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The battlefield was chosen to be an open place so that anyone who wanted could go there for themselves and see the blood on the grass.
This was a formality, really. With all the voices clamouring in the golden hall, keening for blood and for someone to slip between their gnashing teeth, there needed to be something more than "take my word for it."
Jiang Cheng stood ready with the sun beating down on him, making him sweat under the deep purple robes. His hand was on the hilt of Sandu. His resolve was on the edge of breaking.
Wei Wuxian walked up the hill to meet him, the hulking figure of his ghost general following behind. Both were decked head to toe in black, dressed like the things in the shadows that the people feared they were.
Jiang Cheng didn't bow. He didn't move, his eyes locked onto the face of the man he had called brother almost all his life. This was the man who he loved like a bother, and regardless of whether the blood he was going to spill was the same as his, his heart did not know the difference.
This was a formality, but they couldn't just put on a normal dance for cheering crowds. This couldn't be like every other time they had drawn their swords against one another, sparring until it ended with their swords in the dirt and them wrestling playfully the way boys did. This had to look real. This had to BE real.
The honour of the entire YunmengJiang sect was on the line. The moment his mother had tied him up in the boat with his own spiritual weapon (his last gift from her), this responsibility had been placed on his shoulders. He was so young. It was so heavy. But he kept his head as high as it would go, walked forward one step at a time with the burden, thickening his face into a heavy mask of rage to hide how much he wanted to break under it.
As Wei Wuxian stopped mere paces from him. His hand tightened on the hilt.
Wei Wuxian's hand tightened on Chenqing.
Jiang Cheng fixed his face into a scowl, looking into Wei wuxian's face and seeing all of the apology, the regret, and the sorrow. He pretended he didn't. If he let himself see it, he would fall to the ground and sob until his core shattered once again, so he fought it back by drawing his sword.
Wei Wuxian lifted the flute to his lips.
Their battle was vicious. Wei Wuxian was always stronger, always faster, always more handsome and more intelligent and more loved by strangers and his father alike. By all accounts it should have been an easy win for Wei Wuxian, but Jiang Cheng dug deep within him, bringing forward every bit of pain and resentment he had been hoarding and growing and strengthening ever since his dogs had been sent away and put the force of it into his strikes.
For every time his father had shown Wei Wuxian infinitely more affection than he'd ever received, he swung his sword. For every time Wei Wuxian had done something seemingly effortlessly when he had worked harder than anybody and still come second best, he lashed out with his Zidian.
When Jiang Cheng felt the explosive pain of his arm breaking, he used that too. He turned the pain into a fresh burst of rage that he used to slip past Wei Wuxian's defenses and slide Sandu into the soft flesh of his abdomen.
As soon as the strike was done the ghostly sound of the flute stopped with a harsh punch of breath. Wen Ning stopped moving entirely, as if waiting for new instructions. Both brothers stood motionless as if acknowledging the moment would make it real.
There was a brief moment of eye contact where everything that they were to each other was mirrored on their two faces.
Jiang Cheng pulled Sandu back with a sickening squelch. The blood on his sword and the break in his arm that had not truly begun to hurt through all the adrenalin of the fight would be proof enough: the fight had ended in a draw.
For the first time in his life Jiang Cheng could make the claim that they were equally matched.
They both retreated. The duel was over. The minimum that was required to save the face of the YunmengJian sect had been done.
So why was the broken arm not the most painful part of walking away?