Archive of Our Own

“You’re new here, aren’t you?” 

“I moved to Yunmeng recently, yes. How could you tell?”

“Tsk tsk. Your children are scampering around like wild rabbits! I ought to warn you, you better hide them. You’ll do yourself a favor.”

“Hide them? From what?”

“Not what, but who! Haven’t you heard of Wei Wuxian?”

A shake of a head. 

In a lowered voice, “He’s the adopted son of sect leader Jiang Fengmian. In my opinion, his birth parents are lucky to have died early. Wei Wuxian is only ten years old, but already a monster! He makes slaves out of the other children and wrecks havoc at the slightest uptick of anger.”

Nervous, hesitant laughter. “You must be exaggerating.”

A sudden crash from outside shakes the food on the wooden tables. A loud shriek follows. 

“That’s him — Wei Wuxian! Hide your children, now!”

***

“Jiang Cheng!” Wei Wuxian kicks the barrels on the side of the road. Bulbous watermelons tumble out, splitting as they hit the ground and staining the stone pavement in streaks of crimson, not unlike spilled blood. “You coward! We are not finished. Stop hiding and come play!”

At the sound of Wei Wuxian’s voice, the street retreats back into its shell. The teeming marketplace has transformed into a ghost town, and one whispered statement circulates among the stalls: hide from the monster! 

This statement is a monkey’s tail, following Wei Wuxian wherever he goes. Yet even years of being labeled ‘monster’ and ‘demon’ cannot suppress his blood from boiling. His nails dig crescents into his palms. 

“Jiang Cheng, if you don’t come out by the count of three, I’ll tell Jiang xian-sheng that you’re purposefully excluding me! One, two —”

From behind a women’s clothing stand comes a rustle and a soft groan. “I’m here.” Jiang Cheng steps onto the main street, face streaked with soot. “How dare you call me a coward when you use my father as your only leverage?”

A frown flitters on Wei Wuxian’s visage. It quickly morphs into a toothful grin — one that could be considered endearing, if on another child’s face. “Oh Jiang Cheng, enough with the useless talk. Let’s play jianzi! ”

“I don’t want to play with you,” Jiang Cheng spits. “Don’t follow me, or else I’ll tell my father about the mess you stirred for the merchants.”

“Mess? What mess?” Wei Wuxian turns around dismissively. Oh. That mess: a flock of birds pick at crushed loquats that litter the ground, wreckage of a wooden canoe floats aimlessly atop the river, paper lanterns choke the sky with columns of smoke. 

When Wei Wuxian turns back around, Jiang Cheng is a mere gust of wind — gone. 

Wrath is a spark of fire. Loneliness necessitates coping. Wei Wuxian swipes a candy bunny on a stick from a stall and stuffs it in his mouth. The sugar melts pleasantly on his tongue. Technically, he’s stealing. But no one dares to punish him. 

“That’s right, people should be scared of me.” Behind his smug smile are words left unspoken: I just want someone to play jianzi with me.

***

If the wrecked streets are a ‘mess,’ then this time, Wei Wuxian creates a hurricane. 

“It isn’t my fault,” Wei Wuxian insists to Jiang Fengmian, no guilt and all oblivion. 

A shadow crosses Jiang Fengmian’s countenance. “Not your fault? Just take a look at what you’ve done!”

Half a dozen Yunmeng children lie trembling on the floor, covered in mud from head to toe. Several sea urchins cling onto them, sharp spines embedded into their soft, bare skin. 

Innocence gleams in Wei Wuxian’s eyes. “They were the ones who started it! They planned to lay this same trap on me. It’s only fair that they fall into their own construction.”

Jiang Fengmian closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before speaking. “Wei Wuxian, have you ever wondered why the other children stay clear of you?”

Exasperation furrows Wei Wuxian’s brows. “Look, Jiang xian-sheng. You’ve told me this a hundred times. And I keep repeating myself — it’s not my fault! No one has ever wanted to be around me, regardless of how I behave.” His voice softens, quivering. “When I was younger, even when I wasn’t like this, everyone shuddered at the mention of my name.”

“Wei Ying.” Jiang Fengmian clutches Wei Wuxian’s hand. His voice comes out barely a whisper. “I think it is time for me to tell you a secret.”

“Secret?” Wei Wuxian’s eyes light up like the sunrise. 

“Yes, you must not tell anyone. Promise me you won’t tell.”

Wei Wuxian nods eagerly. This is the first time someone is willing to spill a secret, so he vows to keep it safe. He has no one to tell, anyway. 

“Good. The truth is, Wei Ying is a special child, born with heaven’s blessing. Before you were born, a Chaos Pearl emerged from the spiritual energies of Heaven and Earth. This pearl was so strong that it was split into two: the Demon Orb and the Spirit Pearl. Your mother, Cangse Sanren, was a selfless, honorable woman of extraordinary cultivation. To reward her good deeds, the Spirit Pearl was given to her to be reincarnated as her son.”

The flame within Wei Wuxian grows as Jiang Fengmian continues to speak. 

“In other words, child, you were born from the Spirit Pearl and your destiny is to become a great demon hunter.”

The words sink in like a drowning body — slowly at first, before oxygen depletes and suddenly plummeting meters below crashing waves. He was born from the Spirit Pearl. A ray of sunlight cuts through hazy fog. His heart flutters, light in his chest. It all makes sense: people avoid him because they are intimidated by his power. He is different. Special. 

“Wei Ying,” Jiang Fengmian interrupts Wei Wuxian’s reverie. “Do you know what this means?”

“That I’m better than everyone else?” Wei Wuxian stands on his tiptoes, as if a few centimeters of extra height elevates him above the world.

Jiang Fengmian shakes his head. “No, you must never think like that. You are special, but that does not mean you are better. As the reincarnation of the Spirit Pearl, your duty is to serve the good, protect the weak, and exterminate evil. Do you understand?”

