Archive of Our Own

Wei Ying hadn’t actually thought the mission would involve aliens. The texts to the group chat about his future alien boyfriend had mainly been to infuriate Jiang Cheng.

Really, scientifically, there was no reason to think aliens would be hot. If there were to be aliens, he had assumed that they would be weird slugs or something. That was some people’s thing, but not Wei Ying’s, really. Not that he wouldn’t do them anyways. For the experience . If they were willing. After all, if they even knew about sex, they would probably be thirsting after fellow slimes. 

Anyways, when he did bump into a hot alien on Titan, he very reasonably concluded he had lost his mind.

Until said beautiful alien conked him with a blast of spiritual power and stuffed him in a cell.

That seemed just about right for how this mission had been going.

When Wei Ying woke up again, he was feeling surprisingly good. He rolled up off the hard shelf he’d been placed on (a bed perhaps?) and took a look around while checking himself for injuries.

The results of both surveys were surprisingly positive.

He was uninjured and felt like he’d had a full night's sleep (rare these days). Yes there was still the ragged gaping void in his lower dantian where his core should be, but that was hardly new.

The cell was cold–he doubted it was much more than 5 C. He stamped his feet and rubbed his hands together to warm them. Maybe the aliens liked a colder climate than humans did. Or they were trying to off him with hypothermia. (That seemed inefficient, though.)

The cell was spartan. Three white walls and a ward force field for the fourth. Past the ward there was a little more space, and then a wall and a closed door. It seemed a little makeshift for a prison.

The only furniture was the built-in shelf, but there was a slightly raised panel on the back wall. When he touched it, it slid away to reveal a sink and bathroom of sorts, though in a strange style. 

He quenched his thirst a little, but then it was time to look at the wards.

They were…odd.

Well made. Very well-made. Thorough too. Even with a golden core, he didn’t imagine brute force would have gotten him through. 

The strange part was the care that went into them. Specifically the care for the cell’s occupant. He could feel them pulsing, many tiny threads of spiritual power–to filter the air, to act as a firebreak, to detect and notify the creator in case of distress. More focus, almost, was put on Wei Ying’s safety than keeping him contained.

Who would make such a thing?

Someone who didn’t know anything of demonic cultivators and their blood magics, that was for sure. Wei Ying almost felt bad to break it.

But. Well. No rest for the wicked. And no sense delaying.

He had been changed while he slept, and so was unarmed, but he still had his teeth. A bite through his palm won him only a sluggish ooze of blood, but that was enough. 

He drew his seal on the cool firmness of the ward. A smarter cultivator–a crueler one–would have made the ward burn anyone who touched it. Wei Ying still could have broken it. Had suffered more pain for less–but it would have cost him. He didn’t think it occurred to the creator of this ward to use pain in such a way. 

The ward sizzled when he finished his sloppy seal, and then dissolved into wispy tendrils of light. They would know he had escaped, soon enough. 

Better keep moving.

***

It was hard, rebuilding on the ice moon. They’d named it Gusu, after their lost home, but it was not Gusu. So in many ways that simply emphasized what they had lost.

The biggest difference was the gravity–nine times weaker than their home–but for Lan Zhan, the most unsettling change was the sky. He was used to the cyclical rise and fall of Gusu’s three small moons, its twin suns that lit up the golden sky.

But now, only a single pale sun lit the brown sky. There were no moons–instead the vast ringed planet remained fixed in the heavens–a looming presence.

The moon was far too cold for the Lan, and the atmosphere had no oxygen. With their current resources, and their badly overstretched cultivators, they could not afford to terraform it to their satisfaction. Sufficient carbon dioxide could perhaps warm the planet to more livable temperatures. But it was only the deep cold that allowed this new Gusu to keep its thick atmosphere. It was too small. If it was warmed, its atmosphere would escape into space.

In the past this would be but a small inconvenience. An atmospheric ward would prevent any deterioration.

But the few remaining Lan cultivators were already overworked. They could not afford such an extensive drain on their already limited reserves.

This solar system had warmer worlds. The most promising already had an oxygen atmosphere, even if it was too warm for Lan tastes at most latitudes.

But oxygen meant life, and even now, the Lan would not break that sacred covenant to leave other beings in the universe unmolested.

So they landed on this icy moon and put up a warm pocket just large enough for their settlement–filled it with oxygen–and started the long desperate struggle to rebuild their people.

That is, until the alien showed up.

Later, Lan Zhan would be grateful that it was he who was checking the perimeter wards that day, and not one of the more trigger happy disciples.

But at the time he froze as he watched a slim figure trace the boundary of the wards from the outside. In a flash, the stranger pulled out a sheet of talisman paper and drew in a few quick lines before flicking it out in front of themself. Then the wards…expanded and this person was included in them.

It wasn’t one of the Wen, Lan Zhan realized. Not only would they hardly bother with sending a single infiltrator, but such talismans were not their style. If they had the knowledge to penetrate Lan wards, they hardly would have needed to bother to recruit the traitorous Su She.

Perhaps Lan Zhan made a sound, or stirred a current of air. The figure turned around…

They were beautiful. Their mouth parted as if in surprise.

And then Lan Zhan came back to his senses and stunned them with Bichen’s sword glare. If he caught them before they could fully crumple to the ground, well. That was merely exercising appropriate care towards a prisoner under his supervision.

***

“And where did you put it?” asked Lan Qiren severely.

“I warded one of the spare bed chambers,” Lan Zhan said.

Lan Qiren continued to frown. But that wasn’t new. These past months, he hardly wore any other expression.

“We hardly have need for a dungeon,” said Lan Huan.

Whatever his real feelings, they were, as always, tucked away behind his permanent gentle smile. Lan Zhan had at times envied, and at times resented his older brother’s easy way with people. What must it be like, to have his brother’s skill at smoothing ruffled feathers and navigating conversational minefields.

But then, it was a talent Lan Huan needed more badly than Lan Zhan did. Lan Huan was the sect leader now, after all. It was good that Lan Huan was there to lead the sect. His easy ways reassured their people in a way that was beyond Lan Zhan or his uncle.

They walked quickly–it was against the rules to run. And then they arrived at the room, and slipped in the door.

“Is that…” Lan Huan started.

“Blood,” said Lan Zhan shortly, chastising himself silently. He should have stayed and sent a messenger talisman. But he’d had the intruder contained.

“Were they injured?” Lan Huan was asking

“Not when I left them,” Lan Zhan said grimly.

“Demonic cultivation,” said Lan Qiren with disgust, tracing his fingers along the remains of the wards. “A foul practice. Any who uses it will meet a wretched end.”

It was known.

Only the righteous path could hold back the resentment that dwelled between systems, between galaxies. When the Lan embarked, they would have four powerful musical cultivators playing back the dark while the rest of the crew sped the ship along its way. On longer journeys, cultivators would play in shifts.

On this last, desperate journey, Lan Zhan had refused to be spelled. His uncle had made the offer only once, and Lan Zhan hadn’t even lifted his bloodied fingers from Wangji’s strings. He had seen the deep weariness in Lan Qiren’s eyes. Most of the clan’s foremost warriors–foremost musicians–foremost scholars–were dead. Lan Zhan would hold back the resentful energy, or no one would.

Other clans had other ways of travel–dances, or intricate talismans. Lan Zhan had heard of them.

But the demonic cultivators were another matter. They sought not to contain resentful energy but to use it, draw it into themselves, control it.

Sometimes it worked for a little while, as it drove them mad. They’d slaughter a city, or maybe a planet. They could go further than others, unlimited by righteousness or their own internal power.

