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In all his years traveling around Dong Li, Sha Wu Sheng had never encountered a place so vast yet so empty. Even though he had known the Wasteland of Spirits was a harsh environment, experiencing it firsthand still unsettled him. True to its name, the landscape was barren of life except for the hardiest plants, and even fewer animals roamed the surface. Those that managed to survive had either natural or magical traits that allowed them to exist in this unforgiving realm. Except for the occasional lizard or scavenger, Sha Wu Sheng had yet to catch a glimpse of any other animals. Nor had he seen another human being in the week since he had begun his westward journey to Xi You. This was no surprise given that the number of people who would willingly subject themselves to this hell was few and far in between.
If Wu Sheng wanted to blame anyone for his folly, it would have to be Shang Bu Huan. That man had been the one who had planted the idea in his head that he should migrate to Xi You, where nobody had heard of the Destroyer of Life or Screaming Phoenix Killer, and establish a new life there for himself. Although Shang was the first and only person Wu Sheng had met who had ever successfully crossed the Wasteland of Spirits, the older man was convinced that Wu Sheng was strong enough to complete the journey.
As exhaustion and dehydration began to set in, Wu Sheng considered that perhaps Shang had overestimated his strength. Contrary to the sensationalized tales that had spread about him throughout Dong Li, the so-called Sword Demon was in fact only human. Just like every other human, he needed food and water and rest. Having miscalculated how much he should ration his water supply until he found the next water source, he was nearing his physical limit. Even the desperate, blazing hope that had been driving him onward throughout this ordeal was about to expire.
In his delirium that approached despair, he mused that if he died in this place, then it was simply the heavens' punishment for all his past wrongs. The last lament that lingered in his mind before he fainted was that Shang Bu Huan's act of mercy in sparing his life back at Seven Sins Tower had gone to waste.
The next sensation Wu Sheng knew was that of his upper body being lifted and propped up by someone’s arm. Then, water, precious water, entered his mouth, wetting his lips and sliding down his throat in a cool stream. At first, he thought he must be dreaming or hallucinating. Who was there in this godforsaken place to give him water?
Vaguely, as if separated from the source by a curtain, he heard a scratchy voice say, “Are you sure it’s a good idea to save him?” Wu Sheng wanted to figure out the owner of the voice, but his eyelids felt too heavy and his limbs didn’t seem to want to heed him. He slipped back into unconsciousness.
When he finally awoke and opened his eyes, he sat up and found himself face to face with another human being who was sitting across a small campfire from him.
The stranger looked to be around Wu Sheng’s age, in his mid- to late-twenties, and was dressed in rich red robes trimmed with white. His hair was the most vivid shade of orange Wu Sheng had ever seen, brighter than the skin of a ripe mandarin. Adorning his head was a crown of crystals that glimmered in the firelight, lending him a regal air. Below the crown, a pair of piercing green eyes regarded Wu Sheng with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. He held in his lap a red pipa with gold accents, its pegbox sporting a carved face with a stare that looked uncannily alive.
“So you’re finally awake, eh?”
That voice he had heard earlier. But the man’s lips hadn’t moved. Rather…
Wu Sheng’s gaze jumped to the pipa. He could swear the face on the pegbox had shifted.
“What—”
His exclamation was interrupted. “What, you’ve never met a talking pipa before? Well, you’re in luck, buddy, because here I am.”
The face really had moved. Was this some strange ventriloquy? Or was it magic? He had heard of objects that came to possess spirits of their own, but this was his first time coming across one in real life. Wu Sheng could only stare in confusion, then fascination, as the pipa continued his half-ranting, half-explanatory words.
“If you’re wondering why I’m doing the talking and not this guy here, it’s because he doesn’t like speaking, but don’t worry, he doesn’t bite. Unless you’re evil, anyway. When he senses evil, he goes on the attack like no other.”
Wu Sheng blinked. Though he had ceased to be a killer, he could hardly be considered a force of good at this point. Had his aura changed so much in a short period of time that he no longer provoked fear and disgust in people at first encounter? Then again, he supposed it was difficult to project a threatening vibe when one was passed out from dehydration.
“Anyway, we found you looking near dead, and this guy insisted on saving you, so here we are. Not sure what you’re doing in the Wasteland of Spirits, but consider yourself a lucky bastard that we crossed paths because otherwise you’d be buzzard food for sure.”
The pipa’s face stopped moving, jaw sliding shut.