***

*Six years later*

The Cloud Recesses is a prison cell. Its three thousand rules and vegetarian meals are boulders on Wei Wuxian’s back, but the mountain that crushes his spine manifests in a never ending taunt: even amid dozens of other young cultivators, loneliness has never penetrated so deeply. 

For Madam Yu, sending Wei Wuxian away was a lottery opportunity. In his absence, Lotus Pier would be reinstated as a harmonious haven. Jiang xian-sheng’s intentions were only slightly more benevolent. He thought, naively, that perhaps Wei Wuxian would finally make some friends. Friends that would fix his behavior. 

From day one, Wei Wuxian killed any chances of friendship:

The Lanshi classroom. Lan Qiren’s prompt is a blade that slices the students’ anticipatory silence. “An executioner who has executed more than one hundred people suddenly dies. His body is left alone for seven days. With the repressed energy of resentment, he starts to haunt and kill. What should be done?”

The other students throw nervous glances, eyes darting everywhere but forward. Wei Wuxian would have kept his mouth shut, but the others’ fidgeting is embarrassing and their silence is stifling. Their cluelessness stirs within him anger, irritation, annoyance. 

He stands, lazily propping one foot atop his desk. “Come on everyone. Isn’t it obvious? Just dig up the graves of the people he executed, arouse their resentment, collect the hundred heads, and use them to fight against the ghost.”

Lan Qiren slams Wei Wuxian’s desk, and the Gusu Lan textbook falls like a withered leaf onto the floor. “How dare you! What kind of method is this? You not only subvert liberation, but purposefully stir their resentment?”

“Lan xian-sheng, you should be more open-minded,” Wei Wuxian counters. “Liberation is not always effective. You might as well take advantage of resentful energy when it’s readily available.”

“Then let me ask you, how do you make sure that the resentful energy only listens to you and does not harm others?”

Wei Wuxian raises an eyebrow. “As long as I’m unharmed, why should I care about others?”

At this, Lan Qiren flushes beet red and chucks a scroll at him. 

Wei Wuxian catches the scroll mid-air. “Xian-sheng, I’m only joking.” 

From behind him, the whispers disseminate:

“There’s no way he’s joking. Did you see that mischievous glint in his eye?”

“Look! My arm hairs are standing straight up. I’m avoiding him at all costs.”

“What kind of thought process is that? He clearly lacks maternal education.” 

Toward the front of the lecture hall is a pocket of silence. At its center is the renowned second son of Qinghe-Jun; the younger of the twin jades; a prodigy of the cultivator world; Lan Wangji. 

Though they have not interacted, Wei Wuxian has heard many things about Lan Wangji. Namely that they are opposites — Lan Wangji is venerable whereas Wei Wuxian is treacherous; Lan Wangji is grace and Wei Wuxian is disgrace; Lan Wangji is pure, good, and serene; Wei Wuxian is tainted, demonic, and chaotic. Lan Wangji is everything that Wei Wuxian wishes to be, but will never be. And so, envy is thorny vines laced around Wei Wuxian’s throat. With that comes unexplained lacerations of hatred. 

But at this moment, Lan Wangji’s reticence is strangely comforting. Wei Wuxian thinks it’s a shame that the Lan disciple’s disposition is naturally reserved, and not because he doesn’t possess malicious thoughts about Wei Wuxian. Truly, what a shame. 

After the lecture, a series of verbal attacks pelt him like rocks. 

“Wei Wuxian! Can’t you behave for just once?” Jiang Cheng is usually avoidant, so this confrontation is a conspicuous red flag of trouble. Venom froths at his lips.

Wei Wuxian can take anything. Bring it on, Jiang Cheng. 

“Is ruining Lotus Pier not enough for you?”

Wei Wuxian rolls his eyes and rubs his nose with one finger.

“You bring shame to my family.” 

Wei Wuxian scoffs. Underneath his breath, he mutters, “I was never a part of your family any way.”

“It’s no wonder no one wants to be around you!”

At last, this hurling rock strikes Wei Wuxian in the gut. Something within him shatters. Pride? Dignity? No, honor is just a drifting cloud to him — perhaps beautiful from afar, but immaterial and transparent up close. Haunting him is loneliness. Groundlessness. A constant reminder that he has no place in this world. That if he disappears, no one would care. Strike that — they would care; celebration would fill the streets with loud firecrackers and jovial music.

Wei Wuxian unsheathes Suibian, sunlight reflecting blinding white on the metal blade, and prepares to duel Jiang Cheng right in the center of the Cloud Recesses. Fuck Gusu’s three thousand rules carved in stone. A few whip lashings are nothing compared to being stabbed in the heart.

But then Wei Wuxian remembers the other young cultivators’ whispers and taunts, how genuine terror grabbed their throats upon witnessing a glimpse at his untraditional personality. Wei Wuxian may be a monster, but does a monster not crave affection? 

At last, with one suppressed snarl, he slams Suibian into the ground. The sword ricochets against the pavement, metal clinking against stone. The dissonance sends frostbites down all the onlookers’ spines. 

With drooping shoulders, he picks up his sword. Suibian is suddenly heavy within his arms. With brisk, large paces, he exits the courtyard, like an injured predator with no prey to bring home. 

He moves too quickly to see the curious gaze of a silent watcher from a nearby window.

The punishment for his outlandish behavior during the lecture is not whippings, but copying Chapter of Conduct a thousand times. At this, Wei Wuxian’s heart sinks to the floor. Physical punishment may be painful, but it is quick. On the other hand, copying rules is a strain to his already miniscule patience. 

“Lan Wangji. Accompany Wei gongzi to the Library Pavilion and do not permit him to leave until he has finished.” Behind Lan Qiren’s stoic expression is a hint of smugness. 

“Yes, Uncle,” Lan Wangji obeys. 

What Lan Qiren doesn’t realize is that Lan Wangji’s presence is hardly a punishment. There is hardly a time when other young cultivators are willing to spend time with Wei Wuxian, and although technically Lan Wangji didn’t sign up for this himself, Wei Wuxian wears a summer’s day on his face as his shaky brushstrokes crawl across the rice paper. 

