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Chapter Text

The sudden downpour lasted for three whole shichen, and only by dusk did the clouds part and the rain clear. In Shǔ, the air was always damp, the mountain roads rugged and difficult to walk. Even though Lan Xichen had cast a water-avoiding talisman while traveling deep in the mountains, the milky-white mountain mists still dampened the ends of his hair.

After the coffin-sealing ceremony, the Sect Leader of the Lan Sect had remained in seclusion for a long time, not emerging. People worried endlessly, afraid that he was trapped by Jin Guangyao’s death and unable to free himself. Just then, the second young master of the Lan Sect and his cultivation partner returned from their travels in Shǔ. They spoke of Shǔ’s unmatched scenery and, with much persuasion, finally convinced Lan Xichen to leave his rooms to relax his mind. When he reached the desolate mountains around Qīngchéng, he heard rumors that an evil spirit was causing trouble in the forest and so entered the mountain to investigate.

According to the mountain villagers, these past few days a white-robed female ghost had often appeared, floating in and out, frightening people so badly it seemed their very souls scattered. Yet, Lan Xichen made a full circuit of the mountain and did not detect even the slightest trace of demonic energy. This area was under the jurisdiction of the Yu Sect of Méishān, so he suspected that perhaps the Yu disciples had already eliminated the spirit.

Mountain mists wound around the slopes, filled with the clarity of rain-washed air; the nose brimmed with the moist fragrance of grasses and trees swollen with water, a freshness so pure it chilled the heart—yet the mountain was far too quiet. Even Cloud Recesses, with its strict bans on noise, was never so silent. So when a rustling suddenly came from the nearby thicket, Lan Xichen’s fingers reflexively tightened on his bowstring.

But what tumbled out, stumbling and tripping, was a small child. He looked about six or seven, tripped by oversized robes, fell flat to the ground with a smack, and rolled forward like a tiny, soft little animal.

Lan Xichen froze, instantly loosening the string.

From his qi, this was merely a human child, not a demon or ghost. And yet—what was strange was that such a deep forest would contain a lone, defenseless child. Where were his parents? To leave such a young boy here—were they not afraid something terrible would happen?

Countless thoughts flashed through his mind. Meanwhile, the boy’s eyes had already filled with tears, ready to fall yet stubbornly held back, lips tightly pressed together in willful strength. Still, it must have hurt. When he saw the snow-white boots appear in front of him, the child raised his face, bewildered and curious—and Lan Xichen saw those wide almond eyes, brimming with tears that made them shine all the darker, and a purple flash of lightning cleaved through his mind like a sudden thunderclap.

Of course he recognized the owner of those eyes.

But the owner of those eyes absolutely should not be a child.

Did Sect Leader Jiang have a son? Lan Xichen’s heart surged with waves, rare confusion flickering across his calm face. Sandu Shengshou was a cold, fierce, and proud man, solitary and untamed. Ever since the Sunshot Campaign years ago, Lan Xichen had not had much contact with Jiang Cheng. Yet he remembered well the Jiang Sect Leader at Guanyin Temple, face streaked with tears—the man who had carried Wei Wuxian’s youthful promise for thirteen years, who had kept Chenqing by his side for thirteen years. A man of such deep feeling—would he truly abandon his kin?

Lan Xichen lowered his eyes, thoughtful, unconsciously brushing Liebing at his waist. His spotless white robes trailed across the ground, like celestial clouds gathered into a single bundle, gleaming so luminously in the dim forest that they seemed to shine.

The child stared in awe, forgetting even his pain, a teardrop still clinging to his cheek. “You… are you an immortal?”

Lan Xichen smiled. He crouched down, meeting the boy’s gaze at eye level, speaking gently: “I am not an immortal, only a traveler who happened to pass by.”

“Traveler?” the boy asked suspiciously.

Lan Xichen drew a handkerchief from his robes and carefully wiped the dirt and dust from the child’s face. The boy watched him warily yet curiously. At first he flinched, but perhaps subdued by this celestial gentleman’s gentleness and beauty, he soon submitted obediently, almost at a loss at such tenderness.