“Thank you,” Wu Sheng ventured, now that he was finally able to get a word in. He rearranged his body so that he was sitting cross-legged in a stable position. “May I ask what the esteemed names of my saviors are?”
“Ah, right. You can call me Ling Ya. And this guy here is…”
“Lang Wu Yao,” the young man finished, surprising Wu Sheng. It was the first time he had spoken this entire conversation. His voice was soft and subdued, but beneath the surface, it channeled a power that Wu Sheng couldn’t quite gauge.
“Thank you very much, Master Lang, Ling Ya. My name is—” Suddenly, it occurred to Wu Sheng that he ought not to give this stranger his birth name, cursed as it was. Though perhaps it accurately described him in the past, it no longer suited him. Nor did the title of Screaming Phoenix Killer. Without a pseudonym ready, he awkwardly changed course. “...actually, it is a long story, but I am in the process of finding a new name for myself. But for now, you can call me Wu Sheng.”
Without the word for killing heading it off, his name was innocuous enough.
“Wu Sheng? As in 'voiceless?' That seems more like a name for this guy here since he never talks,” Ling Ya joked.
The word for "sound" or "voice" and the word for "life" were homophones, so it wasn’t surprising that Ling Ya had interpreted the Sheng in his name as the former. Wu Sheng didn’t bother to correct him. Despite sounding the same, it had a different feeling to it than his birth name. The alternate name did carry some odd and potentially questionable connotations, yet it wasn’t so awful as to feel cursed in a threatening way. He supposed it was fitting for someone who was currently lost in life. Until he found and created a new self and new life, this “voiceless” name would do.
“How long have I been unconscious?” While listening to Ling Ya, he’d slowly taken stock of their surroundings and gathered that they were in a shallow cave of some sort, a naturally occurring recess in a formation made out of the reddish stone typical of the Wasteland of Spirits. It was dark outside, but Wu Sheng couldn’t tell what hour it was since he couldn’t see any indicators that would help him estimate.
"It was around noon when we found you and now it's evening, so at least six hours," Ling Ya responded. "Dunno how long you were conked out before we found you though. Probably wasn't too long though, otherwise something else would have gotten to you first."
It was mid-morning when Wu Sheng could last remember, so he had been unconscious for the better part of the day. His body offered him a timely reminder in the form of his stomach growling. He grimaced, feeling a tad resentful that he needed sustenance at all. It was the reason he had gotten himself into this predicament in the first place, needing a stranger to rescue him.
"Feeling hungry, are ya? If you have any food on you, this guy here is also willing to share."
Wu Sheng had packed a decent amount of dry food, including nuts and jerky, for the trip. It wasn't nearly as heavy or space-consuming as water. Lang had similar provisions, except he had dried fruits as well. Wu Sheng didn't consider himself particularly fond of sweets, but the pieces of dried persimmons satiated a craving he didn't even know he had until he popped them into his mouth.
They ate without speaking, with only the crackle of the fire to punctuate the silence. As he chewed his food, Wu Sheng sneaked glances at his rescuer. Though Ling Ya had commented his surprise at finding Wu Sheng in the Wasteland of Spirits, Wu Sheng could have said the same about Lang Wu Yao and his magical companion. What was his story? Was he running away from something, like Wu Sheng was? Or was he running toward something? (And were those ultimately the same thing?)
Since they had just met, he didn't think he could pry into Lang Wu Yao's personal affairs by asking directly. Instead, he wracked his brain for a less intimate subject.
"So," he said, breaking the silence. "You play the pipa?" He had never been good at small talk, but as Lin Xue Ya had once informed him, it was a stepping stone toward getting closer to a person, whether to forge genuine bonds of rapport or to cajole critical information out of them for more nefarious ends.
"Well, I'm certainly not here for decoration," Ling Ya retorted, answering the question on the other man's behalf.
"I was never under that impression," Wu Sheng said evenly. "It is obvious that you were crafted by an expert artisan."
"So you know a thing or two about music, eh?"
"Indeed."
Wu Sheng had grown up in a sect where the disciples studied music before they even touched a blade, mastering principles of the former to apply them to the latter. Though the flute was the instrument he knew best, his skill cultivated by the illustrious Tie Di Xian, the Iron Flute Immortal himself, Wu Sheng had also learned his way around other instruments in his time at his former master's dojo. He supposed it might be rude to ask Lang Wu Yao to play for him, so he decided to offer up his own performance instead.
