter, until his pride mingled with madness, despair, and finally, at the end of all things—acceptance.

This world is not kind to those who have too much kindness to give.

The road he walked was a lonely one. He fell alone, and he faced his end alone. Even when he returned, dressed in divine garments, carrying stars in his eyes and miracles between his fingers, he continued to bear the weight of the world alone.

And yet, despite it all, Wei Wuxian is at peace.

He does not stand alone in his pride. Beside him are disciples, vassals, friends. They have been wronged, they have done wrong, and yet they understand one another. Wei Wuxian sees beauty in them. Wei Wuxian sees something worth saving in them, and he has finally seen something worth saving within himself.

When Wei Wuxian smiles, it is different. It is not the same smile he wore so often when they were young and naive. And it is not the same smile he wielded against the world. It is something new, born of the duty and freedom this new life has offered him.

In this life, Wei Wuxian has left spaces for others to fill. He has given meaning to others, just as they have given meaning to him. He lives for the world because he sees so much beauty in it.

Wei Wuxian used to be so lonely. Now, he is no longer lonely. He is in love the world. The world finally loves him in return.

Wei Wuxian is here. He is alive. He is happy.

There is not much more Lan Wangji can wish for.

(If the world will allow it—)

(If you will allow it—)

(Wei Ying, I—)

(Will you let me walk by your side?)

“Lan Zhan! It’s been a while since we last talked, hasn’t it?”

Chapter Text

It’s quite easy to be a god. At least, that’s what Wei Wuxian concludes.

He has a duty to the world, yes, but it’s so simple.

Help them. Save them. Pay back your debt.

Why would kindness ever be a mission? Don’t people wake up and realize, I’m alive and I would like to be alive tomorrow, all while the sun rises and sets with each passing day?

It’s strange. But Wei Wuxian keeps his promises.

He walks, he runs, he spreads his arms out and laughs under the warmth of the sun. He greets humans with a smile and listens to their stories and their struggles. He mends wounds, he grants fortune, and he moves on, all without saying goodbye.

Goodbye is a phrase reserved for those who’ll greet you with welcome back when you return. There’s no guarantee that anyone will remember him. It’s better that way. Let the people of this world see hope in his miracles and find the strength to face tomorrow by themselves.

Around him, seasons pass. He feels as stifling humidity turns to cold winds. It’s new. It isn’t.

“My name is Fuxing,” he tells every human he meets, bringing a finger to his smiling lips. “Hush, now. There’s no need to cry. I’m here.”

Again, and again, and again. Over and over.

No matter how long he walks, there is always someone who cries out to be saved, for others to be saved, to be freed. Wei Wuxian walks onward.

They stare at him in awe, in fear. Something ugly inside him twists, snaps, and is born anew. He doesn’t want their reverence. He doesn’t ever want it again.

Don’t look at me with those eyes, he wants to say. How dare you do this to me, he wants to scream. Why was it only me, he wants to ask.

He wants, he wants, he wants. For the first time since being born, Wei Wuxian wants to reject something that he’s been given.

Is it selfish?

It doesn’t matter. He keeps walking.

They tell him he has stars in his eyes. He knows. They tell him he looks like a demon. He knows.

They ask him to find the seed of chaos and destroy it. He does. They call him justice even when he returns with blood on his hands. He smiles. He calls himself a god and finds himself wavering.

I didn’t want this, something inside him cries. Don’t give me this life and force me to pay for sins I died for!

When he washes his hands clean in rivers that will never be as warm as he remembers them to be, another reflection stares back. That someone reaches out, skin pale as death, eyes red as blood, speaking words Wei Wuxian can’t say. He wraps his fingers around Wei Wuxian’s throat, squeezing tighter and tighter, and he laughs. It’s an awful, despairing thing, and it hurts, why does it hurt so much—

What do you want from me?

Haven’t I killed enough?

What difference does it make?

Why is it only me?

Why, why, why—

Wei Wuxian never hears the end of it. His strings tear the reflection apart until only stars stare back, swirling endlessly into the silent future.

There are many questions he doesn’t know how to answer. The unknown doesn’t scare him, but the man in the reflection does.

(Because the man in the reflection is someone he knows, and that makes it all the more terrifying.)

Despite it all, weaving miracles feels good. It fills him with a sense of warmth that lingers in his stomach and chest, sitting like a precious stone. He feels full even when he is empty, and it’s a precious feeling.

In smaller towns and villages, where determination and perseverance play larger roles than prayers ever will, the townsfolk laugh as they pull him into restaurants and push drinks his way.

“You’ve done us a favour,” they say. “We won’t forget it. There’s not much we can offer to a god, but if you ever find yourself in hard times, we’ll be there.”

“With good food!”

“And good drinks!”

They laugh, teasing Wei Wuxian with light in their eyes and a skip in their steps, comfortable even in the presence of his divine aura. They treat him as one of their own, and it is on nights like those where he remembers exactly why he’s alive.

Look at the world and all that exists within it. Isn’t it amazing?

The world is a vast place with so many people feeling so many emotions, and Wei Wuxian finds himself eager to see more, to discover more, to turn the tides of fortune for those who have lost their way in that endless, stormy sea.

In the back of his mind, something asks, how can you move forward, even after it all?

He doesn’t understand. He answers anyway.

“I don’t need a reason to keep walking,” he says to himself. To someone else. “As long as the path exists, I’ll take it.”

Journeying alone is jaring, but surprisingly, it doesn’t bother him as much as it should. He feels right walking alone, moving across a life so many others are living. When his robes tear, he mends them by himself. When he stops to eat, he rests by the fire by himself. When the weariness of travel tempts him with sleep, he drifts off by himself.

This is how it should be, he tells himself. In rain, in heat, in darkness, he walks on alone.

But the silence is almost unbearable.

(Without the souls to guide him, the pain in his heart grows, festers, digs its claws into something that hurts, it hurts, no, stop it—

In the darkest of nights, when the weight of a life he can’t remember wraps its cold fingers around his throat and laughs, mocking him for all he is, cursing him for all he isn’t, he raises his voice and sings to the heavens, desperately searching for air he can’t find. He sings, even as he chokes on breaths that won’t come and claws at an ache that won’t fade. He cries, scared out of his mind, terrified for himself, for those he loves, for the world around him.

I’ll be better, please don’t go, come back, I was wrong, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.)

Well, it’s alright. Who doesn’t have bad nights?

It’s not that Wei Wuxian’s running away from what’s chasing him. What could possibly be chasing him? Let it come find him if it wants. He has cut down more monsters than he can count, and whatever evil whispers in his ears and haunts his dreams is just one more. When the time comes, he will cut it down, purge it from this world forever, and that’ll be the end of it.

He does, however, learn to ignore the voices. They are distracting. It’s not his fault.

Wei Wuxian moves through life, and life moves through him. He has bad nights, yes, and he hears whispers in the dark, but there is much more to life than the remnants of something that no longer exists.

One day, he decides that he has had enough of these flame-licked robes. They keep tearing, and it really is a hassle to keep repairing them. He could see if any merchant or tailor would be willing to take them, but he can’t quite bring himself to part with them.

Instead, he spends three days and three nights stitching golden thread into robes that smell of old blood. He purges, purges, and purges away the shadows that cling to the garments, tracing peonies in their place.

Gods need to look presentable, and Wei Wuxian certainly doesn’t want to give anyone the wrong idea. With the remaining strings, he weaves a long veil of gold and pins it to a weimao.

The vendor he purchases the weimao from, a middle-aged woman with a glint in her eye, grins as she watches him methodically fix the veil. “You trying to look like those fancy cultivators?”

“Like a god, actually,” he mutters. He hisses as he stabs himself with another pin. For a god who weaves the strings of fate so easily, his hands are certainly awful with a needle and thread.

The woman’s brows raise, but her smile is as sharp as can be. “Well then. Does this god mind telling this undeserving servant why he’s travelling north?”

Wei Wuxian blinks. Why? There’s no why. There just is. “I seek out chaos and I grant humans the power to destroy it. Sometimes I do it myself. I’m just—” He gestures dismissively at himself. There’s no use explaining his lack of reason, so instead, he says, “I’m just following the river, really.”

The woman sighs. “Well, you’re bound to find work up there.”

“Work?”

“You haven’t heard?” Surprise lights up her eyes, and she blinks back. It’s a reaction Wei Wuxian has seen hundreds of times by now. He barely knows anything about the world, and it’s a little shameful. Oh well. It can’t be helped.

Wei Wuxian simply shrugs. He sets the weimao down on his head, tugs on the veil for good measure, and sighs in relief when it stays. “I suppose you could say I’m a bit new to these parts.”

“No kidding,” says the woman. “I thought everyone knew about how Lotus Pier burnt to the ground a few years back.”

Something inside Wei Wuxian stutters, but only for a moment. It hurts, but only for a moment. “Lotus... Pier?”

The woman gives him a strange look, but continues nonetheless. “That’s right. You know, the Yunmeng Jiang Sect’s little haven?” She hesitates. “Not that it’s so pretty right now. Give it a few years, and maybe it’ll be somewhere close to what it was like before. But the folks there are still putting up the bare bones.”

“I know, but hang on,” Wei Wuxian interrupts. His mind is half-reeling in half-confusion, half-understanding, and his head pounds. “You said there was trouble. Aren’t they just building? How much trouble could there be?”

A solemn expression makes its way onto the woman’s face. She throws a glance at the vendor beside her, who shakes his head. Even the not-so-subtle eavesdroppers sigh, which is a testament to just how things are going in Lotus Pier. “Retaking something is easy,” the woman says. “Rebuilding is a different story entirely, especially when the blood of everyone you’ve ever known is still stained onto the dirt under your feet.”

Wei Wuxian’s breath hitches. His heart aches, but it’s something fleeting, something that’s already passed. He’s fine. It’s fine.

“Thank the gods for Sect Leader Jiang,” the woman says, pride in her eyes. “Nobody knew what that young, haughty Jiang Wanyin would do, but we’d be much worse off without him.”

Oh. Yes, that’s the same Jiang Wanyin who led the charge against the Yiling Patriarch at the Burial Mounds.

(It’s the same name that cuts Wei Wuxian’s breaths short and throws him to the ground, asking, Have you had enough? Aren’t you satisfied yet? How much more do you need to take before you realize what you’ve done?

It’s fine. It’s just another one of the whispers. If there’s something Wei Wuxian has learned over the past year of wandering, it’s how to bury the dead.)

“He seems like a noble person,” Wei Wuxian says, something sharp and bitter on his tongue. It cuts at his lips and drips down his throat like poison. He feels empty; he feels full. He swallows down the poison and smiles. “Do you think this Jiang Wanyin would be particularly upset if a god strolled into his city?”

The woman laughs. “Only if you lounge around.” In one smooth movement, she rolls up her sleeve, revealing a surprisingly well-toned arm that really is quite impressive for a civilian.

Wei Wuxian’s brows shoot up. The woman clearly catches it, because she laughs again.

“We earn our keep in Yunmeng,” she declares, her chin lifted up high. “If you want to eat, work. The folks in Lotus Pier aren’t waiting for someone to magically put their homes back together. They’re building the city up with their own hands, plank by plank, tile by tile.”

Of course. It’s just like the people of Yunmeng to push on through the ruins, adamantly digging through the wreckage to piece together what they love. Perhaps it stems from how their very home tests their resilience, with flooding rivers, the oppressive heat of summer, and a bloodstained legacy; perhaps they’re just stronger than Wei Wuxian can ever understand.

Wei Wuxian spreads his hands. Golden strings materialize between his fingertips, and he plays with them casually, all while wearing a smile. “Well,” he says. “I suppose I’ll just have to prove that I can work as hard as the rest of them, won’t I?”

“Who knows?” The woman gives a dramatic shrug, glancing at the dancing strings. “That Jiang Wanyin has always been a fickle one, though I hardly believe he’d reject the favour of a god like yourself.”

If only you knew, something inside Wei Wuxian says. He doesn’t acknowledge it. There’s no place for it.

Instead, he brings his hands together, reaching out to drag the stars down and shape them into his whim and will. The first few notes of a lullaby no one sings to him anymore resonate through the still air; his words may carry what lingers from the past, but his voice calls to the great beyond, and even further beyond.

Listen, he hums. If there truly is any meaning to this warped, strange world, give me the strength to change it.

Within his calloused hands, a single golden orchid blooms. Its petals curl outward, as if breathing for the very first time. It’s alive, it’s here, yet its radiance is of something divine.

For a moment, Wei Wuxian’s breath is stolen away by this tiny, meaningless flower. It shivers even in the warmth of his palms, and it means everything. It means nothing.

He’s never—he’s never been able to create life.

Within his small, careless hands, something has been born.

Wei Wuxian is—

It doesn’t matter.

So he snatches the flower up by the stem. “Kind maiden,” he says, holding the orchid out toward the woman, “your advice is much appreciated. Would you do this god one more favour and accept this gift?”

The woman grins. She accepts the flower, brushing her fingertips over the golden petals. “If that’s what your divine lordship commands, I couldn’t possible refuse.”

Life is given. Life is taken. Wei Wuxian is alive.

“Now, how far north is Lotus Pier?”

“Not far,” the woman answers. After a moment of contemplation, she tucks the flower in her hair. The faint glow colours her hair with a gold sheen. It waves with the wind as the woman points to the gate down the path. “Follow the road out of town for a day or so, and you should reach a pier. Take a boat, and you’ll be at Lotus Pier in a bit.”

That’s good.

(Home is never far away.)

The crowd surrounding them has grown noticeably since the start of their conversation. Wei Wuxian brings the brightest smile to his lips as he turns and makes his way north. Those around him part with ease, staring at him like he put the stars in the sky instead of dragging them down from the heavens.

Just once, he looks back, and the woman waves.

“You’d better make Lotus Pier into the finest city anyone’s ever going to see!” she shouts. “And get that young Jiang Wanyin to take a break for once. Come down here again with him, and we’ll show you how we normal folks celebrate!”

It’s like breaking through ice and falling into the cold waters that churn beneath. The woman’s proud voice spreads the idea of a god and a sect leader travelling to this town for a day trip into the minds of the entire crowd, and soon enough, they’re all calling after Wei Wuxian, urging him to return soon.

Humans. Aren’t they interesting? Aren’t they just so utterly full of life? Isn’t it fascinating, how a single emotion can spread like wildfire among them?

Something in him aches. He feels at peace, and that scares him.

His steps fall faster, and soon enough, yet another town is behind him. The sky has long since darkened, pulling the veil of night over the shoulders of another weary day. Above him, the stars clamber out and begin to sing a silent hymn, ushering all those who travel by the light of the moon to rest quickly, to sleep well, for all that is done in the lonely depths of night can be left for tomorrow.

Wei Wuxian doesn’t care for tomorrow. He has always travelled for today. Those that call to him have waited for long enough.

This time, though, things are different. This time, he has a destination.

Somewhere in that unknown future, Lotus Pier awaits him.

(Will I be welcome back?

Ha.

Never mind. Don’t bother answering that question.)

It turns out that, in the middle of the night, there are no boats at the pier.

Wei Wuxian has never been fond of planning things out. He is, however, very fond of doing whatever comes to him in the heat of the moment, which is an excellent skill, and not an excuse for his poor self-control and lack of self-preservation.

The river flows gently before him. It sways and ripples, dancing to the beat of the earth and the thrum of the world. Underneath the moonlight, the water beckons gently, setting out a path of luminous silver that shifts with each heartbeat.

It’s not that Wei Wuxian minds getting wet. In fact, he welcomes the thought of diving into a river for the sake of simply being one with the current. He’s comfortable in water; he knows it, he doesn’t own it, but by no means is he a bad swimmer.

The problem lies in the fact that Wei Wuxian only has one set of robes, and said robes are currently being worn on his person.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t have the patience to wait until morning comes or until someone arrives with a boat.

For a moment, he glares at the water, as if he has the ability to coerce it into shaping a path beneath his feet and—hmm. That isn’t such an awful idea, now is it?

Wei Wuxian is a god. A god of prosperity, not a god of rivers or water or anything of the sort, but he has the very unique talent of bending fate to his will. That, and he thinks it would incredibly special to be able to walk on water. Then nobody would mistake him for someone he isn’t.

Well, it can’t hurt to try.

“Excuse me,” says Wei Wuxian, bowing his head to the slow-moving current before him. “It looks like we’ll be travelling together for a little while.”

The water is silent. Strangely so, actually; it’s like the current has frozen in place before him. It waits, and waits, until Wei Wuxian blinks and someone arrives.

He looks into the water and sees the stranger. It seems their images are always intertwined.

Wei Wuxian sighs. Kneeling down to to meet the water, he raises a brow and tilts his head downward. “You again,” he says to the stranger. “Following me again, are you?”

The stranger is silent.

“Well, don’t try anything foolish,” Wei Wuxian warns, lowering one foot to the surface of the water. His touch sends golden ripples cascading through the wide river, echoing deep into the night with the notes of his song. “One false move and the people of Lotus Pier will think a well-dressed water ghoul has decided to take a trip to their lovely town.”

Once, twice, three times. The stranger blinks slowly, methodically, his gaze speaking of sorrow Wei Wuxian doesn’t want to understand. Then, like the lights of the town behind them, he flickers, wavers, and disappears.

Ha. Who’s the one running away now?

Once, twice, three times. Wei Wuxian places one foot in front of the other, watching the ripples of his steps light the path before him. The souls by his side may have moved on, having found brighter places to be than with a god who knows nothing of their pain, but there will always be something to guide the way.

Once, twice, three times. His walks forward, beckoning for the sun to rise.

(You don’t need to greet me with welcome back.

I know I’m not welcome.

I broke one promise. I won’t break the other.

Even if I die, even though I’ve died, even after death—

I will try

to protect

what is closest to me

even if

I have long since

lost them.)

“Um,” says the hostess, trying very hard not to wring her hands.

“I know,” says Wei Wuxian.

“You’re,” the hostess starts. She gestures helplessly, and her features twist half in despair, half in confusion. “You seem to be. Um. Dripping, sir.”

Wei Wuxian sighs. “I’m aware,” he says, monotonous in the very definition of the word. He feels like he just drowned, died, came back, and immediately tripped in the nearest river to die all over again. Dying once was plenty; he isn’t eager to rush toward it again. “If you don’t mind, could I please get a room?”

The hostess almost trips over herself showing Wei Wuxian to his room. She fidgets like she’s afraid that Wei Wuxian will pull out a sword and run her through, which would be a bit insulting in any other situation. Unfortunately, he did just have a very dramatic and very loud run-in with the local water ghoul population, in which he most likely attracted and destroyed every water-residing monster in the entire region.

In hindsight, he could have been a little bit more subtle. Eight golden swords and tens of thousands of golden strings make for quite a spectacle, even for a lively pier town. Unfortunately, he recalled a little too late that water ghouls love to summon torrents of water and spit them at the faces of their prey in attempts to blind them, which is wonderful, a real riot, especially when Wei Wuxian has a one pair of robes and an empty stomach.

Needless to say, he isn’t in a great mood. When he tries to smile at the hostess, she acts like he’s just unhinged his jaw and eaten someone alive. When he abandons the smile, she looks as if her soul has just departed from her body. It doesn’t take her long to escort herself out of the room, though it’s more accurate to say that she flees as quickly as possible.

That’s quite rude. Wei Wuxian is a perfectly charming man with many redeeming qualities. For example, he’s a god, and he can materialize gold from nothing. Status and wealth: the two most treasured qualities of any human.

He laughs to an empty room, pulling his weimao off his head.

Who is he kidding? He’s never cared about status or wealth, and he doesn’t expect to ever begin caring.