Growing up in Lotus Pier, his father was not affectionate, his mother was harsh and severe. Aside from his elder sister, this was the first time he had met someone so beautiful—and the first time an adult had treated him with such gentleness.

When the dirt and dust were all wiped away, a snow-white, adorable little boy’s face appeared. A pointed chin, delicate brows, and round almond eyes. Lan Xichen touched his soft cheek and asked: “What is your name? Where are your parents? Why are they not with you?”

The child bit his lip, looking somewhat frightened: “I don’t know. I took a nap, and when I woke up, my parents were gone.”

“Then where is your home?” Lan Xichen gently brushed his hair back, gazing into those wary, curious eyes. “I’ll take you back, alright?”

But the child had fixed his gaze on the cloud-pattern embroidery of Lan Xichen’s white forehead ribbon, and his eyes suddenly widened. He clapped his hands: “Ah—you’re from the Gūsū Lan Sect?”

“Yes.” This child was clever and cautious, still refusing to reveal his name or home. But now, recognizing his background, he finally displayed some childish innocence. Lan Xichen could not help but smile, his warm eyes resting on the boy before him. “My name is Lan Xichen. Others call me Zewu-jun. And you?”

“Zewu-jun? What does that mean?” The boy did not ponder long before tossing aside the question, smiling as sweetly as dewdrops. In a crisp voice, he said: “I’m Jiang Cheng. My parents and sister call me A-Cheng. I live at Lotus Pier.”

Lan Xichen was stunned, stormy waves crashing within, though his face remained placid.

If this child spoke the truth…

“I’ve been to Lotus Pier,” he pressed down his shock, unwilling to startle the boy, coaxing him to speak more. “It’s in Yúnmèng, with a great lotus pond at the entrance, right?”

“Yes! There’s this big a lotus pond at my house’s gate, and the flowers are blooming so beautifully these days!” A-Cheng stretched his little arms as wide as he could. Perhaps because Lan Xichen had spoken correctly, the boy finally dropped his guard and wholly trusted this celestial-seeming Lan senior. Smiles bloomed across his face, making it hard for Lan Xichen to reconcile him with the cold, severe Sandu Shengshou, the Jiang Sect Leader who had borne the Jiang Sect alone for thirteen years.

The sky darkened, dew chilled the robes. A-Cheng’s body was wrapped only in some tattered cloth, barefoot without even shoes, yet his smile was pure and bright, as though shining in the dim setting. Lan Xichen lifted him into his arms, and an indescribable ache and sigh welled in his heart, like the misty twilight fog over the mountain forest.

He thought of the young Jiang Cheng he had once glimpsed at Cloud Recesses, dressed in finery and riding with spirited energy, shoulder to shoulder with Wei Ying. He thought of the sect leader at Guanyin Temple, weeping, stripped of his cold pride.

He thought of that boy once ragged in clothes yet gentle in face, Meng Yao; and of the Jin Guangyao who had died covered in filth and blood yet with eyes like lightning. He thought of the sinner who killed father, brother, wife, and son; and of the sworn brother who had never once treated him with neglect or harm.

The child’s innocent eyes regarded him, as though this were some absurd scene from a painted scroll. And staring back, Lan Xichen suddenly felt it was all like a ridiculous dream.

He was too deeply sunk. He could not see through.

But the child was innocent.

Dusk deepened and the sun sank westward. He carried A-Cheng down the mountain. The seven-year-old Jiang Cheng did not understand the sorrow of wisdom, only asked curiously and timidly whether he could touch his forehead ribbon.

Lan Xichen almost laughed. Shock and softness surged at once, like pale apricot blossoms brushing his nose, like a koi’s tail stirring a cold pond to reveal sudden color.

All these tangled loves and hatreds of life and death had nothing to do with this child.

A-Cheng clutched the white ribbon tassel, curled in his arms, and fell asleep. He slept without defense, deeply and sweetly, like a beautiful dream Lan Xichen could not bear to break.

If only the world could be as pure as this child.

The last ray of light sank. Night fully descended. Lan Xichen lit a guiding lantern, its gentle flame flickering as he gazed at the boy’s sleeping face. He stroked his hair, and in that moment, in the absolute silence, he suddenly felt a strange gaze.

