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“Zewu-jun,” Meng Yao says in a grave voice, and only just so stops himself from laying a comforting hand on his forearm. “You’re in extremely bad shape right now. If you make any moves, you’re at severe risk of depleting your qi. Do you understand?”
Outside, the rain is pouring. It’s drumming on the roof. It’s running down the window panes. Laden with dust and pollen, it’s undoing all the scrubbing that Meng Yao did just four days ago, and in the bathroom, it’s collecting in an empty noodle cup below the ceiling leak.
The lanterns on the kitchen table bathe Lan Xichen’s face in warm light. He nods with a smile, collected even when facing his grim destiny. Still, there’s a melancholy hidden in the crinkle of his eyes (and in the way he’s hiding his hands in his cashmere pullover sleeves), and Meng Yao knows with infallible certainty that this cannot stand. If dying makes Lan Xichen sad, Meng Yao will simply need to save him.
After all, all that’s needed is a little sacrifice.
Huaisang, bound to whine the loudest if he ends up dead, is out of the question, but right as Meng Yao figures out how to best manipulate Wei Wuxian’s hero complex—
“I will attempt a qi transfer,” Wangji says.
Since he’s offering, Meng Yao immediately discards any scruples. “Is that your action for the round?” he asks with a friendly smile.
“Ha!” Wei Wuxian points an accusing finger at Meng Yao and shoves Wangji with his elbow. “See, you shouldn’t do it. Yao-ge only ever lets us confirm actions when the outcome is potentially disastrous.”
“I do not—” Meng Yao says irritatedly. Then he notices how Lan Xichen is giving him a big, soft smile again, and his thoughts get a little bit scrambled.
“Is that so?” Lan Xichen asks. “A-Yao—I mean, Meng Yao—seems to be taking very good care of his players.”
Meng Yao feels his cheeks heat and ducks behind the master screen. Just for a second, he lets himself be overwhelmed by the giddiness in his chest before he focuses again.
He focuses again.
“—asked if I was grabbing the treasure room sword with my bare hands and lost my disguise as a direct effect?” Wei Wuxian is still rattling off his accusations. “Or when he tricked me into confirming that yes, the Yiling Patriarch indeed wanted to touch Hanguang-jun’s forehead ribbon?”
Both he and Wangji turn bright red at the mention of the latter incident. Meng Yao allows himself a benevolent smile: Their characters’ accidental marriage during the last campaign truly is a gift that keeps on giving. “Wei Wuxian,” he says mildly, “all I hear is you blaming me for the reckless choices you keep making in this game.”
Wei Wuxian shrugs and grabs a handful of sunflower seeds. A few of them scatter over the game board, and as he struggles to pick them up without toppling over their tokens, he conveniently seems to forget about his smear campaign. Meanwhile, Huaisang starts fanning himself with his character sheet, no doubt remembering all the instances where he’s had to confirm his actions today. Meng Yao hopes he’s also finally second-guessing that foreboding gust of wind back from when the Chief Cultivator first set foot in Yi City.
Then he turns back to the problem at hand.
Common sense says to give up on Lan Xichen’s character, especially since he’s officially here for one night only. Being lenient with his bad rolls and now nudging his regulars to sacrifice themselves for him is way more than Meng Yao would normally do for a guest player. But Lan Xichen was so polite when he asked to listen in, even citing Meng Yao’s house rules, and so excited when offered the chance to play. His eyes lit up like stars when he first saw the character sheet, and he came up with a name and spun a backstory with easy confidence that utterly charmed and disarmed Meng Yao.
“I’m being such an inconvenience,” Lan Xichen says now, looking embarrassed. With his confidence crushed by a combination of noble acts and abysmal luck with the dice, what else can Meng Yao do but double down?
“Please don’t say that,” he protests. “Wangji, what’s the verdict? Will Hanguang-jun attempt the qi transfer?”
Wangji looks determined.
“McFucking don’t,” Wei Wuxian says in English, aggressively stabbing Wangji’s character sheet with his last sunflower seed. “With an energy level that low, your chance of dying is at least one out of four!”
Meng Yao gives him a pointed look. “Are you currently using persuasion on Hanguang-jun as your action for this round? If so, please roll a D20.”
“Oh no, it’s not necessary,” Lan Xichen interjects before Wei Wuxian can respond. “Wangji—I mean, Hanguang-jun, I can’t accept that. In fact, I don’t want any of you to risk your own lives trying to save me.”