It ate them in the end–either in one gulp, or a slow rot from the inside out, until it had taken over their golden core and their meridians and they shrank inwards like a dying star collapsing under its own putrescent weight.

Even the Wen didn’t sanction demonic cultivators. They made for unpredictable tools.

Small comfort to those the Wen crushed.

***

Lan Zhan had been a studious kid, a rule follower. Aside from his brother he didn’t have anything in the way of friends. He had once, at his uncle’s insistence, gone to Su She’s for the evening free period.

“Go play,” the parents had said. 

Su She had shown Lan Zhan his pirated horror holo–all blood and gore and parasitic monsters from space. Lan Zhan’s lack of reaction had disappointed Su She until, still stoney-faced, Lan Zhan had taken the display and cracked it in half with his small strong hands. Su She’s wailing had brought the adults. 

Lan Zhan confessed his crime to the other boy’s parents, and then to his uncle, but punishment was foregone when Lan Zhan failed to sleep for three days. Only then was exhaustion sufficient to overcome his terror.

Lan Zhan was many years grown now, and had seen much in the way of blood and death.

He was largely unphased by finding blood in place of his prisoner. Perhaps, though, there was a suppressed shiver that crawled up his spine. Unhurried he followed the trail of scattered blood drops as they led down the hall.

It was late at night, thankfully. Few would be awake and moving through the base at this time. That was good. Fewer bystanders to be hurt whatever the outcome.

Part of Lan Zhan expected to find the horror from his youth but when they finally did track down the alien in the kitchens, they were almost comically nonthreatening.

Muttering to themself, they sucked on their hand to stop the bleeding while they poked at a bowl of protein slurry with what looked like resentment.

Cute , thought Lan Zhan, against his will.

Now they looked up. The alien had seen them come in. Lan Qiren and Lan Huan stood back, content to let Lan Zhan handle the interaction. Lan Zhan didn’t let his uncertainty show in his face or his body as he approached the alien, whose vocalizations had increased in speed and volume. 

Now, Lan Zhan regretted somewhat the hastiness of his earlier actions. He held out a hand in placation, trying to appear non-threatening.

The alien grabbed him. Their hands were similar to his own, and dry and warm. How strange that evolution had produced such similar looking beings across such vast distances in space.

Perhaps this is a greeting , Lan Zhan thought, all the way up until the being’s teeth sank into his palm. He resisted the instinct to yank his hand away, which would only tear the flesh and increase the damage. It was over in an instant anyways. His uncle and brother probably hadn’t even seen it happen.

Meanwhile the alien had dipped their finger into Lan Zhan’s blood, and was drawing upon a sheet of paper they had produced. A few quick strokes and they were done. They slammed the paper onto their own chest where the talisman glowed bright and then seemed to sink into the skin.

“There,” they said, “That’s better. Sorry about your hand.”

***

His name was Wei Ying, the alien said. He was from the third planet from the sun.

“Have you colonized this moon?” Lan Huan asked, all concern. “Our scans did not detect any other life or structures.”

“Oh no,” said Wei Ying. “It’s just me.”

And then he laughed, as if it was funny, and not a sign of something terribly terribly wrong.

***

Despite all the glory of space travel, there weren’t that many people signing up for a one-way trip to Titan.

At least, not young, able-bodied people equipped with the relevant skill sets.

There were five of them on the initial mission. It was funded by the Jin Corporation, and Wei Ying was not thrilled to learn he was the only crew member not related to company president, Jin Guangshan.

Meng Yao and Mo Xuanyu at least were useful. Meng Yao was a capable doctor and biologist, while Mo Xuanyu was an engineer, and trained on the piloting system.

Xue Yang was useful too. He was trained in some key engineering and maintenance roles, and had belonged to the lab that had designed and built their solar powered methane aggregators that would make life on Titan possible (initially) and pleasant (much later).

The problem with Xue Yang was. Well. Interpersonal.

“I’m not sure what they are doing here,” the young man said as he sidled up to Wei Ying. 

Even from the first moment, Wei Ying could tell that this was the sort of comradery he really wouldn’t want to be a part of.

“Well Meng Yao’s a doctor, and Mo Xuanyu’s an engineer. I’m happy to try my hand at either of those things, but it seems much more likely we’d all die horribly.”

Xue Yang snorted, but more with disgust than humor. “They don’t appreciate you. Not the way I do. I’m your most dedicated disciple.”

And, ah. Wei Ying now knew what this was. A groupie. Gross.

“I don’t have disciples,” Wei Ying snapped, “Go find someone else to bother.”

Now Xue Yang did laugh, a little meanly. “It’s a long trip. You’ll talk to me eventually.”

He walked away.

Wei Ying shuddered. The trip wasn’t the problem. They’d be sleeping through most of it. It was life afterwards that he was worried about.

Unfortunately the last member of the crew…

“A backup pilot?” Mo Xuanyu asked dubiously when they heard they were gaining a fifth member only a month before launch. 

This mission had already had several dubious aspects–funding from shell corporations, convoluted tax write-offs–and that was just what the news was reporting. So Wei Ying was hardly surprised by even more sketchiness. 

“Yes,” said Meng Yao, who had delivered the news. 

Whatever he felt about it was concealed behind his normal pleasant mask. Wei Ying had never once been able to crack it.

“With no other specialty?” Mo Xuanyu continued. “Wei Ying is already trained as the backup pilot.”

“President Jin thinks Wei Ying is better spent focused on his area.” That face, still blank and pleasant, eyes a little wide. Wei Ying wasn’t fooled.

Meng Yao continued, “Jin Zixun will also be responsible for documenting our trip and settlement, which will be important for public relations around the company investment, and building interest in a more expansive colony.”

Mo Xuanyu didn’t look convinced. Xue Yang clapped him on the shoulder, hard enough to send him into the wall. 

“Don’t you know, big brother,” Xue Yang said, gleeful, “This is a one size fits all solution to embarrassing relations.”

And, oh, Xue Yang was vile, but he was good. Wei Ying thought he almost saw a crack in Meng Yao’s expression. He could almost respect the other man.

 Xue Yang wasn’t done.

“Three demonic cultivators,” he gestured to himself, Mo Xuanyu, and Wei Ying, “an embezzler,”--that must have been Jin Zixun–”And Daddy’s most tiresome lapdog,” he pointed to Meng Yao with a flourish.

The man in question whirled around and left the room.

“Careful A-Yang,” Mo Xuanyu said softly, once Meng Yao was gone, “A-Yao never forgets a slight.”

***

Wei Ying woke and knew something was wrong. How to explain it? He was so attuned to the ship he felt it like a limb–a limb with prickling goosebumps where there should be none.

He levered himself out of his cryogenic tank and found Xue Yang already lounging on the floor, laughing.

“What’s going on?” he asked, too disturbed for niceties.

“He’s gone,” said Xue Yang. “I woke up, and he was already gone.”

Meng Yao, it turns out. It was Meng Yao who was gone. And that’s when Wei Ying realized that he hadn’t been so clever after all. This wasn’t a narrow escape. 

He’d given himself not to exile but to execution.

The others were uneasy, but they didn’t know yet. They couldn’t. Otherwise the wariness in their eyes would turn to panic. 

Only Xue Yang knew. When he looked at Wei Ying upon first waking his eyes were alight, and then he laughed and laughed–

***

According to cultivator-astronomers, the concentration of resentful energy in the vacuum between galaxies exceeded even that of the Yiling Burial Mounds. Wei Ying had always wondered how it got there, all that anger, all that longing.