It takes him a while to pull his outer robes off. Once he finishes wrestling with his clothes, he hangs them up near the window with his veil. Then he stands there in dripping white robes, feeling that his luck has been remarkably dismal recently, which is a grave injustice, given the fact that he’s supposedly a god of prosperity and all.

Wei Wuxian sighs. “A fitting welcome back, I suppose.”

There’s not much to do. He ties his hair into a loose ponytail and slings it over one shoulder, wringing out the wet mass out on the balcony. Surely he isn’t the first guest they’ve had who looks like he waged war with the entire river and lost. In fact, he sure he can’t be, given that Lotus Pier is a major hub in the cultivation world, and only the heavens know what those cultivators get up to.

Below him, the streets bustle with the rush of a world waking up to a new morning. The musk of night has been overtaken by the smell of shopkeepers readying food to fill the bellies of their patrons. Perhaps it’s due to the ongoing construction, but these people always seem to be in motion, seeking out the next task, and then the next, and when their hands are finally empty and sweat dots their brows, they turn to their neighbours and ask how they can help.

This energy had been silenced once, Wei Wuxian recalls. Under skies painted red with a sun that refused to set, this place fell as the people who made their homes here fell, leaving only the crackle of flames to fill the void.

It’s strange. Isn’t it strange? All those who rush through these streets can be called the children of Lotus Pier, even if that childhood has been swallowed by the relentless appetite of time. Their home was ripped away from them once; they refuse to let it happen again. So they work diligently, persistently, to ensure they never lose it again.

As the townsfolk pass by beneath him, they look up, pale, and speed away. It’s a reaction Wei Wuxian is intimately familiar with, which is exactly why he takes his weimao everywhere he goes. Really, though; even if he looks like an infamous villain, don’t these people realize there’s no way someone so vile is ever coming back?

(He wouldn’t want to come back. He doesn’t want to come back. He didn’t want to come back.

And yet—)

“Young Master!”

An unfamiliar voice catches Wei Wuxian’s attention. He peers down to the streets and finds himself blinking at an old woman with an odd glint in her eye.

“You look like you’ve had a rough day,” she says, her lips raising into a grin. There’s a lilt in her crackling voice, like water cascading over rocks, and it makes something in Wei Wuxian ache. Raising one of her many baskets of loquats, she levels her grey gaze at him. “How about you give my loquats a try?”

(Why not cool down with a loquat, Young Master?)

(For you, they’re free! Bring those friends of yours next time!)

(You’ll always be welcome here.)

The stranger stands beside him, arms folded over the railing, something so melancholic and yearning and sad on his pale face that, for a moment, Wei Wuxian believes he is actually there. He turns, eyes an empty red, and parts his lips.

I lost my place here a long time ago.

Wei Wuxian blinks, and the stranger is gone. Perhaps he was never there to begin with.

Ah, it hurts. That ache is back, and it pounds against his ribcage, demanding release. His chest feels tight and he feels nauseous. There’s a heat on his skin, not from within, but rather from without, as if the warmth of summer has made a home with him. In the end, though, it’s only pain.

With a smile, something brilliant and younger than he’ll ever be again, he waves to the elderly woman. “That’s very kind of you,” he says pleasantly. “Then, if you’ll excuse me.”

A wave of the hand and eight softly hummed notes is all it takes for golden strings to weave themselves into existence, wrapping around a few loquats and tossing them upward. Wei Wuxian catches them in his arms, then snaps his fingers. A few gold coins deposit themselves where the loquats once rested, and with another wave, the strings shatter into flecks of ethereal dust, stolen away by the wind.

Hmm. That wasn’t too audacious, was it? After all, Wei Wuxian is a god. As long as he does his duty, he’s entitled to whatever he wants.

The passersby gape. For some reason, their reactions seem even more exaggerated than usual. Then again, if Wei Wuxian really does share the same face as a certain someone, it makes sense that the people here in Lotus Pier would stare at him like he’s just brought on the end of the world.

The elderly woman’s grin widens, creeping upward at the corners. “Why, thank you very much,” she says with little inflection, shuffling the coins across her palm. She glances upward, a single brow raised. “It’s not everyday we host a god. May this undeserving servant ask why your divine lordship is here?”

“I heard there was some rebuilding going on,” Wei Wuxian answers. It’s the truth, he isn’t lying, yet the words leave an acrid taste on his tongue. He gestures to the half-finished buildings around them, all those shops and houses that smell too new, that have lost something that can’t be replaced. “The Lotus Pier of the past was one to marvel at. This may sound selfish, but I would like to see it return to the way it was before.”

A look takes over the elderly woman’s face. Some others adopt that same subtle twisting of features, though most can’t look Wei Wuxian in the eye.

It means something, but Wei Wuxian isn’t sure he understands. It’s fine. It doesn’t concern him.

“Are you here to watch humans reclaim something that’s been taken away from them?”

The woman’s face isn’t blank; she wears a faint smile, but her eyes are dull, carefully filtering the light that shines from within. For some reason, her words weigh heavily on Wei Wuxian, and he reaches up to his chest toward a scar that has already faded.

He doesn’t need a reason to be here, but within him, something cries out, terrified of the darkness and everything that it brings; there’s a beast that makes a home inside his heart, a beast that will bite and tear everything to pieces in order to protect the people it loves, that will struggle and grasp at nothing in order to keep them alive. No matter the misfortune it brings. No matter what happens because of it.

(There is a flash of black and red beside him. A bitter laugh tears itself free from the stranger, almost as if it’s been wrenched from his gut with a dagger.

Kill the beast before it leads to your ruin.

How will you protect those you love?

Let them learn to protect themselves.

You won’t let them die alone.

No, I won’t. Red eyes cursed with the touch of destiny stare sadly at him, reflecting nothing but flames. But if you make your world in others, don’t cry when the world turns on you.

Flicker, flicker, and then there is nothing.)

It isn’t like Wei Wuxian to use silence as an answer, because it isn’t one.

“I’ve had enough of watching people lose what they love,” is what he decides to say. He smiles, rests his chin on his hand, and prays that those who watch take it for elegance rather than exhaustion. “Besides, I have time. Too much time, some could say. With that time, I would like to help build something up.”

What a ridiculous situation Wei Wuxian has put himself into. Here he is, a god dressed in thin robes and soaked to the core, declaring that he’ll do what he likes, how he likes.

Arrogance is unbecoming of someone who’s already died, but what can he do?

The woman flips the coins between her fingers. “Oh hoh,” she half-laughs, half-speaks. A complicated something carries in her voice, and Wei Wuxian doesn’t know how to unravel it. “It’s very generous of you to offer your assistance. Why don’t you tell Sect Leader Jiang what you’re planning to do?”

“As soon as I look presentable, I’ll speak with him,” says Wei Wuxian. He knows everyone’s watching and waiting for some sort of reaction. What do they want from him? How is a god supposed to grant wishes when humans won’t even admit what it is they desire?

It’s alright. It isn’t the first time people have looked at him with grim expectation, and it won’t be the last. What does it matter? All he needs to do is grab hold of the image they’ve painted of him and shatter it to pieces.

Crush it until it’s gone and never recovers. Wei Wuxian isn’t someone who lets others define him. He’s Fuxing, the god of prosperity, and he’s here. Whether or not he has the right to be is—

It is what it is.

He turns his back on the eyes that watch him.

Watch me all you want, he doesn’t say. His hands clench, nails biting into his palms. It hurts. It doesn’t hurt enough. I am who I am.

Walking beside Wei Wuxian, his steps dragging heavily with the chains of the past, the stranger cries silently.

I’m here.

Perhaps, once, he had a home,

(I’m here.)

and as things are right now, this place is a home,

“I’m here.”

but it’s not his.

Wei Wuxian isn’t a liar.

What is there to lie about? He doesn’t have any secrets worth telling. Even if he did, they’ve all been washed away by death and rebirth and the convoluted cycle of life that closes its eyes and picks out souls at random to ascend into gods or damn into demons.

So he dresses himself in his ornate (and dry) robes, triple-checks that his weimao is intact, looks at himself in the mirror, winces when the stranger stares back and their images overlap a little too perfectly, hastily throws the hair that drapes over his shoulders into braids, hums the first notes of a lullaby as the cosmos turns, turns, and collapses into his hands in the form of golden peonies, weaves them into his hair as elegantly as he can manage, and peers at the mirror again.

A god of luck stares back. When he moves, gold follows in his wake, and when he sings, the peonies on his robes bloom.

Wei Wuxian smiles. He’s not usually so picky about his appearance, but here, in Lotus Pier, he has something to prove.

(The more he looks like someone else, the better.)

Again: Wei Wuxian isn’t a liar. When he makes his way out of the building and turns in the exact opposite direction as the Yunmeng Jiang Sect’s manor, he isn’t breaking a promise. He has every intent of meeting the young Sect Leader Jiang. Just... not now.

How can he? Everywhere he looks, either construction or repairs are going on in one form or another. The people here are trying their best to rebuild with their own hands, and it’s admirable.

But it’s long, hard work, and only fools find joy in extended suffering. So Wei Wuxian takes a deep breath, holds it, and releases it. He brings his hands together, as if in prayer, and gives them a solid crack.

“Hello,” he says to a group of people hefting building materials down the road. “It seems you could use a little bit of help with that.”

Things quickly escalate from there.

Wei Wuxian has no experience with building or repairing an actual house, so he decides that it’s probably best if he lets the experienced hands do the work. He does, however, buy a sizeable stack of blank talismans.

Cinnabar has normal results, blood has unusual results, so if Wei Wuxian uses his gold strings instead, it should produce some very interesting spells.

The builders are a bit wary when he hands them the finished talismans, but in the end, the shiny gold lustre and their desire for more efficient ways to complete their task win out.

It turns out that if you pull out an untested flight talisman from the deepest recesses of your mind and use divine power instead of blood, it’s more or less the equivalent of a short-term blessing. A very powerful, very flashy short-term blessing.

There’s an impressive crowd watching the spectacle unfold before them. It’s understandable, though Wei Wuxian would rather have no onlookers at all. After all, four winged builders, all settling into the fact that they now have wings (temporarily, it’s temporary, probably, hopefully) by performing various tasks at drastically different levels of skill is most likely a very interesting show.

“Are you alright up there,” Wei Wuxian calls to the builder who’s currently flying laps around the house.

“I’m great,” the builder shouts back. His face splits into an enormous grin as he flaps his speckled owl wings. “I’m great! I’m better than ever!”

The shortest builder grumbles under his breath. His tiny quail wings ruffle in indignation as he rummages through his tools. Meanwhile, the magpie-winged builder works away diligently on the roof, nodding every so often at the heron-winged builder, who transfers supplies up while dodging the owl-winged builder.

Conclusion: divine power takes spells and multiplies them tenfold. Or, rather, it takes spells and turns them into blessings, which is, admittedly, a little worrying, because blessings tend to last for a very, very long time.

Wei Wuxian eventually decides that it should be fine. His assumption turns into a conclusion when all the builders’ wings vanish out of existence with an abrupt and comedic pop, leaving one to stumble onto the roof, one to stare distantly, one to breathe a sigh of relief, and one to fall out of the sky screaming.

The good thing about being a god of luck is that Wei Wuxian is very adept at weaving things quickly. The golden net that flies between his fingers just barely catches the builder, who sways up and down on the buoying veil, looking superbly stunned.

Wei Wuxian hurries over and offers the builder a hand. He takes it. Wei Wuxian pulls him to his feet and waves the net away.

For a moment, there’s silence. A wave of shame washes over his head, and Wei Wuxian feels like burying his head in the ground.

“Well,” Wei Wuxian says, feeling that he has more or less exhausted his usefulness here, “I suppose I’ll see you around, then.”

And with that, he takes off, speeding away from the house.

The further he walks, the more gazes follow him. They’re a little different now, not as heavy, focused more on the stars in his eyes and the flowers in his hair than the legacy he wears.

Good. That’s a good development. All Wei Wuxian needs to do is keep it up, and that’s not so difficult, is it?

It shouldn’t be. If there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s coming up with spells for the most mundane of tasks. And, well, he says mundane, but that’s a cultivator’s point of view. Strength, endurance, health—cultivators have got it all, yet they’re always hungry for more.

As he walks, he makes more and more talismans. What would be most useful? What would have the lowest risk of bodily harm? He demands answers from himself, tearing strings from the paper when he isn’t satisfied, stitching them back in with new forms, sharper edges, finer lines.

Whenever he sees people struggling, he offers his assistance. Said assistance comes in different forms depending on the task, which is more enjoyable that he could’ve ever anticipated.

“I tore my best robes,” one man says, holding up a robe that’s closer to being rags than anything else.

“I can help,” Wei Wuxian says, cheerfully slapping a mending talisman onto the rags.

As expected, the robes stitch back together like nothing ever happened. The man beams, admiring the golden details that weren’t there before, and immediately walks into the path of an oncoming wagon travelling far too quickly to be even remotely safe.

Wei Wuxian is about to jump in and rescue the poor fellow. Instead, he watches as the man performs the most impressive backflip he’s ever seen and executes a perfect, bold landing with a flourish of his newly repaired robes.

The man’s jaw drops. Wei Wuxian has a feeling he might’ve accidentally made those robes into a spiritual tool running off divine energy, but that was pretty impressive. And on the bright side, if any wagon ever tries to do him in ever again, he’ll show it a good time.

“If you could help us move all these baskets into our shop, it would be much appreciated,” a young man says. He waves helplessly to an imposing collection of baskets filled with fruit. “It’s a bit of a trip, so I don’t want to ask anything too menial of you.”

Wei Wuxian thinks for a moment, then slaps down a transportation talisman by the baskets. “Will you bring me to your shop?”

It’s a few streets down, and navigating through the lively chaos isn’t a promising prospect. So Wei Wuxian puts another teleportation talisman on the door, snaps his fingers, and realizes a moment too late that he might’ve just teleported everything all at once.

The young man is terrified for a short moment, then awed the next. He looks between the floor, which is now covered in baskets of fruit, the door, which is currently radiating a gentle golden hue, and Wei Wuxian, who’s trying his best to figure out what exactly he’s done this time around.

He solves the mystery after the young man offers him a basket of the best fruit they have. Wei Wuxian takes it happily because food is always a gift to be appreciated. When he bites into a peach, it tastes like—and this is no joke, he’s being entirely serious—it literally tastes like heaven.

He inhales the rest of the fruit like a starving man and he continues on his tirade to help the people of Lotus Pier in any way possible. Needless to say, he’s far more skilled at some tasks than others.

When Wei Wuxian is directed to a local teahouse by a friend of its proprietress, he feels more satisfied than he’s ever been.

So far, so good. Maybe he’s accidentally made one or two or three enchanted tools, but he feels as if he’s fixing something he should’ve fixed long ago. Seeing people laugh and gawk at the results of his on-the-spot research makes him feel warm.

It’s a good feeling. So onward it is.

“I broke my best teapot,” the proprietress explains, laying out the very broken and very small clay fragments before Wei Wuxian. “I understand that it’s a petty thing to ask of a divine being, but if your lordship would allow it, this humble servant would like to ask for your blessing.”

All around them, the Yunmeng Jiang Sect’s purples decorate the walls in long banners that proudly bear the nine-petal lotus flower. They cascade endlessly downward, spiralling, falling, tearing into pieces, burning to the ground, and everybody falling around him, bleeding out, dying, and yet all he did was watch—no, he was the one who brought this onto them, and yet he took what little remained and crushed it into pieces, why, why, why—

Wei Wuxian blinks the headache away.

He’s fine. It’s alright. The stranger is whispering nonsense in his ears again.

Wei Wuxian takes in the ambience, the showmanship of it all. This must be a new building. It doesn’t have that same heart-aching pain. Regardless, it’s very ambitious to set up shop in a town that’s still being rebuilt. It doesn’t feel right, but since when has anything Wei Wuxian felt ever been right?

The proprietress doesn’t seem like a bad person. She could’ve asked for anything—power, fame, wealth—and yet all she wants from a god of fortune is to have her teapot fixed.

There’s a certain warmth in seeing people understand the worth of what they have.

“I can fix it,” says Wei Wuxian. A stray thought wanders into his mind, and he pauses. “Actually, I think I can do more than fix it.”

It takes a little while, but in the end, he successful stitches together a talisman that he can’t use for any other purpose than fixing teapots, which is an incredibly specific but incredibly useful talisman for maybe a total of three people in all of Lotus Pier. Four, if they really like tea? It’s alright. An achievement is an achievement, and Wei Wuxian has enough pride to be a little smug about his new invention.

With a flick of the hand, he tosses it into the broken shards and looks away as a blast of gold light envelops the room.

When he looks back, the teapot is—well, it’s a teapot. And that’s the point, isn’t it?

“Oh, thank you!” The proprietress looks like she’s about to cry, and as nice as Wei Wuxian feels for having made someone so happy, he sincerely hopes she doesn’t, because if she really does start crying, he won’t have any idea what to say. After all, he’s never been particularly attached to any teapots.

“If you’d indulge me further, may I ask for a cup of tea?” He gestures to the newly restored teapot. “Using this one, preferably.”

“Of course, I’d be honoured,” the proprietress says eagerly, eyes glimmering. With tears? With excitement? It’s a little unclear. Either way, Wei Wuxian sits patiently and watches as the proprietress prepares the tea with skill that’s undoubtedly been honed through years of practice and experience.

It’s a small motion, just a quick turn of the body, but the clear chime of the Yunmeng Jiang Sect’s bell is something he’ll never forget. He can’t. He won’t.

He has forgotten so much, but there are some things he’s not allowed to forget.

“Ah,” Wei Wuxian begins. His hands wring into his robes, desperately holding onto something he’s already lost. “You’re a disciple of the Yunmeng Jiang Sect.”

The proprietress beams. She’s so young and proud, yet there’s a steel in her spine that’s so characteristic of the Yunmeng Jiang Sect. “Yes. I’m not very skilled with a sword, but I’m great at making tea, especially for medicinal purposes. I thought I’d be thrown out for having almost no cultivation potential, but I was told that Lotus Pier could use a teahouse, and that I’d be fit for to manage it, so here I am.”

It’s the first time Wei Wuxian’s ever heard of a teamaster position in any sect, but it’s a smart move, especially here in Lotus Pier. Infusing a bit of qi into food and drink is incredibly effective for warding away illness and preserving health.

It’s such a ridiculous thought. A teamaster, with no sword and no means of purging evil from this world, is just as meaningful as the most prominent of cultivators.

The purpose of cultivators is to become immortal, some will say. That’s wrong. That isn’t right. Cultivators exist to protect the common people. At least, if they all had something to defend, always, maybe they’d be able to understand that peace is so horribly fragile.

To gain something doesn’t necessarily mean that something has to first be lost. The world will take, take, take, and what little remains will feel like a blessing. It isn’t fair to call that equivalency.

Kindness is not something that is won. Empathy is not something that is earned.

But his thoughts are just the ramblings of a god. Who is he to say how humans should live their lives? If anything, they should live freely, wildly, to the best of their ability, because they won’t be here forever.

As Wei Wuxian waits, he sings that same lullaby, the wordless melody brings him comfort in the darkest of nights and the most painful of nightmares. Perhaps it’s his voice, or perhaps it’s the resonating notes of a song that yearn for kinder days, forever reaching into the warmth of the past, where the innocence of childhood gently led him from day to day, carrying him on a gentle tide that would soon become a storm.

He isn’t sure who exactly taught him the song. Perhaps it was one of those souls that stood by his side and taught him that the world is not inherently a kind place, but that it could be made into one if everyone would just try to understand each other.