“Lan Wangji,” Wei Wuxian whines. His fingers already feel like heavy rocks. “Why did you agree to watch over me?”

Unfortunately, Lan Wangji doesn’t spare him a glance. The younger Twin Jade is a silent swan, pristine snow-white robes framing his delicate, pale face. 

“Wangji-xiong.” No response. “Lan Wangji.” Nothing. “Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian shouts, knocking over Lan Wangji’s ink stone. Black tears spill across a sheet of white. 

At last, Lan Wangji glances up. To Wei Wuxian’s surprise, he maintains an air of tranquility. Wei Wuxian takes on a new challenge: provoke a reaction. 

Attempt one: “If you’d like, you can call me Wei Ying.” 

Attempt two: “Lan Zhan, after I’m done with this garbage, what do you say to a drink of Emperor’s Smile with me?”

Attempt three: “Lan er-gongzi, I have a question that’s been nagging me for quite some time now. What is the use of having three thousand sect rules? Surely, a couple dozen are enough? Is there some textbook that Gusu follows to establish its principles?”

Wei Wuxian bites down a smirk as Lan Wangji reaches for Yi Jing , a thick divination text and the foundation of Gusu Lan’s moral philosophy. 

Upon opening the book, Lan Wangji’s eyebrows clench and he tosses the book onto the table. “Wei Ying,” he warns, voice taut. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve never seen images like this. You really haven’t? What can I say, the Lan Sect needs liberation more than ghosts do.”

Lan Wangji grasps onto Bichen firmly, knuckles white.

“Now, Lan Zhan. I would advise you not to start a duel. Fighting is prohibited in the Cloud Recesses, remember?” 

Lan Wangji’s right eye twitches. He appears to balance precariously on the edge of composure, debating whether or not a confrontation is worth the headache. In the end, he sets Bichen down carefully and picks up his brush. 

Wei Wuxian skips back to his own desk, a playful hum tickling his throat. Challenge of provoking Lan Wangji: success!

For the remainder of his time studying at the Cloud Recesses, Wei Wuxian makes it a habit to purposefully stir trouble. Somehow, Lan Qiren doesn’t get the hint that his tactic of using Lan Wangji as a watchful hawk, to Wei Wuxian, is a reward . For the first time in his life, Wei Wuxian isn’t alone. A burden has lifted from his chest; a veil removed. Spending time with Lan Wangji is worth all the hand cramps. It’s a daily routine: push the Lan disciple until he teeters on the edge of sanity, catalogue all his microexpressions, revel at his forceful restraint, and occasionally — though Wei Wuxian won’t admit it — steal glimpses at the way sunshine refracts through the window and caresses Lan Wangji’s left side. The rays reflect off his robes and illuminate his near surroundings; like the moon, he is a harbor of light. And with time, the darkness within Wei Wuxian’s heart ebbs, a receding night sky at daybreak. 

***

“Wei Wuxian, what are you up to now?” Jiang Cheng stands with arms crossed, body a blockade at the entrance of the Jiang household. 

Wei Wuxian grins. “Jiang Cheng, do you really like me so much that you won’t let me leave? You must think my presence is a blessing, hm?”

Jiang Cheng’s face twists into a scowl. “Shut that arrogant mouth of yours. Where even is your sword?”

Wei Wuxian shrugs. “I left it behind in my bedchambers. What can I say? I’m a changed man. I don’t want to cause unwanted destruction.”

“Then what’s that?” Jiang Cheng points to Wei Wuxian’s right hand. 

“Oh this? Can’t you tell?” Wei Wuxian twirls the object: a bamboo flute. “My flute, Chen Qing.”

“What kind of name —” Jiang Cheng starts, but quickly drops the subject, likely remembering Wei Wuxian’s jeers about his childhood puppies’ names. “Nevermind. Go on, then. If you cause even an ounce of distress, my father will deal with you.” 

“Don’t worry.” Wei Wuxian rests a hand on Jiang Cheng’s shoulder and winks. “I’ll make sure to stay out of trouble.”

Lotus Pier on a gentle summer afternoon looks like a painting. The lake is a mirror, reflecting jade dragon hills that stretch across the horizon. Pink lotus flowers on the water’s surface reach for the sky. 

However, Wei Wuxian is not here to admire the scenery. He scans the lake, and upon finding no one in sight, his lips stretch wide in joy. From underneath a dock, Wei Wuxian pulls out a single-person boat. With years of experience tucked in his palm, he knows just where to row: the bottom of the hills, where people usually stray away from, are where the lotuses are most dense and lucious. The seedpods here are large and sweet, but of course, this is a fact Wei Wuxian refuses to share with others.

Nothing can get better than this: the sweet harmony of birds, cool mist that dampens his skin, and the pool of warmth on his back from the afternoon sun. 

Suddenly, a faint cry cuts through the bird song. Wei Wuxian stills, ears alert. There it is again: a whimper so soft that it could be a trick of the wind. 

“Who’s there?” he calls. 

As he approaches a hill, he notices a shadow just underneath the lake surface. The cries seem to originate from the shadow’s location. It’s strange — cries from underneath water shouldn’t be this crisp. Curiosity pulls him nearer. Squinting, he makes out a small figure: a little girl, struggling to stay afloat! Wait — no, she isn’t struggling. She’s locked in that position with her torso above the water, by the shadow. The shadow is… a water ghost! 

Water ghosts are not uncommon in Yunmeng. But while usually they can be dealt with through traditional methods, this ghost appears particularly dangerous and the young girl’s life is on the line. Liberation is not an option when the ghost’s desire is to drown others. Suppression could be possible… but where’s the fun in that? Elimination would be the best traditional method, but Suibian is resting by his bed, untouched for a month.

Wei Wuxian has other ideas brewing, a fourth path he has been itching to test. The perfect opportunity has fallen in his hands and no one is here to obstruct him. Chen Qing feels smooth between his confident fingers. The flute is cool when it touches his lips, and he begins to play.