There were theories of course–the missed potential of antimatter, the spiritual residual of dying stars, the inherent anger of the void.

Within the Solar System it wasn’t so bad. Near the inner planets there was hardly as much as an average graveyard. Nothing a little warding couldn’t take care of. 

When cultivators went to the Moon they only needed standard warding with talismans of cinnabar. But on the return leg of the first manned trip to Mars, the resentment broke through. Wei Ying had heard the tapes–the last conversations, then the panic, then the screaming, before the communication array was torn apart along with the rest of the spaceship and the souls of the three astronauts inside. 

Plans were scrapped. Headlines said this was the end of space travel.

The world grieved.

And then governments and space agencies turned to…less conventional practices. 

There wasn’t one officially sanctioned cultivation sect in the world that tolerated demonic cultivation. Oh, there were underground sects, enforcers for organized crime, out of control loners who went on killing sprees and had to be put down, even the occasional research team with enough money and important connections for authorities to turn a blind eye to the more dubious aspects of their research. 

But nothing officially sanctioned. 

Corpse raising could not be tolerated. And no one wanted to risk a demonic cultivator losing control near civilians.

But for the right goals, couldn’t exceptions be made? Two birds killed with one stone. Amnesty for demonic cultivators, and in return, they would turn aside the resentment of outer space and allow humanity its next big leap in the march of progress…

Wei Ying didn’t care about space travel. But when there was no place on Earth that would tolerate him, nowhere he could go without shaming his family–he was willing to give it a try.

***

“He’s a demonic cultivator,” Lan Qiren said severely, as if that should end the conversation.

“I agree his appearance is suspicious,” said Lan Huan thoughtfully. “You said he was looking at the wards, Brother? We cannot risk him bringing word of us to the Wens.”

“No,” said Lan Zhan.

The other two turned to look at him in surprise. It was rare for Lan Zhan to weigh in on matters of sect leadership.

“He did nothing wrong,” said Lan Zhan, looking at his brother, who might be convinced.

“You said he was interfering with the wards,” Lan Huan said cautiously.

“Examining,” Lan Zhan corrected.

“Your hand—“

“Necessary.”

“Lan Zhan, this is ridiculous,” Lan Qiren snapped. “Our lives are precarious as it is. You cannot propose to allow him free reign of the Cloud Recesses.”

“Lan Zhan does have a point,” Lan Huan interjected gently. “His norms are clearly not the same as our people’s, but using a blood talisman is not the same as using resentful energy.”

Lan Zhan didn’t know what came over him at that point. He didn’t like new people. He didn’t like changes to his routine. His duties already took all of his time and energy, and then some. But he thought of that first moment when Wei Ying’s lips had touched his fingers…

And he found himself saying, “I will watch him.”

When Lan Zhan returned to the kitchen, Wei Ying turned around with a start, an expression on his face that looked almost guilty. Lan Zhan pondered if his intuitions were right. If emotions found the same modes of expression.

He didn’t know.

“Come,” he said.

Seeming a little bemused, the man followed.

Lan Zhan felt strangely unsure as he led the other man into his room. It was even more austere than the chambers he’d kept on his home world. Aside from the sleeping shelf, there was a low table upon which rested Wangji. That was all.

“You may have the bed,” Lan Zhan said stiffly.

“Thanks!” the alien said cheerfully. And then he flopped down onto the bed.

Lan Zhan lay wordlessly onto the floor a few feet away, and extinguished the light with a flick of his fingers.

Not since he was a child had he slept in company, and never in such company. Wei Ying’s breath was loud and fast to Lan Zhan’s ears, and he hardly lay still. The soft rustling of cloth told of his tiny movements.

He thought he could not possibly sleep with such disturbances, but he was wrong in the end. His strict habits carried him into the deep sleep he was accustomed to. 

***

When Lan Zhan offered himself up as Wei Ying’s minder, it had been an impulse. He had not truly considered what such a role would entail.

He had spent all his life among the orderly Lans. That was not to say he was unwise to the world, or not well traveled. From the age of fourteen he had often been night hunting–first with the supervision of his seniors, and later by himself. Some Lan wished to keep to their own affairs, to hunt only the spirits that threatened Gusu civilians. But Lan Zhan had never been among those–and neither had his uncle or his brother. He had traveled to many other planets–for cultivation conferences and night hunts alike. 

But always his status as the Lan heir, his unworldliness, had kept him apart. Civilians treated him with awe. Members of other sects treated him with respect. Even his peers in the Lan clan kept a respectful distance. He was the sect heir, afterall, and unlike his brother, he did not have an easy way with people that could have bridged such a gap.

Wei Ying was like none of those people.

Wei Ying was an alien, Lan Zhan reminded himself, quelling a rare flare of anger as he firmly removed Wei Ying’s hand from where it tugged at the end of his forehead ribbon. 

“Do not,” said Lan Zhan, sharp even as he tried to soften his tone.

Who knew what his customs were. Surely he could not be expected to follow the Lan precepts without knowledge of them.

“Lan Zhaaaaan,” Wei Ying whined, “You’re not letting me have any fun! Your expression is so scary. Does everyone just let you have your way when you look at them like that?”

“The ribbon must not be touched,” Lan Zhan repeated, ignoring Wei Ying’s ridiculousness. 

And it wasn’t just the ribbon. A lack of knowledge of the rules could be excused, and indeed could be easily and swiftly corrected. Especially to one as intuitive and quick as Wei Ying. No concept was beyond him–if it caught his interest. Which the rules clearly didn’t. Wei Ying’s clear lack of interest in both learning and abiding by the Lan rules filled Lan Zhan with no little frustration.

“But why?” Wei Ying had asked, when Lan Zhan had said sharply that there was no running in the Cloud Recesses.

“It is undignified,” said Lan Zhan, at last. 

Why, why, why. He’d never heard that word so often before he’d met Wei Ying. And even if Lan Zhan knew the reason for the rule, there was no guarantee that Wei Ying would accept it.

“No one’s ever accused me of having dignity,” Wei Ying responded with a laugh before darting down the corridor once more.

Lan Zhan had then had to let the infraction pass, unless he wished to catch up to Wei Ying by breaking the same rule.

But the situation was not sustainable. Only the novelty of a people whose ways were strange to him was keeping Wei Ying’s interest. Soon, Lan Zhan was sure, he would tire of the repetitiveness of Lan Zhan’s workload–the constant refreshing of the wards, the instruction of the junior disciples, the patrolling of the boundaries, the once weekly shift of menial labor he joined in with the rest of the clan, to better prove he did not consider himself to be above them. Wei Ying was dynamic–his thought processes, electric.

Now he darted after Lan Zhan willingly, attention on him all the time, a thousand questions upon his lips, fewer and fewer of which Lan Zhan was able to answer. Even now, he lost him for each day to others of his clan more knowledgeable in specific areas–the making of the oxygen, the cleaning of the water. 

Although he punished himself for it–wrote lines, and held his handstands past the point of pain–he could not kill his selfish desire to have all of that sparkling attention for his own.

Wei Ying was…warm. It was strange. He shouldn’t like it, but he did.

Cold and tranquil and calm—that was his world and that was the way of his people.

He’d never been bothered by carnal desire. It was natural for many, he knew logically, just as it was natural for him to remain unaffected. Yet he’d always felt a peculiar pride at his own dispassion. Like he was above such things. It was unsaid, but his uncle thought similarly he knew. 

And yet now he burned.

***

“I have heard much of your companion,” said Lan Huan, his eyes twinkling with good humor.

