Chapter Text
Wei Wuxian is at the lowest he’s ever been, possessed, dying, falling apart both mentally and physically, corrupted by dark forces, and drowning in his guilt. The Wen remnants are dead, brought to disgrace and ruin by his own hand and the hands of those he once called allies (and, oh god, his baby, his A-Yuan, abandoned by his family, just as his father and mother once did to him). His Shijie and her husband are dead, both from his direct actions, leaving his brand new nephew without his parents, whom he will never know. His Uncle Jiang and Madame Yu are dead, murdered by Wen Chao because of his arrogance and folly. He’s disgraced the graves of many, wiped out a whole sect, and now he’s even massacred his fellow cultivators. Lan Wangji hates him. His brother hates him. The whole cultivation world hates him!
He hates himself.
Cultivators who he once called brothers and sisters are calling for his blood. The sun glints off Nie Mingjue’s sabre and he can feel Baxia’s bloodlust from here. Jin Guangyao stands beside his father (the leader of the siege) and a small smile makes dimples appear upon his smooth cheeks. Lan Xichen is there as well, his expression serious and mournful. (Lan Wangji is not, and his former friend must surely despise him, to not even come to witness the moment of his death.) Jiang Cheng snarls at him with hate in his eyes and in his heart.
Wei Wuxian laughs. What kind of overkill is this?! One thousand verses one. The odds are flattering, really. Well, if they want him dead, then fine, he’ll die. He takes the Stygian Tiger Seal out of his robes and holds it aloft. The crowd becomes nervous and he delights in their discomfort.
It serves them right, the traitors.
The dead who were loitering by the cave amble closer, drawn to the seal’s resentful energies. Tendrils of black curl around his figure, docile and obedient…for now.
He concentrates his power together and shatters his greatest weapon into pieces. The backlash blows everyone back, including himself. His whole body flies through the air and he collides with the mountainside. A jagged piece of rock pierces through his leg. He can feel the vertebrae in his back shatter and his ribs break. His right hand and arm have been blown clean off, and the phantom pain is immeasurable. He is dazed and his vision is blurry, so he must have also hit his head. He is broken and vulnerable and entirely open to attack, if he doesn’t die from someone’s hand soon, he will perish from his injuries.
But the dead recover faster than the living and the cultivators are not the ones who reach him first.
He is torn apart. He is devoured. He is getting the ending that he deserves. The last thing he sees is his brother, horror twisting his features and Wei Wuxian’s name on his tongue, and he has one last regret. That he was not able to spare his shidi from this gruesome sight.
He dies in that moment and wakes in the next.
A scream of agony leaves his throat and he claws at the sheets that have twisted around him. When his air runs out he chokes for a moment before he gasps for breath once again. The air tastes like blood.
He should be dead. He should be dead. But the ache in his limbs and the pain in his head indicates otherwise. Not only is he not dead, but he is very much alive and very much himself, golden core in his possession once more and features familiar.
He should be dead.
With a brief investigation of a room he thought long gone, he finds that he is at Lotus Pier, seven years in the past. Before his study year at Gusu, before the Wen Sect rose to power, before that awful week in the cave of the Xuanwu of Slaughter, before the burning of Lotus Pier, before the Sunshot Campaign, before his mastery of demonic cultivation, before the death of his Shijie.
He knelt in the midst of his ruined room with the morning sun pouring down upon his figure and the sweet birdsong filling his ears and he realized that he could prevent everything.
He just needed to do what needs to be done, and quickly.
He sits at his desk and outlines the events of the next seven years, explaining what and who and when and how. His hand trembles and he just hopes it’s legible enough. He just hopes that they’ll heed his words, before it’s too late. When he finishes, he makes sure to put his room back in order. He wouldn’t want any of his fellow disciples to have to deal with more of a mess than what he’s already going to make.
He should be dead.
He takes one last deep breath, whispers a prayer of courage, pulls Suibian from it’s sheathe (and it feels so good to be able to do that again), and pulls the blade across his throat.
Everything happens in a split second. The screen door to his room slides open, a spray of ruby gushes from his carotid and stains Jiang Cheng’s robes in black, his shidi’s eyes take on an all too familiar look of horror, and Wei Wuxian falls forward with one last thought, This is the last time I fail you, brother, I promise.