The flute melody is shaky and occasionally steps out of tune, but he’s much closer to succeeding than last time. Each wrong note is like backtracking an entire measure, but at least there are more correct notes than wrong ones. Still, it is not enough. The ghost begins to move, swimming around the circumference of the hill. The girl’s whines escalate into wails, echoing among the trees. 

Then, a gust of wind brushes past, cool where it touches his skin beneath his robes. Chen Qing’s song tapers, leaving one raspy note hanging in the air. 

A tall, broad-shouldered figure clad in white enters on a flying sword. The base of the hill catches his descent. His forehead ribbon marks him as a member of the Lan Sect. His aura seems familiar. The figure shifts and the sunlight parts to reveal… Lan Wangji! 

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian calls. “Or should I call you Hanguang-jun? What are you doing here?”

Lan Wangji doesn’t reply. He unsheathes Bichen with a harsh metallic sound. Despite his large frame, his moves are agile, blade ringing as it slices through the air. In just a wink of time, Lan Wangji holds the girl in his arms like a lily pad embracing its water lily. The water ghost staggers backward, its right arm hanging loosely from its shoulder. 

Wei Wuxian’s admiration for Lan Wangji lasts only for a moment. A new thought slides into place: as the Spirit Pearl, rescuing the girl ought to be his duty. When he succeeds, perhaps the Yunmeng residents will relinquish their hostile perceptions of him. And that means Lan Wangji is merely a stubborn barrier. 

Wei Wuxian reaches for Suibian’s hilt, but his fingers slip on thin air. A curse escapes his lips. There is only one option, and if it goes wrong, he could be banished from the cultivating world altogether. Risk is a toy that he juggles eagerly. 

This time, Chen Qing’s song is as clear as a summer morning, tune bittersweet and dripping with nostalgic forlornness. The water ghost stirs and steadily crawls onto the hill’s surface, algae clinging to its rotting robes. In one swift motion, it lunges toward Lan Wangji, knocking him back with brute force. When the ghost retreats, the girl is back in his arms. She lets out a gurgled howl. 

Lan Wangji is no longer expressionless. He looks up, bewilderment etched on his face. “Wei Ying.” His voice is as resonant as the ocean. “What are you doing?”

“Ah Lan Zhan, my birth name sounds pleasant on your tongue. What am I doing, you ask? I’m here to save the girl of course. You’ll have to wait in line.” He raises Chen Qing to his lips, prepared to continue the song.

Before a single note resounds through the cove, in a flurry of white robes, Lan Zhan rushes to Wei Wuxian’s side and grasps his wrist. Startled by the ice-cold touch, Wei Wuxian lifts his gaze. 

Wei Wuxian forgets to breathe. 

Intense. Numbing. Lan Zhan’s stare bores holes into Wei Wuxian’s heart. The light catches in Lan Zhan’s glass irises, specks of gold dancing like fireflies. Up close, Lan Wangji is as ethereal as a heaven’s illusion. He’s an oasis in a desert’s distance that turns out to be a mirage — a spark of hope which snowballs into persistent yearning. 

“You’re controlling the ghost.” Lan Zhan’s voice tugs Wei Wuxian back to the present. 

“You’re very observant.” The right side of Wei Wuxian’s lips curls into a smirk. 

Bichen swings toward Wei Wuxian’s shoulder. Chen Qing blocks the offense.

“Where is your sword?”

“Why does everyone keep asking me this question? I haven’t used it in weeks.” 

“Why did you give up the sword for another method?” The word ‘demonic’ is unspoken but implied. “Answer.”

“What if I refuse to answer? What will you do?” A smile toys on Wei Wuxian’s lips. 

Lan Zhan furrows his brows ever so slightly, then twists Bichen and aims for Wei Wuxian’s leg. Wei Wuxian may be unarmed, but he is not weak. Chen Qing once again intercepts and even pushes the blade backward. However, capitulation is not in Lan Zhan’s vocabulary. He continues to strike. Metal colliding with wood is a cacophonous orchestra — a duet between convention and unorthodoxy. 

Suddenly, another instrument barges in — a ferocious roar that shakes emerald scales off the dragon canopies. The cultivators’ duet encounters a rest measure. 

The water ghost convulses — no, intentionally shakes, heavy water droplets flinging from its body. Wei Wuxian hardly believes what happens next. The droplets remain suspended in the air like glass orbs. 

With curious fingers, he reaches out to touch one of them. His finger solidifies, color washing away. It has turned to stone! The stone spreads until his entire left hand has become stationary, but it doesn’t expand any farther. 

With Bichen in front of him, slicing the orbs, Lan Zhan rushes toward the water ghost. He dodges the orbs that he doesn’t have time to destroy with the elegance of an experienced fighter. Bichen’s hilt slams the ghost in the stomach and the girl tumbles out of its hold. She flies in an arc before safety welcomes her to Lan Zhan’s arms. 

The water ghost staggers back to its feet, and though it isn’t sentient, he appears to be laughing. The mocking kind of laugh, shrill at the edges. 

Lan Zhan stills. The girl’s crying has stopped, but it is not because danger is merely a memory. Her entire body has become a statue, yet a grateful smile is still plastered on her face. The stone is a disease, a virus that spreads from one host to the next. It seeps into Lan Zhan’s skin, encasing him like a suit of armor. Only his left eye remains untouched. Even as stone, Lan Zhan retains a graceful air. 

Wei Wuxian’s grip on Chen Qing tightens almost until a crack forms. Vexation lines his breath and ire powers his fingers. His notes are canorous as they skip across the lake. Instead of this particular water ghost slipping under the influence of Chen Qing’s song, something else rises from the water — a young woman corpse, radiating resentful energy. She must have died as a victim of the ghost. A question haunts Wei Wuxian: how many other girls did this ghost drown?

The female corpse is armed with a dagger. Her body bends and twists to the music. As the song picks up in intensity, she charges toward the water ghost. Her dagger glints under the sunlight as it makes stabs at the ghost. Wei Wuxian underestimated the ghost. It sidesteps all of her attacks, growling with equally matched resentment. 