Lan Zhan’s face twitched despite his best effort to repress any reaction. They had finished their silent lunch to the sound of Wei Ying’s alternating babble and sulky silence as he remembered the rule, and tried–for a time–to keep himself quiet. 

This rare, peaceful meeting with his brother didn’t come freely. He had sent Wei Ying along with Lan Xin who minded some of the youngest children, and taught them their first characters. Lan Qiren’s frown had deepened at that, but Lan Zhan had seen Wei Ying’s gentle interactions with the little children and had little worry of his own.

“He is unused to our ways,” said Lan Zhan, not responding to his brother’s humor. 

Lan Huan often saw through Lan Zhan in ways that not even his uncle could. Usually, Lan Zhan treasured this closeness and understanding. Now, if his control over himself was less iron, his cheeks would be burning.

Lan Huan’s mein grew more serious, and Lan Zhan knew that whatever conversation was about to come, he did not want it. He was not ready for it.

“I am glad he has been a friend to you,” said Lan Huan. 

Lan Zhan sat in stony silence.

When it became clear that Lan Zhan did not mean to reply, his brother continued. “He has been here four days. I know little of his situation, or what tragedy has befallen him to leave him alone here, away from his people. We have not pressed on this, for surely it must be a tragedy. But we must discuss what is to become of him.”

Ice cold, Lan Zhan said, “Wei Ying is intelligent, hard working. He could learn our ways. He has made himself useful.”

“Perhaps,” said Lan Huan, “The elders find him trying, but I trust your judgment, and though he is different from we are, I believe he means well. But that is little matter. We would hesitate before leaving even the worst of criminals to fend for themselves on a world such as this. Useful or not, it would be our duty to try to find a place for him.”

There was more coming, so Lan Zhan said nothing.

“But can he be happy with such a life?” Lan Huan asked gently. “A life of exile, away from any of his own species who might understand him, away from his family and friends. And not just that, but a hard life. We will survive on Titan, and we will rebuild. But it will be generations before the Lan regain what we lost, if we ever do. Until then it will be constant, tiring drudgery. You and I understand this. We have our duty to our clan. But could Wei Ying be happy with such a life?”

Stiffly, Lan Zhan asked, “Brother. What do you propose?”

“We could send him home,” said Lan Huan softly. “It would be difficult. It might be another month or two before we could spare the cultivators. And it might be difficult for Wei Ying to explain his return to his own species. But it can be done. Lan Zhan, you must offer him this.”

And so Lan Zhan bowed and left his brother’s office.

***

“It’s called a bunny,” said Wei Ying to his audience of rapt toddlers. Well, most of them were rapt. One kept trying to grab the paper bunny and put it in her mouth. But the talisman made it agile and it kept hopping away.

Lan Zhan watched from the doorway. Wei Ying looked up.

“Lan Zhan,” he exclaimed, and bounded to his feet.

“Can Wei Ying be spared?” he asked Lan Xin and he nodded, a little amusement showing on his face.

Wei Ying had barely paused in his train of thought, “I can’t believe the babies had never seen a rabbit–I mean, I guess of course you wouldn't have rabbits..but nothing small and fluffy?”

“Pets are forbidden,” said Lan Zhan, amused.

Wei Ying looked horrified. 

“So many rules, Lan Zhan! How do you remember all of them!”

“Repetition,” Lan Zhan replied with mock severity.

Wei Ying responded to that with an inarticulate moan, and by burying his head in Lan Zhan’s shoulder like a child seeking comfort. 

Lan Zhan froze.

But in an instant it was over, and Wei Ying went back to bounding along the corridor. The touch had only lasted a moment, but Lan Zhan felt its heat burning into his skin for long after. 

Thankfully, Wei Ying needed little input to keep up the chatter. 

“I’ve been looking at the talismans in your greenhouses,” (when had he had the time to do that?), “and I’ve got some ideas for improvement. Here come with me–”

And Wei Ying led an unresisting Lan Zhan to the greenhouses. 

“Look at this,” he said, gesturing to one of the talismans that heated the plant roots. “If we flipped this radical it would be much more efficient.”

The greenhouse was already the warmest part of the base. It made Lan Zhan feel sticky and uncomfortable, but Wei Ying seemed to thrive in the heat. He wondered–and then chastised himself for not asking earlier–what temperatures Wei Ying was accustomed to.

“Have you been cold?”

Wei Ying huffed and shrugged, which Lan Zhan took as a yes. 

“Not important,” said Wei Ying. “Here,” he said, and pulled some fresh talisman paper from one of his pockets.

A nick on his finger and a few practiced strokes and the talisman was complete. He flicked it in the air with an almost lazy gesture and it hung there for an instant before starting to glow. 

“See,” said Wei Ying, “Much warmer.”

Indeed it was. Lan Zhan could feel the heat of it from several arms lengths away. But already he was shaking his head in dissent. 

“Blood workings are forbidden,” he said. He couldn’t entirely rid his voice of discomfort. After all, Lan Zhan was very much enabling one blood working–every evening he gave over a little of his own blood so Wei Ying could redo the talisman that allowed him to speak the Gusu language. Lan Zhan had tried on several occasions to remake it with his own spiritual powers instead. But Lan Zhan was no talisman expert, and he’d never had any luck.

“Wow–not even a little talisman in my own blood?” Wei Ying asked, “How do you ward your ships during flight?”

“Four cultivators play the wards.”

Wei Ying looked at him as if he expected more of an answer. When Lan Zhan didn’t continue, he said a little incredulously–”You mean–the whole time? How is that even possible? Aren’t you from another system entirely?”

Lan Zhan nodded, “We play in shifts. It took a full day by the calendar of our home planet.”

“That’s–amazing,” said Wei Ying, sincerely. “We don’t have the technology to get to even the nearest star system, not to mention in only a matter of hours.”

“It takes many strong musical cultivators,” Lan Zhan allowed.

Then he thought through the implications of Wei Ying’s statement. “How long did it take for you to get here?”

“Three years by my planet’s calendar,” said Wei Ying cheerfully.

It took a moment for Lan Zhan to calculate what that meant in his own terms, but when he did, he couldn’t stop his instinctive horrified reaction.

Wei Ying noticed, and laughed, “It wasn’t so bad. Besides! I slept through most of it. But you see why we need  blood wards. But you don’t need to scare your elders. This talisman–” and here he gestured to the heating talisman that was still gently warming the air around them “will work just as well with ink and spiritual power. Seriously Lan Zhan–try it!”

It did work–and took only the smallest threads of spiritual power to make and activate–hardly any more than the original version.

He pulled back the thread of spiritual power and the talisman withered to ash.

“I don’t understand,” said Lan Zhan, “How did you know that would work?”

“What–you thought we humans only knew the ghost path?” Wei Ying sounded amused. “We have many talents!”

A strange pain was struck in Lan Zhan’s being at those words. He said woodenly, “Then why not pursue the righteous path?”

At that Wei Ying gave a harsh bark of laughter. “The righteous path? Your words betray you. Can an act not be judged by its outcome? Is that same righteous path not the one your Wens have followed to crush and persecute your own people ? But you won’t let me have the little power I can?”

It was churlish, but Lan Zhan now regretted his thorough answers to all of Wei Ying’s questions. Answers that now were being thrown back at him. He squashed the sentiment as quickly as he could. But still, he was angry.

“Wei Ying. This is dangerous. It is not a game.”

And then, when Wei Ying didn’t seem to be yielding, he said what he’d needed to: “Wei Ying, you should go home.”

It wasn’t how he meant to say it, with the careful explanations. But words had always come slowly and imperfectly to Lan Zhan, and even more so when he was faced with Wei Ying.

