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In the shadows closing in on Qishan’s capital, the troops of four kingdoms lie in ambush, waiting for the sun to sink past distant mountains.
Ever since Jiang Cheng had sealed the blood contract with Meng Yao on the mountain in Gusu, the number of victories for the Sunshot Campaign have increased steadily. No matter what sort of creature Wen Zhuliu is, his power is no match for Meng Yao’s. Despite his soft, meek appearance, Meng Yao has shown time and again why exactly he had once been a martial god. His impossibly obscure strategies have yielded great success, and Jiang Cheng has long since stopped questioning his tactics.
And Meng Yao isn’t just a good strategist—his honey-coated tongue is able to push any negotiation into their favour, his speeches delivered with such conviction that he is able to rouse even the most weary of soldiers. Piece by piece, Jiang Cheng rebuilds the Yunmeng army over several months, and they begin taking back land that the Wens have stolen.
Even on the battlefield, Meng Yao lends him strength, channelling so much spiritual energy into him that Jiang Cheng feels practically invincible. He turns into a whirlwind of purple rage, spinning through the sea of enemy soldiers in a deadly dance. A sick sense of satisfaction had sunken into his bones when he had taken the lives of Wen Chao and Wen Zhuliu, snapping their necks with Zidian.
He had left their bodies for Meng Yao afterwards for him to feast upon, making the vile dogs die without their bodies intact.
If people notice the figure that had begun to shadow the new king of Yunmeng out of nowhere, nobody mentions it. At least, they have the good sense to not mention it to Jiang Cheng’s face.
Certainly, they have questions. Jiang Cheng had seen them on Wei Wuxian’s face when he had returned to the Lan’s palace with Meng Yao following the summoning ritual, introducing the general as a friend. Meng Yao had simply smiled, cunning and dangerous under a mask of politeness.
Wei Wuxian had caught his arm, then. “Jiang Cheng, what—”
But Jiang Cheng had cut him off with a stare, brushing his concerns aside, and Wei Wuxian had kept his mouth shut for once in his life.
Region by region, the allied kingdoms regain the territories they had lost, and the tide of battle turns definitively with the deaths of Qishan’s two princes. Nie Mingjue’s army had hung Wen Xu’s head out on city walls for three days and three nights; Wen Chao and Wen Zhuliu’s bodies had been found in an abandoned Supervisory Office, mutilated beyond recognition.
Despite Wen Ruohan’s immense power, the deaths of his sons are like cutting off the limbs of a wolf, and he now remains trapped within the capital city he had so arrogantly named Nightless.
Still, a limbless wolf has sharp teeth, and it appears that Wen Ruohan is not willing to admit defeat so easily. Not without a final struggle.
The gates of Nightless City are firmly shut, but even beyond the imposing walls, the city appears to be lit with a million lanterns from within, living up to its name. The bright glow gives the illusion of a prospering kingdom, even though Jiang Cheng knows it is all a bluff. Cornered, Wen Ruohan has no other path left to him.
Jiang Cheng’s grip tightens on the reigns of his horse, wishing nothing more than to batter through the gates and ride into the palace. He desires to leave devastation in his wake, just as the Wens had done so all those months ago, months that now feel like years.
A low voice restrains his impulse to be rash. “Not yet, Your Majesty.”
Meng Yao rides alongside him, having traded his bloodred cloak for a suit of armour befitting a general. Curiously, he carries no sword in sight, even though Jiang Cheng knows better than to underestimate him for that reason. Meng Yao may be neither god nor ghost, but he is powerful all the same.
“Wen Ruohan is losing power,” Meng Yao continues smoothly, going as far as to place a hand over Jiang Cheng’s. “We will strike at his weakest.”
Meng Yao’s touch, now familiar to him, helps clear his head. Jiang Cheng relaxes, subconsciously loosening his grip so that he can briefly intertwine his fingers with his general’s. “Sundown.”
His general nods.
The last of the sun’s rays sink below the horizon, stretching long like fingers that do not want to let go of the sky, painting the clouds a gruesome scarlet. Darkness spreads like ink on fresh paper, making the capital of Qishan blaze like a torch in an otherwise desolate wasteland.