The last notes of the lullaby drift into the afternoon sky, and for a moment, there’s only silence. Those who came searching for the voice and the song stare vacantly, as if in some kind of stupor. It’s only when the proprietress brings the teapot over to the table that the crowd begins dispersing, whispering amongst themselves.

“That was a beautiful song,” the proprietress says, her eyes wide. There’s that look again: you put the stars in the sky, you’re a god of the highest calibre, and you can do anything. He doesn’t want it, but he’s come to accept it. “You—please forgive my ignorance, but are you a god of music?”

Wei Wuxian raises a brow. “Was it really that impressive?”

Flushing, the proprietress looks away. Despite her embarrassment, her hands are steady as she sets a cup on the table. “I’ve never heard anything like it, and I came from Gusu. Your voice is...” She hesitates, studying the ridges in the table shyly. “It makes me feel safe. It’s like a calling. Is—is that strange to say?”

Music is something that’s written into his blood, something he cherishes deeply, but in this life, he finally has the chance to let the world hear the words they refused to hear before, and it’s vindicating, in a way.

Of course, it’s just a feeling. He could be creating answers for questions that don’t exist.

“I don’t think it’s strange,” Wei Wuxian answers. He rests his chin on his palm and sighs. “I should exercise a bit more caution when I sing. Hopefully nobody throws themselves at me because I’ve offended them.”

“No! No, I think they’re just amazed!” The proprietress claps her hands together. “Back in Gusu, they’d say that music is the one and only way to know someone’s soul. Not that I was any good at it, but people are naturally drawn to music because it invokes feeling inside them, aren’t they?”

Wei Wuxian doesn’t know. “Enough about me,” he says instead. “Shall we try your tea?”

The proprietress blinks. “Um, we?”

“It’s awfully depressing to drink alone,” he says, smiling when the proprietress gapes. “Besides, I want to show you something. Considering it thanks for keeping me company.”

Once the proprietress is seated comfortably across the table, she reaches for the teapot. “Um, please, at least let me—”

Wei Wuxian holds up his hand. The proprietress freezes. “Just a moment,” he mutters, brushing his fingers over the fine clay. At his touch, the painted flowers twist and fold in on themselves, dying and living all at once, weaving themselves into brighter forms.

That... wasn’t exactly what Wei Wuxian expected, but it should work all the same.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, because he feels it’s needed. “It seems that I’ve scribbled all over your teapot.” All his spells—his blessings, rather—are so varied in effects that he’s mildly concerned that they won’t dissipate normally like spells. Surely those builders won’t suddenly grow wings when they dream of flying, will they?

Wei Wuxian grimaces. He should check on them later, for everyone’s sake.

The proprietress shakes her head rapidly. “No, no! It’s the teapot itself I care about.” With vague gestures, she attempts to paint the picture to someone who is far more ignorant that herself. “You know, the body, and the texture, and how it influences the depth of taste and...” More abrupt motions, followed by a tilt of the head. “You know?”

Wei Wuxian does not, in fact, know, but it’s nice to see someone so young dedicated to their craft. “Of course,” he says.

“This undeserving servant will be forever grateful for your blessing!” With a deep bow, the proprietress beams, then moves to serve the tea.

They both stare as what appears to be liquid gold pours into the cup. Or, rather, it looks like tea, but it shines like gold and smells of something sweet, fruity and floral.

Well, there’s no harm in trying it. If Wei Wuxian manages to poison himself with his own blessing, that’d almost be impressive. The imperative word there is almost.

“Um,” the proprietress begins, then cuts off. She’s probably struggling to find the proper words. “That’s not—that’s not normal. Is it?”

Nothing’s ever normal with Wei Wuxian. “No, but it should be fine.” He hesitates, but continues nonetheless. “I think.”

Before the proprietress can say anything else, he brings the cup to his lips and downs it in one go. Maybe it’s unbecoming of a god, but he needs to make sure he didn’t just give this poor disciple a teapot that brews poison, especially when she’s just trying her best to run this very important establishment for the Yunmeng Jiang Sect.

It tastes of... something. It certainly tastes good, very good, actually, but there’s just something so specific and odd about how it tastes that Wei Wuxian can’t put it in words.

It tastes like a feeling. Or a memory. Like hot summers and shooting down kites, racing in rivers, picking lotus pods in boats meant for far fewer than they insist on believing. It sounds like laughter as they call out his name, cheering him on, treating him as a friend and a hero, back in the days when he couldn’t care less about how many people looked at him with stars in their eyes and saw nothing but potential in him.

Wei Wuxian breathes in and puts the cup down. “Well,” he says. His voice wavers, and he steadies it. “That has to be the most unique cup of tea I’ve ever had in my life.”

The proprietress still stares, her gaze flickering between the blessed teapot, the cup, and Wei Wuxian. “Is... is that a good thing?”

“I think it is,” he answers, which is a lie, but only because Wei Wuxian is the world’s most spectacular enigma.

He can’t tell if what he feels are remnants of the life he’s lost or the whispers of the stranger in his ear. It doesn’t matter. Every happy memory only hurts more, because they sneer and say, Look at what you’ve lost. Look at what you’ve done.

Pain is still pain, no matter whose it is.

“I think you should give it a try as well.” He gestures at the other cup. “I have a feeling it might taste different for everyone.”

With furrowed brows, the proprietress mutters, “Different?”

Wei Wuxian shrugs. “Blessings are strange, I suppose.”

The proprietress nods. “Then, if you’ll excuse me.” She quickly pours herself a cup, studies the lustrous gold liquid with the look of a scholar pursuing a particularly complicated manuscript, then finally takes a drink.

Wei Wuxian watches her expression. She hasn’t passed out, which is a good sign. She is, however, silent for a moment too long.

“So,” Wei Wuxian says, mostly to break the silence. “How is it?”

The proprietress continues to stare vacantly at—Wei Wuxian turns to follow her gaze and finds nothing of interest—absolutely nothing.

He hasn’t just ejected her soul from her body, has he? That would be bad. That would be very, very bad. Can he even shove someone’s soul back into their body? Probably, right? If he sings loud enough and pulls hard enough, he could drag the stars out of the sky. If there’s one thing he is, it’s determined.

Then, slowly, abruptly, inevitably, tears begin to drip down the proprietress’ cheeks.

Oh, hang on, that’s not supposed to happen, what happened?

“Um, are you alright?” Leaning in a bit closer, Wei Wuxian tries to see if she’s injured somehow. A rush of relief courses through him when the proprietress blinks and shakes her head, then flushes a deep red. She turns away hurriedly, using her sleeves to wipe away the tears that dot her face. “What happened?”

The proprietress takes a few deep breaths to compose herself. With a light blush still colouring her cheeks and ears, she turns to face Wei Wuxian again. “I...” Her eyes glaze over. “I saw my parents. They weren’t cultivators, so they—during the Sunshot Campaign, in all that chaos, they got caught in the crossfire.”

Wei Wuxian’s stomach drops. There’s blood on his hands and his lips, but he keeps digging. There’s an ache in his chest that burns, and he doesn’t want it. But it is what it is. “I see,” is all he can say.

“I was—I don’t want to say I was happier then, because I’m happy now. But if I could go back, I would, because there was so much that I wanted to say, but I didn’t, because I thought it didn’t matter.” Regret finds a home on her features, twisting them in a way that’s all too familiar to Wei Wuxian. “Happiness is always relative, I suppose. If I were to forget what I had before, I’d probably be perfectly content now.”

The past is a curse. It’s a blessing. It tears people to pieces, it urges them to fight to return to warmer days. But time only moves in one direction, and those who delude themselves into believing that what once was still exists will drown, exhausted and terrified at the end of all things, forever reaching out like children—

Wei Wuxian sighs.

“It’s not much of a blessing I’ve given you,” he says. “To the people here, it’s much more of a curse, isn’t it?”

As if a fire has been lit beneath her, the proprietress snaps up to her full height in a flourish of violet. She looks at him in—anger, or confusion, or something in between. “It isn’t a curse at all!”

For a short moment, all Wei Wuxian feels is surprise. All those humans, some fearful, others revenant, and others still knowing, yet none of them have ever wielded their emotions against him as a weapon.

The late afternoon sun welcomes itself into the parlour, washing the walls in a nostalgic gradient of gold-faded purple. Around them, the faint creaks of wood created by patrons and their curious shifting has stopped, leaving only the gentle sound of the servers moving about, graceful and undisturbed, their robes catching the light of a kind sun.

A single bell chimes in the silence. The finely-crafted silver gleams painfully, sharply, like the fine sheen of a blade. It would catch the light so much better if it were made of crystal, Wei Wuxian thinks distantly. And it would sound much clearer, too.

As if realizing the weight of her actions, the proprietress ducks her head down and sits quickly. There’s no shame in her posture, but she takes care in smoothing out her robes and folding loose strands of hair behind her ear.

“We can’t change what’s happened, but we can try to grow.” The proprietress gestures in that same halting, abrupt manner as she tries to find her words. “There’s a difference between salvaging what’s left and nurturing what’s left, I think. You can try all you want to piece together what’s left, but in the end, it’s how you move on that’s actually worth anything.” Her hands clench as she lifts her resolute gaze to meet Wei Wuxian. “Let the people try this tea for themselves. Let them understand that they can’t go back to the days they hold closest to their hearts, but let them try to make this city into a warm, beautiful place for all the people who will come after them.”

Her words are laden with meaning, but Wei Wuxian hears something else.

So much has been lost, but I will try to make this world a kinder place for those who no longer need to know what it feels like to watch the world burn.

Wei Wuxian lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He feels—he feels—

“I don’t know why you’ve come to Lotus Pier, but I hope it’s to bless us with peace.” The proprietress looks at Wei Wuxian with such hope that it makes him want to close his eyes. “Everyone lost something in the war, but the Yunmeng Jiang Sect lost everything. Sect Leader Jiang lost everything, but he still had the time to take in a girl who could only brew tea. It’s hard for them to move on, but everyone’s come together and pushing through it anyway, because they believe things will be alright.” Looking away, the proprietress stubbornly demands, “So you... you have to make sure their efforts are rewarded, okay?”

You hold so much power.

Will this place fall under your hands again?

What can you even do?

Wei Wuxian ignores the whispers. They’ve been worse than usual ever since he stepped foot into Lotus Pier, and he doesn’t care for it.

His fingers move between the threads of whatever fate has drawn him here, but that isn’t what matters right now. He feels empty; he feels full. He speaks the song of stars; he breathes the life of the world.

There’s nothing he can say, so he says something worth nothing. “My name is Fuxing,” he speaks, feeling a sharp disconnect between his lips and his mind. “They call me a god of luck, fortune, prosperity, whatever word you like best.”

“Fuxing,” the proprietress repeats slowly. It takes a moment, then two, before she pales and her jaw drops. She jerks back, sitting straight like her life depends on it, which she most likely believes to be true. “The revered golden god, one of the Three Stars, the revered—the revered—”

It takes her five tries to realize that she can’t finish her sentence, which only makes her flush harder. So Wei Wuxian fills the silence. “I seek out chaos and grant humans the power to destroy it. I can’t promise peace, but I recognize its importance.” Gods can only do so much. This world isn’t made for the divine, after all. “But this is a place worth helping, and as a god, I have a duty to offer what I can.”

The same eight notes of his lullaby fill the air with saturated gold. Within his hands, a flower blooms.

“Thank you for keeping me company,” says Wei Wuxian, resting the golden peony on the table. He stands, smoothing out his robes, and tilts his weimao downward with a smile. “What’s your name? I’ll put in a good word with Sect Leader Jiang for you.”

The proprietress hurries to stand as well, bowing long and deep. When he lifts her head, she does so vigorously enough that her hair flaps back against her back. “This one is called Jiang Chenyi. And I don’t mean to impose on you after you’ve done so much, but I would very much appreciate it if you could tell Sect Leader Jiang that I’d like to speak to some more merchants in order to get business rolling.”

“Of course,” Wei Wuxian assures, trying as best as he can to put that somewhere in his mind where he’ll actually remember it. Ah, well. He certainly won’t be forgetting Jiang Chenyi anytime soon.

It’s easy to wave goodbye to Jiang Chenyi. It’s difficult to pretend like he doesn’t notice the small crowd watching him as he makes his way out of the teahouse.

It feels familiar. Wei Wuxian walks onward.

He could help out around town more, but Jiang Chenyi asked a favour of him that he’d rather not forget. Besides, it’s about time Wei Wuxian paid a visit to the young Sect Leader Jiang.

(Are you sure?)

Of course he’s sure. What’s there to be afraid of? Wei Wuxian is a god. He doesn’t want much, but he’d like to give his blessing to Lotus Pier. Even as a god, it would be unspeakably arrogant of him to just assume that Sect Leader Jiang wants the touch of something divine on his land.

The touch of a god.

Your touch.

Never again.

Never, never, never.

Then Sect Leader Jiang can say that for himself.

Above his head, the sun shines down brightly. It bathes Lotus Pier in a cold heat, bringing cold winds and warm rays all at once, sweeping through the newly paved roads busy with chaos and action. The call of merchants rings out above the cacophony of sounds and smells, and it makes Wei Wuxian smile.

As he makes his way toward the Jiang manor, holding his head high with the knowledge that his hands have the power to chase away the darkness that clings to this port city, the townsfolk level strange looks in his direction. They aren’t like before; not heavy or expecting, but rather anxious. Regardless, they point him toward the river and urge him to “try and understand”.

“Certainly,” he assures them, utterly ignorant as to what they mean. He can tell, however, that empty words are better than none at all.

The walk isn’t as long as Wei Wuxian would’ve liked it to be, but he finds it difficult not to enjoy Lotus Pier in its rawest form, having been dismantled so thoroughly by the carelessness of youth, rebuilt by the knowledge that the only thing you can’t give up on is yourself. The Yunmeng Jiang Sect has always produced disciples with a certain kind of hot-headed determination, stoked on by the stifling heat of summer.

Faintly, Wei Wuxian remembers moaning about the injustice of nature under fog-like humidity, splayed on the cold floor of vacant halls, surrounded by good-natured laughter.

It’s a rare moment of kindness in memories he knows are his. They don’t sing to him, and he doesn’t sing back. They wait for the other. Quietly. Patiently.

Wei Wuxian hears it before he sees it.

It’s the sound of swords clashing and arrows piercing into wood. The methodical cries of training are comforting sounds, reminding him that Lotus Pier has a promising future, both as a home to nurture and to return to.

The training grounds separate the rest of Lotus Pier from the Jiang manor. Unlike other sects, the Yunmeng Jiang Sect has never cared much for holding themselves above the common people, and Wei Wuxian feels that much better for it. When he approaches the sprawling grounds adorned with wooden posts, all bearing marks left by aspiring cultivators, he nods to the townsfolk who have come to watch their benefactors at work.

They bow back, quickly dispersing into a concentrated group of their own. Whispers and murmurs fly between them, accompanied by fleeting glances toward the god before them.

Wei Wuxian adjusts his weimao, smiles, then steps onto the well-worn grounds he has walked upon so many times.

The first disciple to spot him lowers his sword. His sparring partner catches his wide-eyed expression and lowers her sword as well. One by one, they all fall silent, as if time itself has stopped.

To be greeted with silence is almost worse than to have not been greeted at all. Thankfully, Wei Wuxian has long since grown accustomed to shock, displeasure, and fear as a reaction to his divine presence.

“Hello,” Wei Wuxian says, his tone light and airy, ethereal and fleeting. “You’re all disciples of the Yunmeng Jiang Sect, aren’t you?” He scans the faces before him, finds soft cheeks and round eyes not yet honed by battle. “Young ones, too. Well met.”

“You’re—” One of the bolder disciples, a girl with a single braid tied back into a ponytail, steps in front of the others. Trepidation creeps onto her features with every passing moment, but she fixes her lips into a thin line and stands her ground. “Who are you? Do you have business with the Yunmeng Jiang Sect?”

“I do,” answers Wei Wuxian. “I’ve been here for half a day now. Didn’t you see the waterworks by the pier?”

The disciples discuss amongst themselves. The braided girl listens in, nods every now and then, and turns back. “You’re not supposed to hunt monsters here. Lotus Pier is Yunmeng Jiang territory, so you have to ask permission before doing anything like that.”

“Yes, I’m well aware,” he says. “If possible, I’d like to speak to your Sect Leader about that little incident. Would you do this foolish god a favour and fetch him for me?”

At the word god, all the disciples pale. One fumbles with his bow, dropping his quiver to the ground with a loud clatter. All eyes snap to him, and the braided girl makes a violent cutting motion, hissing something inaudible. The poor boy looks as if he’s prepared to embrace death.

With something between despair and determination, the girl gestures at her sparring partner. “Go tell Sect Leader Jiang,” she says, pausing and taking a deep breath, “that a god wants to talk to him.”

The boy nods, sheathes his blade, and runs off toward the manor without looking back.

With that said and done, the disciples squirm in the presence of a supposed god. Their youth, an endless source of energy and curiosity, has betrayed them in this instance, making them shy and unsure of how to behave in the presence of a being from legends.

Wei Wuxian grins. He’s never found status to be a terrifying trait, but to come face-to-face with the physical form of luck wearing the face of a man is a situation that would discomfort most.

“You seem quite young,” Wei Wuxian states, raising a hand to his chin. A wide smile breaks onto his face. “Congratulations on being accepted by the Yunmeng Jiang Sect. You must all be striving to reach great heights of cultivation.”

The braided girl bears his gaze with formidable strength. “Of course,” she says hotly. “Why else would we be here?”

“Fame, glory, wealth, self-worth, family,” Wei Wuxian answers, casually listing off only a few of the many, many reasons he can think of.

“We wouldn’t stoop so low as to—as to let greed be our guide!”

“Is that so?”

Stepping forward, one slow stride at a time, Wei Wuxian lifts the edge of his weimao and allows the stars in his eyes to swirl on, endlessly, chaotically, into the dark of a future that has yet to come.

“You say that as if it’s something to be ashamed of,” he sighs, finding faint amusement in how the disciples gape. “That’s very sad to hear. After all, as a god of fortune, I exist because of human greed.”

The phrase god of fortune holds as much reverence as it does fear, and in no moment is it made more clear than when the disciples gasp loudly, backing away in a disorganized group, some already bowing, others hesitating between standing their ground or chasing after the boy who went in search of their Sect Leader.

“But you—that can’t—” Every word that is born on the braided girl’s lips dies. She makes an aborted motion for her sword, then quickly remembers her place. In an attempt to regain her composure, she blurts out, “Your name! If you’re a god, what’s your name?”

Wei Wuxian smiles as he brushes his veil aside. To be honest, he doesn’t care much for his name or what he’s called, as long as it isn’t what he calls himself. “My name is Fuxing.”

“Your name is Fuxing,” the girl repeats unsteadily, taking a few steps back. She doesn’t look well. “The... the Golden God of Prosperity, the auspicious star, the first of the Three Stars, the embodiment of miracles, the—the—”

“You know more names for me than I know for myself,” Wei Wuxian laughs.

No matter what life he lives or what aura he wears, his reputation will always precede him, it seems.

“Well then,” he begins, clapping his hands together, “I didn’t mean to disturb your training. If your Sect Leader comes and sees all of you slacking off, he wouldn’t be too happy, now would he?”

The disciples look for the answer in one another other. Between the revered Golden God and the thunderous Sandu Shengshou, which one is more terrifying?

After some deliberation, they come to the correct answer: the young and proud Jiang Wanyin. The braided girl hurries everyone into picking up their weapons and returning to whatever task they were practicing diligently before.