“Go home?” the other man laughed. “And how would you suggest I do that ? I’m all out of spaceships.”

“We will take you,” said Lan Zhan. “In a month, my brother says we will be able to spare the cultivators.”

“Very good,” said Wei Ying, voice hardly more than a whisper. “I will attempt to be no great inconvenience until you may be free of me.”

“Wei Ying–” Lan Zhan tried to stop him. But the man was already gone.

***

Lan Zhan did not realize he could come to depend on another’s company in a few short days. But now, without Wei Ying’s companionship, he found himself startlingly alone.

His uncle wouldn’t have approved, he knew. Lan Qiren was relying on Lan Zhan’s supervision to temper any danger their alien guest might pose. But Lan Zhan could not bring himself to use that excuse to force his company where it was so clearly unwanted. 

Besides, Wei Ying was making himself…useful.

The way Lan Zhan discovered this was embarrassing enough–he checked the lists for his labor assignment and found–he no longer had one. 

“Oh yes,” said Lan Chen who managed work order logistics. “Wei Ying put in for your shift–and your brother’s.”

“It is not standard to allow substitutions in shifts.” 

“Well, no,” said Lan Chen and she seemed a little ruffled to be questioned, “But you and the sect leader are very busy. Surely your talents are better used elsewhere.”

Lan Zhan reigned in his glower and curtailed his tone. She could not be blamed for doing her job and using her judgment in reallocating resources she had been provided.

“Understood,” he said. “Please check with me before allowing him to take on any more shifts. We do not know if humans are fit for the same work that we are, and if he is to suffer, there is no one with the medical expertise to treat him.”

“Of course,” she said, not seeming overly offended.

So Lan Zhan was more at liberty than he was accustomed to, and even more aware that he had so little to fill his time with. He meditated, and played Wangji, and practiced his sword forms, but there was a hollowness to it. He had been granted a vision of true companionship, and now suddenly didn’t know what to do without it.

***

“Lan Zhan!”

It was Lan Jingyi, who assisted the doctors when his lessons were through. He liked the teenager–almost despite himself. He was louder and brasher than most of the Lan. Like Wei Ying, in some ways, though Lan Zhan quickly quelled that thought.

Now, though, the junior disciple was pale and wide eyed with alarm. Lan Zhan felt his body tensing as if readying for an unavoidable blow.

“It’s Wei Ying. Come quick.”

***

“What are you doing?” Xue Yang had asked drily.

“Systems check,” Mo Xuanyu replied.

The four of them were up and out of their tanks now. Still, nothing felt real. They had been put into a deep comatose sleep back on Earth, and now they had awoken three years later, in orbit around an alien moon, and one member shorter than they’d expected.

“Systems check,” Xue Yang parroted meanly. 

Don’t say it, Wei Ying thought. His little knife cut more deeply into his palm than he intended. He hissed in pain but didn’t stop. The blood bubbled and floated strangely in microgravity. It might be pointless but they wouldn’t be torn apart by resentful energy on Wei Ying’s watch. He dipped his finger in the blood to touch up his guard wards.

“Yes,” said Mo Xuanyu a little dryly, “A systems check so we don’t die upon atmospheric re-entry.”

“Oh very good,” said Xue Yang, “Though some of us might rather burn than starve. At least it doesn’t take quite so long.”

“What do you mean,” asked Mo Xuanyu, voice going small and childlike.

“Have you checked the methane aggregators, Brother” Xue Yang asked sweetly.

Hurried and fumbling, Mo Xuanyu looked around, felt over every panel. But there was little space to check. There was room only for the five cryogenic tanks, the sealed capsule that would inflate into a ready-made moon base, and the empty compartment where the methane aggregators should have been lashed down. 

“No–no–no,” Mo Xuanyu whispered. “He wouldn’t have, he couldn’t.”

“What’s going on?” Jin Zixun asked loudly, finally catching on that something was wrong.

“Our dear brother,” Xue Yang drawled, “Has seen fit to leave us to starve–or freeze, I suppose.”

Jin Zixun sneered, “Impossible. My uncle would never abandon me.”

Xue Yang laughed, “Father’s far away now, cousin. And I suspect A-Yao’s given him more than enough trouble in our absence.”

“Why didn’t he just kill us,” burst out Mo Xuanyu, panic barely contained. “Why didn’t he just kill us while we slept, if he wanted us out of the way.”

“I don’t know,” said Wei Ying. “But it doesn’t matter. We aren’t dead yet, and that is all that matters.”

“A-Yao has many schemes,” Xue Yang said, still gleeful. “But I’d like to think it was for this moment that he kept us alive. The terror, the bargaining.”

Mo Xuanyu was shaking. Jin Zixun was raving.

“We aren’t dead yet,” Wei Ying repeated.

The landing was seamless. The airlocked base went up with little trouble–small mercies. It had enough solar panels to generate a little bit of oxygen and heat. Not enough to run the greenhouses. They could jumpstart those with spiritual energy, but of all of them, only Jin Zixun had a fully developed golden core–and his was nothing special. 

Before he had Wen Qing tear his golden core out of his body to give to Jiang Cheng, Wei Ying could have powered the greenhouses himself, with sufficient daily meditation. Now they could barely make enough heat and oxygen to survive without freezing or suffocating. Which meant that instead, they would starve. 

It was when they would starve, not if. There would be no help. The radio transmitters to connect back to Earth had also been thoroughly, carefully destroyed beyond all hope of repair.

But they were still alive, and if they were alive, Wei Ying could fix this. He was no engineer, but his talisman work was without equal. He could find a solution. He could fix this. He could. He could. He could.

***

Wei Ying’s loud, complaining voice as Lan Zhan strode into the medical room reassured him somewhat.

“Leave me alone!” Wei Ying was saying. “I’m fine–I feel fine. You haven't even met another human. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Lan Zhan, and Wei Ying turned towards him with a wide smile. With that smile directed at him, it was hard to believe Wei Ying had been avoiding him. For the last three days, the only time Lan Zhan had seen Wei Ying was five minutes before curfew when he would scuttle back to their shared room, and Lan Zhan would make his customary offer of blood to renew the translation talisman before they each went awkwardly, silently, to their rest.

“There’s nothing wrong! Lan Zhan! Tell them to leave me alone!”

Wei Ying’s body language was curled up, defensive. The doctor–Lan Xia for this shift–reached towards him placatingly and the man cringed away.

Instinctively, Lan Zhan also reached towards Wei Ying, interposing himself between the man and the doctor. Only then did it occur to him that this might be overstepping–when Wei Ying had been so clearly avoiding him. But in this case it seemed he had not erred. Wei Ying grabbed his shoulder and ducked behind him as if to hide.

Calmly, Lan Zhan said, “Wei Ying, if you do not wish to receive medical care, you will not be forced. Can you please explain what has happened?”

It was Lan Jingyi who responded. Wei Ying stayed silent. “He passed out. While doing a labor shift. Lan Xia examined him and said there was something wrong with his golden core.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” said Wei Ying, a little dully.

“Wei Ying,” said Lan Zhan, voice a little pleading, “Why did you pass out?”

“Oh that’s no big deal,” said Wei Ying, smiling again, “I just forgot to eat.”

“And he’s been doing too many labor shifts, by our own assignment policies,” the doctor chimed in, seeming glad to appeal to Lan Zhan’s judgment.

Wei Ying waved his hand dismissively, “I’ve done worse work at home. Besides, I was in the greenhouses most of the time and humans have better heat tolerance than your people do.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan said again, “Is the food of our people unsuitable for a human.”

