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Officially, talking after lights out is forbidden in the Cloud Recesses. But in the junior quarters, the disciples sleep all in a row, and not even the most rule-following Lan can resist a little late-night chatter. On nights like tonight, when thunderstorms rattle the walls and sleep seems impossible, a low murmur spreads through the room, every disciple whispering to the one beside them.

Lan Sizhui sleeps at the very end of the room, with a wall on his right side and Lan Jingyi on his left. Since he and Jingyi joined the ranks of the juniors this year, they’ve spent more nights talking together than Sizhui ever expected. They’ve gossiped about their elders and swapped hazy memories of their half-forgotten childhoods and dreamed wild dreams about what they could do with their cultivation when they’re grown up.

Tonight, they’re lying on their backs, listening to the thunderstorm rage. Sizhui turns over a thought in his mind about rain talismans, and whether you could combine them with wind talismans to make a storm like this. He turns to ask Jingyi what he thinks, only to find Jingyi already turned towards him, head propped on his hand.

“So,” Jingyi says. “I have another question about Hanguang-Jun.”

Sizhui sighs internally. Ever since Jingyi learned that Hanguang-Jun raised Sizhui after he was brought to the Cloud Recesses, he’s had to field a million questions about him. To every junior but Sizhui, Hanguang-Jun is a mythical figure, barely real even though they see him every day, so Sizhui gets why Jingyi is curious. And some of the questions are normal: What did you call Hanguang-Jun when you were a kid? Did he give you your first guqin lessons? But sometimes they’re weird—Have you ever heard Hanguang-Jun fart? Is it true that Hanguang-Jun almost got kicked out of the sect for hurting the elders?—and Sizhui can feel that this is going to be another weird one.

“What is it?”

“Does Hanguang-Jun ever talk about the Yiling Patriarch?” Jingyi asks.

Sizhui frowns. Hanguang-Jun never talks about the Yiling Patriarch the way some of the juniors say their parents do, like he’ll come back from the dead and torment them if they don’t finish their dinner. And he never talks about the Yiling Patriarch the way Grand Master Qiren does, like the inevitable end of the path they’ll walk if they ask too many questions in class. Sizhui doesn’t think he’s ever heard Hanguang-Jun say the words “Yiling Patriarch” at all. But—

“I think you were there when Calligraphy Master told us that if we didn’t finish copying our lines the Yiling Patriarch would come haunt us, and Hanguang-Jun overheard,” Sizhui says. “And he said ‘That will not happen,’ in this really tense voice, and then he left.”

“Yeah, that was weird,” Jingyi says. “But did he ever tell you stories about him? Or talk about what he actually did?”

Sizhui thinks for a moment, running back his memory as far as he can take it. “I’m—not sure. That’s kind of weird, isn’t it? It seems like everyone’s parents talk about the Yiling Patriarch all the time.”

“It’s not that weird,” Jingyi says, reassuring as always. “Hanguang-Jun doesn’t need to threaten you with the Yiling Patriarch to get you to behave. All he has to do is look at you.”

“He’s not really like that,” Sizhui says. “That’s more like Grand Master Qiren. He wasn’t harsh to me if I didn’t follow the rules.”

Jingyi frowns at Sizhui, like Sizhui just said that Hanguang-Jun has three heads. Sizhui knows it must be impossible to picture for anyone who hasn’t experienced it themselves. But he also knows that if he ever needs comfort, for any reason, he can always go to Hanguang-Jun; that if he asks a question, Hanguang-Jun will always answer; that if he told Hanguang-Jun he was leaving the Cloud Recesses to become a radish farmer, Hanguang-Jun would let him go. Behind the icy white robes is a heart warmer than most people know.

“Anyway,” Jingyi says. “I’m asking because, did you know, they were classmates? The Yiling Patriarch and Hanguang-Jun, I mean. At the cultivation lectures.”

“How do you know this?” Sizhui asks dubiously. Jingyi tells great stories, but his sources can be suspect; more than once he’s been punished for spinning accidentally overheard gossip into a tall tale with only a passing resemblance to the original story.

“I was talking to Lan Xiqing and Lan Jinlin about the spirit lure flags,” Jingyi says. “For that project where we have to interview a senior about one of the tools of magic.”

Sizhui gulps. He still hasn’t finished his yet. “And?”

“The Yiling Patriarch invented them!” Jingyi hisses, so loudly that Sizhui jumps. “Can you believe that? He’s supposed to be the worst man who ever lived, and we use his flags all the time.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah. And get this,” Jingyi says. “I asked Lan Xiqing why, and he said he wasn’t sure, but I didn’t really believe him, so I asked again—and then Lan Jinlin was like ‘Maybe he left them here when they kicked him out of the lectures.’” Jingyi puts on a deep, stern voice in imitation of Lan Jinlin. Since he’s also trying to whisper, it comes out sounding like a bullfrog. Sizhui stifles a giggle. “Anyway, then I was like ‘The Yiling Patriarch went to the lectures?’ and Lan Xiqing was like ‘He was part of the great cultivation class, with the Headshaker and Sandu Sengshou and Hanguang-Jun…’”

“Do you think they’ll ever say that we were a great cultivation class?” Sizhui muses.

“Yes,” Jingyi says immediately. “Obviously, Hanguang-Jun is teaching us, we’re going to be so much better than they ever were. But anyway, Lan Xiqing said the Yiling Patriarch was part of that class, but he got kicked out for suggesting demonic cultivation to Grand Master Qiren.” Jingyi sighs, the envious sigh of a fellow troublemaker recognizing a particularly good bit of havoc-wreaking. “I wish I could have seen that. I bet it was even better than the time Lan Feng set off a signal flare in the lecture hall.”

Sizhui can’t help but giggle. “If Grand Master Qiren hates him so much, I can’t believe he lets us use all those tools.”

“That’s what I said!” Jingyi says. “And Lan Jinlin was like, ‘Hanguang-Jun was the one who introduced them, and they do work, after all…’ But, the other thing was, he kind of made it sound like Hanguang-Jun and the Yiling Patriarch were friends? Like, he said that Hanguang-Jun always respected the Yiling Patriarch’s intelligence, and then Lan Xiqing was like, ‘Too much, in my opinion, he should have paid more attention to the precept Do not befriend evil,,’ and I think this is definitely a secret because then they both looked at me weird and started to talk about something else.”

“Huh.” Sizhui ponders this, chewing it like it’s a tough vegetable root. Do not befriend evil.

Jingyi seems disappointed, like he was hoping for a bigger reaction. “Do you think they’re lying? Were they really friends?”

“They’re not lying,” Sizhui says, with an instinctive confidence that moves faster than his brain.

“How do you know?” Jingyi demands, voice cracking over a yawn.

Sizhui can’t remember much of his life before the Cloud Recesses. Most of his memories are blurred colors and jumbled sounds, sensations of sticky heat and cloudy dust. One of his very few complete images rises before his eyes now: a man in pale blue and a man in deep black, sitting at a table while he runs between them. The man in pale blue made him be quiet while he ate—or is this memory mixed with his first days with Hanguang-Jun and Zewu-Jun, when he learned the rules of the Cloud Recesses? Either way, it doesn’t prove anything. Those men were surely his uncles, or his older brothers, the family he lost in the war. It’s only the contrast between blue and black, light and dark, that made him think of Hanguang-Jun and the Yiling Patriarch. It doesn’t prove they were friends, or anything. Still.

“I just think—it wouldn’t surprise me, is all,” Sizhui says lamely. “After all, he never speaks badly of the Yiling Patriarch.”

“Yeah,” Jingyi says slowly. He leans back on his pillow and stretches his arms above his head. “If I become evil…” He yawns. “If I become evil, will you tell everyone that I’m going to haunt them?”