As she draws her own blade, the braided girl throws Wei Wuxian an anxious look. “Don’t tell Sect Leader Jiang,” she says, a pleading note rising in her throat.

“You have my word,” Wei Wuxian promises.

It takes a while for the disciples to force the shivers and shakes from their bodies, but with the monotonous repetition of exchanging blows and drawing back bowstrings, they slowly but surely slip into their own minds.

As Wei Wuxian watches, it becomes evident to him that these disciples are most likely the children of clans destroyed by the Qishan Wen Sect. Jiang Wanyin made a name for himself on the battlefields of the Sunshot Campaign, wielding Sandu in one hand and Zidian in the other; he brought storms to his enemies with his very presence, his every strike a clap of lightning, his rage an undying tempest.

He was never good at controlling his temper. If things had been kinder, perhaps time would have quelled his anger.

Temperamental or not, Jiang Wanyin’s name is not one to scoff at. Wei Wuxian has no doubt that those who watched as he tore through his enemies were eager to pledge their allegiance to the battered Yunmeng Jiang Sect.

(Perhaps he watched Jiang Wanyin carve his place out in cultivation history, too. Perhaps he fought alongside him.

Perhaps not.)

The braided girl’s brows are furrowed as she trades blow for blow against her sparring partner. Even though Wei Wuxian can see their motions slowly becoming reflex, something about their stance doesn’t sit right with him.

He slowly realizes. Between rebuilding Lotus Pier, earning merits, and raising a child, who would have time to do all three and train some children?

Distantly, he wonders, raising a child? Where did that come from?

“Alright,” Wei Wuxian calls, clapping his hands again to get the disciples’ attention. They all jump, some more violently than others. “Get over here, all of you. It seems you don’t have a senior leading your training, so I’ll enroll myself in your ranks for a short while.”

“But that’s not allowed,” one of the boys splutters, hugging the hilt of his sword to his chest with both hands.

“Yes, yes, I know,” Wei Wuxian says, waving his hand dismissively. “But your stances are warped beyond recognition. You all carry the name Jiang, don’t you? As you are right now, no sensible cultivator would see that in the way you use your swords.” Beckoning for them to come closer, he ushers, “Come on, now. I won’t bite.”

To their credit, the disciples move in to face him him in three straight lines. Even the archers drop their bows in favour of picking up their swords, if not a bit nervously.

Wei Wuxian studies their expressions, then gestures toward the braided girl. “You. You’re the senior disciple in this group, aren’t you?”

Surprise raises the girl’s brows, but she holds her head high with righteous pride. “I am,” she says.

“Very good. Step forward.”

The girl steps in front of Wei Wuxian, keeping a respectable distance between them. Her eyes narrow, half in confusion, half in suspicion. Lifting one hand to rest on the hilt of her sword, she answers, “Yes, sir.”

It’s more subdued than it would normally be, but Wei Wuxian cares little for how he’s addressed. Formality is a luxury, not an honour.

“Let me see your stance,” Wei Wuxian commands. “Raise your blade however you want, or how you’ve been taught.” When the girl hesitates, unsure if it’s blasphemous to point her sword at a god, he shakes his head. “Imagine me as your enemy. I’ve insulted your honour. I’ve made some threatening remarks. I certainly expect to be put into place. What do you do?”

The girl presses her lips into a thin line. With a deep exhale, she draws her sword, a finely crafted blade adorned with a crescent moon, and levels it at Wei Wuxian. Her eyes burn with embers that will one day be stoked into raging fires.

Her posture isn’t bad. For someone who most likely had very little formal training before joining the Yunmeng Jiang Sect, it’s actually quite impressive.

“Now what?” the girl asks, shifting her balance from side to side, as if expecting an attack.

It’s a good habit to have. Very good, in fact, for what follows.

Wei Wuxian smiles as he flicks a single coin out of his sleeve, snatching it by the hilt when it materializes into its full, golden glory. Under the orange light of the falling sun, the sword gleams a brazen crimson, dragging the warm light down the length of its sigil-etched blade.

“Now,” he says, resting the blade against the girl’s sword, “listen carefully. Watch carefully. I have no intention of harming you, but I welcome any hostility you have toward me. I’ll show you how to exchange blows as a disciple of the Yunmeng Jiang Sect.” He pauses and watches as the girl’s expression melts from silent shock to fierce determination. “Understand?”

“Of course,” the girl says roughly. She jerks her head toward the rest of the disciples, and they move silently into formation, separating into groups of two. They draw their blades in tandem, cross them, and wait eagerly.

They’re extraordinarily disciplined, just inexperienced. Good. This is very workable.

“Go ahead and try to land a hit on me,” says Wei Wuxian, his lips curling into a grin.

He doesn’t need to convince the girl further. As soon as the words leave his lips, she lunges forward with a vengeance, twisting her body to strike at the weakest point she can find.

She’s quite lethal, because the first place she thinks to open a wound is Wei Wuxian’s neck.

It takes little effort to step out of the way, knock the girl’s blade from her hand, and twist her arm against her back. He does so, of course, as gently as he can manage, just enough to make his point clear.

With a flush crawling to her ears, the girl struggles in his grip. “That’s foul play!” she shouts accusingly, stumbling to scoop up her sword as soon as Wei Wuxian releases her. “You don’t have—you don’t have any etiquette!”

“Etiquette,” says Wei Wuxian, twirling his blade to familiarize himself with its balance, “is for people who have too much time on their hands.” With a raised brow, he throws a joking smile at the girl. “If we were in Gusu and had to follow their three thousand-some rules, it’d be a different story.”

The girl grumbles, readying her stance once more. “Then what do you want me to do?”

“Come at me again,” Wei Wuxian commands. “And remember: no formality. I’ll disarm you every time you try to mimic anyone else.”

Back and forth and onto the ground, Wei Wuxian trades blows with the girl. He disarms her again and again, but she picks up her sword every time and stares him down with an unspoken promise.

When she attempts a maneuver that’s far too ornate and complicated for something as simple as a duel, Wei Wuxian disarms her.

“What are you trying to do?” he asks, tossing her sword back to her. “Are you trying to draw something with your sword? A blade will cut no matter how you land it. We don’t have the luxury of showmanship that the Lanling Jin Sect has. Get to the point.”

When she loses her temper and swings at him in exaggerated, wide arcs, Wei Wuxian disarms her.

Again, he throws her sword back. “Anger is a fine motivator, but if you let your emotions control your sword, you might as well stab yourself in the foot and be done with it. Even the Qinghe Nie Sect understands that they have to control their anger. Why don’t you?”

Again and again, over and over. Slowly but surely, the girl begins to understand his movements and adopt them, parrying more blows and dodging more counters. When she falls to the ground, she tries to take Wei Wuxian with her, and one she stumbles back, she rights herself, but not before kicking dirt in his face. In one particularly audacious move, she catches his sword in her tassel and almost succeeds in disarming him.

It’s very impressive. She can’t be older than fifteen, yet her prowess with a blade is impossible to ignore. With continued practice and the right guidance, she could very well take on senior cultivators and give them a little surprise here or there.

Time for a test, then.

Wei Wuxian lunges in, his sword etching a deep gash into the earth beneath his feet as he arcs it up.

The girl’s eyes widen in an instant. With a curse, she leaps out of the way and swings the mightiest punch she can muster at Wei Wuxian’s face.

He takes it in stride. His cheek throbs, of course, but he finds himself beaming. “Well done!” Turning to the other disciples, he asks, “Did you catch that?”

They nod quickly, nervously, eyeing the girl with something between shock and disbelief. The girl looks down at her fist, blinking rapidly, her mouth open just a little.

“You did very well,” he tells the girl. To adapt to teachings so quickly is an incredible skill to have. “Do understand what it is the Yunmeng Jiang Sect brings into battle?”

At first, the girl is silent. Her sword hangs by her side, and her fingers slowly unclench around the hilt. Then, as something in her eyes sparks, she raises her head. “It’s... endurance,” she declares. “Or stamina. It’s about fighting to win, not just to fight.”

Wei Wuxian nods. “Kick, punch, struggle and retaliate with all your might.” He holds his golden sword before him, then throws it upward, where it shatters into ethereal fragments. “A blade should only be drawn when you mean to end a fight. Then, of course, the most honourable thing you can do is end it as quickly as possible. Or, if your opponent is being stubborn, outlast them.”

That’s how the Yunmeng Jiang Sect has always made it to tomorrow. Even if everything has fallen, a life is a valuable gift and a fine weapon.

With his spiel finished, Wei Wuxian turns to the girl and tells her to supervise the other disciples as they spar. She nods, then hurries off to whip her fellow disciples into shape.

Before he’s done, though, there’s one more thing he needs to say. “Oh, and if anyone asks where you learned this from—”

“Then,” a new voice says, cutting deep into Wei Wuxian’s flesh even without a blade and twisting deep into his heart, “I’ll have to ask for your name.”

There is a storm that rages, and the beast within him is terrified. No, it cries, clawing desperately at the walls that trap it in. No, not like this, I didn’t mean to.

The stranger is absent, and even so, Wei Wuxian hurts, he feels nauseous, he wants to go far away and never return—

But he’s better than that. He’s above that. So he pulls his weimao down, steadies his veil, and turns to face the formidable Jiang Wanyin.

In the darkest depths of his mind, Wei Wuxian thinks, he looks just like he did before.

From an outsider’s perspective, there is little to indicate any difference between a disciple and the Sect Leader from their uniforms. There is power in unity, and unlike the Gusu Lan Sect, which holds their precious rules above all else, those who wear those purple robes stand together to form a wall, a fortress against attack. They stand together. They fall together.

And the most formidable of all of them is the man who stands before Wei Wuxian, thunder in his voice and lightning in his hands. His eyes hold the same fury as they did before, and distantly, Wei Wuxian wonders if the fire that burns within him has ever rested.

“What a welcoming sight,” Wei Wuxian says blandly, taking in Jiang Wanyin’s tense posture, the snarl on his lips, and Zidian in his hands. His heart pounds so quickly that it almost aches.

Jiang Wanyin isn’t dissuaded in the slightest. If anything, his hackles rise even further, and the sharp smell of an oncoming storm surrounds him. “Get out,” he snaps at the disciples, who quickly flee the scene, wide-eyed and terrified.

The braided-hair girl looks back at Wei Wuxian one final time, then joins the rest of her friends. Their figures disappear into the manor, so small against the looming shadows that cast upon them.

“Well met, Sect Leader Jiang,” Wei Wuxian says, balancing his words like a newborn’s first steps. His voice wavers for a moment, and he rights it in a single breath. “It seems you’ve been eager to meet me as well.”

Anger doesn’t deserve to find a home so readily on Jiang Wanyin’s features, but it’s festered too deep and for too long. “I would recognize that voice anywhere.” His voice rises as he marches toward Wei Wuxian. “So you’ve come back, have you?”

“Not this again,” Wei Wuxian sighs, spreading his hands.

The strike comes when and as he expects it to. Zidian’s crackling aura stings his skin and fills the air with a pungent, sweet odour. The whip snaps at him, striking at him with savage bites, but his threads weave faster than any human could ever hope to stand a fighting chance against.

With a twist of his wrists, Wei Wuxian catches Zidian between his strings, pulling back with the intention of tearing the weapon from Jiang Wanyin’s hands.

The sect leader barely stumbles. He only moves forward, always, never stopping, never resting.

Of course it would come to this.

(Things are never easy with Jiang Cheng.)

Wei Wuxian releases a sharp whistle. The sound pierces through to the stars, dragging them down in the form of arches that snap down on Zidian, pining it to the ground. Even still, Wei Wuxian holds a tight grip on his strings.

“Sect Leader Jiang,” says Wei Wuxian, the warning evident in his voice, “Jiang Wanyin. If I’ve done something to offend you, I would prefer we hold a civil conversation instead of jumping to conclusions.”

“Don’t think you can fool me with your shoddy acting,” Jiang Wanyin says, his voice as cold as Wei Wuxian feels. “How dare you come here. After everything you’ve done, everyone you’ve killed, do you still believe you belong somewhere?”

The words are like poison in Wei Wuxian’s blood. It trickles slowly, quietly, filling his lungs and his heart until he drowns in his own hypocrisy. He’s dying, and the one who led the storm home was nobody but himself.

Or so he feels. But if there’s one thing Wei Wuxian has learned, it’s that his feelings will always find a way to betray him.

“Jiang Wanyin,” Wei Wuxian calls. Listen to me, he doesn’t say. “I have had this conversation a thousand times, and I would very much appreciate it if you didn’t force me to repeat it.”

For a moment, something flickers on the young sect leader’s face. “What conversation?”

Wei Wuxian allows his grip to loosen. “This may sound very foolish to you, but gods of luck are born with abysmal luck,” he says. When confusion clashes with anger, Wei Wuxian sighs. “Imagine being born into the world, not a memory to your name, with the form of a demon. You can imagine how bewildered I was when people began calling me by a name I was entirely unfamiliar with.”

Every word is a lie. He takes a breath and feels a blade in his gut. He looks down and sees nothing but peonies.

As suspicion takes anger’s place, his eyes narrow. The aura of his lightning surrounds him, protects him. “And what name was that,” Jiang Wanyin demands, not asks.

“Why, Wei Wuxian, the infamous man-turned-monster,” he says, forcing his own name off his tongue as fluidly as he can feign. Putting on a bitter smile, Wei Wuxian lifts his eyes for Jiang Wanyin, wondering if he’ll ever find what he’s searching for in that endless spiral of stars. “That treacherous man must have been dragged to the deepest depths of hell to suffer. It’s unfortunate that I’ve been given the form of such a vile thing, but—”

Zidian snaps with a violence and fury that startles Wei Wuxian from his words. It writhes under the divine grip of the stars, burning deep gashes into the ground like a caged beast.

Jiang Wanyin’s face is warped with a rage so palpable that Wei Wuxian can feel the flames on his skin. “Don’t you dare speak of him so casually!”

Why is he so furious? The Yiling Patriarch belongs to everybody in the sense that he’s slandered and spit on by everyone. Yet here Jiang Wanyin stands, holding the right to his existence as if it’s an heirloom, and Wei Wuxian is rightly confused.

“Alright,” Wei Wuxian finally says, relenting. With a snap of his fingers, the arches disappear. “Well, you’ve heard me out. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to convince you, but think long and hard if the heavens would ever choose a murderer to fill the position as a god of luck. After all—”

A small small, a tilt of the head. The stars in Wei Wuxian’s eyes shine like they never have before.

“Gods exist to safe those who suffer. Was the Yiling Patriarch ever able to save anyone?”

There’s a war waging within Jiang Wanyin, and it shows on his face. His breathes are deep and ragged, then shallow and quick, and he finally dispels Zidian.

“You will remain in Lotus Pier until you—prove yourself worthy of your words,” snaps Jiang Wanyin, the stumble in his words almost imperceptible. His every word is a command, and Wei Wuxian is beholden to him. “If you’re lying, then you’ll greet death for the second time at my hands.”

Maybe I’ll stay gone this time, something within him whispers, unable to tear itself from the darkness that falls over the sect leader’s face.

The stranger’s back, is he? Good. Let him watch, and let him die.

Wei Wuxian lets his head fall slightly to the side. “If I really cared about my status, I wouldn’t be so kind.” He shakes his head, then gives a tired smile. “But I’ll accept your generous hospitality. What would you have me do, Sect Leader Jiang?”

The question feels right. In a kinder world, the words would be spoken again and again, until the sun set on a world at peace and two brothers united, always, never—

There is something here that he has lost and can never reclaim. It’s alright.

Jiang Chenyi said to him, there’s a difference between salvaging what’s left and nurturing what’s left.

Wei Wuxian doesn’t even know what he’s nurturing. All he knows is that he wants it to heal and prosper.

Before him, Jiang Wanyin is unmoving. He studies Wei Wuxian’s form for a long time, but no matter where he looks, all he sees is a god.

“You will watch the junior disciples and see to their training,” he says at last, spitting out the words as if to rid himself of them as quickly as possible.

“Very well,” Wei Wuxian answers with a dip of his head. “Then I’ll see you again tomorrow.”

As he turns to leave the training grounds, fully prepared to seek out the inn from whence he came, Jiang Wanyin’s sharp voice calls out, “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To an inn.” Gesturing to the setting sun, Wei Wuxian stares back. “Is there something wrong?”

“You’ll stay in the Jiang manor,” the young sect leader orders. His voice leaves no room for debate, and his eyes are dark.

That isn’t a problem, but the way Jiang Wanyin curses and looks away says otherwise. Regardless, Wei Wuxian is in no position to argue. He has no reason to argue.

“Then,” he begins, unsure of what to say, “if you could please lead the way. I would appreciate it greatly.”

Jiang Wanyin turns before he can speak any further. Lightning arcs in his steps, lashing out at anything that moves, but Wei Wuxian follows closely behind.

You can demand anything of me, he thinks, feeling his heart close as the shadow of the manor falls over him and the cold of the halls strikes his very soul.

I will try to do better, he thinks, struggling to remove a blade in his stomach that doesn’t exist.

I’m sorry, he can’t say, because his words will never be enough.

He feels empty. He feels full. He’s so, so empty, reaching out desperately to fill the ache inside him; he is utterly full, having gorged himself on all those he killed. He is nothing. He is everything. It doesn’t matter anymore.

I missed you, he wants to say, the desire clinging to his lips so desperately that the words almost spring from his tongue.

But it’s too late. There’s no fixing what has been torn apart.

All Wei Wuxian can do now is reach out and try to build something better, something brighter, where the sins of the past can finally give way to the beauty of the future.

Once, twice, three times. To trust someone fully is to heal. Slowly but surely, the wounds will mend. The bridges will be built.

Step by step, Wei Wuxian follows after Jiang Cheng.

(I broke my promise. I couldn’t stand by you then. I’m sorry.

But I’m here now. I’m here. I’m here.

Whether or not you accept me—

Whether or not you forgive me—

I’ll be here.)

The river by Lotus Pier is a marvel of nature, vast but gentle, a silent being that cuts its way through the earth and eases the very essence of life into the path it treads. The first settlers who found their way to the edge of the waters must have looked deep into the strange world that reflected back, eyes full of wonder, for if they simply reached out their hands a little further, the stars would be within their reach, blooming among a sea of lotus flowers.

When the early morning sun peeks just over the horizon, all is still until the first of the boats set sail to collect the lanterns that float by the pier, the gilded lotus lights that guide the way for those who travel under the veil of night.

Wei Wuxian believes that most of the boatmen despise him with a burning passion. He is, after all, their local god-turned-menace.

Standing atop the roof of the disciples’ quarters, Wei Wuxian clears his throat.

Then, raising two golden swords in above his head, he clashes them together with an awful, dissonant sound that pierces violently through the haze of sleep. The very air around him vibrates, shakes, and shatters as Wei Wuxian gleefully hops from roof to roof, knowing very well that the children must be scrambling to arm themselves.

“Wake up!” he yells, throwing his own tone to the cacophony. “You know the drill! The lucky disciple who gets the most lanterns chooses who goes in the river!”

Beneath him, the disciples barge through the doors as if they’ve been possessed. They barely look at Wei Wuxian, instead choosing to mount their swords as swiftly as possible. In mere moments, all of them have already shot off toward the pier.

As someone who has a fraction of the energy these lively, chaotic children possess, Wei Wuxian opts for a leisurely stroll instead. He leaps from rooftop to rooftop lightly, taking care not to disrupt the rare few who sleep on even after witnessing calamity incarnate pass over their heads.

A familiar group atop the watchtowers catches his eye.

“Good morning,” he greets the night watchmen, who peer down at him from the towers with such stony expressions that they could become one with the walls and look no different. Wei Wuxian levels his typical bright smile at them, and as usual, it’s as effective as attempting to charm a wall into moving. “I’m sorry for the noise. Children will be children.”