A woman in snowy robes with a purple sash floated in the void, watching them, her body faintly glowing. Ghost though she seemed, she looked more like some goddess of unknown origin.

Strangely, Lan Xichen still did not sense the slightest trace of demonic energy.

Her eyes fell upon the child in his arms, as gentle and silent as the first snow. Then, noticing his vigilance, she smiled and raised a finger to her lips—shh.

But the silence broke. Torches flared in the distance, shouts carried through the forest: “Sect Leader Jiang, are you there—!”

The child stirred in his arms, half-awakened by the noise. Lan Xichen soothed him with a pat on the back. When he looked up again, the woman was gone without a trace.

There was no time to ponder. The torches drew nearer. Lan Xichen guessed they must be disciples of the Yu Sect: after all, they had called ‘Sect Leader Jiang,’ not ‘Sect Leader’. And only the Yu Sect, local power here, could muster such numbers in this place at this time.

That was fine: Jiang Cheng’s mother was of the Yu Sect by birth. Since for some reason he had reverted to a child’s body, it was best to return him to family.

“Sect Leader Lan.” Suddenly a voice sounded beside his ear—it was the seven-year-old Jiang Cheng, but his tone was eerily familiar, lower, cool, with the proud cadence of a man long accustomed to command. He gazed straight at the approaching torches, almond eyes like fire sealed in ice.

So sharp, so cold.

So utterly unlike a child.

Lan Xichen had no time to process his shock. A silver ring slipped from Jiang Cheng’s collar, set with amethyst that burned like flame. Jiang Cheng tucked Zidian back beneath his robes, frowning, snapping Lan Xichen out of his daze: “Sect Leader Lan.”

“…Sect Leader Jiang.” And so Lan Xichen realized: within this seven-year-old child’s body was none other than Sandu Shengshou, master of the Jiang Sect. It was all too bewildering, leaving even the well-read Lan Xichen at a loss. “What is going on? How are you—”

“Long story, no time to explain.” Jiang Cheng’s expression was solemn, voice low. He lowered his pride, for once: “Zewu-jun, may I ask you for a favor.”

On the night of the new moon, the forest was pitch-black, utterly silent. The Yu disciples never expected to encounter such a rare guest here.

Zewu-jun emerged from the woods, his pure robes like flowing moonlight. Even carrying a sleeping child, his poise remained composed, his appearance elegant, with only the faintest trace of surprise. “May I ask who you are…?”

Who in the cultivation world did not know Lan Xichen, or at least recognize the Lan forehead ribbon? At once the Yu disciples bowed with shock and respect: “Zewu-jun! Why are you here?”

“You must be looking for Wanyin?” Lan Xichen smiled knowingly. His manner was gentle, even with lowly disciples—always composed, always courteous. “He had agreed to hunt with me in this mountain, but suddenly received a message from Young Master Wei. The matter was urgent, so he went ahead. Fearing you could not find him, he asked me to wait here for you and the Jiang Sect, to put your minds at ease.”

“The Yiling Patriarch!” someone exclaimed. Others secretly wondered—such intimacy, to call him “Wanyin” so naturally? Were Zewu-jun and Sect Leader Jiang truly so close?

“Yes,” Lan Xichen nodded, weaving his excuses seamlessly, even with a trace of distress. “It seems Wangji and Young Master Wei encountered trouble in Nánjiāng, and Wanyin had to go himself. Before leaving, he entrusted all matters of his sect to me, which leaves me feeling the weight of responsibility indeed.”

He stroked the sleeping child’s back, smiling tenderly, which in the Yu disciples’ eyes looked like helpless but careful affection.

Such matters could not be spoken of.

Jin Ling had only just ascended as Sect Leader. With Jin Sect elders circling like wolves, only Jiang Cheng’s authority kept them in check. If it were known that he had become a defenseless seven-year-old, how could Jin Ling sleep safely even for one night?

This was the first time Lan Xichen had seen Jiang Cheng lower his pride to beg—but even without it, Lan Xichen would have helped.

After dismissing the Yu disciples, Jiang Cheng finally stirred in his arms, sitting up and pursing his lips to say: “Thank you.”