“Of course not,” Sizhui says, as sleep starts to wash over him. “That way they’ll be more surprised when you do it.”

The last thing Sizhui hears before he falls asleep is the low sound of Jingyi’s sleepy chuckle.

****
In the Cloud Recesses, life follows a well-worn pattern, the familiar routines for times and seasons recurring as they always do. It’s probably been like this for a thousand years. Sizhui finds it comforting, most of the time. Waking at five and sleeping at nine. The prescribed hours for lectures and for meditation and for sword drills. The crisp, airy robes in summer and the heavier, softer robes in winter. And for Sizhui, his own routines, little flourishes in the wider tapestry of life in the Cloud Recesses. Weekly guqin practice with Hanguang-Jun, followed by Hanguang-Jun’s best tea and a trip to feed the rabbits. Reviewing lessons with Jingyi, both of them bouncing ideas off of each other and untangling hard problems. Visiting the shrine of the Lan ancestors, lighting a surreptitious stick of incense for his own, unknown ancestors and hoping their spirits are at peace. Like this, a year passes as smoothly as a day, a river running over polished stones.

After a full year as a junior disciple, the lessons get more complex. On the practical side, the cultivation training intensifies, preparing the juniors for their first night-hunts at the end of the year. The physical training ramps up alongside it. Sizhui’s upper arms and the backs of his legs ache every night, until his muscles start to strengthen and harden like rocks.

What they learn about history and politics becomes more complex, too. Sometimes when Sizhui leaves class, he feels like the ground under him has shifted slightly, like the sun might rise on the opposite end of the sky. As a younger boy, he’d learned what he thought was the history of his clan and the major sects. Now his instructors lift the curtain on a messier reality, one he’s not sure he’s ready to handle even in small doses. The day he learns that every Wen was killed after the Sunshot Campaign—every single one, not just the warriors and conspirators—he tells the sword instructor he has a headache and spends the rest of the day sitting in the back hill with the rabbits. He strokes one absently, cradling it in his lap like it can fix what’s wrong with the world.

It hadn’t even been the main focus of the lesson. It only came up because there was a question about how each of the major sects gained power. And now Sizhui has to bear the knowledge that after the sects defeated Wen Ruohan and stamped out the evil of his right-hand men, they killed people who had nothing to do with it. Maybe children even, or youths his own age. He wasn’t lying to the sword instructor—it makes his head ache, with anger and doubt and fear. Anger that even the wisest sects believed this was the best course of action. Doubt over all those lessons hammering home the importance of the righteous path. Fear that those he loves and respects might have killed those who did not deserve it.

He thinks about it all through dinnertime, and when he’s still thinking about it in the evening, he slips away from the junior quarters and knocks on the door of Hanguang-Jun’s little house.

“Yes?” Hanguang-Jun’s voice calls.

“It’s me,” Sizhui says. There’s a faint rustling, and then the door slides open. Sizhui steps inside. The little house is neat and orderly as always, as if no one were there. The only sign of occupation is a stick of incense burning on the desk next to a stack of letters and a brush dipped in ink.

“Sizhui,” Hanguang-Jun says, a faint thread of concern in his voice. “Are you well?”

“I’m not ill, it’s just—” Sizhui pauses, unsure how to continue. “In class today, we learned—we learned about what happened to all the Wens.”

Hanguang-Jun stiffens, the way the rabbits do when they sense some invisible danger in the distance. His face takes on a great air of concentration, and then passes back into his usual neutral expression. “And it grieved you to learn this.”

“Yes, and—Hanguang-Jun—”

“There is no one else here, Sizhui. You may be less formal, if you wish.”

“Baba Lan,” Sizhui says, his voice choking around the old name, “where were you, when they did this?”

There’s a long silence. Sizhui watches a great weight settle onto Hanguang-Jun, like snow burying a hillside.

“I wish I could say that I was fighting at every moment to stop it. But it was more complicated than that, Sizhui,” Hanguang-Jun says. “I did not believe it was right, but I was young, and did not want to speak against my elders. I resisted, here and there, but I did not have the boldness that was required to put an end to it. And even those who did—” Hanguang-Jun sighs lightly. “They were defeated, in the end.”

“Oh no,” Sizhui breathes. “But there were—there were people who tried to stop it?” He doesn’t know quite why this question is so important, only that it feels like everything depends on Hanguang-Jun’s answer.

“Yes,” Hanguang-Jun says. “I had a—friend. He defied all conventions and expectations, and put his own reputation at stake to protect the Wens, although they were not his clan. I did not stop him, but neither did I stand by him in the way he truly needed.” Hanguang-Jun’s voice goes quiet, rough with sadness. “This is my greatest regret, Sizhui.”

“Was it the Yiling Patriarch?” Sizhui blurts.

Hanguang-Jun recoils, as if Sizhui has struck him, and that in itself is all the answer Sizhui needs.

“Sorry,” Sizhui says reflexively. “Forgive this disciple, I spoke out of turn. But—I had heard that you were friends, and the things that you said just now convinced me it was true...”

“It is true,” Hanguang-Jun says simply.

There’s a silence between them for a long time. Sizhui gazes at Hanguang-Jun, searching for signs of offense or discomfort. He finds none. All he sees is that heaviness, the weight of regret across his face.

On impulse, he flings his arms around Hanguang-Jun, shoving his face into those pristine robes like he’s a little kid again. Hanguang-Jun brings one hand up to stroke his back.

“Promise me this, Sizhui,” Hanguang-Jun says, when they pull apart. “If you should ever have a friend whose intentions are righteous—even if their methods are not—never abandon them. Stand for the truth behind your principles, not the conventions that surround them.”

Sizhui bows deeply. He feels like he’s making a vow. “I promise.”

Hanguang-Jun’s face quirks into a half-smile. “Good. Do you wish to stay longer?”

Sizhui is on the verge of saying no, but he thinks about the long walk back to the junior quarters, and his heart sinks. “May I?”

For the next hour, Sizhui sits cross-legged on the floor next to Hanguang-Jun, listening as he plays the guqin. Hanguang-Jun plays Rest, and some of the songs he used to play when Sizhui was younger, ones to ward off nightmares and encourage a calm mind. He plays a song that he’s in the midst of composing, asking Sizhui’s thoughts about one passage that he’s unsure of. At the very end, he plays another song Sizhui remembers from childhood, only Sizhui is pretty sure this one isn’t spiritual. It’s lilting and warm, as if it was meant to be sung as well as played, and makes Sizhui think of moonlight. When Hanguang-Jun finishes, his face is wistful.

“Baba Lan,” Sizhui asks, “what’s the name of that song?”

“It’s a secret.” Hanguang-Jun’s face is still and implacable, like a calm pool. “Go now, before you miss your curfew.”

Sizhui makes his way back to the juniors’ quarters. The secret song rings in his ears, like a talisman to block his most anxious thoughts.

****
The next summer, Sizhui and Jingyi travel to Lanling with two other Lan juniors for a special gathering. The most promising junior disciples from across many clans have been invited to spend a week at Carp Tower for a series of training exercises, night-hunts and banquets. Sizhui knows a few of the other juniors—some of them have been to the cultivation lectures at the Cloud Recesses, or he’s met them when night-hunts take them further afield—but he doesn’t know any of them very well. He’s old enough now to recognize that events like these are as much about diplomatic relations as they are about training the disciples. But when they arrive at Carp Tower and see little groups of disciples chattering and laughing together, Sizhui’s heart races. He’s excited to make more friends.