The guards sigh as if to expel all the life from their bodies. “Yes, of course,” one of them snarks back, deadpan as always. “The whims of gods and children are far too complex for mortals like us to understand.”

The others nod despairingly, running their hands down their faces in half-hearted attempts to scrub the exhaustion from their eyes. With the arrival of their junior disciples, their shifts are officially done for the day. In any other circumstance, they would most likely thank the gods for their mercy, but ever since meeting Wei Wuxian, their silent mutterings have ceased entirely.

It’s a respectable decision. Wei Wuxian wouldn’t put his faith in any god, much less himself.

As the sun slowly begins its ascent into the vacant skies, it leaves the echo of night in its wake. The clouds tear and shred in its presence, folding into whatever shape the morning light bends it into, awash with any and all radiance they can capture within their tumultuous forms.

It’s a good day. It’s a normal day. It’s simply a day, a morning, and that’s what makes it beautiful.

There is laughter in the wind that doesn’t belong to him or to anyone else. However far it should carry, however long it should choose to resonate, it’s a choice to be made by those who hold enough courage and innocence to face any challenge and find humour in the absurdity of it all.

That’s exactly what Wei Wuxian has been training these disciples to do, after all.

The wood beneath his shoes is already slick with remnants of what can only have been a battle for the few remaining lotus lanterns. Before him, panting and heaving and protecting their collection of lanterns as if their very lives depend on them, are sixteen children that any lesser person would assume attempted to bring bloody vengeance to the river and fled in disgrace when they learned that you cannot, in fact, win against nature.

Among all of them, there isn’t a single set of purple robes that can be considered remotely dry.

“Well done,” Wei Wuxian chirps, pinning the veil of his weimao back. “You get faster and faster every day. Nobody fell in the river this time, I hope?”

Sixteen razor-sharp smiles rise to meet his challenge. They used to be so shy, so meek, so unsure of how to treat a god, and now they point unseen knives at him with glee.

With a dignified huff, Wei Wuxian gestures dismissively. “Fine, fine. Count away. Who won this time?”

Common courtesy dictates that the disciples lay down their swords as a gesture of peace, but competition reasons that it’s only natural to set down territorial markings as to avoid accidentally counting another’s lanterns.

Faint mumbles fill the air, slowly trailing off as those who realize they didn’t fly quickly enough curse under their breaths and fall back onto the wet wood. One by one, the methodical counting fades, until only one voice fills the void.

“Seventy-one, seventy-two, seventy-three,” the last disciple says, rising in both volume and pride when he realizes he’s won. “Seventy-four,” he continues smugly, placing down another lotus lantern down with purpose. “Seventy-five, seventy-six!”

Some cheer, some huff with frustration, and some petulantly shout, “That isn’t a record or anything!”

Seventy-six isn’t a record, but it’s an impressive number nonetheless. It doesn’t make a difference. Wei Wuxian feels the same pride swell in his stomach whether the number is one or one hundred.

“Alright, settle down,” he says, waving for everyone to sit down. They do so without complaint, falling onto the pier as the tension drains from their limbs and the weight of their waterlogged robes begins to outweigh their excitement.

With their morning routine completed, there’s only one thing left to do.

Wei Wuxian turns to the victor, removes his weimao, and hands it to him. The boy takes it gingerly, splaying golden peonies across his arms, but his self-satisfied smile betrays him.

“Since I won,” the boy says, reciting the same words Wei Wuxian has heard every morning for the past six months, “I choose Fuxing to get thrown into the river!”

Immediately, the children all surge up in one united wave, wearing grins that smell of mischief and the endless blue skies after heavy rains. They push at him with their tiny hands, still so soft and warm, laughing like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

When Wei Wuxian’s feet are just barely over the edge of the pier, the disciples take one deep breath and shout, “Are you ready?”

“Of course,” he answers, and the words barely leave his lips before a force far greater than children should be able to exert throws him into the river.

He is, as usual, wearing his divine garments. There’s a sadistic sort of enjoyment to be had in ruining something precious, and Wei Wuxian won’t take that away from the juniors. By the time he’s had enough of watching the current go by, they’ll have all finished breakfast and completed their sword forms.

For now, Wei Wuxian is alone, and he is at peace.

The world beneath the surface of the water is a quiet one. At first, all that fills his ears is the rush of his robes and the beat of his own heart. Humans have an urge to feel proof of their own lives no matter where they are, and Wei Wuxian is no different.

But as he raises his hands to his ears, the faint rumbling of his blood becomes the steady heartbeat of the world. He opens his eyes to a land that is cold and dark but not unwelcoming. The light that peers through the ebbing boundary above him scatters like falling stars, etching rippling lines of marble onto everything it touches.

Wei Wuxian allows himself to be one with the water for only a moment.

He has a duty here, and under no circumstances will he allow himself to shirk it. So he shakes himself free of his thoughtless daydreams, breaks the surface of the river, and lifts himself back onto the pier with the aid of his strings.

“I see you still insist on forcing your childish ways upon the junior disciples.”

There is a storm that finds its home in Lotus Pier. It wields its fury in furious bolts of lightning and roars of thunder. There is a storm in Lotus Pier, but no storm can rage forever; what lies between those spectacular bursts of energy are endless blue skies, so utterly kind and proud.

There is a storm that protects Lotus Pier, and upon its shoulders rests the regalia of a man beholden to a world that has given him nothing.

(Wisteria. Jiang Wanyin is like wisteria. He will hold onto what he loves even if it should break in his grasp.)

“Jiang Wanyin,” Wei Wuxian greets, nodding his head. His robes cling to his body and drip into a sizeable puddle, but he smiles all the same. “Good morning. I sincerely apologize if we woke you up.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” the sect leader says, unimpressed. His arms are crossed in that achingly proud posture of his that always smells distantly of rain. “I thought I told you to stop fooling around and take your duties seriously months ago, yet you’re still doing—” A sharp gesture, a half-twist of the wrist, followed by an expression of displeasure. “Whatever this nonsense is.”

Despite the disapproval in Jiang Wanyin’s voice, Wei Wuxian knows that it holds no real animosity. The fire in those eyes burns, burns, and burns, but only when something throws more kindling into the flames. Exhaustion and weariness are far more common on his stiff features.

So Wei Wuxian instead focuses on wringing out his robes, weaving drying sigils onto the waterlogged garments once he’s done. “There’s more to training than meditation and sword forms,” he says. “Spiritual growth is fine for a cultivator, but it’s emotional growth that makes a respectable person respectable. Let the other sects have their disciples repeat the same dull days over and over; it’ll take tragedy for them to mature, but the children of Yunmeng will learn to flourish without drawing their blades.”

Jiang Wanyin’s unwavering gaze studies Wei Wuxian and relents by only a fraction when he finds no deceit. “If you were anything less than a god, I would throw you out of Lotus Pier and see that you never return,” he snaps.

“If I gave you empty results, I’d throw myself out,” Wei Wuxian says, offering a bright grin. “But the juniors have been making incredible progress with their cultivation, haven’t they? So they’ll keep collecting lanterns and pushing me into the river.”

With a snap of his fingers, heat dances from the collar of his robes down to his feet, expelling the water into a neat orb and crushing it with vaporizing heat. A passing boatman gives him an irritated glare for having disrupted his morning routine with sixteen audacious children on flying swords.

Wei Wuxian waves back. Jiang Wanyin snorts. The boatman, upon catching sight of Lotus Pier’s revered sext leader, bows in a fluster.

“Well, I doubt you went through such lengths to find me so early in the morning when you could have left it all for dinner,” Wei Wuxian says, setting his weimao back on his head. “Is there something you need me to do?”

Jiang Wanyin lets out a short huff. “The Discussion Conference is taking place in Lanling this year,” he explains.

That’s some ways northeast of Yunmeng. Wei Wuxian has yet to travel any further than Yunmeng, and though he feels no yearning to reach more distant horizons, he would like to see how far his freedom will take him. “I see.”

“I have no doubt whatsoever that the Lanling Jin Sect will shamelessly flaunt all their newly acquired assets regardless of what Jin Guangyao says,” Jiang Wanyin spits, viciously displeased.

Wei Wuxian isn’t surprised. The death of the Yiling Patriarch left a void in the cultivation world; those who banded together to defeat him were quick to stumble over each other in an attempt to be the one to fill that void. With riches and status, it isn’t very surprising that the Lanling Jin Sect should find their footing faster than any others.

Jin Guangshan’s death was a small blessing. Under the guidance of Jin Guangyao, perhaps there will be brighter days ahead.

“It’s quite petty,” Wei Wuxian mutters, the faintest itch of irritation scratching at him, “and very arrogant.”

“Of course it is,” Jiang Wanyin says, and Zidian’s sharp scent reaches Wei Wuxian’s nose for a short moment. Then the sect leader’s stormy eyes give way to something else, and he lifts his chin. “Which is why you’ll be going with to the Discussion Conference as well.”

For a moment, Wei Wuxian finds himself at a loss for words. His stomach through his feet and he feels dizzy.

So many cultivators, all with familiar names, familiar faces, united in their hatred for him, demanding his swift and painful annihilation—yet he couldn’t care less what their names are, what sickly blood they carry in their veins, what pointless drivel spouts from their filthy mouths. All he wants is for everything before him to end, to stop breathing, to stop living, to stop existing, and in the emptiness that follows after, he wants to tear his heart to shreds and laugh at how trivial, how utterly absurd every waking moment of his life has been. He wants there to be silence. He wants to be alone. He wants to end.

And then he breathes, his hands flush with gold, and there is a man who has lost far too much and gained far too little standing before him, his eyes narrowed as he watches Wei Wuxian blink rapidly.

Wei Wuxian coughs into his sleeve. He tastes blood on his tongue that he knows doesn’t exist. There are words on his tongue that linger even after all this time, and he is very careful not to ever let them slip.

Instead, he lets his head fall to the side, blinks innocently, and asks, “Is that a wise decision?”

Jiang Wanyin’s burning gaze flickers once, twice, and finally finds a home in the lonely pavillion that stands among in the most beautiful of lotus flowers. “It’s my decision,” he declares, an ice that burns like fire coating every word. “They may think me young and naive, but I refuse to let them look at Yunmeng and see something pitiful.”

His last words are bitter and cutting, a challenge to the entire world.

Jiang Wanyin’s pride is a mystifying thing. There’s nothing that can be compared to it; its existence is far too unique and complex to degrade into something simpler. If Wei Wuxian were a foolish man, he would say it resembles the sun, always present no matter how devastating the storm or formidable the tempest.

It’s accurate, in some ways. But Wei Wuxian knows better.

Jiang Wanyin’s pride is a mystifying thing because it’s so deeply intertwined with who he is as a person. And Jiang Wanyin is a mystifying man.

“I don’t belong to anyone,” Wei Wuxian says. He feels wrong. His hands are clammy and his mouth is dry. He shouldn’t say this. He needs to. “I’ll bless your disciples, your lands, and your future, but you will not use my name as a weapon.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Jiang Wanyin sneers, his fury turning on Wei Wuxian like a wildfire. “When did I ask to own you?”

He never did. Wei Wuxian is just a coward.

Always, forever, Jiang Wanyin is swathed in so much despair and anger, yet what twists his expression is something desperate. His voice is younger, he smells of ash, there are hands closing around Wei Wuxian’s neck that burn with hatred and demand he return the lives he stole. “You’ve left your touch everywhere in Lotus Pier. In the buildings, the people, the disciples—you can never get enough, can you?”

Wei Wuxian can’t breath. The flames choke out his every breath, filling him with soot as black as night. “Jiang Wanyin—”

“No matter what, you always find a way to take everything!” Jiang Wanyin’s voice is all around him; it doesn’t exist, it is born again. It echoes forever, it is, it isn’t. The smell of lightning surrounds him, and the storm is endless. “Is it entertaining, having the luxury of choosing your own home? Does it make you laugh when you’re given the things we have to fight for? When will you be satisfied?”

He rages, he despairs, he seeks answers from a shattered mirror. He grasps at the remnants of something that has died and will never return.

“Jiang Wanyin,” Wei Wuxian says, forcing the thrum of divinity into his voice. It tastes of sickly sweet honey and drips down his throat like blood. “You should hold those questions to your heart until you find the one who truly needs to hear them.”

In an instant, Jiang Wanyin’s breath stutters, and his fury wavers.

Wei Wuxian is many things, but he is not the man Jiang Wanyin is searching for.

Distantly, Wei Wuxian thinks of how the disciples will stare at him with innocent curiosity when he is late to give them their guidance for the day.

There’s no use in continuing this conversation. “I won’t go to the Discussion Conference,” Wei Wuxian says, following the slump of Jiang Wanyin’s shoulders as exhaustion finally catches up to the young sect leader. “Politics have always been a travesty of a thing to me. You know that flaunting a god before the eyes of the entire cultivation world will only bring chaos to Lotus Pier.”

The thought of being paraded through golden streets as a weapon is sickening. It cuts a hole in his heart, fills it with tar, and laughs as he struggles to rise to his feet and face the world. He can’t do it. He won’t do it. Not again, not ever.

For a while, Jiang Wanyin is silent. He rests his face in his palm, shutting his eyes as if he’s in pain. There will be no apology from him, and Wei Wuxian is better off without it. To one each other, always, they will never be able to say I’m sorry.

“You look like you’re about to keel over,” Wei Wuxian sighs, clapping a hand over Jiang Wanyin’s shoulder. The man doesn’t so much as flinch under his touch, and Wei Wuxian knows that his outburst was a result of exhaustion and frustration more than anything else.

“Don’t touch me,” Jiang Wanyin grumbles, shrugging out of his grip. His voice is petulant rather than truly upset. “We leave in ten days. If you so much as make any of the disciples fall ill, I’ll break your legs.”

“Yes, yes,” Wei Wuxian agrees easily. “Now go and rest. I’ll get one of the children to call Jiang Chenyi to help you with the trade agreements.”

“I’m not that weak,” the sect leader snaps, though he says nothing about refusing help. He turns to return back to the manor, and Wei Wuxian follows with a bright smile.

Jiang Chenyi is an intelligent young maiden. Being a morally righteous and upstanding individual, she won’t drug her sect leader. Being a merchant and a businessperson who understands that rest and recuperation are the truest methods to achieving efficiency, she’ll most likely slip some choice additives into whatever tea she serves Jiang Wanyin, then whisper for the servants to help escort their sect leader to his quarters.

It isn’t as outlandish as it seems. Wei Wuxian has seen it happen before. There is a very good reason as to why he holds both respect and fear for Jiang Chenyi.

Wei Wuxian is quick to shape the conversation into something more pleasant. He speaks of everything and anything he can think of: new spells he’s invented, the state of major construction projects, his amusement with foreign merchants who stumble over themselves after accidentally calling out to a god, the disciples’ steady progress in cultivation. He has always been good at filling silence with incessant noise, and Jiang Wanyin fills the breaks in his sentences with sharp comments of his own.

Over the past six months, their relationship has grown and strained, has been pulled taught and released. They will act as if they’ve known each other their entire lives, teasing and angry and casual, and then Jiang Wanyin will find something in Wei Wuxian that drags them both back to the past.

It’s alright. It’s better than anything Wei Wuxian could have ever wanted. It simply is.

“Sweet dreams,” Wei Wuxian chirps as Jiang Wanyin steps into his study.

The young sect leader gives him a withering glare, and before anything can be thrown his way, Wei Wuxian is already gone.

What a strange existence they lead. It’s ridiculous to think that, once, Wei Wuxian looked at humans and found their emotions and interactions to be a subject of study, a curious detail that required explanation or reasoning.

Where is he now? What is he now? How is he any different than those strange, nonsensical beings?

It doesn’t matter. The Discussion Conference will soon be upon them, and there is much fun to be had in destroying the expectations of others by grabbing hold of their pride and destroying it.

There are many curious aspects to being a god.

Divinity and absolute control over luck is what gives Wei Wuxian the name Fuxing. He is a god, a divine being whose fingers pluck out strings of fate to weave into lavish tapestries and dramatic tales. He holds the stars in his hands and owns everything and nothing at once. He is unmatched in his ability to usher in change.

The most curious object in his arsenal of peculiar talents, however, is his ability to rend the barrier between reality and its reflection.

There is a sky above Wei Wuxian that sings ancient hymns of creation and destruction. What hangs in the delicate balance between the skies and the heavens laughs distantly, each resonating note a burst of gold and silver. To any lesser being, they’re simply stars. To Wei Wuxian, they are the unfortunate souls whose curiosity has trapped them within an unfamiliar world with unfamiliar rules, where they will spend the rest of their eternal lives hunting down the spark of life from beyond the blackened skies.

Let them seek all they want. Perhaps they expect an easy meal or an entertaining chase. What they will find instead is sixteen disciples with silver bells to tether them back to reality, armed with bows crafted from the finest wood and arrows enchanted with the most divine of spells.

“Fuxing,” Jiang Muai calls, her sharp voice echoing through the ever-shifting trees, “we’re just about done!”

Her voice grows closer and closer, and with a soft huff of exertion and a gentle thud against the hollow forest ground, a mass of shadow walks toward him.

Wei Wuxian only recognizes Jiang Muai by the brilliant full moons that shine in place of her eyes. There is, of course, also the single braid that trails back into a ponytail.

As if summoning the others with her voice, a small crowd of shadows slinks from the hanging trees, separating themselves from the darkness of the forest to writhe under the light of the false moon above them.

Fortunately, Wei Wuxian’s head count results in sixteen child-sized monstrosities. They watch him with eyes that study his every move, tracing the wisps of his golden aura as it repels the influence of the realm, and although it is and has always been unnerving, it would be shameful if Wei Wuxian refused to place the same amount of trust in his students as they have in him.

“Congratulations on clearing out the dusk sprites,” Wei Wuxian says, clapping his hands together with a smile that cuts through the darkness in more ways that one. “As you all know, we could have exorcised them as ghosts back home, but that would be a hideous waste of a rare opportunity.”

The shadowy disciples before him grumble. Their luminous eyes glint back in faint irritation.

“Don’t give me that,” Wei Wuxian scolds, his hands on his hips. “The Discussion Conference will be upon us in no time at all. That means, of course, that Sect Leader Jiang will be expecting at least one of you to place in the top four.”

Speaking Jiang Wanyin’s name has the same effect as unsheathing the first inch of a blade. It scatters the dark tendrils that cling to the disciples for a fleeting second, revealing young, soft cheeks pulled taught with determination. Their fingers tighten around their golden bows as they gather around Wei Wuxian, and they swing their quivers over their stomachs for him to refill.

“You’ve all done very well these past few days,” Wei Wuxian says. His fingers move separately from his mind, weaving together arrows made of fallen stars. “Today will be the last day we spend in the Other Side. Starting tomorrow, you’ll apply your skills to situations similar to what you’ll face in Lanling.”

Jiang Muai’s lustrous eyes narrow. “Are we shooting moving targets on the watchtowers again?”

“Yes,” answers Wei Wuxian. That was an enjoyable experience. He feels sorry for the disciples on duty at the towers, but he also appreciates their sacrifice.

“Sect Leader Jiang didn’t like it when we did it before,” Jiang Muai says, with emphasis.

Wei Wuxian snorts. His fingers linger with stardust even after he slides the last arrow into the last quiver. “Jiang Wanyin is a killjoy and far too stressed to understand what fun is. Besides, we aren’t quite done here.”

There is a lilt in his voice that demands the undivided attention of all those who reside within his presence. His disciples fall silent. Their forms are warped and bleeding black as night, yet they will never be lost, not with his guidance, not with their strength.