"I have some skill with the flute. As a token of my gratitude, let me play something for you."
Though he had been drilled in matters of etiquette years ago as a trainee at the dojo, acting gracious was something Wu Sheng had not really done much in his years as an assassin. The words and motions felt awkward to him even though he had no trouble remembering what they were. Rather than dwell on this thought for too long, he reached into his robes to retrieve the Soul Echo Flute.
Wu Sheng's years of musical training had allowed him to cultivate a substantial repertoire of songs ranging from folk ballads to court pieces. But rather than select one of the many melodies stored in his memory, he decided to play an original composition. He had begun to weave together this song shortly after his salvation by Shang Bu Huan. Because he could no longer rely on his swords to speak for him and cut a path through life, he needed a different outlet for all the emotions he had avoided facing over the years. Articulating them in words felt impossible whereas stringing together musical notes seemed far less daunting by comparison. Day by day, week by week, he had waded through the muddy waters of his own life story in a search for clarity, if not closure. Making sense of the pain he had both endured and inflicted was no easy task, but he had to try if he wanted to transform and redeem himself. He channeled those feelings into his flute, which became his voice.
As he played, Wu Sheng began to feel less self-conscious, succumbing to the waves of emotion that buffeted him and letting them carry the song. His eyes closed and his mind receded from his immediate surroundings to focus on the melodic dance he performed, each note a step and a flourish. So deep in the flow of the music was he that it caught him off guard the moment the twang of a pipa string joined the flute’s reedy hum.
Much as Wu Sheng had surmised, Lang Wu Yao was a gifted musician. It was his first time hearing this song, yet he could improvise accompaniment that complemented it so well that their respective notes wove together into a harmonious whole. Without saying a word, Lang Wu Yao was conversing with Wu Sheng through the language of music.
It was in this way that Wu Sheng learned that he was not alone in his melancholy. Lang Wu Yao was no stranger to loss and loneliness. The details were beyond Wu Sheng—he wasn’t telepathic, after all. Nevertheless, he could sense from the notes the other man plucked out on Ling Ya’s pear-shaped body a mournful tone, wracked by guilt. It wasn’t mere regurgitation of Wu Sheng’s feelings for the sake of conforming to the tenor of his song, he was sure. Rather, Lang Wu Yao’s pipa commiserated with Sha Wu Sheng’s flute. The image of a phoenix alighting next to another phoenix to sing a duet suddenly flashed through Wu Sheng’s mind.
Originally, the song would have ended after a climax signifying Wu Sheng’s rebirth following his encounter with Shang Bu Huan. However, with Lang playing alongside him, Wu Sheng decided to ad lib and extend the song. Rather than merely rehash a past he could not change, he wanted to gesture toward a future, toward hope. Lang Wu Yao’s act of kindness had saved him a second time, and he wanted to repay that kindness. It was naive to think his song could grant the other man full healing from whatever wounds he carried, but perhaps it could offer a temporary comfort and encouragement, a reassurance that not only were they not alone in their pain, they both had the capacity to move forward despite everything. If he could give Lang Wu Yao this one humble gift, that would be enough.
Lang followed Wu Sheng's ad lib without missing a beat, adjusting his tone accordingly. It occurred to Wu Sheng that he had never experienced anything quite like this musical collaboration before. In his apprenticeship days, music had always been a solo affair, and merely having another person listen to his flute playing could not compare to the intimacy of the creative partnership unfolding between him and Lang Wu Yao.
When the final sighs of the flute faded, silence settled over the two companions.
Predictably, it was Ling Ya who broke the silence. "Not too shabby! And you can trust my word since I've heard everything this guy has played and then some, in my time."
"Ling Ya used to belong to my mother," Lang Wu Yao explained. The statement was matter-of-fact yet weighed down by an unspoken sadness that showed in the shadow that crossed his face. Wu Sheng guessed that Lang Wu Yao's mother had passed away, likely when he was still young.
“So your mother was a musician in Xi You?”
Lang Wu Yao was unresponsive for a while, eyes downcast. Just when Wu Sheng thought he wouldn’t answer because the topic was too painful, he said, “I suppose so. I grew up with just the two of us living together in the mountains, and I’m not sure what her life was like before I was born, but she was the one who taught me to play the pipa. What about you—who taught you to play the flute?”