Now with a seven-year-old’s face, any expression looked childishly clumsy, even his adult solemnity amusing. Lan Xichen found it inopportune but irresistibly cute, smiled, and said gently: “Sect Leader Jiang need not thank me.”

Jiang Cheng frowned, nearly asking what he was laughing at, but forced himself to swallow it. He said: “Zewu-jun is the one who should not be so courteous. If ever the Lan Sect needs anything, Lotus Pier will respond without hesitation.”

Lan Xichen sighed.

“Sect Leader Jiang, even if you did not say so, I would still help you.” In his gentle pupils, lit by the lantern’s flame, he met those almond eyes. “Do you not remember what I promised you back then?”

Chapter Text

A few days later, they finally figured out the inexplicable pattern. By daylight it was seven-year-old A-Cheng who appeared; when night fell, it was the Jiang Sect’s Sect Leader—day and night alternating, never once in error. No one knew what sort of technique had fixed such a rule; truly, fate was making sport of people.

By Jiang Cheng’s own recollection, in those days he had returned to his mother’s kin in Méishān to visit and discuss sect affairs. When all matters were concluded, he happened to hear that ghosts and monsters were causing trouble in the surrounding mountains and decided to enter the mountain for a night-hunt. Who knew that the moment he went in, rain would begin to fall; for some reason, even the water-avoiding talisman did not work very well. Drenched half through, he had no choice but to hurry into a small mountain shrine to take shelter.

Strangely, though the mountain was desolate and uninhabited, this little shrine was not in disrepair. The offerings were neat and clean—clearly someone swept it regularly. Nor was the shrine dedicated to the usual Guanyin or Lord Guan, but to the statue of a goddess.

Jiang Cheng examined it a few times but truly could not tell which goddess’s story this was—yet the features of the statue were gentle and lovely; in the dim, soft light of the rain, the more he looked, the more it faintly resembled Jiang Yanli.

Outside the eaves, the rain pattered fine and thin. Jiang Cheng gazed at that goddess statue and, despite himself, fell into a daze.

It was as if the affairs of his youth were still only yesterday; his elder sister and Wei Ying’s faces and smiles were before his eyes, vivid and clear. But his sister was long gone, his parents were gone, and Wei Wuxian could not possibly return. In a vast Lotus Pier there was only a him who no longer resembled himself, relying on a little meager, pitiful remembrance to trace back the smile hidden among the lotus leaves.

Those joyful, absurd, perfect, messy memories of his youth were like a dream steeped in sunlight—the mottled bright light filtered, broken, through the gaps between the lotus leaves, every inch of light and shadow carrying laughter. He reached out, desperate and futile, wanting to grasp something—yet dreams cannot be grasped, and the light always slipped from between his fingers. When the dream ended, he still had nothing; the quilt was already cold, and the long night had not yet lifted.

If only he could return to the time before anything had happened—how good that would be?

The thought flashed past his mind without a sound. Jiang Cheng knit his brows, and the next moment drove the thought out of his head. After a while, whether rueful or self-mocking, he gave a short, soft laugh. In the end he lowered his eyes in quiet, stepped forward, and silently lit a stick of incense.

A-Jie, if you have spirit in Heaven, then bless the Jiang Sect.

Bless the Jiang Sect, bless Jin Ling.

If you are not angry, then… then bless Wei Ying as well.

The moment that thought settled, his consciousness suddenly began to blur; everything sank into darkness as if a lamp had been extinguished. When Jiang Cheng woke again, he found himself lying on the floor of that small shrine, turned into a seven-year-old child—and worse, he found he could not command this body, because the soul of that seven-year-old self was its true master.

Being able to move freely after nightfall was already a pleasant surprise; chancing upon Lan Xichen was misfortune within fortune. A technique that could make one instantly revert to childhood had never been heard of since ancient times, least of all nothing of how to undo it.

Later, when they re-entered the mountain to seek that shrine and investigate the cause, they could not find the place no matter what they tried. Jiang Cheng could only follow Lan Xichen back to Cloud Recesses for the time being, hoping to find some clue in the Lan Sect’s Library Pavilion; outwardly they merely said this was an old friend’s son of Sect Leader Lan’s and raised him as kin, like a junior of their own.