He and Jingyi are sharing rooms with Ouyang Zizhen, a gregarious boy with a love for drama from one of the minor clans, and Jin Rulan (“Jin Ling,” he insists), the opinionated and famously persnickety heir to the Jin sect. Zizhen is the type of person that it’s easy to get along with, and it isn’t long before Sizhui and Jingyi consider him a friend. Jingyi and Jin Ling are like two dogs with one piece of meat, clashing frequently and loudly, and at first it makes Sizhui nervous. But after a couple days, he realizes that Jin Ling likes to argue, just like Jingyi, and so this must be just their way of making friends. Sizhui likes Jin Ling too, even though he himself hates arguing. There’s something about the way Jin Ling’s face gets all serious when he yells about something that makes Sizhui feel like Jin Ling is a person of principle, the sort of friend you’d like to have on your side.

Since this isn’t Cloud Recesses, no one is enforcing a curfew, and no one notices if you have snacks hidden in your room or a bottle of Lanling wine tucked in your belt. On the fifth day of the conference, the four of them are still awake at an hour that would horrify a Lan master, crunching on peanuts and taking tiny sips from the wine Zizhen smuggled in. Or at least, everyone but Sizhui is taking sips. The idea of accidentally getting drunk is too nerve-wracking for him.

“What do you think Grand Master Qiren would say if he knew his best disciples were breaking this many rules?” Jingyi says, tipping back his head and shaking a few drops of wine into his mouth.

“He’d probably be like, ‘The Yiling Patriarch used to get drunk and stay up late and bring snacks into his chambers! And if you continue to do the same, you will end up like him!’” Sizhui pitches his voice low, trying to sound as much like Grand Master as possible.

Jingyi and Zizhen laugh uproariously, but Jin Ling frowns, brow furrowed so hard it looks painful.

“Oh, sorry,” Sizhui says. Take care with your speech, Hanguang-Jun would say if he were here. Everyone in the cultivation world knows that Jin Ling’s parents were killed by the Yiling Patriarch.

“It’s fine,” Jin Ling says sulkily. “I know you didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Don’t worry, nobody tells us anything good about the Yiling Patriarch,” Jingyi says hastily. “They tell us that he came to a bad end, and so will we if we travel the same path.”

“But you use his spirit lure flags, and his compass of evil,” Jin Ling grumbles. “So you will come to a bad end, just like he did, from all those wicked tricks.”

Jingyi sits up straighter at that, puffing out his chest. “Well, Hanguang-Jun himself approved their usage, so—“

“Your precious Hanguang-Jun is in love with the Yiling Patriarch!” Jin Ling snaps. “Of course he approved their usage!”

Sizhui feels like someone has struck him over the head. Hanguang-Jun in love? Hanguang-Jun and the Yiling Patriarch? A look at his friends’ faces tells him they’re feeling the same thing.

“Haha, funny joke,” Zizhen says weakly, clapping Jin Ling on the back. “You got us good there, fancy boy.”

“Don’t call me fancy boy,” Jin Ling says instinctively. “And it’s not a joke. I have proof.”

“You have to tell us what proof,” Jingyi says, leaning forward so eagerly he almost falls over. “You have to, please.”

“Um, maybe it’s not a good idea to gossip about our elders like this,” Sizhui says. He’s burning with curiosity, but this feels like too much. Like reading Hanguang-Jun’s private diary, or something.

“Oh, come on,” Zizhen wheedles. “This sounds like the best story.”

“Yeah! Come on, Sizhui, don’t you want to know about your dad’s great love?”

“Yeah, I do,” Sizhui admits.

Jingyi claps his hands. “Yay, I knew you did. Tell us, tell us, tell us!” He jabs an elbow into Jin Ling’s ribs.

“Fine,” Jin Ling says, with no discernible reluctance. “I guess I’ll tell you. But you can’t tell anyone else, okay?”

“Of course not,” Sizhui says, and the other three echo him.

“Ok.” Jin Ling sits up straighter. “So, like, three years ago, I was on a visit to Lotus Pier to see my uncle, and we were talking together in Swords’ Hall, and then all of a sudden this messenger hurries in, and right behind him is Hanguang-Jun. So my uncle told me to go away and wait for him somewhere else. But I wanted to know what was going on, so I hid outside the hall…”

“You’re a terrible storyteller,” Zizhen groans. “Get to the point!”

“I’m getting there!” Jin Ling says. “I hid outside the hall, and I peeked in, and Hanguang-Jun was just standing there, face to face with Uncle. Like, they were just staring at each other. I thought they were going to fistfight, and I wanted to see it.”

“Did they? I wish I had been there,” Jingyi says dreamily.

“No, they just stared at each other, and then Uncle was like, ‘What do you want?’ And Hanguang-Jun said he had heard that Uncle had started looking for the Yiling Patriarch again, and he wanted someone to tell him the next time Uncle found someone who might be the Yiling Patriarch. And obviously Uncle said no, and they went back and forth a few times…”

“I’m lending you all my favorite stories next time I see you,” Zizhen says. “You have no sense of timing.”

“AND THEN,” Jin Ling says loudly, “Uncle snapped. He was like, ‘What are you going to do if I find him? Are you going to take the Yiling Patriarch back to Gusu and marry him?’” Jin Ling pauses, relishing the moment. “And Hanguang-Jun said, ‘Yes.’”

There’s a stunned silence. Jingyi’s mouth is hanging open, and Zizhen is whispering, “Wow,” under his breath. Sizhui knows they must be horrified that the upright Hanguang-Jun was in love with a man on such an unrighteous path. They don’t know what Sizhui knows: that the Yiling Patriarch tried to protect the Wens from slaughter, that his heart was righteous even if his path was wicked. Sizhui longs to tell them, but it feels like a secret between him and Hanguang-Jun—and besides, to try and rehabilitate the Yiling Patriarch’s image in front of a boy who was orphaned by that man seems like the height of callousness. So Sizhui stays silent, heart aching as he remembers the sadness in Hanguang-Jun’s face. It is my greatest regret, Sizhui.

“Ok, but wait,” Jingyi says, recovering faster than the rest of them. “The Yiling Patriarch died, what, fourteen years ago? Fifteen years ago? And Hanguang-Jun’s still in love with him?”

“It’s so gross. Don’t you guys know what they say? The Lans only have one true love in their lifetimes.” Jin Ling rolls his eyes and pretends to gag. “Little Uncle told me that.”

“That’s so romantic,” Zizhen says.

“You’re so wrong, it’s terrifying!” Jingyi says. “I have to live my life knowing that if I get a crush, I might never recover! What if I fall in love with someone like Jin Ling?”

“Hey, what’s wrong with me? I’d make a great husband!” Jin Ling takes a swipe at Jingyi.

Jingyi ducks away and throws his empty peanut shells at Jin Ling. One of them hits Zizhen in the shoulder by mistake, and he jumps into the fray, tossing his peanut shells at them both. The mood shifts, and suddenly they’re all play-fighting, flinging peanut shells and running around the room. In the wild, gleeful chaos, Jin Ling’s dramatic news fades into the background.

But once they’re finally settled down for the night, Sizhui doesn’t fall asleep right away, despite the late hour. He thinks about Hanguang-Jun, living fifteen years without the Yiling Patriarch. Teaching the juniors, leading night-hunts, raising Sizhui—and all the while, longing for someone the rest of the world hates. It gives him a strange pang in the center of his chest. He doesn’t know if he should hope that Hanguang-Jun lays that love to rest, or that the Yiling Patriarch returns, or that the story about the Lans isn’t true and Hanguang-Jun falls for someone else. Please just let Hanguang-Jun be happy, he thinks finally, listening to the soft breathing of his sleeping friends.

****
When Sizhui and the rest of the juniors were invited to Mo Manor to dispatch a stubborn ghost, it was supposed to be a simple task. Hanguang-Jun was nearby, easily summoned by a signal flare if need be, but he had complete confidence in their ability to handle it themselves. But things start getting complicated almost from the moment they arrive.

