Chapter Text
Prologue: The man at the river
The scent of blood hung heavily in the air, a persistent stench that had become far too familiar to him, and was now barely enough to make him grimace.
They were at war with the Wen Clan, and the conflict had persisted for years, becoming a way of life. For some, it was all they had ever known. In his case, it had taken a portion of his youth. To think back on the peaceful years of his adolescence would have been foolish, but Lan Wangji was good at avoiding foolishness, so he had no regrets to mourn.
Their swords could not be drawn lightly; spiritual weapons were reserved for battle and battle only, to avoid drawing attention to solitary figures like himself and wasting spiritual energy without necessity. When one is a fugitive, it's wise not to rely on resources that may not be available later on.
Owning a horse, for example, was not just an advantage; it was a privilege.
Steady on his mount, he made his way through corpses and broken carts strewn along both sides of the road. Among civilian garments, he also recognized the tattered robes of rebels; once esteemed cultivators who had fallen into disgrace since the Lanling Jin and Qishan Wen Clans had allied to crush the lesser sects. Their clans had been bled dry and besieged until they had suffocated. The few survivors had either deserted or joined the resistance.
So many had suffered to such an extent that even deserters from the Jin and Wen clans bore the stigma of betrayal and faced harsh scrutiny when joining the rebels.
Now and then, a pained groan rose into the air as he passed, and the temptation to pull at the reins of his horse twitched through his hands like a nervous tic, but he couldn’t stop. Not yet. Before helping villagers and survivors—who were already being aided—he had to ensure the area was secure. Neither being fooled nor letting down their guard was an option for any member of the resistance.
His horse advanced through the smoke toward the denser part of the forest, away from the flames consuming the village and sanctuaries, fires his brother’s men were just finishing extinguishing.
The second jade scanned the surroundings, tense despite his calm expression, channeling spiritual energy to heighten his senses. He circled the area twice on horseback, but there were no signs of life… or anything else. Not even the usual rustle of animals. Likely, they’d fled from the fire and the stench of death. Pulling on the reins, he turned back toward the temple, intending to help assess the wounded.
He was following the stream that fed the village when he heard sounds up ahead, faint, wet noises. Thinking it might be a feral corpse that could later attack the already tattered villages, he followed the protocol drilled into him through years of training at Cloud Recess and nudged his horse forward with a tap of his heel.
But upon reaching the riverbank, it became clear this was no monster. It was a man. Half his body was submerged in the clear stream, while the other half lay sprawled over smooth stones on the shore.
The cultivator approached slowly, circling the figure on horseback once, then again, still unsure whether the man was fully human or if there were traces of yin energy on him. The man writhed, struggling to rise, but his arms were too weak to support him. From the red swirl in the water, it was obvious that he had a wound on his side, deep and bleeding through both his robes and the stream. Robes that Lan Zhan didn’t recognize.
The wound, however, was unmistakably made by a sword. Of that, Wangji was sure.
His instincts flared at once, as though soaked in oil. That wound had come from another cultivator. It had been made with a spiritual weapon.
The man breathed raggedly and opened his eyes when he heard the horse’s hooves near him. Upon seeing Lan Wangji, his face tensed, and the color drained from it. He even scowled. It seemed that of all the people he might’ve imagined finding him, someone from the Lan Clan was not among them.
Wangji knew the injury had been intentional. And the man's demeanor didn’t reflect fear or pleading; instead, it was the calm of resignation, his gaze tracking his every move. He resembled more a coiled snake waiting to strike than a wounded animal seeking protection or aid.
Still, he was injured. And the reasons for that to have happened, such as his face, or any cultivator emblems on his clothing, origins or motifs to be around, were unknown. Perhaps he'd cast those aside to go undercover. He was not a face he had seen at battle, nor at any other encounter with the Wen Clan. And the wound did seem severe… Could he just walk away and let him die?
The teachings of his clan, once followed to the letter, said no. He couldn’t.
He stepped closer to the riverbank and to the man who silently followed him with his eyes. One more step, and his hand instinctively reached for Bichen. The sun glinted on the bright blade as he drew it.
"Are you going to pity me and spare me the pain?" the man rasped, breathless, lifting his head even in that frail state. "I don’t need anyone’s mercy. I don’t need your pity."
Lan Zhan paused at the words, raising a brow slightly. The gesture was so subtle, it was unlikely the man on the shore even noticed it.
"Your spiritual power is weak. You won’t survive," he stated, merely pointing out the obvious. But the words only made the man bristle with fury. As soon as Wangji was within reach, he drew a slim hunting knife from his waist and raised it toward him, its blade brushing Bichen.
The utter recklessness of using a weapon with no spiritual power against a sword like his, of treating him like some unarmed villager instead of a cultivator, took him by surprise.
"Not your concern…" the man spat. The words hissed out between clenched teeth, like venom, like a snake cornered and spitting defiance.
Lan Zhan frowned. The decision had already been made, long before he consciously made it.
"I won’t hurt you," he said firmly.
It was likely that the man was barely a disciple of some minor clan, perhaps a curious youth who’d taken something he shouldn't have, or someone simply caught in the wrong place when the battle’s remnants passed through.
That might explain his defensiveness. Whatever the case, he didn’t seem like someone who deserved to die. If he were a thief, punishment would suffice; killing was unnecessary.
The man hesitated, but in the end, pain, exhaustion, and blood loss made him drop the weapon and collapse again, gasping for air in long, ragged breaths that became harder and harder to draw.
Lan Zhan had to admit the boy’s courage, since even in such pain, he tried to keep his composure. Lan Wangji stared at him for long moments, as if examining him, bearing silent witness to his death.
And yet the boy never looked away, his sharp gaze locked on Lan Wangji’s face. As if he were staring at Death’s own eyes.
"Do you want to die?"
The question was abrupt, but not lacking in seriousness. Later, the Lan thought he could have stated differently. He wanted to ask if he would rather keep his pride than accept his help, or if he had wished for a warrior’s death. The boy snorted incredulously.
"No."
That alone was enough for Lan Zhan to sheathe Bichen again and lean down, wrapping an arm around the boy’s waist to pull him from the water.
"Mn," he murmured as he lifted him, placing him as gently as possible atop the horse, and started directing spiritual energy into the wound, sealing it just enough to slow the bleeding. It wouldn’t last long; the boy, to his surprise, did not own a golden core, but it would hold until they reached the village. There, XiChen or one of the healers could tend to it properly.
He adjusted the boy’s position to support his back, keeping contact to a minimum while making sure he could still reach around to hold the reins. At his command, the horse moved forward at a steady trot through the forest, back toward the village.
~
That was how Wei Ying found himself in the care of the once-renowned Second Young Master Lan, on route to the rebels’ camp in northern Caiyi City, where the resistance had a hidden base near the lake.
Despite Lan Wangji’s controlled hands, the horse’s trotting pace forced Wei Ying to keep his body tensed to avoid jostling painfully against him. The wound, though sealed, was far from healed, and every motion made him groan in pain.
Damn Xue Yang for stabbing him so ruthlessly.
Yes, the plan had required infiltrating the village to investigate the whereabouts of enemy troops, but one would think the brat might show a bit more consideration.
Then again, what could one expect from someone like him?
In the end, he had to give the kid credit. Not only had he spared his life, he’d also left him somewhere where a cultivator could find him and took him straight to the heart of the resistance’s operations, where he could find shelter among their nomadic camp.
And what was one more scar on a body already full of them?
Wei Ying knew better than to expect anything more than survival. When one was a street hound, no irony intended, of the Wen Clan, one had to grow used to unexpected scars.