“A certain creature resides in these woods,” Wei Wuxian says.

His words summon a gale as cold as death and as furious as the storm. It’s almost laughable. How could the children of Lotus Pier be intimidated by storms when the man they respect the most embodies it?

“She is a maiden of great beauty and power,” Wei Wuxian continues, his every word lyrical. “In this forest of night, she is the only being who retains her light. She carries her light in a sash of flowers, rumoured to be one of the most powerful magical artefacts known to either side.”

“What do you want us to do?” Jiang Muai asks.

Ah, Wei Wuxian wants. He can feel it: the Other Realm shouldn’t be, it shouldn’t exist under any means, and the further he breaks the false deities who hold the light captive, the more this strange world will reveal itself to him.

“Shoot her down,” he commands, grabbing hold of the roaring winds and shattering them in his grip. They die with a trickling scream, and he smiles. “Bring me her sash. Make me proud.”

Wei Wuxian knows that any more words are unnecessary. With a single firm nod, Jiang Muai releases a sharp whistle, and with a burst of shadow, the disciples are gone. He’s given them the scent; they’ll return with the spoils soon enough.

Distantly, the call of the hunt rings out.

Someone screams, struggles, and falls silent.

Another moon falls.

By now, Wei Wuxian has settled comfortably into everyday life at Lotus Pier.

It goes something like this:

Oftentimes, he will forgo sleep in order to bury himself in manuscripts. There are countless spells that could be created in order to make Lotus Pier stronger, safer, happier, all for the people, for the undying spirit of the river that calls to its children no matter how high the flames reach, for the ache in his heart that has slowly faded to a yearning.

There is so much to do, and not nearly enough time to do it all in the meager hours of daylight. He wants so badly to rekindle the embers of innovation within him. He aches to prove to the world that a golden core can be lost, can be given, can be born, can never be had at all.

But Wei Wuxian sees the exhaustion in Jiang Wanyin’s eyes. He hears the sigh in Jiang Wanyin’s voice when they share a table for dinner. He watches Jiang Wanyin’s anger burn, burn, and burn until there is nothing left but embers that flicker and ashes that are lost to the wind. He pretends not to know that Jiang Wanyin wakes from his nightmares with ragged breaths in his throat and wordless cries on his lips.

Jiang Wanyin is many things. He is not, never has been, and never will be weak.

There are nights where Wei Wuxian and Jiang Wanyin cross paths in the moonlit halls. Sometimes their steps falter, and eyes that bear storms will meet eyes that slay stars. Sometimes they cannot bring themselves to accept the other’s presence, and they continue endlessly into the night, alone, always.

Goodbye is not a phrase either of them know how to say.

The distant lights of the lotus lanterns ebb, rising and falling. Silver bells chime through Wei Wuxian’s foolish self and shame flows through him like the river.

How has he deluded himself into believing his selfishness will ever be anything kind? What will it take for Wei Wuxian to finally learn what selflessness truly is?

Surely Jiang Wanyin knows, but—

But Wei Wuxian feels that if he should ever ask Jiang Wanyin what it feels like to lose and expect nothing in return, the fragile friendship they’ve built will shatter irreparably.

(He was a man who was like cracked glass.

No matter how much water you poured into him, he would never be filled. He has power, he has status, he has the fear and admiration of all who speak his name, and yet he is always riddled with despair.

Who was it that put the crack in the glass?)

Days pass, nights pass, and Wei Wuxian is beholden to Jiang Wanyin.

What can he do? How can he show that he wants to help, truly, without taking away any more than he already has?

The night is cruel; the night is kind. Whenever Wei Wuxian reaches his hands out to help, he pushes those he loves aside and turns away as they burn. So he does what he knows best.

He stitches divine protections into any and all robes he can get his hands on. He carves bells from jade and whispers blessings into their gentle chime. He etches sigils onto blades that will one day see battle. He lowers his hand again and again, and no matter how many lanterns may fall within his empty tears, his hands are steady.

But the night can only last so long. The early morning light render the lotus lanterns obsolete, and Wei Wuxian will always allow himself to smile as he makes his way atop the disciples’ quarters.

Jiang Wanyin has asked him the same question too many times for Wei Wuxian to count.

Wei Wuxian will never give the same answer.

Always, never, stagnating, changing, they will never be able to agree.

But Jiang Wanyin knows the junior disciples are making incredible progress, so he throws biting words and smells of lightning, but never once does he raise Sandu at Wei Wuxian. His duties keep him from doing more, pulling him away over agreements and documents that sound dissonant and painful to the ear.

It’s rare for them to meet during the day. They both have their duties, and they both understand that there is something to prove and so much to lose.

Training the junior disciples feels like freedom. To them, Wei Wuxian is their teacher and their friend, a little strange, very powerful, but well-meaning and always willing to pull some coins out of his sleeves for a good meal or a quick snack.

“Fuxing,” they call, eagerly beckoning for him to come. They’re so young, but the curve of their bows fits so well into the arch of their backs; their hands grip swords as if they were born to wield them. “Mingyue said she heard about a water ghoul problem in a town down south! Can we go take care of it?”

Who is Wei Wuxian to deny them?

The children are swift and steady. They fly as one, always aware of each other at all times, wary whenever something occurs that they don’t understand, cautious even when executing formations they have practiced thousands of times.

Freedom will allow them to grow, but Wei Wuxian watches the skies closely.

Even in victory, they are united. All sixteen of them, led by Jiang Muai, will always return home, and Wei Wuxian will always be there to receive them.

“Well done,” he says, laughing as they gather around restaurant tables. They’re so full of life, so unashamed in their exploits and accepting of their mistakes that something great and powerful in Wei Wuxian shifts, and he finds himself cheering and pushing and teasing with them, part of their happy world for only a moment.

Then the distant song of the river calls out, and Wei Wuxian feels the weight of golden flowers in his hair and duty resting upon his shoulders.

When he is utterly alone, he’ll think, what am I doing? Why did you leave their lives in my hands? Aren’t you scared? Don’t you know how scared I am?

It doesn’t matter. The world has not been kind to Wei Wuxian, and one day, it will choose not to be kind to these children. When that day comes, instead of keeling over and cursing their weakness, they’ll look forward, always forward, and walk on, no matter how slowly their steps fall.

Keep moving. Find strength in yourself and others.

Training the junior disciples feels like freedom. With them, the thoughts that plague Wei Wuxian are kept at bay. The chaos of youth keeps him on his feet at all times, and as clever as the children have grown over the past six months, they always find ways to give him heart palpitations. It’s very stressful.

“Now, be very careful with the sash,” Wei Wuxian says, keeping his voice as calm and steady as he can manage. His gaze flickers between each of the sixteen exhausted but beaming children before him. They each carry a segment of the Spectral Maiden’s sash in their hands, weaving like a thin river dotted with blush-pink petals, which would be a welcome sight if the maiden’s vengeful spirit hadn’t suddenly decided to hunt them down to the ends of the earth.

It’s an unfortunate situation, but Wei Wuxian is more than familiar with unfortunate situations. He retrieves the sash from the children, ensures that his flat gaze is seen by all of them, and declares, “It was nice playing with you, kind maiden, but we’ll be taking our leave now.”

The following escape is a bit more dramatic than Wei Wuxian would have liked, involving an unexpected but not unappreciated retreat using the trees as catapults, shields, and weapons (the first is entertaining, the second is nerve-wracking, and the third is, frankly, terrifying).

If Wei Wuxian were by himself, the chase would be a bout of dramatic fun. With the juniors, however, he feels as if he’s slipped into Jiang Wanyin’s constant state of gut-wrenching panic. He calls out each and every one of their names and breathes a sigh of relief when they answer. The divine arrows Wei Wuxian slipped into their quivers rend the unending darkness with golden threads, each hit more accurate than the last.

When all has been said and done, Wei Wuxian drags the disciples out through the rippling boundary with his strings.

“That was so much fun!” Jiang Muai says, her eyes still shining with the touch of full-moon pearls. “Can we do that again sometime?”

The others are eager to voice their agreement, thrusting their bows into the air. Wei Wuxian feels warm. He feels stressed. He isn’t sure if the two feelings are related in any way. Despite it all, he smiles and promises to bring them on more night hunts if they behave.

As expected, Jiang Wanyin yells at them with thunder in his voice when they return. The juniors hide behind Wei Wuxian as their sect leader spits words they’ve all heard a hundred times.

You can’t catch lightning in a gourd. Similarly, you can’t shoot down the stars. Jiang Wanyin is always angry except for when he isn’t. Wei Wuxian remembers nothing except for when he remembers everything.

It’s alright. Jiang Wanyin has never been good at facing his emotions. He is cutting when he is kind and furious when he is concerned.

Don’t you dare go away without telling me, he doesn’t say.

You wouldn’t understand even if I told you, Wei Wuxian doesn’t say.

It’s simply another curious tangle in their relationship. Even the youngest of disciples know better than to inquire too deeply about why their sect leader shares such a strange bond with their resident god.

In archery, in swordsmanship, in penmanship, in whatever Wei Wuxian can possibly think of and imagine, the disciples grow in leaps and bounds. They hone their skills not only because they desire strength, but also because they love their family, their sect, everything within Lotus Pier’s gates.

Wei Wuxian knows how much they love what life has given them. He watches as they stop to admire the rising sun above rippling waters and feels his heart ease.

When their morning routines are over, Wei Wuxian dismisses them with a nod of his head. Their heads bow to him, so honest and innocent, and they turn to do their part in town. Their small backs disappear into a great, wide world, and Wei Wuxian looks up at the sky.

There’s so much to do, and he will never know if he’ll be able to do it all before the chances die around him. So he sets out after his disciples. Will they ever understand how much they’ve given him? Will they ever know?

Never, always, the words are lost.

Sometimes, Jiang Chenyi asks for his assistance in discussing trade agreements. Wei Wuxian knows that all he needs to do is look presentable and smile kindly, because any and all foreign merchants who catch sight of Lotus Pier’s god of luck will pale and agree to anything.

Sometimes, Jiang Chenyi will invite Wei Wuxian to tea. Over the past few months, her behaviour toward him has changed entirely. She’s calmed down, in a way. She’s grown. Or maybe she simply sees Wei Wuxian for what he really is.

She smiles and laughs when Wei Wuxian speaks of the junior disciples’ antics. She listens quietly when Wei Wuxian’s words stutter and he speaks of Jiang Wanyin. No matter what Wei Wuxian says, she seems content in simply sitting across from him and watching the smooth flow of his voice shake and shatter. Running her fingers in her palms, on the rim of her cup, over her knuckles, she is quiet but not silent.

“You’ve done a lot for Lotus Pier,” she says. The proud banners of Yunmeng Jiang fall down endlessly, swaying in the gentle breeze like wisteria. “Sect Leader Jiang won’t ever say it, but I think he’s grateful.”

For what? To whom?

Jiang Chenyi doesn’t say, and Wei Wuxian doesn’t ask.

Sometimes, when the days are too long and the rain falls relentlessly, Wei Wuxian will sing a wordless lullaby for everyone who seeks refuge under the high roofs of the teahouse. They know him well, and they know his song even better. Some hum along, while others trace their fingers on their tables, and others still sigh and rest.

Lotus Pier is rebuilding, and Wei Wuxian is helping. He’d like to believe it. It would be nice if he could believe it.

For the most part, the days are good. His disciples look to him for guidance and find strength in the freedom he has given them. The townspeople greet him kindly and call for him to try their products or lend his knowledge. The Yunmeng Jiang Sect respects him and listen attentively when he speaks.

This is what I wanted, Wei Wuxian thinks in the darkest of nights. I don’t want anything but this.

This is what it could have been, something in him whispers. This is what you had, and you turned away from it.

Sometimes, Jiang Wanyin will leave Lotus Pier to fulfill his duties. He leaves with his head held high, smelling of rain and flowers. In his absence, Jiang Chenyi works twice as hard, filling in whatever void her sect leader has left with her extensive knowledge of legal procedures and local problems.

“The swordsmiths have been trying to get their hands on some experimental ores, but they’re awfully expensive and our budget isn’t as flexible as I’d like it to be,” she mutters to herself. Her brush taps once, twice, three times on the table, and she looks up at Wei Wuxian. “I hate to bother you, but could you talk to them and see if it’s worth considering?”

Nobody here asks him for wealth or blessings. They simply ask him for help.

It makes him feel warm. It makes him feel as if he isn’t only the strings he weaves.

The swordsmiths greet Wei Wuxian warmly, eager to show him their recent works. They hand him blades etched with lotus flowers and crescent moons that fit comfortably in his grip and bend to his will. Each blade speaks of immeasurable skill and smells faintly of fire.

When Wei Wuxian asks them why they desire unfamiliar ores when everything they create is already so fine, the swordsmiths look nervously at each other.

“We kinda just wanted to get your attention,” they admit. “You’re always running around town, and we wanted to take a peek at your swords. You know. The eight gold ones?”

Wei Wuxian does, in fact, know. “Of course,” he says easily, more than willing to summon his weapons in a flash of gold and pass them around for the swordsmiths to ogle at.

There is no reason for Wei Wuxian to be so cheerful when he can barely answer any of the questions the swordsmiths ask him about the metal, the design, and the forging process, but it makes him incredibly happy to know that his attention and presence are valued.

When he returns to report his findings to Jiang Chenyi, she simply nods and flips to the next document. “Then let’s see what else there is to do. Sect Leader Jiang already has a lot on his plate, so if we get through the worst of it before he comes back, he’ll feel better about it, won’t he?”

Better about what?

They both know the answer. They’ll never speak it aloud.

Sometimes, Jiang Wanyin leaves Lotus Pier.

Sometimes, he comes back with someone in tow.

Wei Wuxian is not a liar. Even now, as the storm howls with rage that can never be quelled and the violet edge of a blade glints painfully against the setting sun, Wei Wuxian knows that Jiang Wanyin has never raised Sandu against him.

Twisted in fury, fuelled by regret, the man standing before him is not Jiang Wanyin. This is a child who demands answers from those with no breath in their lungs and no life in their eyes. This is a child who has been stretched until the point of breaking. But he will never break. And he will never yield.

For the second time, Wei Wuxian breaks his promise.

“Release him,” Wei Wuxian demands, the sickly-sweet trickle of honey coating his tongue, closing his throat. Every breath he takes is frigid cold, and it hurts to breathe. The gold of his blade pulses like a heartbeat he once lost.

“Do you intent to stand in my way again, Fuxing?” The words expel themselves from Jiang Wanyin’s lips in claps of thunder. “Why do you care for what I do? Do you think yourself above me? Do you think I owe you anything?”

The disciples have long since retreated into the long sunset shadows. They listen and they tremble. Zidian tightens its unrelenting grip, and the bloodied man lets out an aborted cry of pain.

Is it my fault? Is it my fault? Is this my fault?

Wei Wuxian owes the world everything. Jiang Wanyin owes the world nothing.

“You’ll kill him,” Wei Wuxian says, his voice raising, raising, and raising until the song in his words shatters.

Why is he so angry? He has no right to be angry. So why does he feel no shame?

There is molten gold in his eyes. He burns, burns, burns, and he hates what Jiang Wanyin has become. “What are you doing, Jiang Wanyin? Do you plan to seek out everyone who practices the heretic path and murder them with your bare hands?” Zidian’s aura snaps outward; Wei Wuxian bats it away in a brilliant burst of gold that smells of blood. “Do you hold all of them guilty for the sins of one man?” Do you want to kill me? Do you want me to offer you my neck and laugh? “If I dragged your brother’s mangled, disgusting soul from the depths of hell and threw him before you, would you kill him as you’ve killed all these innocents?”

Something dark and deadly finds a home within Jiang Wanyin’s heart and swallows it whole.

Sometimes, Jiang Wanyin will try to make himself into a murderer, and Wei Wuxian will bleed all the blood he has left to ensure it never happens.

Their fights are bloody and angry. They demand everything and nothing from each other. They open wounds that take weeks to heal. Why? they scream. Why, why, why?

In the end, neither of them fall, and in the end, neither of them apologize. The flames in Jiang Wanyin’s eyes simply flicker one too many times, and he throws the subject of his fury at Wei Wuxian’s feet.

“If you truly are a god, look at him and decide for yourself whether he’s worth saving,” Jiang Wanyin spits, his voice dripping with poison that corrodes, destroys, and ends. “You made the choice for them years ago.”

And he turns with a snap of violet, the shadow of his back fading, fading, and fading. His disciples step out from the sunset-born darkness, their steps faltering as they look between their god and their sect leader.

Some of them bow. Some of them nod their heads. Others only look forward. In the end, they all follow after Jiang Wanyin. Where the light illuminates their features, Wei Wuxian can’t see; his eyes chase after their shadow-painted backs, always, forever.

The man at his feet is silent. His wounds bleed sluggishly and his skin burns with Zidian’s touch, but he looks up at Wei Wuxian with so much gratitude and reverence that is so horribly misplaced.

It doesn’t matter. Wei Wuxian kneels, his fingers bleeding gold, and pulls a gentle smile onto his lips. “You’ll be alright,” he promises. “I’m here now.”

Jiang Chenyi receives them quickly and quietly. She offers the man a room for the night, leaving medical supplies and herbal teas without asking any questions. She doesn’t need to. She has seen this scene more times than she wants to remember.

The man’s wounds are deep. A dark haze of resentful energy wraps around him, circling his neck like a noose, and as Wei Wuxian tends to the burns on his arms, he repeats the same question he’s asked each and every one of these demonic cultivators: “What made you walk this path?”

Their stories are so different, yet all of them are the same. I had no choice, some say. I was tempted, others say. I didn’t do this for myself, others still say.

Wei Wuxian harbours no grudge against them. He understands that demonic cultivation is a tempting force, a mysterious power with so much untapped potential for those who carry no warmth of their own in their chests. But the road to isolation has been walked too many times by too many unfortunate souls for Wei Wuxian not to recognize when the first step has been taken.

Under the light of the moon, Wei Wuxian asks them what they desire. Almost always, he works to purge the resentful energy from their bodies and ignite the first spark within them. Whether that spark dwindles and dies or carries flame through their veins is something they must decide on their own.

Sometimes, Wei Wuxian will allow them to walk the path they have chosen. When he sees them off, he whispers a blessing and connects their strings to another, anyone at all, someone in that great, wide world who will ensure they are happy and healthy—someone who will love them unconditionally.

But there are some people who are rotten. There are some people who laugh when he warns them of consequences, of hatred and destruction, of losing everything and everyone.

When they speak, tar drips from their eyes and mouths. They bleed maggots, festering in the disgusting filth of their greed, and their hands reek with the stench of blood. They hunger to break more, to end more, to use the darkness that has gripped their sanity to bring chaos unto the world.

Wei Wuxian takes them to the river and slits their throats. When their souls reach out, he brings them close and crushes them.

When the sun rises, the demonic cultivators will be gone. In one way or another, they will be gone and will never return.

But bad nights are just that: bad nights. For the most part, the days are kind, and life is rewarding.

On the morning of the disciples’ return from the Discussion Conference, the rain pours down relentlessly. Thunder rumbles in the distance as the ground becomes slick with rainwater, and Wei Wuxian is thankful for it.

It rains, it storms, it dries, and it repeats. Lotus Pier is always changing, but the river will always be the same. No matter what happens, it’ll always be there to greet its children back home.

Wei Wuxian waits by the pier with an umbrella and little else. His robes are wet; it’s impossible to escape the rain no matter how hard you try.