Most of the complications seem to be coming from a man named Mo Xuanyu, who studied cultivation with the Jins but left for reasons that are hinted at but never stated outright. “He has a mental illness,” Madame Mo whispers to Sizhui after Mo Xuanyu interrupts their discussion with a noisy tantrum about stolen property, and at first glance that seems to be all there is to it. Sizhui, raised by a man who is so often misinterpreted by others, does his best to be respectful and kind. He calls him “Senior Mo” and gently explains to him why a spirit lure flag should be left to the professionals, holding Jingyi back from hitting him.

But things only get stranger from there. As they stand on the roof that evening, flags in hand and senses alert for the ghost, Sizhui hears a wavering melody. It’s crude and out of tune, but it sounds enough like Hanguang-Jun’s secret song that Sizhui’s heart clenches—and it seems to be coming from Senior Mo’s dwelling. Before Sizhui has time to think about it much longer, there’s screaming from the courtyard, and all the disciples are leaping down from the roofs to investigate.

Senior Mo is in the midst of the investigation. Like Hanguang-Jun, he seems to appear where the chaos is. But he doesn’t act the way he did in the afternoon, flailing at nothing and driven by impulses. He’s curious, and he seems to have as good a grasp on the situation as Sizhui and the juniors do, if not better. It leaves an odd sensation in Sizhui’s mind, like hearing a familiar song with a few notes changed. But after the rest of the evening devolves into a mess of fighting puppets and signal flares to Hanguang-Jun, Sizhui forgets all about it.

He remembers again when they run into Senior Mo on Dafan Mountain. When the statue in the temple comes suddenly and terrifyingly to life, Senior Mo unleashes a flurry of talismans, calling for everyone to run away. Once they’re at a safe distance, he begins lecturing them about the statue, asking them questions until they understand how it could have come to life. It reminds Sizhui of his first night-hunt with Hanguang-Jun, how they dissected every move they made to subdue the hungry ghost, Hanguang-Jun helping all the disciples see how their intellectual knowledge translated into practical actions. Senior Mo must have been a very talented cultivator before his illness. Or else it’s the sort of thing that is worse when he’s at Mo Manor, and better in the fresh mountain air…

“I don’t think you’re crazy at all,” Jingyi says, blunt as ever. Senior Mo just smirks at Jingyi, as if to say maybe.

Sizhui opens his mouth to say something. Suddenly, there’s a massive crash in the distance, and the faint sound of screaming. The statue comes lumbering into view, two Jin disciples clutched in her grip. Jin Ling lets his arrows fly, and they lodge harmlessly into her side. Sizhui looks around frantically, trying to figure out what to do. Run away? Use their swords? The statue seems almost invincible, and they didn’t replenish their flares after using them to signal Hanguang-Jun at Mo Manor—something they’ll surely be punished for when they return to Cloud Recesses.

The sound of a flute rises in the air. Senior Mo is playing on a carved stalk of bamboo, notes that don’t sound like a tune. It’s almost like the melodies of spiritual power that Hanguang-Jun plays on the guqin, but without the same air of peace and confidence. Whatever melody this is doesn’t care what kind of energy it summons. It makes Sizhui feel on edge, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Something in the back of his mind is struggling forth, like he’s trying to remember a dream after waking. He looks up and sees a black blur whirring overhead, coming towards the statue at high speeds.

“The Ghost General!” one of the Jin disciples screams.

“Holy shit,” Jingyi gasps. “That’s the Ghost General? Isn’t the Ghost General dead?”

The black blur resolves itself into a man clad in black rags, long unbound hair streaming around his face. An iron chain with fearsome-looking spikes on each end is wrapped around both his arms. As he gets closer to the statue, his head swivels around, gaze unseeing but piercing like a lantern beam on a foggy night. Sizhui lets out a gasp. There are dark marks climbing up the man’s neck, like the ones on the puppets at Mo Manor—this must be the Ghost General after all, notorious attack dog of the Yiling Patriarch. But under the marks and the black eyes, the man has a round, almost gentle face, as if he had been a kind person before he became a bloodthirsty fierce corpse. That thing in the back of Sizhui’s mind lurches forward again.

“Doesn’t he look like someone we know?” Sizhui asks Jingyi.

“Yeah, he looks like the puppets we saw at Mo Manor.” Even in a crisis, Jingyi has a quick tongue.

“Ugh, that’s not what I meant,” Sizhui says. The Ghost General rips the statue to shreds, a shower of tiny rocks spilling everywhere. He whirls his chains around, and the Jin disciples who are closest to him start to back away slowly. Senior Mo changes the tune he’s playing on the bamboo stalk, and this time it sounds so much like Hanguang-Jun’s secret song that Sizhui feels dizzy. The Ghost General picks up his chain and flies off into the trees.

“Maybe Hanguang-Jun’s song is a secret because it also has the power to subdue fierce corpses if you play it right,” Sizhui muses. “Maybe it’s, like, a great tune and a source of spiritual energy.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Jingyi asks.

“Never mind,” Sizhui says. “Just thinking out loud.”

The song abruptly stops. Sizhui looks over to see Hanguang-Jun grasping Senior Mo’s right wrist. There’s a look on Hanguang-Jun’s face that Sizhui has never seen before. Hanguang-Jun’s expressions are generally more subtle—people who don’t know him well claim that he has none at all. But now, the look of wonder on his face shines forth so brightly it’s almost dazzling. Sizhui stares, and thinks of the Ghost General reappearing, and he wonders…

But Clan Leader Jiang cracks Zidian, sending Senior Mo stumbling backwards in the dirt, and nothing happens. No possessing spirit rises up from the sprawled body. Senior Mo must be, truly and simply, Senior Mo. Sizhui’s heart sinks into his boots. This won’t be the reunion he briefly thought it might be. It isn’t the Yiling Patriarch in front of them, just an odd cultivator and a few coincidences. He wants to run over and hug Hanguang-Jun, comfort him.

Maybe it’s the same impulse that leads Jingyi to talk back to Clan Leader Jiang. “People say you killed the Yiling Patriarch yourself,” he says, like he has the right to speak so boldly to a clan leader. Sizhui is torn between wanting to put a hand over Jingyi’s mouth and wanting to cheer. He knows nothing bad about Clan Leader Jiang, but ever since he heard Jin Ling’s story, a petty part of his heart has resented the man.

“This sucks,” Jingyi says, as they walk back down the mountain behind Hanguang-Jun. “I really thought he was going to turn out to be…you know who.”

“I know, me too,” Sizhui says. He looks at Hanguang-Jun, who is leading Senior Mo’s donkey by the reins. A semi-conscious Senior Mo is draped across its back—after the ordeal of being whipped by Zidian, Senior Mo had fainted dead away. Hanguang-Jun keeps looking over at Senior Mo, a gentle expression on his face. It reminds Sizhui of waking up from nightmares and seeing Hanguang-Jun bending over his bed. “At least Hanguang-Jun doesn’t seem that disappointed.”

The journey back to the Cloud Recesses is tedious and slow. They should be flying by sword, but with Senior Mo’s donkey in tow, they have to journey by foot. They stop many times, to rest by the side of the road or replenish their energy with water and food, but by the time they get to the gate of the Cloud Recesses, Sizhui’s legs are sore and aching. He feels like he could sleep for a week. Beside him, Jingyi is grumbling about how much he wants a bath.

Sizhui had assumed that they would drop off Senior Mo somewhere on the way—or, since Senior Mo was still drifting in and out of consciousness, that they would bring him to the healers. But Hanguang-Jun leads the donkey carrying Senior Mo into the heart of the Cloud Recesses without a word. When they reach the juniors’ quarters, Hanguang-Jun turns to face them.