“My adoptive father and former master.” It felt strange to call Tie Di Xian his father because he had never felt a father’s love from him, yet he could not deny that the man had raised him, for better or for worse. He had realized far too late that much of his pain as a child stemmed from a desire for Tie Di Xian to show him more affection and approval. Though it had been a few years since that fateful, bloody confrontation at the Sword Skill Competition, and though he knew Lin Xue Ya had set them both up, Wu Sheng couldn’t help but feel guilt well up again, like blood from a scratched-open scab.
“It’s my fault he died.”
The words slipped out before he could stop them. To his surprise, they were accompanied by tears. He couldn’t remember the last time he had cried. Doing so in front of a stranger should have felt mortifying, yet because he had already bared his soul through his song earlier, he didn't see a point in concealing his emotions to save face.
At the same time, neither could he ignore the self-conscious part of himself that wondered whether he was being judged, especially given the potentially incriminating nature of his confession.
When he found the courage to look at Lang Wu Yao, he was startled to find that the other man’s eyes also glimmered with tears.
“My mother, too… It was my fault…”
It seemed unlikely that the circumstances of Lang Wu Yao’s mother’s death resembled what had happened with Tie Di Xian, but still, Wu Sheng believed that he had found someone who shared his pain. There was no mistaking the tortured words of someone who would do anything to turn back time and reverse an event of the past.
Gazing at Lang from across the fire, Wu Sheng realized how frail the other man seemed all of a sudden, like a child shrinking into himself. Perhaps, Wu Sheng thought, everyone had a small child inside that needed soothing at times. Lately, he had noticed this sort of feeling in himself when he had taken the time and effort to listen to his own heart. With that awareness, he wanted to reach out to Lang, but he was in unfamiliar territory. He had spent so many years as a predator who attacked at the first sign of weakness that responding to vulnerability with compassion did not come so easily to him.
What would Shang Bu Huan do? he pondered. Give an uplifting speech, probably. But Wu Sheng was not Shang Bu Huan, nor did he have Shang’s way with words. What was he good at anyway, besides killing? Not for the first time, he regretted that his hands were accustomed to reaching for his swords, which were utterly useless in this situation.
But eventually the compulsion to act triumphed over his doubts, and he found himself rising and walking around the fire to Lang to sit down next to him on his right side. Each of his movements seemed stilted, as if he were a poorly-maneuvered puppet. Once he settled in place, it was hard to turn his head toward Lang. Part of him expected the other man to move away, but Lang remained seated, head bowed as tears continued to flow.
Wu Sheng’s left hand twitched. He looked down at it and flexed his fingers like he was testing their range of movement and puzzling out what they could do. Then, he lifted his hand and placed it on Lang’s right shoulder.
Lang tensed up for a moment at the contact, but he did not recoil, nor did he push away Wu Sheng’s hand.
As he sat with his hand resting on Lang’s shoulder, Wu Sheng noticed in due time that his cheeks felt hot in a way that was quite different from the heat of exertion from exercise. It was closer to the feeling of anticipation that arose right before facing off against a worthy opponent. There was excitement but also fear. This was the furthest thing from a battle, yet the stakes still felt so high.
Rejection by others is a kind of defeat, Wu Sheng mused. But the outcome of this kind of interaction couldn’t be reduced to a simple binary of victory or defeat, either. It wasn’t a zero-sum game where one person’s gain constituted another’s loss. It was something else entirely. Something new to Wu Sheng. Something worth learning and integrating into the future life that he was already in the process of shaping with each step he took away from his past life.
Because he couldn’t find the right words to say, Wu Sheng said nothing. The firm but gentle pressure of his hand would have to do all the talking. It was almost as if he was transferring his qi to Lang.
Wu Sheng didn’t count the seconds, which turned into minutes, that they spent like that, joined together by Wu Sheng’s comforting touch. Part of him fretted that he might be exceeding the acceptable amount of time for such gestures. Thankfully, Lang spared him the awkwardness of having to ask when the best time was to take his hand away. He placed his left hand on Wu Sheng’s and murmured “thank you" before letting go, thus providing an opportune moment for Wu Sheng to break contact.
Ling Ya, who had remained cradled in Lang’s lap the entire time, chose that moment to pipe up. “Sorry to interrupt your little bonding moment, but it’s getting a bit late. Don’t you think you should go to sleep?”
The comment could have been directed at Lang only, or both of them. It was difficult to tell. Upon hearing it, Wu Sheng realized that although he had just woken from an unconscious state not too long ago, he felt tired, perhaps because he had borne so many heavy emotions in a short period of time.