“Oh no, it’s not that,” Wei Ying said dismissively, though he was blushing now. “It’s just not what I’m used to–and I’m bad at eating anyways. Just ask my sister. Without her around there’s no hope of me staying well-fed.”

“We will take our meals together,” Lan Zhan said, looking at Wei Ying, “Unless you object.”

He was overstepping perhaps. But he couldn’t help himself.

“If that gets the doctor to leave me alone,” Wei Ying replied.

Lan Xia threw up her hands. “Fine!” she said.

***

Mo Xuanyu was the first to die. He went out the airlock.

No one saw him do it. They found his note the next morning.

“Good riddance,” said Jin Zixun.

Xue Yang said nothing, but he smiled.

How Wei Ying hated them then.

***

So Lan Zhan had Wei Ying to himself again–at mealtimes at least. But that meant he got a precious few minutes walking to and from the meal hall–and that he was the focus of most of Wei Ying’s rambling commentary during the eating time itself.

In another situation, this would have embarrassed Lan Zhan–to be the companion of such a brazen rule-breaker. But Lan Zhan was so relieved to have Wei Ying in front of him again, that he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

But still, something weighed on Lan Zhan.

“There’s something wrong with his golden core,” the doctor had said.

And even though Wei Ying had said that humans could use spiritual power, Lan Zhan had only ever seen him use blood talismans, or simple talismans in ink that even a civilian with no spiritual power could use.

“You must be looking forward to getting me out of your hair,” Wei Ying said after they finished breakfast. The alien was taking on fewer work shifts again, and following Lan Zhan around more as he did his own work. It pleased and shamed Lan Zhan. That he had pushed away his friend so thoroughly, and that it took such little encouragement to draw him back.

“Not at all,” said Lan Zhan, “I will miss Wei Ying’s company.”

“Isn’t it against your rules to lie?” asked Wei Ying with a smile.

“Yes,” said Lan Zhan, “I do not want you to leave.”

Embarrassed by the admission, Lan Zhan turned away to look at the wards. They needed to be renewed again so he concentrated, drawing the complicated sigil in the air with spiritual power.

“Really?” asked Wei Ying. “Then…” he trailed off.

“You would not be happy here,” Lan Zhan ground out. “It is cold, and you do not like the food, and you should be among your own people.” 

“It’s not…” Wei Ying seemed confused, “It’s not your uncle and the elders who don’t want me around? It’s because…you’re worried about what’s best for me?”

“Wei Ying is useful, and helpful,” Lan Zhan said.

“Then,” Wei Ying said, sounding vulnerable, “what if I don’t want to leave?”

Lan Zhan flubbed the sigil and it fizzled out. He turned to look at his companion, “But your brother and sister. The friends you mentioned. Surely you must miss them?”

Now it was Wei Ying’s turn to look away. He scuffed his foot along the floor, a little diffidently. “You’ve been very careful not to ask how I got here. But surely you know I was never intended to come home. You must have guessed that, right ?”

***

Wei Ying hadn’t set out to be a demonic cultivator. He’d set out to help Jiang Cheng.

“That’s my foster brother,” Wei Ying said to Lan Zhan.

“Mm” said Lan Zhan, which Wei Ying took to mean continue :

Anyways, Wei Ying hadn’t set out to be a demonic cultivator. All he’d wanted was to be the head disciple to Jiang Cheng’s sect leader.

That was before the car crash cost Jiang Cheng his golden core. Before Wei Ying called in every favor he could for the right to give his own core for the transplant. Wei Ying still owed Wen Qing a lifetime of favors that he would never get to repay.

“Being a demonic cultivator isn’t strictly…legal” Wei Ying said, darting a glance at Lan Zhan.

He didn’t see the disapproval he feared, so he kept going.

“There are lots of terrible ones–people who will murder for the power they can get from it. But it’s not inherently evil. But–”

And now Wei Ying turned his face away in shame, “I lost control. Hurt some people. Scared…everyone. My whole family. After that, my sect had no choice. They cast me out. My foster father brokered a deal. They’d send me here and the charges against me would be dropped.”

Lan Zhan was stricken, “They sent you here…alone?”

It seemed a cruelty beyond his imagination. Out of proportion to any crime he could envision Wei Ying committing. His own people would consider a similar sentence only for the very worst, most unrepentant of offenders. That could not be Wei Ying.

He remembered his mother’s lonely cottage only vaguely. But enough. That wasn’t for now.

“Of course not. We had a full crew,” Wei Ying said softly.

“Then…” where are they now, Lan Zhan wanted to ask.

“They’re all dead,” Wei Ying said.

How Lan Zhan wanted to know. But how could he ask such a thing.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Wei Ying shrugged a little uncomfortably. He put a knuckle in his mouth to gnaw, an unusual display of anxiety.

He whispered, “They're still there.”

“Wei Ying?”

“I’ve been trying not to think of them,” he said, barely audible, “So I just left them there. I didn’t lay them to rest or anything.”

***

Lan Huan was pale and grim as they moved the bodies. The strength from their spiritual cores let the Lans dig the graves in the hardened ice of Titan’s surface. They said what rites they could for the dead and then covered the frozen-through corpses. Only the strongest warming talismans they could write kept the living members of the expedition from freezing themselves.

Once they were done, Lan Huan said wearily, “We must speak to Wei Ying.”

Lan Zhan nodded, robotically, unable to muster more of a response or an emotion.

He’d felt such compassion, on Wei Ying’s behalf, and such horror. To have everyone you knew die around you, to be stranded alone, far from home without hope of companionship, or rescue, or even a proper burial.

He hadn’t thought much as to the manner of their deaths. Life was such a fragile precarious thing–in the darkness of space, on this bitter moon. Maybe they’d crash-landed, or the systems which Wei Ying had described, that kept them asleep for three years, had malfunctioned. The method hardly seemed to matter.

But he should have asked. Wei Ying was good. Lan Zhan knew this. He didn’t doubt. But then, maybe, he would have been prepared for what they found. The habitation unit, with its door hanging ajar, the smeared trail of blood where something–someone–had been dragged, and the two corpses standing above what was barely recognizable as a human body. It had been chewed nearly beyond recognition.

Wei Ying hadn’t sent them into danger, through Lan Zhan had drawn Bichen at the sight of the carnage. It seemed the corpses had spent their resentment on the mutilation, and they were put down easily with a single iteration of Rest. 

As for the other corpse….

“Suppression,” Lan Huan had said grimly, and Lan Zhan had agreed.

***

Wei Ying was there waiting for him upon his return. He stood there calmly, looking, assessing, waiting for a response. As if he had already said all that there was to say, done all there was to do, and now the future would come as it would.

Lan Zhan didn’t have any words for him except his name. “Wei Ying,” he said, a little brokenly, and Wei Ying seemed to understand. “Wei Ying,” he said again, and then reached for him. Lan Zhan wrapped his arms around the other’s small frame and felt his strange, alien warmth. 

There were things another person could have asked. But Lan Zhan didn’t. It didn’t matter. Wei Ying was good. It was obvious in the care and gentleness he took with the youngest children, the way he’d quietly picked up many work shifts without anyone knowing or noticing. The way he redesigned dozens of their talismans–making slight improvements to all of them. It didn’t matter what had happened. He knew; he knew. Wei Ying was good.

***

The trial went about as well as Wei Ying expected. Well, it wasn’t a trial exactly. It was a “meeting with the Lan elders”. Same difference.