The juniors must have performed well. They’re young, of course, and surely there were cultivators with far more experience competing against them. But how many of those cultivators have seen the world not only for what it is, but also for what it could be? How many of those cultivators have followed a god into a world entirely warped and put cracks into it with their tiny, soft hands? How many of those cultivators find strength in weakness and laugh in the face of hardship?

Not many, Wei Wuxian imagines. The world can change as much as it wants, but the people who live in it will remain all the same.

Beyond the veil of rain, several boats flying with the nine-petal lotus banner break through the waters.

“Fuxing!” The juniors’ shouts and cheers echo far even through the rhythmic beating of the rain. “Fuxing, you won’t believe it!”

Wei Wuxian can believe a lot of things. When Jiang Muai takes a running leap off the boat and catches her foot on the edge, he moves to catch her. He’s caught these young, vibrant children too many times for the motion to be anything but reflex.

The umbrella clatters to the ground behind him, and the rain quickly makes a home in his hair and robes. Jiang Muai isn’t any better, having been half-soaked, now proceeding hastily toward completely soaked.

For a moment, Wei Wuxian holds her up like a cat, brows raised in amusement. Her razor-sharp grin peeks out of her lips, and she kicks her legs in the air. “What’s got you so riled up?”

Jiang Muai quickly pushes herself out of his arms, her excitement too great to be stifled by embarrassment. “Fuxing, we won,” she breathes out. “We got two places in the top four! I got first!”

“I got fourth!” Jiang Mingyue yells victoriously, scrambling to make her way off the boat. She more or less clambers over the other juniors, pushing her way through the group in order to stand beside Jiang Muai. With a smug expression, she slings an arm over Jiang Muai’s shoulder. The two share identical grins. “You should’ve seen the looks on their faces! They thought we’d be novices, but we shot down that notion, didn’t we?”

The juniors whoop and cheer, pumping their fists into the air despite the heavy downpour. With how energized they are, perhaps they don’t even realize it’s raining.

The older disciples shuffle off with much more discipline, but Wei Wuxian can see their smiles.

It would be a lie to say that Wei Wuxian’s surprised. He trained the juniors himself; he knows exactly how much potential they possess. He’s seen them face danger with brilliant smiles and shoot moons out of the sky. They hold the future in their hands, and the world is better for it.

Soon enough, the children compose themselves. The older disciples usher them inside with congratulations that they will most likely never tire of hearing.

Soon enough, Wei Wuxian turns to Jiang Wanyin. The words welcome back die on his lips when he sees the small golden figure that totters after the sect leader.

Jiang Wanyin frowns as the child tugs eagerly at his robes. The umbrella in his hand bathes him in a gentle purple hue. “Don’t run off on your own and get lost,” he says, his voice kinder than he means for it to be. “Do you understand, A-Ling?” The child tugs again, harder, and Jiang Wanyin repeats, “Do you understand, Jin Ling?”

Ah.

(The wind is blowing.)

Wei Wuxian is still. His blood freezes. He’s drowning, and the only one he can blame is himself for creating such a storm. All he can hope and pray for is to be the only one to go, that nobody else will fall victim to his naivety, yet in the end, there is nothing left but waters that have frozen over long ago, and whatever resides beneath the ice no longer draws breath.

He aches, it hurts, it’s a heart-wrenching pain that tastes of regret and blood and rings of words cut short by a gleaming silver, and—

And he pushes it down, the memories that belong to him, that aren’t his at all. Wei Wuxian smiles, he is a god, he wants to be kind, and the rain falls, falls, and falls.

“Hello,” Wei Wuxian says, the lilt of his voice gentle. Jiang Wanyin turns to face him, and his frown deepens. “How was the Discussion Conference? From what I’ve heard so far, it seems to have been quite entertaining.”

“It was as dull as it always is,” Jiang Wanyin answers. There’s a twitch in his face. He turns away. “The juniors performed well,” he adds dismissively.

Wei Wuxian smiles. Jiang Wanyin has never been good an expressing his emotions, and it’s unlikely that he’ll get any better. “I’m glad to hear that.”

And then there is a warmth against his leg: two small arms that are so, so young and a face that is so, so innocent, staring up at him in wonder.

Wei Wuxian takes a piercing breath. He shouldn’t—that isn’t—the only thing that he hasn’t taken away from Jiang Cheng, he can’t—he has no right—

“Jin Ling,” he says. The name cuts at his tongue, drawing molden gold from his wounds and choking him with it. The smile on his lips feels as if it’s been stitched on. It hurts, but he wants to be kind. So he peels himself from the child’s grip and kneels, a hand raised above their heads to ward away the rain. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

(I gave you another name, once.)

“Uh-huh,” the child—Jin Ling, it’s Jin Ling, but you have no right to his name, and you never will—the child nods quickly, then grabs a handful of Wei Wuxian’s peony-dotted robes. “Why does Uncle have gold robes?”

Wei Wuxian’s smile falters. He can’t bring himself to look at Jiang Wanyin, because he knows what expression the man must be wearing. “Don’t call me Uncle,” he says. The words leave him quickly, desperately, and he doesn’t know why. There is a breath in his lungs that shakes and burns cold. “You should—you should save that for the people who love you most.”

Jin Ling’s brows crease in confusion. His little hands grip Wei Wuxian’s robes tighter. Let him take whatever he wants. He doesn’t have much left. “But you have flowers in your hair and you wear gold and Uncle likes you,” he says, peering curiously in Jiang Wanyin’s direction. Wei Wuxian’s heart breaks a little more. “Who are you?”

Children ask the most innocent of questions, and it’s those questions that Wei Wuxian fears the most. He is a god, he should know all, yet he can’t answer anything. Always, always, always, he can never understand. Not a single thing.

And yet here he is, alive and breathing; he knows nothing, but isn’t he happy regardless?

It’s alright. Everything will be okay. Jiang Wanyin has allowed Wei Wuxian into the depths of whatever is left of his heart. His world is in Wei Wuxian’s hands, again, always, and this time, Wei Wuxian refuses to break it.

(A-Xian.)

“You’re a curious little boy, aren’t you?” Wei Wuxian reaches out his undeserving hands and lifts Jin Ling into his arms, laughing lightly when the child pouts. “My name is Fuxing. And no, I don’t belong to Lanling Jin.” As if revealing a great secret, he looks from side to side, and in a hushed tone, he whispers, “I’m a god.”

Half a gasp escapes Jin Ling’s rounded lips. “A god!” His eyes widen as the words escape him, and he quickly covers his mouth and looks toward Jiang Wanyin.

There is something beyond the storm, but Wei Wuxian will never know what it is. When their eyes meet, that something fades behind dark clouds, and Jiang Wanyin snorts. “Everyone in Lotus Pier knows you’re a god,” he says, entirely unimpressed. “Don’t let him fool you, A-Ling. He might be a god, but you don’t need to treat him like one.”

“Rude,” Wei Wuxian huffs. He turns his comically sad expression to Jin Ling. “Your uncle is being very mean to me. What do you think we should do?”

“Uncle must be tired from the trip!” Jin Ling declares, his head raised high, cheeks soft and full with a pout. Accusingly, the child points at Jiang Wanyin as if to admit all of his uncle’s wrongdoings. “Uncle kept telling me to sleep, but he didn’t go to sleep at all! He’s only being mean because he’s tired!”

Despite everything, Wei Wuxian is unable to keep the smile from his lips. With great effort, he swallows his laughter and turns toward Jiang Wanyin, whose face appears to be having a difficult time deciding what to do as betrayal and exhaustion wage war within him. “Why, Jiang Wanyin, it seems you’ve been ignoring Jiang Chenyi’s advice,” Wei Wuxian says, his voice a teasing song. “She can be very scary when she’s determined, and personally, I am very scared of her.”

“But you’re a god,” Jin Ling says, eyes wide with fear.

“Jiang Chenyi is capable of defeating the mightiest of beings,” Wei Wuxian says dramatically. “In fact, I believe your uncle has been defeated by her many times—”

“Shut up,” Jiang Wanyin snaps, his grip on the umbrella tightening audibly. There is nothing he can say to deny either his fatigue or Jiang Chenyi’s single-minded, warpath-god-like nature when she has a goal in mind, because both are equally as real and as present as the other. “A-Ling, we’re leaving.”

Wei Wuxian sets Jin Ling down. The child grabs onto his sleeve for a moment longer. “Show me your magic,” Jin Ling demands. “Mingyue-jiejie said you could do magic!”

“Let’s leave that for tomorrow,” Wei Wuxian says. He raises his hand to brush Jin Ling’s thick, rain-kissed curls back, and finds himself flinching back.

He’s so young. He’s so young, yet his parents could only love him for a moment; he’s so young, and the world has already cursed him. The burden of legacy rests on his tiny shoulders, and he doesn’t deserve any of it.

Wei Wuxian rests his hand on Jin Ling’s head. The child looks up at him with eager, curious eyes.

Wei Wuxian doesn’t deserve it. Not this, not any of this; not the kindness that he’s been shown, not the respect he’s been given, not the fragile acceptance Jiang Wanyin has come to live with, and most certainly not the innocent, childlike wonder Jin Ling holds toward him. But he wants it so desperately that it aches, festers, and spills into him so deeply, staining his existence with the possibility of what if.

Wei Wuxian has done nothing to be worthy of their love. But he still loves them. For as long as that love exists somewhere, within them, within him, he will work to deserve it.

So Wei Wuxian smiles. It’s a soft, quiet thing. “If you listen to your uncle, I’ll show you my magic every day,” he says. “But your uncle is very tired today. Shall we get him to rest first?”

Determination writes itself onto Jin Ling’s features. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Then Uncle needs to go and rest!” With teetering, unbalanced steps, Jin Ling runs to Jiang Wanyin’s side and looks up at the man who loves him most. “If Uncle doesn’t go and rest, Jiang Chenyi will make him rest, and that sounds scary.”

It is a perfectly fair assessment to make. Jiang Chenyi is, in fact, terrifying when she wants to be.

Jiang Wanyin’s expression is something strange and deep. For a moment, his gaze catches Wei Wuxian’s, and they both look away.

“Don’t get lost,” Jiang Wanyin finally says, moving to lead his nephew toward the manor. Jin Ling follows after him, matching his steps with bouncing skips. “And don’t think you can tell me what to do.”

Jin Ling looks back. Wei Wuxian smiles and waves.

There is a storm in Lotus Pier that brings down rain and lightning and roars of thunder. There is a storm in Lotus Pier who is lonely even among the people who respect him most. There is a storm in Lotus Pier that is far kinder than he believes himself to be, yet he’ll never allow himself to accept it.

There is a storm in Lotus Pier that is so angry, and he doesn’t need a reason why. Can’t people find rage in despair and fury in guilt and live for what little they have left? Why is it that everything disappears, and so soon? Why is it that the most important words are never spoken? Why is it that anger is the only thing that survives when everything else has died?

There is a storm in Lotus Pier with nothing left, and yet—

That isn’t right. There’s something that still exists, and Wei Wuxian will give all he has to protect it.

(A courtesy name?

Then how about Rulan? Jin Rulan. It’s nice, isn’t it?)

Jin Rulan. Jin Ling.

Beyond the horizon, the rain has finally stopped.

A new day breaks through the dark clouds.

Daily life with Jin Ling is a curious, entertaining thing.

Wei Wuxian knows that Jiang Wanyin will do anything to keep Jin Ling safe from harm. Even if he were deaf, dumb, and blind, he would understand it very well.

“Uncle is busy today,” Jin Ling says, chest puffed out proudly. “So I came here by myself!”

The early morning sun greets them gently, bathing the proud purple banners in orange hues. Wei Wuxian’s own robes bloom silently under the warmth of something brighter, and Jin Ling’s bright gold robes gleam almost painfully, a little too audaciously for Wei Wuxian’s taste.

Normally, there would be nothing wrong at all with Jin Ling’s marching boldly into Wei Wuxian’s duties. However, the early morning sun is far too early for a child as young as Jin Ling to be awake, and looking at the child’s unruly appearance, it is very likely that he simply woke up and decided to escape from the manor.

Wei Wuxian smiles, then quickly turns to call one of the disciples to tell Jiang Wanyin where his nephew has gone before he turns all of Lotus Pier upside down looking for him. Then, with a simple flick of the wrists, Wei Wuxian drops a rabbit woven from golden strings onto the ground.

Jin Ling’s attention is instantly captured. “It moves!” he says, mouth wide with wonder.

“Of course,” Wei Wuxian chirps, gesturing for the rabbit, and by extension, Jin Ling, to follow. “Should we get to business as usual, then?”

“Uh-huh!” The response is lightning fast and bounces in tone along with Jin Ling’s half-skips. “I want to see what the disciples do! I want to see them collect the lanterns!”

There’s not much for Wei Wuxian to do while the juniors compete to sweep the river, so he lifts Jin Ling up into his arms, grins, and says, “Let’s head off. Hold on tight, now.”

When the watchguards catch sight of Wei Wuxian on the roofs, they heave a collective sigh. When they spot Jin Rulan in his arms, however, they pale as if all the blood in their bodies has been stolen by a certain god-turned-menace and child-turned-accomplice.

“Good morning!” Wei Wuxian calls, taking the time to ensure that each and every one of his leaps is longer and higher than usual.

“Good morning!” Jin Ling repeats with twice the vigor and an octave higher.

One of the watchguards slumps over in a dead faint and almost falls off the edge. The others wail despairing as they drag their unfortunate, amusingly weak-willed friend back to safety.

Wei Wuxian catches the falling spear with his strings and tosses it upward, where one of the thicker-blooded watchguards snatches it back, responding in turn with what must be the flattest, emptiest, most deathly expression Wei Wuxian has ever seen on a living being.

In his arms, Jin Ling laughs and claps his hands together. “They’re funny,” he says. “Are they your friends?”

“I would like to think so,” Wei Wuxian answers.

Oh, they’re great friends. Every morning, they greet each other with hellos tailored to their own person, and it never grows old. It’s a ritual that is foolish, almost childish, but it comes as naturally as the sunrise; thus, it stays.

They land on the pier without much fanfare. Everything to be said has already been said, only this time, Wei Wuxian has arrived before all the lanterns have been collected.

Sixteen violet-clad disciples fly across the surface of the river, bent low at the knees, sweeping down like birds of prey in order to claim their count before others steal it from them. While their speed and control is truly something to marvel at, the entertainment comes mostly in the form of watching these chaotic children sabotage each other.

Water splashes everywhere in great waves and veils; the light paints gentle rainbows onto abandoned battlegrounds, only to be destroyed by the sheen of fine metal breaking the haze. One by one, the lotus lanterns fly into baskets resting on the pier, and one by one, Wei Wuxian puts out the golden flame that burns bright still.

Honour is important, of course, but outsmarting your rivals is an incomparable satisfaction.

Jin Ling gasps, pulling himself out of Wei Wuxian’s arms. He hops to the very edge of the pier, leaning as far as he can above the water without losing his balance. His hands reach out toward the disciples, the flowers, the lanterns, and he and watches with brilliant stars in his eyes.

“They’re so fast,” he breathes. Beside the woven baskets, his figure is so small, so young, yet his eyes burn with the same sparks that have long since grown into a storm within Jiang Wanyin. “Will I do that too?”

“Of course,” says Wei Wuxian. He pulls Jin Ling back gently, then begins to work on righting his robes. Jin Ling is far too distracted to care, which makes retying his sash and pulling up his boots a simple task.

“You taught them! You taught those disciples to go as fast as they can go now.”

“That’s right. It’s been about eight months, but I promise you they weren’t nearly as impressive back then.”

“Will you teach me too?”

“Yes, I—”

The words catch on the image of a beautiful woman dressed in purple, always smiling, always gentle but so brave, her voice a peaceful melody that was always too forgiving, too good. It shatters in an instant, bleeding blood as black as his soul, and there will never be a second chance.

Jiang Wanyin has lost so much. What little time he has is given freely, generously, without a second thought, to Jin Ling.

That bond is precious. That bond is one of the only things Wei Wuxian has yet to tarnish.

(But I want—if the world will allow it, I want—I want to be a part of it, too—

It doesn’t matter what you want.)

“If your uncle allows it,” says Wei Wuxian, hiding his shaking hands under his sleeves, “I will do everything I can to teach you all I know.”

Jin Ling beams. His smile is as golden as the threads in Wei Wuxian’s calloused hands with all the innocence that Wei Wuxian lost long ago. “Then it’s a promise!”

“It’s a promise,” Wei Wuxian says, a softness in his voice that he remembers only in fragmented memories. He’s tired of making promises only to break them. For as long as he lives, this oath will live with him. “So you must live for the day you can make your uncle proud. Alright?”

“Alright,” Jin Ling agrees easily, with all the confidence of people who have already seen the world in all its splendor and cruelty. His confidence, while misplaced, is commendable and adorable.

As always, the disciples collect all the lanterns with impressive speed, and as always, they plaster themselves against the wet wood of the pier, heaving deep breathes in order to fill their lungs and count their bounties in one breath.

“A very good morning to all of you,” Wei Wuxian says cheerfully, standing his ground even as sixteen manic gazes turn to him. “I’m sure you’re tired of hearing the same words every day, but you just keep getting faster. Even Jin Ling was impressed.”

“You went really fast,” Jin Ling says proudly, lifting his chin as if their merits are his own. His little feet stumble over to the looming baskets, and with a righteous huff, he slaps a hand down on each and every one of them, nodding to the respective disciple with an unwavering gaze fit for a three year-old going on thirty. “You were fast,” he repeats, until all of them are holding back wide smiles to preserve what dignity they have imagined for themselves.

Jiang Muai wages war with her lips to wrestle them into a flat line. She’s only partially successful as her expression sucks in and puckers with great effort. “You’re up early today, Jin-gongzi,” she manages to say, disguising the tail end of a laugh into a cough.

“Not early,” Jin Ling argues. Almost immediately, a long, deep yawn draws a thick veil of sleep over his watery eyes and into his bell-like voice.

Wei Wuxian peers down at Jin Ling. The boy’s head swivels upward to face him with great denial and a flush that reaches the ears. “Of course,” he says, with no particular inflection.

Clenching his hands into his robes, Jin Ling stomps his feet and puffs his cheeks out in a pout. “I’m not tired!”

“Of course,” the disciples repeat in one united voice, which only serves to add to Jin Ling’s determined scowl.

Wei Wuxian sighs. Pulling a petulant Jin Ling into his arms, he smiles helplessly at his disciples. “Looks like we’ll have to leave the rest for tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll be back soon. In the meantime, get counting, get changed, and we’ll meet in the training grounds.”

His disciples are quick to heed his orders. When he turns, they bow to him. They bow to the shadow of his back; they bow to his words; they bow because they have found respect for him as the rest of Lotus Pier has. There is a miracle somewhere in that strange turning of time, and Wei Wuxian is grateful for it.

The shadow of the manor is dark but not cold. The sun has climbed higher into the sky, not quite breaking through the deep violet of night, but the gentle closing and abrupt jolting of Jin Ling’s eyelids have little to do with what the day wants.

His steps fall quietly. There are those who have yet to wake and greet the morning. It’s here and now, in these still, lonesome halls, that the whispers of the past are loudest and the warm touch of family lost brushes over his shoulders, his cheeks, his head.

For a moment, Wei Wuxian looks back. He catches himself and wants to laugh.

What echoes in his ears is the distant thrum of the river. What rests on his shoulders are divine garments that bloom gold; on his cheeks, a smile that dies and is born again; on his head, a veil to protect himself from the world, and the world from him.

Whatever has been lost cannot be reclaimed. Isn’t it mortal tradition to toss out the old in place of the new every year?