“Your participation during this night-hunt was more than satisfactory. I was particularly impressed with your sound judgement at Dafan Mountain when the statue was unbound. However, you endangered yourselves by failing to replenish your signal flares, and that must not happen again. We will evaluate the outcomes of this night-hunt and the skills you used tomorrow afternoon. You will have no responsibilities until then, and I expect you to rest during that time. Good night.” He bows deeply. Then he turns and walks towards his own quarters, still guiding the donkey and Senior Mo.

“Did Hanguang-Jun just say we could sleep in?” Jingyi says. “Is that what that means in Hanguang-Jun-speak?” He yawns. “Wait, is Senior Mo going to stay in Hanguang-Jun’s house? Is the donkey going to stay there too?”

“Can you please be quiet,” Sizhui says, as politely as he can. “I’m too tired to think about this stuff. Let’s think about it in the morning.”

“In the afternoon, you mean,” Jingyi says.

The next day, Sizhui wakes later than he has in years. He looks over to see Jingyi still dozing, one arm flung over his face. Sizhui gets up quietly and walks outside, heading towards the kitchens. His stomach is growling, as if it’s trying to make up for the meager rations yesterday.

As he walks down the gravel path that leads towards the main buildings, he catches sight of a figure all in black, leaning against a tree and staring intently into the distance.

“Good morning, Senior Mo.” Sizhui bows. “Are you well?”

“Ah, it’s you!” Senior Mo says, scratching at his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I ever got your name…”

“This disciple’s name is Lan Sizhui, honored senior,” Sizhui says, bowing again.

Senior Mo laughs, leaning an arm on the tree like he can’t stand up. “I make a ruckus in Mo Manor, I steal a spirit lure flag, I summon the Ghost General, and the best Lan of the next generation is calling me ‘honored senior’. Is this what your Hanguang-Jun is teaching you?”

A warmth goes through Sizhui, hearing himself called “the best Lan of the next generation”. It can’t possibly be true, but, oh, how he wants it to be.

“Yes,” he says. “Hanguang-Jun teaches us to respect all, especially those that have been disrespected by others. Honor is given for deeds and principles, not for adhering to customs.” Sizhui can feel himself straighten up as he says it, like Hanguang-Jun himself is standing behind him.

Senior Mo seems unexpectedly taken aback by that. His brows furrow, and he rubs at the side of his nose. “Ah, Lan Zhan,” he says softly, as if to himself.

Sizhui recovers admirably, he feels, from the shock of hearing Hanguang-Jun addressed by his birth name—something he’s only ever heard Zewu-Jun do, and that hardly ever. “Also, you saved us at Dafan Mountain, and I owe you honor for that, as well. Have you recovered from your faint?”

“Oh, yes, I’m completely fine,” Senior Mo says brightly. “Good as new! You know, I never thought much of the hospitality at the Cloud Recesses, but your Hanguang-Jun has comfortable quarters. And he even promised to find me some chili oil to season that bland food they serve here. Can you imagine? Chili oil at the Cloud Recesses? Surely that’s against the rules.”

Sizhui can’t imagine—not the chili oil, not Senior Mo staying in Hanguang-Jun’s own quarters, not Hanguang-Jun going out of his way to accommodate Senior Mo’s whims. Senior Mo doesn’t seem to be waiting for an answer. He’s staring off in the distance again, face wistful—maybe over the chili oil, maybe over Hanguang-Jun’s hospitality. Sizhui is suddenly a little afraid to find out.

“I’m on my way to the kitchens to get some food, so I’ll take my leave,” Sizhui says, bowing again. “I’ll see you later, Senior Mo.”

Senior Mo waves at him cheerfully. “Bye-bye, uh…”

“Sizhui.”

“Right, right! This senior’s head is full of holes, aiya. Bye-bye, Sizhui.”

Sizhui scurries away to the kitchens, feeling a little relieved. He does like Senior Mo—his cheerful nature, the depth of his knowledge—but talking to him makes him feel slightly unbalanced. Senior Mo, Sizhui thinks, is like looking at a reflection in a fast-moving river. You can’t quite grasp what’s really there, though it seems to be right in front of you.

As if it isn’t strange enough to have slept in late and be eating at off hours, their meeting with Hanguang-Jun about the night-hunt is unusual, too. Hanguang-Jun forgets to scold them about the missing signal flares, and he spends almost as much time discussing the sword spirit they found in Mo Manor as he does the results of the night-hunt. Strangest of all, he seems...content. Not simply neutral, the way he generally does during their lessons, but filled with a positive peace. It’s as if he’s spilling over with bright light, truly living up to his title. Sizhui can’t stop looking at Hanguang-Jun, trying to figure out why he’s glowing.

After their lesson is over, Sizhui is still staring, watching Hanguang-Jun leave. That’s how he spots the distant figure of Senior Mo, standing in a way that looks as though he’s leaning against the empty air. Senior Mo must have been waiting for Hanguang-Jun, because as soon as he sees him, he begins to wave cheerfully, his face splitting into a grin. As Hanguang-Jun gets closer, Senior Mo reaches out and touches his arm, bouncing on the balls of his feet. The two men walk together towards the back hill, Senior Mo’s shoulder brushing against Hanguang-Jun’s.

That unsettled feeling comes rushing back, and suddenly Sizhui can’t take it anymore. He turns around and runs after Jingyi and the others, calling their names.

****

After his encounters in Yi City, Sizhui wants to lie down on the ground and not get up for a week. He sheds tears for A-Qing, for Xiao Xingchen, and Jingyi lends him his handkerchief after sniffling into it himself. Most of the other disciples seem to be feeling the same way. They walk away from Yi City in a sad little procession, led by Hanguang-Jun and Senior Mo. Even Senior Mo seems a little subdued, although he still walks with that bouncy spring in his step. His arm dangles so close to Hanguang-Jun that it brushes against his robes sometimes.

Something crystallizes in Sizhui’s head. “Senior Mo is only here because of Hanguang-Jun,” he whispers to Jingyi. He means here as in Yi City, but he also means it more generally: in the Cloud Recesses, on the paths in the forest, wherever Hanguang-Jun happens to be.

“Yeah, so?” Jingyi says. “He’s done a good job of protecting us, and he’s really smart. I wonder if the Jins kicked him out because they thought he was going to overthrow them.”

“No, I mean—yeah, he’s a great person, and he’s really smart, but if Hanguang-Jun wasn’t around he wouldn’t be here at all. Do you know what I mean?”

They both look ahead at Hanguang-Jun and Senior Mo. Senior Mo is chattering about something, the high pitch of his voice carrying back to their little group although the words are indistinct. He’s looking at Hanguang-Jun, not at the path.

“Oh. Yeah.” Jingyi’s face shifts into something resembling alarm. “Wait, does that mean that Senior Mo has a crush on Hanguang-Jun?”

Sizhui’s stomach sinks. “I’m sure they’re just friends. Maybe Senior Mo was at some cultivation lectures with Hanguang-Jun before, or something.”

“I guess,” Jingyi says skeptically. “But like, would you stand that close to me?”

“Only after you bathed,” Sizhui says, proud of himself for having a quick comeback. Jingyi reaches over to punch his shoulder. Sizhui ducks away, giggling.

Jingyi doesn’t say anything else about Senior Mo having a crush, but Sizhui doesn’t feel fully settled. He keeps glancing at Hanguang-Jun and Senior Mo, all through their long walk into town, watching everything Senior Mo does. Senior Mo tells Hanguang-Jun a story that makes his gentle, subtle smile appear, something Sizhui has never seen except when alone with Hanguang-Jun. Senior Mo whips out his bamboo flute and plays a little tune, then breaks off halfway through to look at Hanguang-Jun for approval. Once Senior Mo even drapes an arm around Hanguang-Jun and leans heavily on him for a few steps, as if he’s lost the ability to walk. Sizhui hates to admit it, but Jingyi might have a point.