He told the truth of course–in barebone terms. How he’d found Xue Yang standing over Jin Zixun’s disemboweled corpse, and used his knowledge of resentful energy to awaken the corpses and defend himself.

He didn’t give details. What did they need them for? He wasn’t going to open himself up so he could be disbelieved. Wasn’t going to describe the metal-sweet scent of the blood in the air when he’d come back from scouting. How he’d already known what had happened. How he’d thrown up after the corpses ate Xue Yang’s face and then went stumbling out of the habitation unit with nothing but a talisman for warming and another for oxygen. He would die when the talismans failed. He’d expected it. But it was fine. Anything was better than going back to sit with the dead.

But he hadn’t died, as it happened. He’d found the Lan instead.

“Demonic cultivation is forbidden by our sect,” said Lan Qiren, grave and stern. And yes, it was all going as Wei Ying expected.

Except…

“Wei Ying is not a member of the Lan,” Lan Zhan replied. “He cannot be judged by our laws.”

Lan Zhan was defending him. Had been defending him, even before Wei Ying gave any explanation. It made a kind of warmth grow in him–a painful warmth–like a too hot bath. 

Everyone always believed the worst of Wei Ying.

He was a troublemaker, always loud, and often obnoxious. And he’d learned never to try to explain. Who listened? Madame Yu didn’t, and even Jiang Cheng was caught up in his own ideas of Wei Ying more often than not.

So what gave Lan Zhan the right? Who said he could come along and not only be strong and beautiful and talented, but also believe unshakably in Wei Ying when no one else ever had?

It wouldn’t make a difference. Lan Zhan wasn’t the sect leader. None of the other elders cared much for Wei Ying. They would still imprison him, or exile him, or send him home–whatever they did with people who couldn’t be perfect little Lans. But it made a difference to Wei Ying. Just to have one person who believed in him.

The door slid open with a crash.

Everyone fell silent and turned towards the door. Lan Qiran’s expression was scarily furious. 

It was Lan Jingyi, gasping for breath as if he’d run, “Apologies!” he forced out, “But the wards have alerted us–it’s the Wens! The Wens are here.”

***

Later, this is how Wei Ying would remember the battle against the Wens:

The waves of spiritual power flowing across the frozen ground with each strum of Lan Zhan’s instrument, amplified by Lan Huan’s . 

The red and black tide of Wen disciples pouring out of their vast hulking ship.

The blue light of the Lan wards as they strained under the onslaught, near to breaking.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan was saying. “You cannot fight here–you do not have a core” and for once there was a slight tremor in his voice. “Protect the children.”

The littlest Lans would be afraid. That got through to Wei Ying. Lan Zhan was right–he couldn’t help hold the wards. There were other things he could do–but first, yes, the children. Wei Ying could help them hide.

The beautiful wisps of blue spiritual energy as the wards fell and the first spiritual arrows came whistling through.

Lan Zhan strummed a ringing cord and a blast of spiritual energy greater than before flung out and sizzled the arrows into nothing. “Wei Ying. Go.”

The children huddled under the tables with an elderly teacher calming them.

The blood drip-dripping from his palm that he cut too deep in haste as he painted talismans upon talismans to hide them.

Bodies piled on the frozen ground, blood solidifying in strange shapes as the warming talismans failed and the dead froze.

He wished now that Madame Yu hadn’t broken his flute. He’d thought it just at the time. He’d been drunk and out of control.

He hadn’t been able to hear Jin Zixuan saying those horrible dismissive things about his sister, and remain unmoved. In earlier times, he would have punched him in the nose and called it fair.

But without a golden core, how could he have hurt a cultivator like Jin Zixuan?

Well–there’d been one way.

By the time he’d come back to himself, Jin Zixuan was almost purple–black oily tendrils of resentment around his throat. Jiang Cheng was trying to reach Wei Ying, was screaming at him, but the cloud of resentment wouldn’t let him near.

It was Jiang Yanli–calm and quiet–calling him softly–who brought him back to himself. Only later, when Wei Ying had dropped his flute in horror and let the resentment sink back into the earth, had Jiang Yanli collapsed into desperate tears of relief or terror–he couldn’t tell which.

He would never forgive himself for making her cry.

But just now–he could have used the flute.

He got by. He whistled loudly. And called all the corpses he could.

Don’t look at the faces he told himself. Don’t look. Don’t look. He’d called corpses a few times, on night hunts. And to kill Xue Yang.

More of the dead were Wens, but there were Lans too among the casualties.

He didn’t look for faces he knew. This was too desperate a ploy. He couldn’t let anything stop him.

Lan Zhan, he thought, Don’t look.

The cultivators nearest the corpses stumbled away in horror. He was off to the side, not in the thick of the fighting, but he heard one disciple near him moan in fear and turn to vomit.

The Wen had it worse of course. They were screaming and hacking at the limbs of their dead comrades, or the cultivators they had just killed. The corpses were fresh, and angry. They were strong. They would have to be hacked to pieces to make them stop, or suppressed by a powerful cultivator.

It would push them back a little, but it wasn’t going to be enough. He turned to look, to see how the rest of the battle was going–and froze.

Lan Huan, blood dripping down his temple, had just lost his sword to a dour-faced Wen cultivator and his angry-looking companion.

It wasn’t a fair fight–two against one, and Lan Huan was guarding his brother’s back in addition to his own.

There was a look of panic on Lan Zhan’s face. With a wave of an arm he sent his sword to block a blow to his brother. But he couldn’t stop playing. He was the only thing defending the rest of the Lan cultivators from arrows and bolts of spiritual energy from the air.

Wei Ying had to keep whistling to keep the corpses fighting, and he couldn’t call them to help him here–there wasn’t one that would make it in time.

Wei Ying pulled a dagger from a dead Wen, and took off at a run–well, a series of running leaps, since gravity on Titan was so much lower. 

The older Wen cultivator had his hand around Lan Huan’s throat. A glow of spiritual power was growing in his hands.

Lan Zhan was fighting the other cultivator. He was good. He was so good. He was better. But he wasn’t winning fast enough. 

Bowling into Lan Huan and the Wen cultivator was like running into a stone wall. It didn’t knock them over. They had spiritual energy and he did not. But it did distract the Wen cultivator enough for Lan Huan to break free, gasping and scrambling for his sword.

Now the man grabbed Wei Ying in anger, hands around his neck instead of Lan Huan’s.

He froze and a look of confusion appeared on his face. “What–”

It wasn’t a spiritual weapon, nor one he was familiar with. But Wei Ying thrust the dagger into the other man’s belly. Blood welled up on his lips and he toppled as Wei Ying shoved him away. He gave a couple pathetic gurgles, and then was still.

Lan Huan was already fighting again, and gave Wei Ying a nod of approval. He sought out Lan Zhan’s gaze and made eye contact for one charged moment before the other man turned back to his instrument.

Even Lan Huan had been touched by the blood and the filth of battle. There was blood on his face and dirt on the hems of his robes. Only Lan Zhan still looked untouched–tall and once more placid as a mountain stream. He was the most beautiful thing Wei Ying had ever seen.

Wei Ying drank in the sight of him–just for a moment–while he could. And then when he had the man fixed in his brain, he tore his gaze away. 

Wei Ying had an idea.

***

Lan Zhan’s heart nearly stopped when Wen Zhuliu grabbed his brother’s neck–and then again when he had his hands on Wei Ying. Wei Ying had no golden core to lose, but still Wen Zhuliu could have snapped his neck like a twig.

But Wei Ying killed him instead. Wei Ying was safe and whole and moving away from the thick of the battle. He would be safe. He could stay away and call the corpses. Or he would go and protect the children. He was safe.