Sect Leader Jiang was exceedingly irritable; A-Cheng, however, was exceedingly happy.

The young know little of sorrow. When Lan Xichen told him that his parents had gone out on business and his elder sister had returned to Méishān Yú to visit relatives, he believed it at once. After wavering only a short while, he let Lan Xichen coax him back to Cloud Recesses. On his first day in Gūsū, Lan Xichen found him a small Lan-Sect uniform and even tied a long, snow-white forehead ribbon for him. Afraid he would feel shy among strangers, Lan Xichen took his hand and led him out the door. The ribbon was too long; A-Cheng nearly stepped on it and fell. Lan Xichen got a fright, while the Lan Sect’s female cultivators on the side were so charmed they clutched at their hearts.

Perhaps because Lan Xichen was as calm and clear as spring light, gentle and courteous, in only a few days A-Cheng had grown very attached and fond of him. Though he did not say it aloud, he always liked to stick close at his side, secretly hugging Lan Xichen’s leg, even afraid he might dirty the immortal gentleman’s robes.

It was the first time in his life he had met an elder so good-looking and so good to him.

Even his father had never treated him with such gentleness and closeness!

Zewu-jun would straighten his clothes for him, would teach him swordwork hand-to-hand, and would even sweep him up to sit in the crook of his arm so that his view suddenly grew high and far, like a bird. For this little benefit, A-Cheng even forced himself to rise early according to the Lan schedule, trailing after Lan Xichen all day long.

And so, in these few days, the Lan juniors all discovered that their Sect Leader had acquired a little tail: no one knew where he had picked up this child called A-Cheng, but his temperament was very amusing—whatever Lan Xichen did, he did; when Lan Xichen was busy, he did not make trouble, merely practiced his own sword outside, now and then casting a longing glance toward the door.

Lan Jingyi loved to tease him: “Hey, A-Cheng, stop practicing—come over to Jingyi-gege for candy, how about it?”

A-Cheng gave him a look, then resolutely shook his head and continued, persistent and proper, to practice with his little wooden sword. Though young, his footwork already showed measured advance and retreat—at a glance one could tell he had been guided by a famous teacher. Big-hearted Lan Jingyi only assumed it was Zewu-jun’s good instruction. Lan Sizhui, to the side, felt that this child’s method was not of the Lan lineage at all, rather like… like whose?

Lan Sizhui could not think of it for the moment. Seeing A-Cheng finish a set of forms, he beckoned and coaxed the child over, poured him a cup of tea, and said gently with a smile: “A-Cheng, rest a little, all right? Sect Leader has told us we mustn’t let you get too tired. If you work yourself too hard, we won’t be able to answer to Sect Leader.”

A-Cheng cradled the cup; at these words he furrowed his brows in distress, very hesitant. “But… but if I don’t work a bit harder, will Zewu-jun dislike me?”

“How could he!” Lan Sizhui started, then laughed, giving A-Cheng’s cheek a light pinch. Zewu-jun had always treated people with warmth; all within the clan loved him. Let alone that Sect Leader was exceedingly protective of this child, leaving nothing to others’ hands, cherishing him even more than a son of his own. In truth, these past days quite a few people had begun to wonder in private whether this child might be Lan Xichen’s by blood—there had yet to be a next generation in the Lan line, and Lan Wangji was a cut-sleeve; at present, all of the Lan Sect were looking forward to a little young master. Lan Jingyi chimed in: “Exactly, exactly. Sect Leader treats you so well—how could he dislike you?”

A-Cheng’s innocent eyes brightened. He thought a bit, then asked with great expectation: “Then if I work a little harder, will Zewu-jun like me a little more?”

“This…” Lan Sizhui could not very well answer that. Lan Jingyi, quicker of tongue, said, “Zewu-jun naturally rejoices to see the clan’s juniors being diligent!”

A-Cheng was happy at that; but after a while, who knew what he thought of—his smile faded, and he grew gloomy. “If only diedie were like that.”

Lan Sizhui said, “How could he not be? All fathers under Heaven love their own children, and they all like to see their children diligent.”

A-Cheng shook his head, sullen, and kicked a little stone. “Diedie doesn’t like me. He just likes A-Ying more.”