Arriving into town is a relief. The bustling crowds and lively vendors in the market are like balm to the spirit after the desperate emptiness of Yi City. Sizhui is pulled this way and that, buying some piping hot dumplings, politely admiring a beautiful set of carved combs, staring for a long time at a child’s butterfly toy as that strange sense of deja vu surges up again.

Someone bumps into him as he stares, and he startles. “It’s just me,” Jingyi hisses. “But look!” He points to the left. Sizhui follows his arm and sees Senior Mo and Hanguang-Jun at a lantern stall, gazing at a lantern painted with rabbits. Hanguang-Jun hands some money over to the lantern salesman. Then Senior Mo picks up the lantern and hands it to Hanguang-Jun with a little bow and a grin they can see even from this distance.

“Shit, I think you were right,” Sizhui says, with a heavy heart. “That looks like a crush to me.”

“Are you sad about it?” Jingyi looks at Sizhui with concern. “Senior Mo’s a good guy. I wouldn’t mind having him as a second dad.”

Sizhui has had so many parents at this point in his lifetime that he’s not worried at all about having another father. “It’s not that, it’s just…” It’s just that part of me is secretly hoping that the Yiling Patriarch will come back from the dead and they can live happily ever after. “Do you think Senior Mo knows Hanguang-Jun was in love with the Yiling Patriarch?”

Jingyi frowns. “Oh, I didn’t think of that. Probably not, right?” Senior Mo’s hearty laugh pierces through the noise of the crowd. “Maybe he wouldn’t have such a crush on Hanguang-Jun if he knew.”

“Senior Mo doesn’t seem like the kind of person who cares all that much about the righteous path,” Sizhui says. “I haven’t ever seen him cultivate with the sword, have you?”

Jingyi shakes his head.

“I don’t think he would be horrified or anything,” Sizhui says. He struggles with his principles for a long moment. “But. I think we need to tell him. I think he needs to know.”

Jingyi is silent for a while, clearly struggling with his own principles. “Ugh. Yeah. You’re right. He needs to know before it goes too far.” Jingyi sighs. “I don’t want to break his heart, though.”

“I think Hanguang-Jun probably likes him back,” Sizhui admits. “I’ve never seen him act like this before in public.”

“Why does thinking about that suck so much?” Jingyi says. “The Yiling Patriarch is dead, it’s not like he and Hanguang-Jun can ever reunite.” Jingyi sighs theatrically. “Ugh, I can never make fun of Zizhen again, it turns out I’m just as romantic as he is.”

“Me too,” Sizhui says, a pure wave of relief washing over him knowing that Jingyi understands. “But we have to tell him anyway. It’s our duty.”

All through dinner at the local inn and the noisy, chaotic process of getting settled into their rooms, Sizhui keeps an eye out for Senior Mo. Most of the disciples settle down to sleep, but he and Jingyi sit by the window, gazing out at the now-empty street. Finally, just as Sizhui’s eyelids are starting to get heavy, he spots Senior Mo strolling out of the inn, flute in one hand and wine in the other.

Sizhui pokes Jingyi. “Now’s our chance.”

They sneak quietly past the rooms where Hanguang-Jun and the others are sleeping. There are still people drinking and talking in the main hall of the inn, but no one turns to look at them as they go by. Then they’re out in the cool night air. There’s a patch of grass on the side of the road near the inn, and Senior Mo is sprawled there, one leg up, pouring wine into his mouth.

Sizhui and Jingyi get very close to Senior Mo before he moves, sitting up and dusting off his robes. “Ah, Sizhui and Jingyi! Did Hanguang-Jun send you to fetch me?”

“No, we wanted to talk to you,” Jingyi says.

Senior Mo sits up even straighter, setting his wine to one side. “What can this senior do for you, little Lans? Are you having love troubles? Is there someone you want to fight? Do you want to learn how to cast a smoke talisman with a terrible stench?”

Jingyi looks at Sizhui, eyes pleading. Sizhui takes a deep breath and tries to think about how Hanguang-Jun would handle this situation. “We—we wanted to tell you something that we feel it’s important for you to know.”

“Oh?”

“It’s going to sound very strange,” Sizhui says, voice as gentle as he can make it. “But, for many years, Hanguang-Jun has been in love with the Yiling Patriarch. Even after his death.”

There’s a stunned silence, so complete that Sizhui can hear a beetle’s wings whir in the grass. Then Senior Mo lets out a stilted laugh. “No way,” he says.

“It’s true!” Jingyi bristles beside Sizhui. “We have very good sources. Someone we know heard Hanguang-Jun say it himself. Well, he said he wanted to marry the Yiling Patriarch, which is basically the same thing.”

Senior Mo coughs, choking on air. He waves a hand in front of his face as he tries to recover his breath. “Sorry, sorry. You bring—er—surprising news, little Lans. Hardly seems like the good and upright Hanguang-Jun would want to bind himself to the wicked Yiling Patriarch, does it?”

“The Yiling Patriarch wasn’t as wicked as he seemed,” Sizhui hastens to explain. “He protected the innocent Wens from being killed after the Sunshot Campaign. He was a man of principle, even if his methods were unorthodox.”

“Who told you that?” Jingyi demands, at the same time as Senior Mo says, “They say that about the Yiling Patriarch?” Both of them look dumbstruck, eyes wide and mouths open.

“Hanguang-Jun told me so himself,” Sizhui says.

“Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan!” Senior Mo exclaims delightedly. “Corrupting the minds of the youth! What would Lan Qiren say about that?”

“Who cares?” Jingyi says, and Senior Mo flashes him an enormous grin.

“Anyway,” Sizhui says, feeling like he’s running out of steam. Senior Mo turns to look at him. “We thought you should know, because we know you have...feelings for Hanguang-Jun.”

Senior Mo reaches for the wine and pours a few drops into his mouth. “The eyes of little Lans are far too sharp for their own good. So you wanted me to know about Hanguang-Jun’s past love, since you believe me to have my own designs on his heart, is that it?”

“Well, yes. But don’t worry, I’m pretty sure he likes you back,” Jingyi blurts out. “I think he might be over the Yiling Patriarch, now. He seems like he’d at least be willing to give you a chance.”

Senior Mo splutters, seeming to choke again. He’s about to reach for the wine when he straightens up, a frantic look in his eyes. “Hanguang-Jun is coming this way. If you’re out after curfew, as I suspect you are, you can go up the back stairs without being seen if you go around this way.” He gestures to the right side of the inn. “Hurry, hurry! Thank you for the talk! It was very, er, informative!”

Sizhui and Jingyi rush away from the patch of grass and back towards the inn, ducking behind a tree that stands beside the inn. Sizhui turns to drag them towards the back stairs, but then he hears Senior Mo’s voice, loud and clear.

“I had a conversation with two of your little students,” Senior Mo says. Sizhui and Jingyi freeze. Then Jingyi creeps back to the tree, a finger over his lips, and plasters himself against it so he can peek at Senior Mo and Hanguang-Jun without being seen. Sizhui hesitates, then hurries after him.

“...a very interesting story about you,” Senior Mo is saying, his voice teasing. They’re too far away to see Hanguang-Jun’s expression. “They told me all about how noble Hanguang-Jun harbored a secret passion in his heart for the horrifying Yiling Patriarch—”

“That’s not what we said,” Jingyi hisses under his breath.

