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Meng Yao had always been a ragged, wretched, traitorous soul. The only thing he wanted was power, and the only person he cared about was himself.
This was who he was, and if anyone thought otherwise they were a fool whom his deceit had succeeded against.
This was who he would always be. If he ever tried to convince himself otherwise, he was a self-aggrandizing fool trying to delude himself.
On his worst days, Meng Yao knew this with absolute certainty.
On his best days? Well, he didn't have those.
In his next life, Meng Yao would certainly be an ant. That, or a pig raised for slaughter and beaten daily, for Meng Yao thought he would quite enjoy being an ant.
An ant, though miniscule and powerless, was not abused by its superiors. An ant did not hate, and an ant was not hated. An ant always knew what task to do, and though it was one of many it did not worry for things like place and power.
Ants did not feel, and even if they did ants were not demanded to do things that would cause them undue emotional anguish.
In his next life, when Meng Yao was an ant, he would not have to kill those which he (reluctantly, and unreturnedly,) cared for.
And in his next life, Meng Yao would not have to remember his own doing so.
Da-ge was dead already.
He was dead as soon as Jin Guangshan had issued the order and demanded that he die by Meng Yao's own hands.
Though Da-ge still breathed, though his heart beat and his qi flowed, he was dead already.
He was dead, and Meng Yao should be sentenced to death for how guilty he was of the crime.
Da-ge hated him anyway, so why should Meng Yao care?
Da-ge had discovered how disgusting his soul was, how red stained his hands, and he rightfully hated him.
The only reason Da-ge could tolerate his presence was because with him there, watching, Jin Guangyao could not expose his filthy soul, could not harm another.
If he did, then Da-ge would only hate him more. Would harm him, and warn Xichen against him.
Ah, it was a wonder how Xichen regarded him. He was kind, he was caring.
And he only remained this way because he did not know of the acts that had stained Meng Yao's soul pitch.
He did not know how terrible Jin Guangyao truly was, and if he had anything to say about it, he never will.
The date on which Jin Guangyao mastered the Song of Turmoil was one which he would have marked on his calendar, if he had a physical one. He marked it in his head, instead.
With this weapon, Nie Mingjue's days were numbered.
Meng Yao wondered if he could guess that number, if he tried.
Once he had mastered the song, he burned the sheet music. He had folded it neatly, creased it along all its edges until it nearly laid flat, and he had lit it up while it was still clutched between his fingers.
He did not let it go, even as it burned.
Da-ge deserved that much.
He's dead. He's dying. He died as soon as you met him.
He is dead and you do not have a heart, so why do you hesitate?
No matter how long you search, you will not find your heart.
Even the worst men have one, deep inside, the size of a dried bean or a grain of rice.
So perhaps you are not a man at all, for your chest is a hollow cavern and you were born still, without a pulse, only to cry and cry and cry when the cord was unwrapped from your traitorous neck.
Maybe you are already dead.
Maybe you will not have a next life with which to redeem your soul.
..Maybe you do not have a soul, and maybe you never have.
Jin Guangyao's fingers are still on the guqin. Ahead of him, Nie Mingjue waits.
"What are you waiting for?"
He lifts his fingers and begins to play.