As the guards at the gates and along the walls change shifts, Meng Yao withdraws his hand so he can bring up two fingers to his lips, whistling sharply. The shrill cry of an eagle spreads across the ranks rapidly, and Jiang Cheng does not have enough time to mourn the loss of warmth before adrenaline shoots through his entire body.
Moving as one, the troops surge upon the sealed gates, the force of ten thousand horses splintering them underfoot. Jiang Cheng summons Zidian to his side, the electric whip crackling to life and knocking down the terrified soldiers that are trying to raise the alarm.
Jiang Cheng is distracted from the fact that the capital seemed devoid of civilian life when soldiers in red rush out to meet them. He has half a moment to wonder if they had fled beforehand, or if they were turned into puppets by their tyrant king, before the heat of the battle consumes his thoughts.
Even without Meng Yao’s help, Jiang Cheng had already been an excellent warrior, but when he feels a palm press between his shoulder blades, it is as if he had swallowed some powerful spiritual medicine. His whip cackles even more furiously. No low-level Wen dog will slow him down.
Gritting his teeth, Jiang Cheng cuts a swatch into the soldiers, felling one Qishan crest after another as he rides straight for the palace at the centre of the capital. As soon as he reaches the front steps, he leaps off his horse and draws his sword, knocking down the guards that stand in his way in one fluid movement. Out of his periphery, Jiang Cheng sees the kings of Gusu and Qinghe fighting their way through the crowd, and they rush up the steps together.
The inside of the palace is no less heavily guarded than the outside, but what greets them are undead puppets rather than living, breathing soldiers. Since Wen Ruohan has to make many of them, and be able to control them all at once, individually they are not much of a threat. In waves of hundreds, however, they can be quite fierce, able to hinder the majority of soldiers who followed their leaders in. By the time they arrive at the throne room, only Jiang Cheng, Lan Xichen, and Nie Mingjue remain.
Inside the throne room, only a few torches are lighted, the darkness a stark contrast to the blinding luster of the rest of Nightless City. Dark shapes fill the long hall, and when Jiang Cheng’s eyes have adjusted to the dimness, he realizes they are rows upon rows of puppets, awaiting the instruction of their master.
The room must have once been imposing, regal and grand, but it is now reduced to nothing more than a glorified storage room. On the throne, Wen Ruohan looks gaunt and exhausted, even though his level of cultivation has kept his appearance youthful. For a moment, Jiang Cheng has the illusion of seeing a wounded wolf, helplessly separated from its pack, but when Wen Ruohan raises his eyes, the killing intent is clear.
His gaze falls on Nie Mingjue first. “So, you are the one who killed Xu-er?”
Nie Mingjue barks a laugh, holding out Baxia before him. “I don’t know. I’ve killed so many Wen dogs, I no longer remember. Who knows if one of them had been your wolf pup?”
Wen Ruohan, however, ignores him, turning his attention to Jiang Cheng. “And you took Chao-er’s life?”
Jiang Cheng twists his mouth into a sneer, tightening his grip on Sandu. “Had to dirty my hands for it, unfortunately. He wasn’t worth it.”
Unexpectedly, Wen Ruohan tosses his head back and laughs heartily, going on for so long that it begins to sound maniacal. “Good! Very good! You are foolishly brave. It will be all the sweeter when I offer your blood as sacrifice to my sons, so they may have a safe passage into the afterlife.”
Rising to his feet, Wen Ruohan lifts his hands up and mutters something under his breath. Instantly, the puppets in the throne room snap to attention, charging at the three young kings in unison. In trading blows with them, Jiang Cheng can tell that they are fiercer than their counterparts outside, and he finds it difficult to fight them off quickly.
Wen Ruohan continues laughing, and Jiang Cheng would find him pathetic, even pitiful, if resentful energy had not been surging from his palms steadily. The undead puppets continue bearing down on them, their dark aura oppressive.
Steeling his nerves, Jiang Cheng wields his whip in tandem with his sword, fighting past the army of corpses to reach Wen Ruohan. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees a flash of Yunmeng armour darting among the shadows, so he ignores it, sending periodic bursts of spiritual energy at Wen Ruohan to keep his attention.