“—and has pined away for many tragic years…” Senior Mo holds a hand to his brow dramatically.

“Wei Ying,” Hanguang-Jun says impatiently. Is that Senior Mo’s title? But no, it sounds more like a birth name. Sizhui puzzles over it for a bit, until he realizes he’s missing what Senior Mo is saying.

“...now the peerless Hanguang-Jun has set his sights on a young cultivator named Mo Xuanyu,” Senior Mo says. “Lan Zhan, is this true? Have you finally gotten over me and started pining after this Mo Xuanyu, whoever he is? Because if you have, I think I might have to fight him.”

Sizhui’s heart stops. Beside him, he can feel Jingyi freeze.

“Wei Ying,” Hanguang-Jun says indulgently. Wei, Wei Wuxian, the Yiling Patriarch, the fucking Yiling Patriarch who’s apparently back from the dead and who just listened to them ramble about how Hanguang-Jun is in love with him and how he isn’t that evil after all. Sizhui is having a thousand thoughts and feelings all at once, rushing through his head with dizzying intensity.

“What the fuck,” Jingyi whispers.

Senior Mo—shit, Senior Wei—stretches his arms above his head. “Ah, Lan Zhan, I’m just joking! I won’t fight anyone if you like them better than me. But seriously, who has been filling your students’ heads with these stories? Where could they have gotten the notion that you’ve been pining away for me all these years?”

“From the truth,” Hanguang-Jun says simply. Sizhui feels the force of those simple words like a blow, the depth of Hanguang-Jun’s love apparent in every syllable.

“Lan Zhan! Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan.” Senior Wei sounds blissfully happy for one moment, and then lets out a sorrowful sigh. “You shouldn’t say such sweet things, you know. I came to a bad end in my first life, and who’s to say my second one will end any better? I’m not saying you can’t have your feelings, I know the heart goes where it pleases. But you know you’d be better off without me, right?”

“I was without you for sixteen years,” Hanguang-Jun says. “And I was infinitely worse off. I will never do it again willingly.”

Sizhui squints to see Senior Wei’s reaction, but he can’t make it out. His heart feels like it’s about to beat out of his chest.

“Lan Zhan,” Senior Wei says again, in a choked voice. There’s a long silence, and then he says, “If I had known where I was all these years—if I had been aware of myself—ah, Lan Zhan, it’s so hard to say these things! I would have missed you too if I had been able to, all right?”

“Wei Ying,” Hanguang-Jun says. It’s amazing how many different ways Hanguang-Jun can say Wei Ying. In itself, it’s more than enough proof that he loves Senior Wei. This Wei Ying sounds gentle, tender. Like a fond embrace. “Thank you. And now—we do not have to miss each other anymore.”

“You make it sound so simple,” Senior Wei says. “Hanguang-Jun with his sterling reputation and the evil Yiling Patriarch back from the dead, going off together? Who would allow it?” Senior Wei lets out another wistful sigh. He seems to have as many of these as Hanguang-Jun has ways of saying Wei Ying. “I’m not saying I don’t want to, Lan Zhan, heaven knows I do. But—with everything the way it is—what can we actually do?”

Hanguang-Jun plucks Senior Wei’s flask of wine from the ground. “We,” he says, drawing out the word, “can go drink together. Your flask is empty, Wei Ying, let me fill it.”

“Lan Zhan! You’ll drink with me?” Senior Wei bounces to his feet. “Ah, you really are too good to me! Come, Lan Zhan, let’s go in, before you change your mind.”

“I will not change my mind,” Hanguang-Jun says, amused. The two of them turn and walk back towards the inn. Sizhui holds his breath as they pass, but they’re absorbed in each other, not even glancing towards the tree.

Once Senior Wei and Hanguang-Jun are a safe distance away, Sizhui lets out his breath all at once. His head is still spinning, and his eyes feel damp. He looks over at Jingyi, and is startled to see there are tears in Jingyi’s eyes, too.

“What the fuck, holy shit, what the fuck,” Jingyi hisses. “I—did that really happen? Have we been hanging out with the Yiling Patriarch this whole time?”

“Yeah, I guess we have,” Sizhui says. “Ah, I can’t believe it, Hanguang-Jun really got him back. After all these years...” He can feel tears welling in his eyes again.

“Stop, stop, I’ll start crying again too,” Jingyi says. “And Senior Wei...he has to know that Hanguang-Jun doesn’t really care about his reputation, right? He’s going to find a way for them to live happily ever after—he’s Hanguang-Jun, after all.”

“Zizhen would be laughing at us if he were here,” Sizhui says as he wipes his eyes with his sleeve. “I know it sounds stupid, because I’m sure so many people want to kill Senior Wei still…”

“I’ll kill them,” Jingyi says, putting his fists up.

“...but I don’t think that will stop them,” Sizhui finishes. “Not when they love each other so much.”

“Looks like you’re going to have the Yiling Patriarch as your other dad after all,” Jingyi says.

There’s something that feels almost familiar about those words, striking a chord somewhere deep inside Sizhui. “We have to protect them,” Sizhui says. “We can’t tell anyone else about this. We can’t even let them know we know.”

“Shit, you’re right,” Jingyi says. “Something bad might happen if we don’t.”

They each hold up three fingers and swear to keep everything they heard a secret.

“We should go to bed before someone finds us,” Sizhui says. As they creep around towards the back stairs of the inn, a sudden burst of music comes from one of the open windows. Flute and guqin, in perfect harmony, playing Hanguang-Jun’s secret song.

“Oh, now I know,” Sizhui exclaims.

“Know what?” Jingyi stops short.

“Know what Hanguang-Jun’s secret song is about.”

“Oh, it’s about his love for Senior Wei, isn’t it?” Jingyi sighs. “Who knew Hanguang-Jun was such a romantic.”

The duet rings out, loud and clear in the quiet night, as they climb the stairs and sneak back into their room. The other disciples are asleep, the sound of peaceful breathing filling the room. Sizhui settles himself on his bedroll and listens to Hanguang-Jun and Senior Wei playing. Within minutes, he’s drifting off, the music lulling him into sweet sleep.

****
One Year Later

Running is forbidden in the Cloud Recesses, so Sizhui and Jingyi are simply walking very fast. They hurry away from the lecture hall and towards the little house that Hanguang-Jun and Senior Wei share. After all, they don’t want to be late for dinner.

That morning, Senior Wei had sidled up to Sizhui just after sword drills and said, “Come to dinner with your poor old fathers tonight, we’re so lonely in that house without the company of our dearest son!” Sizhui had snorted—everyone in the Cloud Recesses knows exactly how not-lonely Senior Wei and Hanguang-Jun are—and Senior Wei had laughed. “All right, all right, we’re not lonely, but we do miss you. Satisfied? Besides, your uncle is coming to town, come fulfill your filial duties. You can bring Jingyi too, it’ll be a party.”

Sizhui has been wondering all day whether “your uncle is coming to town” means Zewu-Jun is coming down from the little mountain hut where he spends most of his days meditating, or if Sect Leader Jiang is passing through and has decided he can tolerate Hanguang-Jun for an hour of silent mealtime. But as they get closer, Sizhui catches sight of a tangle of long black hair and a pale face, and he does start running, throwing the rules to the wind.

“Uncle Ning!” he exclaims with delight, hurrying up the steps.

His uncle the Ghost General gives him a broad smile. “A-Yuan! You look well.”

“I missed you,” Sizhui says, putting his arms around Uncle Ning’s neck and resting his head against his cold face. It’s been four months since Sizhui returned from their visit to Qishan, and he hasn’t seen Uncle Ning in that entire time.

Jingyi comes up the steps at a more Lan-appropriate pace. He bows to each of the three men seated at the table in turn. “Hanguang-Jun, Senior Wei, Senior Wen.”