As Lang set Ling Ya to the side and laid him down in a resting position, Wu Sheng shifted, rising to his feet so he could relocate back to his own side of the fire. He shivered a little. The night had turned cold without him realizing it. Just as he was about to take the first step away from Lang, however, he felt a hand catch his wrist.
"Wait."
Wu Sheng turned around.
"It's warmer if two people sleep together," Lang said while looking at the fire, not meeting Wu Sheng's eyes.
Wu Sheng flushed. "Oh. Right."
The ensuing shuffling of bodies as they prepared to sleep felt like the longest few minutes of Wu Sheng's life. At first, he wasn't sure if there was anything else to Lang's suggestion—he had never been good at reading between the lines, something that Lin Xue Ya had often teased him about. But judging by Lang's actions, it was not an invitation to sex. Even so, the act of lying down beside another person felt just as intimate. Sharing physical space with Lang and feeling hyper aware of their respective bodies, wondering faintly if they might touch—accidentally or intentionally—filled Wu Sheng with a scalding heat. He lay on his side with his back to the fire and to his companion. All the while, his pulse pounded in his ears, which remained sensitive to the slightest stirring from Lang. Tired as he was, Wu Sheng wasn't going to fall asleep anytime soon at this rate. With that realization, he resigned himself to his insomnia.
When Wu Sheng awoke the next day, the first sensations that registered in his mind were the warmth and pressure of another body pressed against his. Cracking open his eyes, he was greeted with a mass of fiery orange hair lit by the morning light. He blinked and took in more of his surroundings. Somehow, during the night, he had reversed the orientation of his body so that he was facing Lang, who had also moved closer. The other man's cheek rested against Wu Sheng's chest. One of his arms was draped over Wu Sheng's waist.
These realizations jolted Wu Sheng out of the haze of sleep. His mind raced, frantic over what to do. His current position made his whole body hot with self-consciousness, but he didn't want to disturb Lang either. Either way, he was sure Lang would hear his irregular heartbeat and wake from his slumber.
Yet even as he fretted about extricating himself from this situation, there was a part of him that wished to prolong the contact, to pull Lang Wu Yao closer, to melt into a single mass of entwined limbs.
To hold and be held by another was no small thing to Wu Sheng. He had been starved of gentle and loving touch for as long as he could remember. That he had received it from someone who was practically a stranger baffled him. At the same time, it provided him with a glimpse of the possibilities that awaited him in his new life, a life where dominating and distancing himself from others through violence was no longer his default course of action.
While Wu Sheng was preoccupied with his own thoughts, Lang stirred and came to. He pulled away from Wu Sheng and turned his body before sitting up, coughing lightly.
"I apologize for any discomfort I caused," Lang said with his back to Wu Sheng. To Wu Sheng's relief, he sounded more embarrassed than disgusted by the situation.
"No worries. I slept alright last night." It wasn't a complete lie. Despite the initial insomnia, he had surprised himself by eventually falling unconscious and sleeping through the night without waking in the middle.
The two broke their fast. It felt quite different from their previous meal given everything that had transpired the previous night. There was an air of camaraderie that hadn't been there before. As they ate, they each shared their respective knowledge of the terrain of the Wasteland of Spirits to aid the other.
Wu Sheng couldn't help but feel a twinge of sadness as the morning progressed. He and Lang were headed in opposite directions, so they would have to go their separate ways shortly. Just when they had begun to know each other.
The parting words they exchanged were brief—perfunctory, even. None of the etiquette rules Wu Sheng learned in his youth had prepared him for how to interact with someone he had just met the previous day but also shared one of his deepest regrets with and even slept with for a night. It was a situation that blurred boundaries and defied easy categorization within that rigid taxonomy of relationships he had studied in his youth. It was unsettling but also eye-opening in a way.
As they turned their backs to each other and resumed their respective journeys, Wu Sheng resisted the urge to turn his head and seek out the sight of Lang Wu Yao's retreating figure. It would only make the regret harder to shoulder.
Yet just when Wu Sheng had prepared himself to let go, the sound of a pipa pierced the clear morning air. It was a reprisal of a phrase from the previous night's performance. The plucked notes resounded in his ears and seemed to caress his face in a gentle farewell.
And so, despite the odds working against him, Wu Sheng found himself hoping that one day, perhaps in a future where he and Lang Wu Yao had made peace with their pasts, they would meet again.