Under their assault, the room begins to shake, pillars crumbling and walls cracking under the force of their combat. Lan Xichen and Nie Mingjue get close to Wen Ruohan several times, but they are repelled over and over, like two pesky insects that are pestering Qishan’s king. The waves of puppet soldiers continue to press on, wanting nothing more than to pull Jiang Cheng under and drown him.
Unfortunately for them, Jiang Cheng had always been an excellent swimmer.
When Lan Xichen and Nie Mingjue are thrown back once more, they do not rise for several moments, having the wind knocked out of them. Wen Ruohan turns his glittering eyes towards Jiang Cheng, the eyes of a wounded wolf, the eyes of a man driven to insanity.
“And you? You do not want to see me dead?”
Somehow, Jiang Cheng finds it in himself to smile, wiping the blood from his mouth. “I do. I’m just not so particular as to how you die.”
No sooner than the words leave his lips does a figure dart out of the shadows, drawing a soft blade from his waist and running it through Wen Ruohan’s back. Wen Ruohan’s laugh freezes on his face, and he looks down at the tip of the blade sticking out of his chest in disbelief. He collapses to the ground, sliding off the sword with a disgusting, wet sound.
Immediately, the soldiers in the room go stiff like the corpses they are, before dropping to the ground one by one like puppets with their strings cut.
The end of the battle passes in a blur.
After making sure that Lan Xichen and Nie Mingjue are not severely injured, the three of them rejoin their armies outside the palace. As news of Wen Ruohan’s death spread through the ranks, the remaining Wen soldiers all choose to flee or surrender.
A quick inspection of the city reveals that it is, indeed, empty of normal civilians, and a Wen soldier tells him that they have all left the capital with a side branch of the royal family when it had appeared that Wen Ruohan was weakening.
It isn’t until deep into the night that camp is set up, healers tending to the wounded and relatively healthy soldiers taking note of casualties. A team is sent to scour the palace for any talismans or manuscripts that Wen Ruohan may have been hiding, Jiang Cheng among them, and it is at the top of the steps that he finds Meng Yao.
Wordlessly, they walk side by side until they reach a watch station. From their vantage, they are able to see most of Nightless City, but the station provides enough cover that no one will see them.
“You have fulfilled your end of the bargain, and so I will fulfill mine,” Jiang Cheng begins without preamble, straight to the point. “Name your price.”
Meng Yao laughs, as if Jiang Cheng had just told him a silly joke. “You know the contract as well as I. I only accept payment by way of yang energy, or of flesh, and you are an honorable man. I have no intention of leaving you mutilated.”
Jiang Cheng nods. “Very well.”
He does not resist when Meng Yao smiles wickedly, drawing him down to press their lips together. Jiang Cheng sighs as Meng Yao deepens the kiss, invading his mouth with his clever tongue as he seeks to suck out his spiritual energy, his very lifeforce. With the intensity of the kiss, Jiang Cheng almost feels as if Meng Yao is sucking out his very soul, and he chalks his weak knees up to his loss of spiritual energy.
Distantly, Jiang Cheng thinks that this isn’t a bad way to die. Meng Yao somehow always tastes like the plum cakes that are commonly sold in Yunmeng, and the familiarity calms him.
After an eternity, Meng Yao releases him but holds him close all the same, letting their breaths mingle with shared air.
“You didn’t kill me,” Jiang Cheng says, quite belatedly.
“Why would I kill you?” Meng Yao answers, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “You are a strong cultivator. I can be sustained by your lifetime’s worth of energy. I am not so greedy to drink up this delicacy all at once.”
But Jiang Cheng has read the manuscripts detailing his habits. Once a contract is fulfilled, Meng Yao never leaves his contractor alive.
It’s his turn to smirk. “Does this mean my trusted general will follow me back to Yunmeng?”
Meng Yao looks up at him through his lashes, the illusion of innocence, but his deepening dimples give away the game. “If my king wishes, this general would follow him to the ends of the earth.”