His voice sounds so very sincere. With the backdrop of the rain and in the low light, it’s easy to imagine him as the venerated Zewu-jun, propped up against a wall in the coffin house, crimson blood spattered on his pristine robes, clutching his xiao in trembling hands.
His long hair (and general attractiveness) is not helping. Nonetheless, it’s alarming at which speed Meng Yao’s brain can make up scenarios where his own OC heroically sweeps in to save him—cradling Zewu-jun’s head in his lap as he heals his injuries, gently pushing his sweaty hair out of his face...
“Ah, haha, Lan-da, you’re too noble,” Huaisang coughs, interjecting Meng Yao’s thoughts. He sounds relieved; maybe he’d expected someone to suggest the Chief Cultivator sacrifice himself for Zewu-jun instead.
“Xichen-ge,” Meng Yao says sternly. “I’m saying this because you’re new to the game. The others might all be low on energy, but your qi is nearly depleted. If you don’t accept help, Zewu-jun will die in Yi City.”
“Is there any other way to save me?” Lan Xichen asks, solemn eyes looking around the table and finally meeting Meng Yao’s. When no one has an answer, Lan Xichen’s gaze turns determined.
“I would like to do my action for this round, then.”
With a sense of foreboding, Meng Yao signals for him to continue.
“I want to roll for persuasion.” Lan Xichen frowns at his character sheet. “What you just asked Xiao-Wei—I can do that, too, right? I have a—a 14 on my sheet, for this ability.”
The sense of foreboding intensifies. Trapped in his role as the game master for once, Meng Yao can only hand him the dice they’ve been sharing.
“With fading breath, I encourage my companions to abandon me and seek their own safety,” Xichen says, closes his eyes, and rolls.
It’s a fucking tragedy: After all of his disastrous rolls he now lands a 20, leaving absolutely no wiggle room for Meng Yao. The worst thing is that he’s right and it’s the best thing to do at this point. Truly too noble, and a waste of talent at this game.
Meng Yao heaves a deep sigh.
“Your companions see the truth in your words,” he says in a heavy voice. “Either you die here alone, or you all die together at the hands of the spirit whose wrath you’ve drawn onto you. With heavy hearts, they bid you farewell.”
Xichen smiles wistfully. “I close my eyes and contemplate the joy of having made new friends along the way.”
“As the others leave, they are moved to tears by how peaceful you seem,” Meng Yao says around the lump in his throat. “Finally, the misty shrouds hide you from their sight.”
“Xiongzhang,” Wangji says, his voice sounding unusually thick.
“Rest in peace, Zewu-jun,” Huaisang chimes in.
“It’s been real, my guy,” Wei Wuxian says, awkwardly patting Lan Xichen’s shoulder.
There’s a heavy silence.
“I truly must apologize,” Lan Xichen finally says. He’s wearing a small smile, but from the way his shoulders hang, Meng Yao can tell he’s crushed. “You went to all this trouble so I could play with you, and now I’ve made the game so depressing.”
Meng Yao wants to see him excited again. In fact, he wants it so much it’s almost overwhelming, and it feels right and natural to place his hand on Lan Xichen’s arm in reassurance. “Please, gege,” he says softly, “it was a pleasure to have you.”
He notes with intrigue that the endearment makes Lan Xichen blush. Meng Yao lets himself drown in his warm eyes—until he’s distracted by Huaisang tugging at his sleeve. “I’m sure Yao-ge will let you create a new character,” Huaisang pleads, “won’t you?”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Lan Xichen says, embarrassed.
Confidence, Meng Yao thinks again, and an idea sweeps his somber mood away.
He feels a pleased smile play around his lips. “That won’t be necessary,” he decides, and dives behind his master screen.
“I don’t like this, I really don’t like this,” Huaisang mumbles. He has folded his character sheet into a fan and won’t stop fidgeting with it. “Is it just me or is something off about this whole thing?”
“No,” Wangji says, disquieted. He raises his hand politely. “I would like to use a perception check on the palace guards, please.”
Meng Yao waves his hand generously. “You check their pulses. All of them are dead.”
The pencil spinning around Wei Wuxian’s fingers comes to a sudden halt. “We’re being watched—that’s what’s weird. Remember the assassins after Yi City? They went straight for me, knowing Hanguang-jun wouldn’t risk my safety.”