Wei Wuxian changes Chen Qing’s song, adding another layer to the melody. Another female corpse emerges, wearing a dress of algae. Judging by her sword, she must have been a novice cultivator. Her death is a shame; there are too few female cultivators as it is. 

She moves silently, a vipress among the reeds. When the other female corpse has the ghost locked in a chokehold, she lifts her sword to the sky and plunges down into the ghost’s back. The ghost lurches; its world tips upside down as it stumbles, falling head first into the lake like a sinking boulder. 

Then, quiet. The birds are audible again. Serenity returns on a light breeze. His hand, the girl, and Lan Zhan are still petrified. 

Wei Wuxian racks his brain, wishing he paid more attention to his childhood medical lessons. Regardless, he has never heard of water ghosts turning humans into rock. That leaves only his intuition as a guidebook. 

The two female corpses have slidden underneath the water as well. A gleam in the grass catches his eye. It’s the dagger — it must have slipped from her fingertips. Or, could it be left behind purposefully? 

A layer of black tar-like substance varnishes the blade, consistency resembling blood. Wei Wuxian takes a wild leap of faith as he leans his head back and lifts the dagger above his open mouth. Best case scenario: he will be cured. Worst case scenario: he’ll die. 

A few black drops slide onto his tongue — a foreign, bitter tang. The substance crawls down his throat, sticking to his uvula before he swallows multiple times. Overwhelming relief washes down all remaining residue when he lifts his left hand and his fingers move. 

“Lan Zhan, I have the antidote!” He skips excitedly toward the stone cultivator. However, his elation evaporates too quickly when he realizes that Lan Zhan’s lips are sealed. “Aiya, what should I do? Lan Qiren is going to kill me when he finds out that his prodigy nephew has become a gargoyle.”

With the dagger still in his hands, Wei Wuxian gesticulates exaggeratedly. A droplet of the liquid flicks off and lands on the little girl’s leg. To Wei Wuxian’s amazement, her leg returns back to normal, peachy flesh instead of ash gray. However, there isn’t enough substance to spread across the bodies of both Lan Zhan and the girl. Instead, Wei Wuxian touches the blade to their lips, and once their mouths return to flesh, he drips the liquid inside. Their reintroduction to the world is an acrid, black kiss. 

“Welcome back,” Wei Wuxian greets Lan Zhan once his entire body breathes with life. 

Lan Zhan’s first reaction is to tighten his arms around the girl. Distrust builds walls instinctively, even when there is nothing to keep out. 

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to steal her away again,” Wei Wuxian reassures.

Once Lan Zhan realizes that the water ghost and resentful corpses are gone, his guard loosens. Wei Wuxian prepares for the worst — for the subtle change of light in Lan Zhan’s eyes that marks a flare of anger, for his quiet demeanor to melt away as he makes an exception to lecture Wei Wuxian on the dangers of walking the evil path, perhaps another duel until metal splinters wood. 

Instead, Lan Zhan’s eyes are soft, fireflies in his irises dancing. His full lips part like a blossoming rosebud, as if to say something. He bows with clasped hands in front of him, a swan reaching down to paint ripples in the water. 

“Thank you for saving my life. And the girl’s life as well.” 

Wei Wuxian finds himself flushing, fluster rushing to his cheeks. Gratitude is novel and as saccharine as candy bunnies. He scratches his head. “No need to be so formal, Lan Zhan. We’ve already spent so much time together.”

Lan Zhan doesn’t seem to agree. “Please tell me how I may repay your good deed.”

“Repay?” Wei Wuxian chuckles, throat full of merriment. “There’s no need to repay me.”

Lan Zhan straightens. “I insist.”

Repayment. Is gratitude always transactional, or is this a Gusu custom? Or perhaps a trait unique to Lan Zhan? “Because you insist,” Wei Wuxian begins, attempting — and failing — to hide his eagerness. “Become friends with me.”

Lan Zhan’s eyebrows rise by a mere millimeter. “Friends?”

Is Lan Zhan rejecting the offer of friendship? But he wouldn’t — he’s a man of his words, right? Wei Wuxian wears confidence as a facade. “Yes, friends. F-r-i-e-n-d-s. Is there something wrong with that?” 

Lan Zhan’s parted lips are a source of agony as Wei Wuxian waits for a refusal. But the Twin Jade simply takes a long breath, inhaling his own inexperience at friendship. At last, “No. I… I accept your request.”

Something wet falls onto the back of Wei Wuxian’s hand, and his first thought is: the water ghost is back! He waits for skin to become stone. Nothing happens. That’s when Wei Wuxian realizes his face is damp, eyes sources to twin rivers that trickle down his chin. 

“Wei Ying, are you alright?” Lan Zhan has noticed the tears too. 

Wei Wuxian uses his sleeve to wipe his eyes. “It’s nothing, just sand in my eye.”

“There is no sand around here.” 

Wei Wuxian wants to bury himself. How could he be so stupid? “Fine. I’m crying. Are you happy now? I’m crying because…”

“Because?” Concern casts a shadow on Lan Zhan’s brow. 

“Lan er-gong-zi, this is embarrassing. Promise me you won’t judge?”

“Mn, I promise.”

Wei Wuxian inhales sharply. “Because you’re my first friend. Everyone thinks I’m a monster and no one wants to be around me. I thought you would certainly say no when I asked you to be my friend, but you accepted. I’m just a tad emotional, okay?”

“You are my first as well.”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes open as wide as oranges. “Really? That makes me feel better. I’m not the only one that’s inexperienced in this department. That reminds me, my sixteenth birthday is next month. Can you come?” 

A hint of a smile tugs at Lan Zhan’s lips. “Yes, I would love to.”

Wei Wuxian’s genuine smile is as rare as a solar eclipse, a slice of sunshine served on a platter but too beautiful to eat. 

