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Despaired, weary, and heartbroken, he dragged his sore body toward the gloomy hills of Yiling. Stubborn in his hopeless quest, Lan Wangji ploughed through broken, baren bushes and sharp rocks. The path he traveled showed with cruel honesty the enormity of the battle that had taken place here. Bodies of cultivators who had not yet been taken away were strewn on the land – some still clutching swords in their hands; torn flags and talismans littered the path. Brown blood had soaked into the undergrowth, feeding the moss and small bushes like a refreshing rain.
The heavy, coppery smell still hung in the air, mixed with the stench of burnt flesh. The body fragments of their opponents – army of the undead, summoned by the sharp sound of the flute – were gathered in a deep pit, covered with broken branches and burned, so that their disgusting sight would not remind of the heresy from which they arose. For them there would be no tombstones or posthumous rites, as they had fallen into oblivion, died a second time.
Lan Wangji, ignoring the ash and grime staining his robes, searched among the charred corpses for the one whose face returned to him in his dreams. And yet, Wei Wuxian was not among the dead. This awareness, however, brought Lan Wangji no relief – with a groan of pain he rose from his knees and set off further, towards the peak, where he knew there was a small settlement, built in dilligence and toil, whose defenseless inhabitants had no chance against the trained groups of cultivators. Broken fences, trampled fields of turnips and rutabagas, tended with such effort and dedication, now, once again witnesses to the slaughter, would never again be able to produce a harvest.
Empty buildings, with torn-off doors and shutters, looked at him like empty eye sockets of the dead. The walls were dirty, charred by fire, some covered in traces of dried blood. But there were no bodies anywhere. Despite the pain, despite the wounds that cut through his back, he kept looking, hoping to find at least a trace, at least one sign that not all was lost. The tall, twisted elms on the edge of the settlement stretched out their tangled branches toward him like the hands of the damned.
A soft moan. And after that - a sob. For a moment he felt like he was dreaming. That his desperate mind had created the illusion which allowed him to hear what he longed for. He stood there, petrified, staring at the point where he thought the voice came from. Silence... and suddenly, another sob. And again, soft, quiet sobbing resounded amidst the whistling wind, as if the one crying was afraid to be heard but at the same time - too despaired and too distraught to care anymore. Lan Wangji felt as if his legs were made of lead, but as soon as he managed to take the first step, despite the pain, despite the fatigue, he quickened his pace, desperately trying to reach the tree line as quickly as possible. And suddenly he saw him - a small, pale figure, wearing dark, worn-out robes, small face marred with dried traces of tears and stains of dirt and big, sad eyes peeking out from tangled hair.
Young boy hiccuped, timidly taking a step, before opening his tiny mouth and asking, as if in disbelief, “Rich… ge… ge?”
Lan Wangji felt like his heart stopped beating for a moment, before picking up speed again. He felt harsh thundering in his ears, every breath brought him pain, every move strained his muscles. He felt like someone who suddenly was able to catch air after drowning, liked thirsty traveler being fed a cup of water. He slowly approached the boy, stretching out his hand, silently pleading not to frighten the child who had had so much to live through. Lan Wangji watched as the boy's eyes regained some clarity before tears blurred them once more. "Rich-gege!" his wail was louder this time, painful, terrified, begging.
Lan Wangji's legs gave out and he knelt down heavily, his callused fingers softly trading through the child's matted hair. He felt at a loss for words - because what could he ask the boy? How was he feeling? What stupidity... how could a little boy feel who had once again witnessed a tragedy, whose family had been taken away forever? Who had once again lost the place he called home? With a heavy heart, Lan Wangji stared at the little boy, trying to see any wounds or bruises on his body. He breathed a sigh of relief when he could not see any major injuries. In a quiet voice, he soothed the boy, although he himself struggled to find the right words. Finally, he made a decision - promising to take care of him, to never let anyone hurt him again - he took him in his arms and slowly set off on his way back.
Before they could leave the settlement, however, little wen yuan asked softly to be put down. The boy looked around, barely blinking, taking in the scenery before him. It felt as if he was thinking hard about something, trying to find answers to some unspoken questions. He sniffed, wiping his eyes with his sleeve – rubbing the dirt and sweat harder on his face. Finally, he reached out his little hand toward Lan Wangji, asking timidly, “Rich-gege, can we go home?” And once again Wangji felt his heart stop. He nodded, taking the child’s hand in his own and squeezing it comfortingly.
The determination on his face seemed to be mirrored in the child's, and yet, how surprised he was when Wen Yuan moved forward, forcing him to follow with a firm squeeze of his hand. They walked in silence for a moment before the boy opened his mouth and sighed softly. “I’m so tired, Rich-gege. So tired. I’m thirsty. My legs hurt. My head hurts too. Where’s my grandmother? Why am I alone?” he sniffed. “I want to go home. I want to see my family.”
Lan Wangji felt that no words could soothe the child's despair. He tried to say something several times, but fell silent before he could find his voice. He hated his quiet, silent nature more than ever before. But how could he comfort the child when he himself was wandering in this valley of hopelessness?
Wen Yuan continued walking forward, ignoring the broken pieces of dishes, scattered remains of food, and fragments of clothing. He silently repeated the same words to himself over and over again, each step bringing them closer to the cave towering over the settlement. Lan Wangji watched the boy anxiously. What could the child be looking for in the deep darkness? As he crossed the threshold of the cave, he felt goosebumps run down his spine. Heavy, eerie silence bounced off the stone walls, the air permeated with a damp, earthy scent, through which something else was breaking through – a tangy, metallic scent, the one that made hair on the back of his neck stand.
He felt, rather than heard, movement, somewhere deep in the cave, where no light could reach. Drops of water trickled down the walls of the cave, culminating in a dark pool surrounded by rotting stones. A mist seemed to settle over its surface, faint shadow-like streaks moving gently. He frowned, searching in the deep darkness for whatever drew the little boy to the edge of the pool. Wen Yuan stopped, still clutching the adult's hand. He sighed softly and asked once more, "Can we go home? Together?" Lan Wangji nodded, slowly backing away towards exit, but boy stood still, staring at the dark, unsteady water.
No. It wasn't water, Lan Wangji realized with sudden clarity. The liquid in the tank was thicker, darker, and it was the source of the coppery smell. With dread, he looked back towards the silhouette of the child. "I'm so tired." The boy repeated over and over. "So tired. I'm thirsty. My legs hurt. My head hurts. Where's my grandmother? Why am I alone?"
Lan Wangji considered himself a trained cultivator, seasoned in battle, calmly accepting whatever fate threw at him. The recent war had left him unmoved by most things. But at that moment, he felt the cold claws of fear and despair tighten around his neck. He saw with horror how Wen Yuan was changing with each word. When he said he was tired, he seemed to grow smaller, thinner, the clothes he was wearing dwarfing him completely. When he said he was thirsty, his lips seemed paler, parched. When he said his legs hurt, Lan Wangji realized with horror that the boy's small limbs were covered in blood and seemed unnaturally twisted. Dark red of the congealed blood contrasted with the bones protruding from open fractures. When he said his head hurt, it suddenly seemed to change shape, with some parts of the skull sunken in from the trauma. As if someone took that small boy and smashed his head on the rocks – or hut’s wall. As if heeding the call of his wails, the mist hovering over the bloody pool seemed to take on human shapes, stretching out shadowy hands towards the boy - and the man standing right next to him.
“I want to go home! I want to be with my family!” Wen Yan screamed, at last.
Lan Wangji let out a broken sob. And then – silence descended.
Not a sound was heard on the gloomy, harsh cliffs of Yiling. As if all died together with it’s Patriarch.