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The earth is drenched in blood. The stench of it so thick that it clogs Lan Wangji’s throat. Every strike of his sword, swift and precise— cuts through half-decaying flesh of an entire army of fierce corpses, all under Wei Wuxian’s command. The muscles in his arms are starting to strain but he is determined to get through this maelstrom of resentful energy.
Bichen’s cool glare flows like an endless stream throughout the battlefield but Lan Wangji barely has a chance to recover between each swing. He dares not think too hard about the former identities of the creatures he cut down, but the sight of the familiar white robes of his clan almost makes him hesitate. He pushes on.
It started out as wisps of black smoke, winding through the feet of cultivators that called for Wei Wuxian’s blood. Lan Wangji had feared for him, feared that he will be pushed to a point that renders everything irreparable. He does not know the extent of which the resentment had damaged both Wei Wuxian’s mind and body.
A seed of dread had steadily been growing in him from that very first time he laid eyes on him after those three long months. That feeling only worsened in the face of Wei Wuxian’s anger and vehement rejection when Lan Wangji had offered his help. Despite his persistence, his efforts were continuously rebuffed and in the end, he had not accomplished anything but drown in his own helplessness. The seed grew into uncontrollable vines so sharp it feels like they are piercing through Lan Wangji’s heart and smothering him in every waking moment.
In spite of it, all Lan Wangji knows true is that Wei Wuxian is not truly lost. He never will be.
In the eye of the storm, Wei Wuxian is at its centre, eyes blazing red as he plays his tune of death. Chenqing’s notes are shrill and menacing, finally bringing forth its players' intentions in the form of bloodshed. There was no one to listen to its sweet music anymore.
There was a shade of desperation in his eyes, and Lan Wangji could see it so clearly, even through the haze of that dark power. It bares its teeth to anyone that dares to come close; forcing unto them a choice between life and death. Every note played is a weapon that compels them to obey their master.
Lan Wangji bears down on the creatures that separate the distance between him and Wei Wuxian, feeling as though his body is moving on its own— his mind fixed only on getting to him. That same desperation is mirrored in his own eyes.
In the midst of his swirling miasma, Wei Wuxian’s gaze flicks towards Lan Wangji as he comes close, sharply aware of his presence. Something indescribable flits through his expression and eventually settles into a glare, one that Lan Wangji is now so familiar with.
“Hanguang-Jun,” Wei Wuxian says, rough and voice so devoid of emotion, “It seems that we have truly come to this point. I both dreaded and yearned for this day.”
“Wei Ying, please, stop this now.” The words feel coarse as they leave his mouth, that feeling of inadequacy surfacing once again every time he attempts to give voice to his own emotions.
“Stop? I delivered only what they have asked for— what they have wanted this whole time. Tell me, Lan Zhan, what else is there for me to do?”
Anything. Nothing. Come with me. Unspoken words form a lump that refuses to be dislodged from Lan Wangji’s throat. He holds Wei Wuxian’s gaze, hoping that he can see through even just an ounce of his heart. However, this time, Wei Wuxian’s eyes are unseeing, clouded with grief and despair.
“After all, everything I do is disagreeable in your eyes, isn’t that right, Hanguang-Jun? Come and let’s end this, then.” Wei Wuxian says. He raises the ghostly flute to his mouth and Lan Wangji did not hear a single note, but the roar of resentful energy as it engulfs them is thunderous.
He swung his sword, trying to cut through the wisps of darkness coiling like snakes around Wei Ying. Despite its attacks seemingly having a physical effect, Lan Wangji’s strikes pass through each of them every time. In the corner of his eyes, he could see the energy striking down cultivators one by one with deadly precision.
Cleaving their way through the enemies, The Nie sect’s sabers make sure that the undead stays at a certain distance from its target. Nevertheless, the fierce corpses are only looking to be increasing in number and have started to exhibit much more volatile and aggressive attacks. The most skilled musicians of the Lan Sect have now summoned their instruments while the swordsmen try to hold the line as they counter and cleanse away the resentful energy. Their defenses are slowly but surely crumbling.
The Jiang sect seem to be holding up much better than the others, huddling as a group and making sure they have eyes on all sides, but the energy does not appear to be as hostile towards them unlike the others. Jin Guangshan is nowhere to be found in the battlefield and the rest of the Jin sect have scattered everywhere, swinging wildly as if all their training completely left their body; their precious swords having little to no effect.
The darkness around them is closing in, the chaos of blades clashing and desperate, hoarse yelling builds up into a crescendo. Lan Wangji lunges forward with his sword, with the aim of disarming Wei Wuxian of his flute.
And suddenly, three things happen at once.
A soft, distressed voice cuts through the cacophony, calling out: “A-Xian!”
Wei Wuxian freezes, cold fear striking him as he lowers his flute and frantically searches the crowd for the owner of the voice.
Lan Wangji could not stop his body in time, and could only watch in horror as Bichen pierced through his beloved’s heart.
A gasp leaves Wei Wuxian, more shocked than a pained one. His jaw drops along with a mouthful of blood that splatters on Bichen’s blade. His gaze follows the sword from his heart and onto Lan Wangji.
The red from his eyes was gone, leaving only that shade of silver that made Lan Wangji’s chest constrict. He expected to see rage or hate in them, but Wei Wuxian’s eyes merely softened and eventually closed.
Lan Wangji is rooted in place, unaware that he was still gripping his sword’s hilt when Wei Wuxian staggers forward as he loses balance, driving himself further onto the blade. He catches Wei Wuxian, sword still embedded in him, both of them falling in a heap on the ground.
“Wei Ying! No… no. Wei Ying, I—“
This time, Wei Wuxian lets out a pained noise and Lan Wangji desperately gathers his robes to stop the bleeding.
“Hold on, Wei Ying. Please. Please.”
He then clutches Wei Wuxian’s wrist to transfer his energy, trying whatever he can to aid the healing process. It dissipates into nothing.
There must be a mistake. He tries again.
And again. And again. And his heart drops at the realisation: Wei Wuxian has lost his golden core. It is as if a piece has slotted in place, every interaction, every argument that led to this deterioration finally making sense. Lan Wangji feels like he is about to be sick.
“No. No. How-“ How has this happened? How has everything come to this? What has he done? This was never what he wanted. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian’s voice calls out.
“Wei Ying, please, do not move. I will… I will get you somewhere safe. You-“
“Lan Zhan, look at me.” Wei Wuxian says. And what else could he do if not so? Wei Wuxian raises a hand to his face, and Lan Wangji was startled to find tears already streaming down.
“Don’t cry.”
Lan Wangji heaves with every word, breath coming short with every second that passes. He could feel his world shattering, and now, there was nothing else he could do but allow himself to be wounded by the jagged pieces.
“I’m sorry, Wei Ying. I’m sorry. Please. I cannot- I will not—“
How could I possibly live on with my life with the knowledge that I was the one that took yours? It is an unforgivable, inconceivable betrayal.
“Don’t cry.” Wei Wuxian says again, “Lan Zhan… I’m so glad… so glad… it’s you.”
Wei Wuxian smiles, the first genuine one Lan Wangji has seen in a long time.
“Thank you… I’m sorry.”
Wei Wuxian closes his eyes for the final time.