The sun begins to dip behind the horizon, and the jade dragons now bathe in lakes of apricot and lavender. One particular dragon is unique, surrounded by a halo of light: what Wei Wuxian emits, and what Lan Zhan harbors. 

***

The Jiang household is a bursting pomegranate on the day of Wei Wuxian’s birthday. Royal purple is replaced with bright, passionate red, tying his hair ribbon to the surroundings — glowing scarlet lanterns dangle from rooftops, bobbing like jellyfish in the mellow breeze. Perhaps the biggest surprise is that Madam Yu voluntarily handled the decorations, her usual aggrieved character suddenly as exuberant as a queen bee. 

Wei Wuxian doesn’t usually celebrate his birthday, so his stomach churns with anticipation. However, turning sixteen is not what excites him most. Rather, one thought is a perpetual cloud hanging over his head: today, he’ll see Lan Zhan. 

Standing in front of a polished bronze mirror, Wei Wuxian scrutinizes his appearance. He’s clad in red robes gifted by his shi-jie, Jiang Yanli, the only other kind soul in Yunmeng besides Jiang xian-sheng. The color suits him, he thinks. Compared to the last time he carefully observed himself in the mirror, he appears thinner and more structured. 

From behind him: “One would think there is a wedding going on, not a birthday celebration for a servant’s son.”

In the mirror’s reflection, a middle-aged man with eyebrows pinched in perpetual consternation materializes. He wears white, and at first Wei Wuxian thinks he is a member of the Lan Sect, but the man is missing a forehead ribbon. 

“Who are you?” Wei Wuxian asks. “How did you get in here?”

“Who am I? How dare you ask.”

“Look, I can’t remember everyone I see,” Wei Wuxian frowns, wondering just how terrible his memory may be.

“Su She. Does that ring a bell?”

Wei Wuxian strokes his chin, thinking. “Ah, right. You lead the Moling Su Sect and you used to be a member from the Lan Sect. Remind me, did you leave voluntarily or were you expelled?”

Su She’s nostrils flare, but he avoids the question. “Don’t get too arrogant just yet. It looks like you’re still in the dark about your true identity.”

Wei Wuxian turns around, finally facing Su She. “What do you mean ‘true?’”

Su She’s chuckles sound like a broken hand fan, air whistling through a gaping hole in folded paper. “Do you really believe that you were born from the Spirit Pearl? You have much potential as a cultivator, yet you’re so gullible.” 

“What are you talking about?” Wei Wuxian frets. 

“Tsk tsk, Wei Wuxian. Everyone fears you, but instead they should pity you. You’re not the Spirit Pearl. You’re the reincarnation of the Demon Orb, an uncontained mass of resentment.”

Wei Wuxian scoffs. “Your mouth is nothing but a useless hole that spews waste.”

“You have believed Jiang Fengmian’s lies for years, yet when someone tells you the truth, you suddenly turn away,” says Su She. 

“You’re lying,” spits Wei Wuxian. “You have no proof.”

“If you were truly the Spirit Pearl, why would the Jiangs keep your identity a secret?”

“That isn’t possible. If what you are saying is true, then I should have been exterminated years ago,” Wei Wuxian reasons. 

Su She shakes his head. “The Demon Orb is too powerful to be exterminated by mere humans. Instead, a curse was placed on it. Sixteen years after its creation, a heavenly lightning strike will destroy it. Wei Wuxian, you were born with a curse: on your sixteenth birthday, you will die.”

Next, Su She confirms Wei Wuxian’s deepest fear: “The day of the curse’s fulfillment has finally arrived.”

Maintaining level-headed is as difficult as taming a storm cloud. The back of his neck is damp with cold sweat. “How is this possible? How did this happen? Jiang xian-sheng said —”

“Jiang xian-sheng lied so that you wouldn’t go around wrecking Yunmeng to smithereens. As for how this all happened? The Demon Orb and the Spirit Pearl were switched. Can you guess who the true Spirit Pearl is?”

The Spirit Pearl would have to be the same age as him and a similar cultivation level. The Demon Orb and the Spirit Pearl are yin and yang; revenge and justice; demonic and heavenly; unorthodox and convention; Wei Wuxian and… 

“No.” His voice is a lone wolf’s cry. “Not him.”

Su She’s eyes light up sinisterly. “ Yes him. The beloved, celebrated, venerable Hanguang-jun. Come on, don’t be so surprised. Someone so admired and talented cannot have had a natural birth.”

Wei Wuxian shakes his head. “This doesn’t make sense. Why would the Lan Sect purposefully switch the Demon Orb and the Spirit Pearl? Their rules would forbid it! Who would do such a thing?”

Su She’s leers. “ I would.”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes shoot an arrow crafted from loathing. “What?!”

“You were right. I was expelled from the Lan Sect, but that does not stop me from controlling one of its Twin Jades.” Su She’s expression turns from smug to contempt. “It’s always, ‘Hanguang-jun’ this, ‘Hanguang-jun’ that. But if the cultivation world finds out that he was born from the stolen Spirit Pearl, the Gusu Lan Sect would be ostracized for sure. The righteous Lan er-gong-zi would do anything to prevent that from happening. His existence and his sect’s fate are mere toys in my hands!”

Wei Wuxian is shaking now, rancor coursing through his veins. “You’re wrong. Nothing will happen to the Lan Sect. If anything, you will be the one to be banished.”

“You should know best that the cultivation world does not care about finding out the truth. They will blame the easiest scapegoat: the people who raised Lan Wangji. If they try to redirect the blame on me, no one will believe them.”

“I will believe them.” 

Su She howls with laughter. “You will be dead by then!”

Wei Wuxian is a marionette, desperation and resolve are his strings. There’s only one solution. He rushes out of his bedroom and past the Jiang household’s entrance, in the process knocking Su She to the floor. 

At his arrival, a hush falls over Yunmeng, as if someone has cast a sect-wide silence spell. Several dozen uneasy pairs of eyes turn toward him like magnets, and most of the residents instinctively take a step back. 