Lan Zhan turned back to Wangji.

He could not indulge himself. There was work to do.

It was much later when he understood–when the battle had worked down to a sort of weary slow grind–spiritual power faltering on both sides. The Wen had many strong cultivators, but Wen Zhuliu and Wen Chao had fallen and that had evened the odds. But still, the Wen had numbers on their side and they were winning.

The Lans had fallen back to the main entrance of their settlement–fighting four or five abreast, and spelling each other when they could, the wounded and the healers further in and more protected. 

And then the screaming started. He thought it was a final attack at first, a great big rush. Cultivators started pouring out of the Wen ship. 

But they weren’t yelling to intimidate or in the heat of battle. They were screaming in fear and pain, and they were bleeding and falling. It was spreading. The fighters were falling prey to it too now–whatever it was. Some clawed at their faces, others ran in panic or fell upon their swords to avoid whatever horror was haunting them.

It was, horrifically, over quickly. The last Wen toppled, making insensate moans.

Lan Zhan and his brother didn’t relax. A single figure came unsteadily out of the Wen ship. It was too far away, but coming into view. Lan Zhan held his breath, but he already knew who it would be.

Wei Ying, blood dripping from his nose, smile a little bitter, came to stand in front of them. He was swaying.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “It’s over now. And you would have been safe regardless.” And he peeled away a hidden talisman from the doorway that Lan Zhan’d been defending. 

Having delivered that message, he collapsed into a swoon.

Of course Lan Zhan caught him.

***

Wei Ying blinked awake with a pounding headache. He tried to sit up but a firm hand pushed him back. He relented. He knew that hand.

“Lan Zhan,” he said, a little muzzily, “It’s over?”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan said, and then “Surely you remember,” a little tentative.

“Oh yes,” said Wei Ying with a yawn, “But I wasn’t sure if I missed something.”

‘No,” said Lan Zhan, and then seemed at a loss for words.

“You didn’t see, did you?” asked Wei Ying, a little hopefully.

“I did,” said Lan Zhan, still placid.

“Ah,” said Wei Ying. “Well don’t worry. It only worked because they’d killed so many people on their ship. They were using talismans to suppress it, but there was still a lot of resentment there.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Lan Zhan said, and then after a struggle, “I only worried for Wei ying.”

“Oh,” said Wei Ying, and then didn’t let the hand–still resting on his chest–stop him. He surged up and kissed the other man.

Wei Ying felt an instant of anxiety–like a stab of pain. But he didn’t have time to even really register the feeling, because Lan Zhan was kissing him back.

A little later, both out of breath as they pulled away, Wei Ying said a little sadly, “I don’t think I can stay, Lan Zhan. After this–there is no way your family will let me.”

“They will,” Lan Zhan replied, fierce. “But there is another problem. If the Wen have discovered us, then no one in this quadrant is safe. Your own planet included. We must warn them.”

“We’d…both go?” Wei Ying asked.

“Mn,” Lan Zhan nodded. “You could see your sister and brother again.”

A feeling of horror washed over Wei Ying, “Jiang Cheng is going to kill me.”

***

Epilogue:

When Jiang Cheng got a lucky boost on the core donation list instead of having to wait thirty years and then be written off as a bad candidate, which is what the internet forums suggested would happen, he thought his life was finally back on track. 

Instead that was when things really started falling apart. And Jiang Cheng couldn’t even understand why.

Wei Ying had always been foolhardy. Reckless. But demonic cultivation? That was dangerous even for him. And the worst part was Jiang Cheng didn’t understand why he was doing this. Wei Ying had always been the strongest of the Jiang junior disciples—that was part of why Madame Yu hated him so much, for surpassing her own son. 

He was a genius at talismans, incredibly agile with a sword, and possessing of an astoundingly strong golden core. He didn’t need the ghost path.

So of course Jiang Cheng was angry. He’d gotten his core back and he felt strong, powerful, happy. Only for Wei Ying, his brother and confidante, to go cold and distracted and strange.

So he hadn’t fought Madame Yu when she tossed Wei Ying out of the sect (what else had he expected?) and maybe felt something like grim satisfaction when he heard that his brother was being sent on the mission to Titan. Wei Ying had hardly seemed affected. He was blithe as always in the group chat. So Jiang Cheng tried to convince himself that it didn’t matter that he’d never see his brother again.

And then Wei Ying was dead and his body was blasted to pieces in space. Wei Ying was dead. Wei Ying was gone.

Meng Yao had given a perfect sympathetic smile, and Jiang Cheng had wanted to punch him.

“I’m so sorry,” he’d said. “The landers malfunctioned, and they burned up on the descent. It would have been quick.”

Jiang Cheng almost couldn’t think or feel anything except for the horror. He almost couldn’t believe it—that someone like Wei Ying could be dead. Except at the back of his brain, the part that had been trained up for politics from birth, knew that this was the most recent in a growing list of public failures for sect leader Jin. He wouldn’t be able to hold his position much longer, especially not after this. And Jiang Cheng wondered who would benefit the most from that change in leadership, if not under-appreciated Meng Yao, who was supposed to go on the mission himself…

But he didn’t have any proof. So he’d stiffly accepted the man’s condolences, and done nothing publicly, and gone to his apartment and smashed every bit of ceramic he had, and screamed, until the building manager knocked on his door and asked him if something was wrong, and either way, could he please keep it down. 

He didn’t know what to do when this much love turned to sorrow.

He got by. Jiang Yanli helped. And Wen Qing too.

Jiang Cheng and Wen Qing had been dancing around each other for years. Many times he almost gave up, only for a kind word or a lingering smile to renew his hope. But she’d gone distant–distracted–when Wei Ying had. 

He’d been deeply hurt. Was it not enough that he was losing his brother, for reasons he didn’t understand, that seemed out of his control? Did she really need to choose Wei Ying’s side, in a conflict that didn’t exist? So he’d stopped reaching out, and he pretended he was fine with it.

Then Wei Ying died, and Wen Qing reamerged. They were wary of each other, and awkward still. But they’d met up for drinks a few times, and by the last one they’d managed to smile and laugh with the help of some liquor to ease the way.

But this time, Wen Qing looked tense–nervous. They’d made a little smalltalk, and shared their news–mostly stories about Wen Qing’s little cousin A-Yuan from her side, and about Jin Ling from Jiang Cheng’s. Then there was a long pause that Jiang Cheng let linger because it looked like Wen Qing was struggling to find words, which he’d never known her to do.

“I have to tell you something,” she said, with effort. And then paused again.

To their left, someone at the bar said, “Hey–HEY–turn that up.”

Jiang Cheng turned around to tell them that nobody cared about whatever sports game they were watching. But the bartender had already increased the volume. And it wasn’t a sports game.

“--preliminary reports say this video was broadcast to multiple countries on many frequencies. Experts believe it might indeed be the first contact of an alien civilization.”

A strange, pale-looking man appeared on the screen. He spoke a language Jiang Cheng didn’t recognize, but there were subtitles in Mandarin. It was all very sci-fi-we-come-in-peace.

“Lans?” Wen Qing whispered.

Jiang Cheng shot her a look of confusion, but he didn’t have time to think more, because the newscasters weren’t done.

“It is believed that the aliens who call themselves the Lan first made contact with humans when they rescued astronaut Wei Ying, presumed dead ever since Jin Corporation reported the crash of the Suihua lander.”

“Wei Ying,” Jiang Cheng muttered to himself, “What have you done now?”

He was unspeakably happy.