“Jingyi, you’re getting so polite!” Senior Wei exclaims. “Not like my own son, who I birthed with my own body, but who hasn’t even greeted me yet.”

Sizhui turns away from his uncle. “My apologies.” He bows deeply, stifling a grin. “Baba Wei, Baba Lan.”

Senior Wei turns bright red and hides his face in Hanguang-Jun’s sleeve. Hanguang-Jun gives Sizhui a look of smug satisfaction.

“Why don’t we all sit down?” Uncle Ning suggests, shyly.

Sizhui and Jingyi settle themselves at the table. Hanguang-Jun hands them each a bowl. “Please, eat,” he tells them.

It’s not like a Lan meal at all. Senior Wei is incapable of being quiet during meals, and Uncle Ning doesn’t need to eat at all, so conversation flows like the Emperor’s Smile that Senior Wei pours into his mouth. Hanguang-Jun mostly stays quiet, listening to the rest of them talking, but even he will interject sometimes, adding a calm and steady remark to the rest of their chatter.

Sizhui doesn’t talk much either, enjoying the food and looking around the table at the men who make up his family. During all those years where it was just him and Hanguang-Jun, Sizhui never thought of himself as lacking anything. But now, he feels enriched, filled up, in a way he never has before.

With the return of Senior Wei and the revelations of Uncle Ning, gaps in Sizhui’s dim childhood memories are beginning to return. Ever since the events of Guanyin Temple, he’s slowly formed a picture of his early life, fitting it in with what he knows about Hanguang-Jun and Senior Wei and sect history. The first few weeks on the road with Uncle Ning, he couldn’t stop talking about what he’d learned and what he felt, trying to rearrange his understanding of himself as if he were a pot shattered into a million pieces. Luckily, Uncle Ning was a good listener, letting Sizhui pour his heart out and giving him the silence to simply think.

By the time he got back to the Cloud Recesses, Sizhui had come to an odd sort of peace with the jagged edges of his life and history. He’s not any one thing, neither Wen nor Lan nor Wei exclusively, but some of the spirit of them all. Like Hanguang-Jun, like Senior Wei, like Uncle Ning, he’s a misfit—but if the three best people he knows are misfits, how great can fitting in really be? All he knows is that whatever happens in the future, whatever path he chooses to take, it’ll be his own path, not anyone else’s.

Sizhui rests his head in his hands and lets the conversation flow over him like a wave. It’s mostly Senior Wei’s enthusiasm, but still, it’s remarkable how much five people around a small table can sound like a full banquet hall.

“Ah, Wen Ning!” Senior Wei pours more Emperor’s Smile into his mouth. He’s been telling stories, all ones Sizhui’s heard before, and he’s clearly gearing up to tell another one. “Did you ever hear about how these two little schemers tried to get me together with Lan Zhan?”

“Was that necessary?” Uncle Ning says. Jingyi chokes on his tea.

“Well, you see, they thought I was Mo Xuanyu!” Senior Wei chuckles. “And they saw me pining after beautiful, unapproachable Lan Zhan, and decided to help me out by telling me all about Lan Zhan’s unrequited passion for the Yiling Patriarch! But don’t worry, they said, he had moved on! He was ready to bring another demonic cultivator into his heart!”

Uncle Ning laughs his dry rustling laugh, and Hanguang-Jun even lets out a gentle chuckle.

“They’re really good boys, they’re the best,” Senior Wei says. “They wanted to help a poor old senior find love! And they did! Just not in the way they expected.” He gazes at Hanguang-Jun, starry-eyed and tender. Sizhui knows by now it’s not the wine—it’s Senior Wei’s earnest, irrepressible heart, pouring out love for Hanguang-Jun every moment of every day. He’s half-expecting another part to the story—maybe something embarrassing about how they spent the evening after learning that they had been pining for each other—but Senior Wei seems lost in his own thoughts.

“You must have been so surprised after Master Wei’s true identity came to light at Carp Tower,” Uncle Ning says to Sizhui. “To learn that you had been talking to the Yiling Patriarch all along!”

“Well, uh, actually…” Sizhui looks down at his bowl.

“We already knew,” Jingyi says.

The entire table looks up at him in astonishment: Senior Wei opening his mouth mid-chew, Hanguang-Jun with an expression of mild shock, Uncle Ning wide-eyed.

Senior Wei finds his voice first. “How?”

Sizhui can feel himself blushing. “After you told us to leave because Hanguang-Jun was coming…”

Senior Wei gasps dramatically. “My good little Lans! You eavesdropped?”

“We heard part of it as we were leaving, and we wanted to know what Hanguang-Jun would say,” Jingyi says defensively. “And then—it was so romantic, it was just like a story. Ever since Jin Ling told us that Hanguang-Jun was in love with you—”

“Wait, hold on, back up,” Senior Wei says. Hanguang-Jun looks stricken. “How did A-Ling know about this?”

Sizhui glances frantically from Senior Wei to Hanguang-Jun to Jingyi. There’s nothing they can do now, he supposes. They’ll just have to be honest and forthright. He sends up a silent wish that Jin Ling never finds out they told Hanguang-Jun, and then says, “Jin Ling eavesdropped on a meeting between Sect Leader Jiang and Hanguang-Jun, a few years ago. We were at a juniors’ conference, and he told us all about it.”

Senior Wei still looks baffled. “Lan Zhan! What kind of meetings were you having with Jiang Cheng where you told him you were in love with me?”

Hanguang-Jun’s ears are pink. “I wanted him to notify me if his search for the Yiling Patriarch was successful. He guessed why, rather forcefully. I let him know his guess was accurate.”

“Jiang Cheng can absolutely never know we know about this,” Senior Wei says. “He’d break all of our legs.”

“Anyway, that wasn’t the point,” Jingyi says hastily. “The point was, Sizhui and I were always secretly hoping you were alive after all. Because we felt bad for Hanguang-Jun, and we wanted him to be happy...and then when we found out you were alive after all…”

“We cried,” Sizhui admits, head down. “And we promised to never let anyone know we knew, not even you, so we could never get you into trouble. I’m sorry we eavesdropped, but—”

“No, no, don’t be sorry, that’s the sweetest thing I ever heard,” Senior Wei says. His voice is thick and choked. “To think you cared so much about me and Lan Zhan! What did I do to deserve to be treated this well?”

No one answers in words, but Hanguang-Jun gives Senior Wei one of those looks that seem to express more than he can in speech. Senior Wei holds his gaze, then sighs in contentment and reaches for the chili oil. A stray tear rolls down his cheek.

“I’m glad you turned out to be you,” Sizhui says, just in case Senior Wei still hasn’t gotten the message. “I’m glad we’re back together. All of us.”

Sizhui wishes with all his heart it was really all of us, everyone who should be here alive with them. His first parents and everyone in their family. His Granny Wen and his Aunt Qing, who come so alive in Uncle Ning’s stories about them. His grandparents Wei, Jiang and Lan. Senior Wei’s sister, who he talks about sometimes when he’s drunk or cooking soup. And then there are those who are still living, but too angry or hurt to share their table: Sect Leader Jiang, Jin Ling, Zewu-Jun, Grand Master Qiren.

But even with these gaps, even at a table three times smaller than it should be, Sizhui is content. If he had nothing else in the world, he would have these people, and that’s enough.

“I’m glad, too,” Senior Wei says. He holds his cup of wine aloft, like he’s making a toast. “I’m glad to be back.” He downs the wine. “Come on, now, too many serious faces! Who knows a good story to liven us up? Or I could always tell you one of my old tales, I’ve got plenty!”

Laughter rings out into the still Cloud Recesses night like music, as they talk long into the evening.