Perhaps Wei Wuxian has lost more than he can ever imagine, but the one thing he can never lose is time. The one thing he would like to lose is time. It haunts him, it follows him, it cries out to be reclaimed. Yet there is no place for it here.

(Who are you kidding, Wei Wuxian?

How can you lose something you refuse to let go of?)

The years turn. He is alive. Soon, the river will carry the wishes of all its children into the night, where the new year will embrace them, trade their regrets for promises that are always more fragile than they seem.

For now, though, he holds something in his arms far more precious than his own life, that breathes and lives and will stay alive.

“You should rest well,” Wei Wuxian scolds gently. He brushes the hair from Jin Ling’s soft features, rests his touch on his head for a moment longer. “It’s far too early. The disciples need to train, but you’re far younger than them.”

“Don’t want to be small,” Jin Ling says. His hands grip into Wei Wuxian’s peony-dotted robes. “Don’t want to be weak.”

“Unfortunately, you have no say in that,” Wei Wuxian sighs. “Everyone must be small and weak at some point in their lives.” He pokes Jin Ling’s nose teasingly and smiles when the boy bats his hand away with a pout. “The role of those stronger than yourself is to ensure that you live long enough to become strong. Your uncle is one of those noble people, isn’t he?”

A rebuttal works its way onto Jin Ling’s lips, but it dies when he hears praise for his uncle. “Uncle’s the strongest,” he says proudly, thickly, his voice trickling to a murmur.

The lull of his arms invites Jin Ling to the land of sleep, beckoning for him to allow himself rest. Yet the child squirms, battles against what he sees as weakness. For someone so young, he does a very good job at convincing both himself and others that he feels as proud as he stands, but Wei Wuxian knows exactly where to look for those tiny cracks.

“Jin Ling,” he calls softly. The boy in his arms stirs. “Would you like to hear a song?”

Jin Ling’s head rests on Wei Wuxian’s chest, and his slowing breaths stutter as he shapes his short answer: “Okay.”

There is a broken mirror that reflects brighter days. It’s been shattered so thoroughly that no time or magic will ever make it whole ever again.

But there’s a song on Wei Wuxian’s lips, a prayer in his voice, an oath in his blood. He has no words to offer; no comfort could ever lie in the rise and fall of what remains of him. All he has to give is a wordless lullaby that reaches desperately toward light that has faded and shadows that have died.

Sing a song for the departed. Let them hear your regret, your sorrow, your unspoken apologies.

Sing a song for the living. Let them remember a time long ago, before the weight of the world crushed your dreams and your promises.

Sing because there is nothing left to say. Your words will never be enough.

Grant them rest from this weary world. Their eyes may never see the night, but yours will.

What else can you do?

Jin Ling has already sunken into dreams, but Wei Wuxian sings on. There is a child in his arms whose entire world has been destroyed, but as long as there is life, and as long as there is light, Jin Ling will march onward. Always.

The juniors flock to Jin Ling as if they have nowhere else in the world to be.

Wei Wuxian isn’t entirely sure how they became so attached to a child younger than them by more than a decade, but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t incredibly pleased.

Perhaps they see Jin Ling as someone to protect, or perhaps they simply think he’s entertaining. Regardless of the reason, they are always eager to play with Jin Ling when everyone else is occupied, or when Jiang Wanyin tells someone to watch over his nephew while he finishes the last of his duties for the day.

At first, Jiang Wanyin is reluctant to let Jin Ling out of his sight. He keeps the child close to him, within range of his protection, where Sandu’s cold glint and Zidian’s unrelenting bite can reach.

It’s understandable. It’s respectable. It can’t be called forgivable, because there’s nothing to forgive. Out of all the people in this world, Jiang Wanyin is perhaps one of the most tragic of them all. What does it matter if he wishes to keep close the only surviving member of his family?

And although it’s achingly understandable, there is only so much one man can do. In those first few days, Jiang Wanyin stands strong, with one arm holding up Lotus Pier and the other, his newphew. He doesn’t yield, and he doesn’t admit weakness, because he never has and he never will. But the cracks appear, and he creaks, wavers, yet he never falls. He’ll never allow himself weakness, and that’s exactly why his pride is so dangerous.

Jiang Chenyi sits him down one night and speaks to him. Wei Wuxian isn’t part of the conversation. Whatever words she imparts unto him strike him rigid, then lax, and finally compliant for a short moment.

In that moment, Jiang Chenyi tells him something of great importance. He doesn’t buckle under the weight; rather, it weighs on him like the noble violet regalia on his shoulders, yet another duty that he must carry alongside his stone heart.

Whatever words were exchanged that night are between Jiang Chenyi and Jiang Wanyin alone. Wei Wuxian never needs to know.

Soon enough, though, Jiang Wanyin remembers that all of Lotus Pier is under his protection. Those who know his name also know of the golden boy whom he loves with all his heart, whose wellbeing and happiness is worth more than any tangible treasure.

And so, after only a few weeks, Jin Ling is free to roam the streets under the watchful eye of the Yunmeng Jiang disciples. The juniors are often among those who lead the child around, introducing him to the best restaurants, the shiniest trinkets, the most fragrant of teas, and the tallest trees.

It’s so easy to adore Jin Ling. There’s a haughtiness in his spine that melts into wonder in the blink of an eye. He holds enough pride in himself to be confident and self-assured in every step he takes, yet he reaches out his hands to be lifted or held when there’s something beautiful outside of his reach. He explores the world with such unbridled curiosity that the sun itself could fall out of the sky and he would appreciate each and every thing left in its blazing path before admiring it.

Wei Wuxian just wishes his disciples weren’t such awful enablers.

“Be careful,” Wei Wuxian says cautiously, ready to avert disaster at any moment. “If you drop Jin Ling in the river, I won’t be helping you when Jiang Wanyin runs you through and ties you to the gates.”

“I think you need to calm down,” Jiang Mingyue says, rolling her eyes. “Besides, what could go wrong?”

Jiang Muai smiles reassuringly. It is not, in fact, very effective. “Don’t worry, Fuxing. I’ve got a good grip!”

Wei Wuxian has a very long and extensive list of how things could go horribly wrong. He decides to swallows his words and keeps his focus on Jin Ling, who appears to be having a wonderful time picking lotus pods. Normally, there would be nothing to worry about. The stress comes in like a gallant crusade with the inclusion of Jiang Mingyue, who’s holding Jin Ling out into the open waters for a “truly immersive experience”, and also Jiang Muai, who’s in turn grabbing onto Jiang Mingyue to ensure they don’t topple into the river.

Every disciple of Yunmeng Jiang is a competent swimmer at worst, so Wei Wuxian has no reason to be worried about either Jiang Mingyue or Jiang Muai. However, Jin Ling is essentially an infant with little to no experience in water, and Wei Wuxian isn’t eager to see how well he takes to swimming.

“I got it!” Jin Ling cries, lifting up a lotus pod above his head victoriously. He beams, which in turn makes Mingyue and Muai beam as well.

The boat leans dangerously to the right. Jiang Muai leans hard to the left. Wei Wuxian feels his heart leap out of his chest and dive into the water.

Jin Ling squirms in Jiang Mingyue’s grip, making the boat wobble in a way that is most definitely not intended. His eyes light up as another cluster of lotus pods comes into view. “I see more! Go! Go!”

“Let’s slow down a little,” says Wei Wuxian, a veteran lotus pod-picker who would like to avoid watching someone drown or flayed to death by Zidian. “Jiang Muai, if you could—”

Jiang Muai jams the rod into the river and propels them all forward with startling speed. Jin Ling squeals in excitement as Jiang Mingyue’s grip slips for a short moment. She recovers with ease, spinning Jin Ling forward to experience the so-called thrill that comes with steering a boat as if you fear neither the gods nor death.

Wei Wuxian wants off this boat before Jiang Wanyin comes sprinting across the water with vengeance in his eyes and lightning in his throat.

Their days are chaotic. Jin Ling digs fallen stars from the most mundane of things, asking questions of why things happen the way they do, why his uncle is so busy all the time, why he and Wei Wuxian dance around each other so delicately.

Jin Ling is a very observant child. His words are sweet one moment and biting the next. Sometimes, no intentions are worse than bad intentions. Children are so utterly unaware and innocent, and knowing that one day that innocence will be torn away from them or abandoned is a harrowing reality.

For now, though, the days are bright, and there is so much to see.

When Jin Ling asks to try Wei Wuxian’s share at a restaurant, the juniors caution him with just enough respect to preserve Wei Wuxian’s dignity. They all have a good laugh when Muai describes his taste as “if you set fire on fire and burnt off all your taste buds”, which is a very dramatic way of saying spicy. Strangely, while he chuckles, the disciples throw wide-eyed, nervous smiles at each other.

Unfortunately, Jin Ling never does get to try anything from Wei Wuxian’s palette. The juniors usher him away at every opportunity, stuffing him full of as many local delicacies as they can possibly think of until Jin Ling’s eyes are drowsy with sleep.

The juniors treat Jin Ling with kindness, yes, but they also treat him as an equal, in a strange way. They never speak to him to berate him for what he has yet to understand; rather, they are eager to teach him all the whirling ways of the stars that pass above them. They hold his hand through crowds and let him run free through less hectic streets. They ask for his opinion and value his words, no matter how nonsensical or naive they may be. They treat him as a brother, not a liability, and something in Wei Wuxian’s heart swells and blooms.

One day, Jin Ling returns to the manor with violet robes and a nine-petal lotus flower.

Perhaps it was impulse. Perhaps it was youthful thoughtlessness. There’s nothing strange about it; even guest disciples don the uniform of Yunmeng Jiang as long as they study in Lotus Pier.

Jiang Wanyin takes one look at Jin Ling and his voice catches in his throat.

“Look, Uncle!” says Jin Ling, running forward and twirling in a small circle to show the fine tailoring of his tiny robes. He smiles, a radiant, proud thing that lifts softly at his lips, and lifts a jade bell hanging from his sash. Its chime sings the first eight notes of a wordless lullaby, and Wei Wuxian feels his heart stutter. “I look just like you now! We can go night-hunting together!”

The distant thrum of thunder invites an oncoming storm. The disciples, having no doubt caught the scent of rain and lightning, bow deeply and dismiss themselves.

Wei Wuxian tilts his weimao downward and steps back into the growing shadows of the sunset.

“A-Ling,” Jiang Wanyin says, the tremble in his voice almost imperceptible, “where are your robes?”

“These are my robes,” Jin Ling answers, his chin held high.

(In wonder, in kindness, in emotional integrity—

Jin Ling has always taken after his mother.)

Jiang Wanyin is silent for a moment too long. He is silent to begin with. Jiang Wanyin isn’t one to allow silence to be his answer; he’s suffered the silence of the world for too long, has had his prayers go unheard and unanswered for a lifetime too long, has walked the same steps through the same ancestral hall under the same unforgiving moon a hundred, a thousand times.

Light as much incense as the flames that burn within you desire. Kneel before those who have passed before you. Beg for forgiveness, for absolution. Ask whatever questions plague your mind and wonder how everything went so wrong.

Wallow in the silence of the night. The dead have no place in this world. For as long as they are silent, never allow yourself silence.

Even Jin Ling senses something great and terrible and wrong. The curve of his smile drags downward, yet the remnants of pride still shine in his eyes. Someone so young should never have to make that kind of desperate expression.

“Was I not supposed to wear them?” he asks in a hushed voice, his small hands digging into his violet robes. His feet scuffle and he looks toward the ground. “I’m sorry.”

Awash in the melancholy of the setting sun, something small and new is born. It is not for Wei Wuxian to ever hold. It is not something he will ever understand. Yet what is created and cherished will always grow into something greater, and at the very least, he can appreciate it.

There is a storm that lives in Lotus Pier, and for the first time, it dissipates, the clouds clear, and there is something so, so kind in Jiang Wanyin’s gaze.

“It’s fine,” he finally says, kneeling before Jin Ling. Their eyes meet; Wei Wuxian can’t see what it is that makes Jin Ling’s gaze fill with such wonder and joy. He doubts he ever will. “It’s alright. Your uncle is... very happy.”

The words leave Jiang Wanyin slowly, hesitantly, as if he isn’t sure if what he feels is happiness or not. But when Jin Ling laughs and throws himself into Jiang Wanyin’s arms, a yearning turns into an answer, and that’s all.

Wei Wuxian has no place here.

The shadows are kind to him as he slips away, silently, wordlessly, always, forever. He has no right to nurture a happiness that doesn’t belong to him. He has no right to choose his family when he made the decision against them long ago.

Jin Ling can’t be called a miracle, because a miracle is something that should not have been. He deserves the world; he deserves everything that has been taken away from him. He can only be called a survivor, and that fate is too cruel to give to anyone.

But here, in Lotus Pier, there are people who love him unconditionally. They will teach him, protect him, guide him, and raise him into a brilliant sun.

The years will pass, and Jin Ling will grow. When he is old enough, Wei Wuxian will meet him as a mentor, a teacher, and nothing more.

(Why don’t you come up with a name, A-Xian?)

(Ah, but—

Does love that is never returned mean anything?

Is something that vanishes and is gone the same as something that never was?

I ask myself, but I know the answer very well.

It does mean something. It always has.

The meaning was right there.)

“Jiang Wanyin,” Wei Wuxian says one night over dinner, “how about we take a trip to a nice town down south tomorrow?”

There is a very long moment where Wei Wuxian is convinced either Sandu or Zidian will escort him kindly to a second death.

Jiang Wanyin stops, then narrows his eyes. “You’re kidding,” he says, not asks.

“Everyone needs a break sometimes,” Wei Wuxian declares. The sweet taste of wine lingers on his tongue, but it’s far from invoking even the slightest hint of drunkenness in him. “You’ve been working yourself to the bone. When was the last time you took some time off for yourself?”

“I don’t have time for myself,” Jiang Wanyin snaps, his hands clenched into fists. Every word is spoken through gritted teeth, more frustrated than truly angry.

“Then make time,” Wei Wuxian says. He prods at Jiang Wanyin’s chest, the home of his strength and overbearing warmth, and sighs when his hand is batted away. “You’re strong, Jiang Wanyin, stronger than anyone I’ve ever met, but you’ll burn yourself away if you refuse to stop for a moment and just breathe.”

There’s a violent creak in Jiang Wanyin’s heart that screams, screams, and screams. Yet he pretends it doesn’t exist and walks onward.

The conversation-turned-argument stalls, lilts, rises and falls. Jiang Wanyin repeats the same words he’s always said: I don’t have time, you wouldn’t understand, don’t tell me what to do.

Wei Wuxian refuses to step down. He’ll never say that he knows anyone’s heart best, but he can tell when someone is reaching too far, doing too much, running ahead into the storm while the wind and rain strip them of the embers that stoke flame within them.

That, and he made a promise a year ago in that strange town by the river. Something was born in his foolish hands, a flower and an oath, and for once, what he desires and what his duty calls for him to do have aligned.

Jiang Wanyin’s tenacity is commendable, but Wei Wuxian is nothing if not skilled at weaving his words into something more.

“Jiang Chenyi is perfectly capable of taking over your duties for a single day, and the juniors love Jin Ling,” he says, knowing that Jiang Wanyin has no rebuttal against the undeniable truth. “I believe you understand it very well, but your presence—or rather, your lack thereof—is simply another aspect of life in Lotus Pier. Learn to live, Jiang Wanyin, or this great, wide world will take everything you love and make it into a matter of survival.”

It already has, they both know. Yet neither of them speak those words.

What good would it do? What use is there it admitting that surviving his good enough in the face of a happiness that could be if just a little more time was given to appreciate it?

In the end, Jiang Wanyin abandons whatever words have formed beneath his tongue. “Fine,” he finally says, standing with a clap of energy, turning in a flourish of violet. “But only for the night. Do you know how much I have to do tomorrow?”

“As much as today, and yesterday, and all the days before and after them,” Wei Wuxian says simply.

Jiang Wanyin snorts. He has no words to waste as he leaves the main hall behind, always in motion.

There are always unspoken words between them. Perhaps they can’t bring themselves to say them; perhaps they expect the other to understand even without speaking as the words fade into nothing and die on their lips.

For now, that weight is alright. One day, when everything has been said and done, they’ll be able to sit across from each other and unearth everything they have buried.

The nights in Lotus Pier aren’t particularly long. When Wei Wuxian finally rises, a weariness in his limbs that so often plagues him after bearing the burden of silence alongside Jiang Wanyin, the moon has already found a path high into the skies. Its silver light is a gentle, soft song, tickling his skin with the whispers of what if, what if.

It’s a perfect night. Jiang Wanyin must be out there in the darkness, leading a night-hunt with the juniors, making rounds of Lotus Pier, doing anything and everything he believes will make up for the time he’ll be losing tomorrow.

Jiang Wanyin finds the strangest ways to seek equivalency. Hurt those who have hurt you, seek out that which has been lost, give time to make time.

As Wei Wuxian reaches for his weimao, a single jade bell tumbles from his sleeve.

He pauses. Right. Of course. If Jiang Wanyin ever noticed anything missing from Jin Ling’s Yunmeng Jiang robes, he chose to keep it in his heart.

With a sigh, Wei Wuxian picks up the tiny bell. It gleams an ethereal white for only a moment as the moonlight reaches out to cusp it.

Jin Ling deserves something better than the fanciful whims of a helpless god. Let the craftsmen of Lotus Pier create something wonderful and worthy of such a wonderful child. Home is never far away, and Wei Wuxian refuses to impart his touch on something that doesn’t belong to him.

The bell is dead and meaningless in his hands. He would destroy it, but that disgusting, undying beast in his belly writhes in pain at the notion of seeing something forged by nothing but aching hands and the light of lotus lanterns shatter without ever having the chance to live.

Wei Wuxian takes a deep breath and holds it. The air fills his lungs, squeezes them, and finally escapes.

He’ll leave the decision to Jiang Wanyin.

The empty halls greet him with the somber rumble of sleep. The river sighs a deep, echoing hymn that reaches to horizons Wei Wuxian will never be able to touch. White and silver bathe his robes under a curious moon on a perfect night, and there is nothing to be afraid of. While the day reveres him, the night protects him.

Wei Wuxian’s steps falter only slightly before he breaks the boundary between the Lotus Pier he knows and Jiang Wanyin’s quarters.

The purple banners of Yunmeng Jiang flow beneath the pearlescent gaze of night with a resolve so unflinching and unwavering that a mighty wisteria tree could find its roots here and nothing would change. But there’s nothing to say about quarters that speak no words; there’s a bed that sees more nightmares than dreams, a desk that carries the whispers of ramblings with no meaning and bitterness with no voice, an incense burner that will never drown out the smell of lightning and fire that has sunken so deeply into the walls and floors.

There’s not much to say. What Wei Wuxian knows with certainty is that this room is far too cold and far too empty for a man who burns for all those who have left and who have stayed.

Wei Wuxian keeps his eyes low to the ground. It feels wrong to intrude on Jiang Wanyin’s privacy like this. All he needs to do is leave Jin Ling’s bell somewhere safe, and the night will be over.

Another sigh escapes from him. Maybe if he leaves it in a drawer somewhere, Jiang Wanyin will believe that Jin Ling was the one who misplaced it, or perhaps the bell will simply be one among many, worth nothing more than a short moment of confusion.

The first few drawers Wei Wuxian pulls open are all empty. That won’t do; the more there is, the more naturally the bell will fit into place.

So he moves on and pulls open another draw. A clatter greets him as something rolls free from a bundle of black cloth.

Wei Wuxian flinches. He didn’t break anything, did he?

Reaching into the still shadows, Wei Wuxian wraps his hands around the cloth and the clattering thing, pulling them under the watchful eye of moonlight.