Wei Wuxian does not have time to feel self-conscious. He storms up to Jiang Fengmian, leaving behind a trail of fury. “You lied to me. You told me I was the Spirit Pearl, stuffed me with false hope. For what? To protect your reputation?” He grasps Jiang Fengmian’s collar and shakes him. “Were you ever going to tell me that today will be the last day I step on this earth?” 

“Child, I can explain,” Jiang Fengmian says calmly, as though he has been preparing for this confrontation. 

“Child? Am I really just a child when I hold a millennium’s worth of resentful energy? Am I still a child when it is the day I die?” 

Then, a baritone voice: “Wei Ying. Don’t do this.” 

Even now, Lan Zhan glows and everything around him is twilight. He’s wearing light blue today, an ocean’s teardrop in a jungle of fire. 

“Lan Wangji ah, Lan Wangji,” Wei Wuxian says. “Is your identity still a secret? Did you really think no one would find out that you are actually the reincarnation of the Spirit Pearl?”

A tide of murmurs stirs among the crowd. 

“Did I hear that correctly? Hanguang-jun is the Spirit Pearl?” 

“Don’t believe that nonsense. Wei Wuxian is untrustworthy.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan warns. “Please stop.”

Wei Wuxian continues, “Did you know from the beginning that I am the Demon Orb? Did you come here to see me die?”

“No, I…” Lan Zhan’s voice trails off.

Wei Wuxian addresses the onlookers. “If you all don’t believe me, then take a look at this.” He grabs hold of Lan Zhan’s forehead ribbon, which is cool and silky to the touch, and pulls. It comes off with little resistance. 

A blue sigil on his forehead’s center — the mark of the Chaos Pearl. 

Wei Wuxian pushes his own bangs back. He has a matching one, but red in color. 

The crowd gasps. Voices begin to overlap like crashing sea storm waves. 

“The Lan Sect stole the Spirit Pearl.”

“Their sect’s justice is a facade.”

“They should be banished from the cultivation world!”

The shadows on Lan Zhan’s face reveal a trace of panic, unnoticeable to the untrained eye. With a flick of his wrist, a guqin materializes. The moon’s reflection is a pool of light against its dark wooden surface. 

Long, slender fingers begin to strum. The tune holds every watcher’s attention, its sonorous vibrations casting a trance on their souls. 

“Have you ever wondered why your birth parents died?” Su She appears at Wei Wuxian’s side. 

Wei Wuxian has to focus to make out Su She’s words while Lan Zhan’s guqin continues in the background. 

Wei Wuxian knows that Su She is trying to distract him, push his buttons. But he replies anyway. “They died on a night hunt.”

“Is that what you think? Tsk tsk, you really grew up in a sea of lies. The truth is that they foolishly sacrificed themselves, thinking they could trade their lives in to have you spared.”

Wei Wuxian stills. 

“Their souls were given to the Spirit Pearl. That’s right, Lan Wangji’s soul is partially made from the death of your parents.”

With that, Wei Wuxian is pulled out of the guqin’s trance. And then it hits him: Lan Zhan is playing a memory erasure song. If successful, all of Yunmeng will forget about their confrontation. Perhaps the entire night will be a slate wiped clean, and Wei Wuxian will die without knowing why. 

Ignorance is bliss — except when it’s not. Wei Wuxian would rather face the hideous truth, would rather see the blade pressed against his neck, than be stabbed in the back with lies.

He has always lived with a crack in his soul. Sometimes, when his temper breaks, the crack widens and resentful energy the color of fresh blood leaks out. Now, the crack trembles as it deepens, and his soul — no longer contained — gurgles before it bursts. 

Chen Qing is so black that it looks blue under the darkening sky. As Wei Wuxian begins to play, tendrils of black smoke curl around the wood like serpents. The flute drowns out Lan Zhan’s guqin and soon the onlookers are pulled out of their stupor. The scene unfolding before them is far more frightening than memory loss. 

The smoke thickens and expands. The pitch of the song shifts, less of a melody and more like a string of haunting notes that cut through the night air. Suddenly, the smoke charges away from Chen Qing and toward its target: Lan Zhan. 

Lan Zhan’s hands quickly switch from holding his guqin to clutching Bichen. The white blade of justice slashes through the resentful spirits, but evil is not a tangible being, and soon after the smoke reaccumulates. As he is preoccupied, from the distance comes a chorus of growls. The onlookers all turn their head toward the origin of the noise: the Yunmeng cemetery. A throng of resentful corpses with beady black eyes and skin like cracked porcelain rush toward Lan Zhan. A few of the corpses carry weapons that they were buried with. 

Even Lan Zhan’s strength as the reincarnation of the Spirit Pearl is no match for this; his years of training has not prepared him for a fight against demonic cultivation. Nevertheless, Bichen continues to swing, strike, slay. His usually structured bangs now stick to his forehead with perspiration and his limbs begin to tremble. 

At this moment, exhaustion is a poisoned apple that is forced down his throat; resistance is of no use. Bichen slips from his hands and hits the pavement with a metallic clang. Four corpses use this window of opportunity to surround him from all sides. A cool, rusty blade presses against his Adam’s apple. 

Checkmate.

All around them is rain — heaven is weeping for the soon-to-be fallen angel, indistinguishable from the warm, salty tears sliding down Lan Zhan’s face. A strange calmness washes over him. In his short sixteen years of life, all he has done is appear wherever chaos is, bringing light for those who live in perpetual darkness. If he is doomed to death, at least it is at the hands of someone equally powerful. He has tried his best.

Lan Zhan closes his eyes, prepared for the end. 

But it never comes. Chen Qing’s song reaches its last measure. The snarls and growls cease. When Lan Zhan opens his eyes, the resentful corpses and spirits have vanished like a receding tide. 

He can sense Wei Wuxian’s presence behind him. Wei Wuxian is a storm cloud, dark and brooding. 

“Why spare me?” Lan Zhan asks, voice husky. 