He and Wangji both become incredibly interested in their tea cups for a few seconds, and Meng Yao shares a knowing smile with Lan Xichen. In the past few hours, Lan Xichen has moved closer and closer to Meng Yao’s screen and is now sitting close enough for their elbows to brush occasionally. It makes pouring him tea an exhilarating feat: In their back and forth of “thank you” and “you’re welcome”, Meng Yao has had the opportunity to study every shade of brown in Lan Xichen’s eyes. Seeing how he’s constantly distracted by fantasies of letting Lan Xichen read the stories in his notebook and plotting an entire new campaign together with him, Meng Yao has come to accept that he’s helplessly, irrefutably smitten.
“Point being,” Wei Wuxian soldiers on bravely, “they seemed to know about our secret, ah, marriage, haha—even when we’ve never mentioned it outside of our group. And then in Kuizhou—I’m starting to think they removed the corpses from the graves specifically to prevent me from using my demonic cultivation, which is again something no one should know about in the first place.”
Huaisang looks back and forth between him and Wangji. “What do you suggest?”
Wangji studies the game board. “We’ve exhausted our options. We’re already in Sect Leader Evildoer’s lair. Our only remaining choice is to confront the villain directly and fight.”
Behind his screen, Meng Yao’s hands tremble in anticipation. Lan Xichen gives him an inquisitive smile.
“I’m so scared,” Huaisang whines, turning to Meng Yao with a pleading face. “If we all die, you’re gonna let us keep our characters, won’t you, Yao-ge?”
“Shh,” Wangji says.
“I open the door to the main hall with the assassin’s key,” Wei Wuxian declares.
Meng Yao smiles to himself, savoring the moment. With carefully chosen words, he paints the picture of what lies beyond: A vast room with torches as the only source of light, tiled with dark wood and eclipsed by a seemingly endless flight of stairs, right on the bottom of which—
“—lies a lifeless figure,” Meng Yao concludes. Before the group can erupt into chaos, he holds up a single finger. “If you do a perception check, you’ll find that indeed no life force is left in the body.”
Underneath the table, Lan Xichen’s knee brushes against his. “What are you planning?” he whispers, his curious smile playing around his lips and crinkling the corners of his eyes. Meng Yao smiles back and puts a finger over his lips, lingering a bit longer than strictly necessary.
“I walk over to the body to inspect it. What do I find? Do I recognize who it is?” Wei Wuxian demands.
“The body is clad in extravagant red robes and is still clutching a sword engraved with the motif of a sun. Based on your knowledge of the prominent cultivation families you conclude—”
“—that it’s Sect Leader Evildoer,” Wei Wuxian curses. “He’s dead? And his goons still attacked us a minute ago? The fuck!”
Wangji frowns. “Do I sense anyone else in here?”
“You don’t see anybody,” Meng Yao says, “But...”
He waits until he has the group’s undivided attention.
“You hear something. Faintly, as if from very far away, you hear the single, quivering note...of a xiao.”
Lan Xichen stills beside him.
“What?” Huaisang exclaims. “Who’s there?”
Meng Yao stands no chance against the wide grin spreading on his face. He’s probably looking disheveled and flushed and slightly manic—but it all doesn’t matter because Lan Xichen is hanging on to his every word, his eyes shining bright with excitement.
“Right after you call out, the music stops. You look around in confusion, until you finally turn your gaze upwards. From the very top of the stairs, a tall figure clad in white robes is looking down on you, their face hidden behind a veil of mist. Then, a voice echoes through the room.”
Meng Yao pauses again. Huaisang, Wangji, and Wei Wuxian hold their breaths—
—and Meng Yao slowly turns to Lan Xichen.
As Meng Yao smiles at him, Lan Xichen's hesitation melts away. He clears his throat.
“Joining you in human disguise gave me the opportunity to learn all of your weaknesses,” he says in a gleeful voice. Then he pauses for a second, looking back at Meng Yao to see if he’s doing it right.
Meng Yao can only stare at him with fond adoration. It doesn’t matter, because it prompts Lan Xichen to turn back to the group and continue: “Sect Leader Evildoer has served his purpose. I have returned to a body that is stronger than my previous one. Say your prayers now, and then prepare to die!”
Huaisang drops his makeshift fan. Wangji drops his teacup. Wei Wuxian sputters and points at Lan Xichen, at a loss for words. And Lan Xichen—
Lan Xichen is glowing with excitement, and Meng Yao feels his own heart swell at least twice its size. Then he pulls the character sheet for the discarded Sect Leader Evildoer from his folder, ceremoniously crosses out the name, and scribbles “Zewu-jun” on top. As he hands it over to Lan Xichen behind the master screen, their hands meet, and his heart skips a beat.
They grin at each other.
“Alright,” Meng Yao says cheerfully, “now everyone roll for initiative!”