Wei Wuxian did not intend to spare Lan Zhan. He is not one to show mercy, he’s the kind of person who lets his emotions control his actions before taking a breath to think. But when it came time to play the final notes that would drive the resentful corpses’ swords into Lan Zhan’s delicate neck, his fingers would not move. The fact of his own upcoming death suddenly hit him, and he was overtaken by an immense terror. 

If Lan Zhan dies by his hands, then what? Revenge would not bring back his birth parents nor would it erase the loneliness of his childhood. The villagers would be more fearful of him, not less. He may gain satisfaction, but what use is that when he’s due to die in just a few hours? Death — suffering is a permanent stain that coats every ashen hand, the world does not need more. 

And, “You’re my only friend.” 

“Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan says his name in a way that carries a thousand different meanings and emotions. 

A roar of thunder sends vibrations through the ground beneath them. 

“Lan Zhan, my time is almost up. You should leave now.” Wei Wuxian looks up to see a swirling mass of dark storm clouds, like a reverse tornado. 

“I will come with you.” 

Wei Wuxian shakes his head. “No, that’s too dangerous.”

Lan Zhan speaks slowly, sincerely. “You’re my only friend too. I won’t lose you.”

“But I’m going to die today. My destiny was pre-written before my birth.”

“Destiny only controls us because we allow it to. If fate is unsatisfactory, then we must change it. Together, we stand a chance.”

“Lan Zhan.” Tears well up in Wei Wuxian’s eyes, but he blinks them away before they can spil. “Together…”

“Mn.”

They leap up onto the rooftop of the tallest building in Yunmeng. The clouds are low enough in the sky that they swallow the tips of trees. They emit angry forks of lightning, cracks in the border that separates Earth from the heavens. 

Wei Wuxian and Lan Zhan begin to play. This time, Wangji and Chen Qing are no longer against each other. It is an unrehearsed piece, yet somehow they play in harmony. Chen Qing is clear and high-pitched like a running stream and the guqin’s rich, lethargic notes are guiding river rocks. Even as the thunder grows deafening, their song is still discernible. 

At last, the moment comes. A column of lightning erupts from the center of the churning clouds and devours Wei Wuxian and Lan Zhan. One sensation: pain. The human body is not meant to be an electricity conductor, and they shudder uncontrollably. Still, they do not stop playing. 

Wei Wuxian and Lan Zhan begin to glow red and blue respectively. Their glows expand until they fuse, now its own spinning pearl of fire and water. Soon, sparks of lightning encircle the pearl; the pearl is merging with — no — absorbing the lightning. 

Then, a tempo shift. The onlookers gasp as the pearl redirects the lightning toward the storm clouds. The two columns collide, blades of light in a deadlock. Lan Zhan and Wei Wuxian’s fingers are lacerated, blood smearing on their instruments as their song continues. Perspiration coats the back of their necks. 

A ring of light has formed at the collision point. It expands and expands, until: an explosion. Blinding white light stretches across all of Yunmeng, a supernova of spiritual and resentful energy and chaos. The impact of the explosion throws their bodies in the air as if they’re weightless. At last, the song ceases. 

In those moments of suspension, unsure which direction is up or down, Wei Wuxian thinks that if he perishes because of this, he would like to perish without resentment. Sixteen years is only a wink of time for the universe, and yet for him, it was an entire life of fire and poison — too much for anyone to handle. The last thing he wants is to walk again on this earth as a fierce corpse. His only wish — to find companionship — has been fulfilled. And so, he has no regrets. 

With hot tears lining his eyes and a ghost of a smile, Wei Wuxian falls. 

***

Wei Wuxian wakes up to white. He blinks and his surroundings slowly come into focus. Above him, a cloud-like bed canopy sways tenderly in the light breeze. To his right, pale sunlight filters through a circular window and past the side bed frame, casting stripes of shadow on the white sheets beneath him. He’s wearing snow-white silk undergarments that are slightly oversized. 

“Wei Ying.” A tall figure strides past the ebony wood floorboards, a beam of moonlight in a dark forest. Lan Zhan sits down next to him on the bed. “You’re awake.”

“Where am I?” Wei Wuxian tries to sit up, but as he does so, he’s hit by a wave of vertigo. 

“Lie down. You are still recovering.”

Why is everything white? “Am I dead? Is this what heaven looks?” Wei Wuxian asks without an ounce of sarcasm. “Does this mean… you died too?”

An outline of a smile on Lan Zhan’s lips. “No, we are in Jingshi.”

“Jingshi? As in your bedroom, that Jingshi?”

“Yes."

Wei Wuxian lets out a breath as he processes his situation. “We’re alive. Lan Zhan, we’re alive! The curse — we broke it. Together.” He can hardly speak, words tumbling out in fragments. “What happened? How is this possible?”

“We unleashed the energy of the Chaos Pearl,” Lan Zhan explains. “There exists nothing more powerful.”

“And the Yunmeng residents, are they safe?”

Lan Zhan nods.

“Lan Zhan.”

“Mn.”

“You were right. Just because I was born from the Demon Orb, that does not mean I have to live an evil life of resentment. I’ll show people that I’m not a monster. And even if they still think I am, that does not mean I have to be angry.”

“You are not a monster. You don’t need to show them.”

Wei Wuxian locks gazes with Lan Zhan’s light, glassy eyes. “I want to show them. I don’t care if they change their minds. There’s a difference between not being evil and being a good person. Even if not for them, I want to be good — for myself. I want to slay demons and defeat fierce ghosts because it is the right thing to do.

“I like spending time with you. Even though you don’t talk much, your presence is… nice. Really nice.” Wei Wuxian’s next words come out uncharacteristically uncertain. “Lan Zhan, will you go come with me? Let’s night hunt together.”

The fireflies begin their dance in Lan Zhan’s eyes. “Mn. 一起 (Together).”

Wei Wuxian’s brilliant smile is a sunrise gradient against the Jingshi’s monochrome. 

It took sixteen years for him to taste the joy of companionship. And it is so much sweeter than he ever imagined.