“Who is A-Ying?” Lan Jingyi and Lan Sizhui exchanged a glance.

“A-Ying is my shixiong.” At the mention, A-Cheng showed a little bashful envy and awkwardness, but more than that was unconcealed affection—his eyes shining like stars, his spirits rising at once. “He can climb trees and catch birds, and he’s good at sword practice. A-niang doesn’t like him, but it’s all right—I’ll protect him!”

This child wore everything on his face, a heart as clear as water, and he prized loyalty. Though the two Lan juniors did not know who this “A-Ying” was, they felt this tiny pair of shixiong and shidi must be very brotherly—very cute indeed.

A-Cheng went on: “Mm… Father likes A-Ying more, but that’s fine; A-Ying likes me, and I like A-Ying!”

As they were speaking, a pair of hands had already alighted on his head, rubbing lightly. A-Cheng looked up to see Lan Xichen smile and ask him, “What are you talking about, A-Cheng?”

A-Cheng threw his arms around his waist. “We’re talking about A-Ying!”

“Talking about your shixiong?” Lan Xichen scooped him up and felt the sweat-soaked back of his clothes, frowning slightly. “How long have you been practicing again?”

“N-not that long…”

“Have Jingyi and Sizhui given you any trouble?”

A-Cheng flushed, thought for a moment, and awkwardly said “sorry” to Lan Jingyi and Lan Sizhui.

Lan Xichen, for once, actually laughed aloud. He patted A-Cheng’s hair. “I wasn’t scolding you.”

Of the Lan Sect, only Sect Leader Lan Xichen and Lan Qiren knew this child’s true identity. The fewer who knew, the better. Since Lan Xichen had agreed to help with this matter, he left nothing to others’ hands; he did not want anyone else to have too much contact with the child and glimpse the slightest clue. In others’ eyes, it looked every bit like doting.

Even Jiang Cheng himself brought it up, roundabout, brow furrowed. “Zewu-jun is spoiling him too much.”

He sat on the couch, trapped in that child’s body; the sharpness between his brows had all turned into the precocious air of a little adult. Lan Xichen only glanced over, smiled without speaking, and kept his head down over his paperwork. A candle flickered by the desk; seen in lamplight, the smile at Lan Xichen’s lips was warm as fine jade—truly a beauty by lamplight.

At that smile, Jiang Cheng suddenly found he could not say anything at all—it was like punching cotton. But he was, after all, the head of a sect, and stubborn by nature. Steadying himself, he spoke again: “Zewu-jun, I’m speaking seriously. If you keep pampering him like this, you’ll spoil him.”

Lan Xichen wrote the last line at last and set down his brush. Clear, limpid eyes shifted to him. “Sect Leader Jiang,” his voice was so soft it was like a sigh, “are you… just as harsh with yourself?”

Jiang Cheng started, momentarily distracted. But the daze lasted only an instant. The next moment he came back to himself and gave a cold, slight smile. “You think this is harsh?”

“Is it not?”

“Then you really ought to have met my mother,” Jiang Cheng said, knife-edged.

“I do know,” Lan Xichen said quietly. He reached to push open the wooden window, letting the summer night’s moonlight and the chirring of insects drift in. He seemed dazed for a moment, as if recalling some distant scene; after a while he spoke again, almost a touch over-careful: “In my youth I had the good fortune to see Madam Yu a few times. Your honored mother was valiant and proud—one could not help but admire her.”

What do you know?

At the thought of his mother, Jiang Cheng felt a sudden sourness in his heart. But such words were not for outsiders’ ears, and even less would he speak them before Lan Xichen; so he only gave a grunt and swallowed both doubt and anger. He disliked anyone judging the Jiang family, praise or blame—who were bystanders to weigh rights and wrongs? Those who praised loudly might not be well-intentioned; those who railed were often fools who, hearing only one side, could drive a person to death. In the end, apart from the long sword in his own hand, nothing was more reliable.

But Lan Xichen was an exception.

What Lan Xichen said, Jiang Cheng believed—not out of any intimate affection, but because, from many years ago, this man had been just like his name: clean and clear, so that one could see straight to the bottom at a glance, without a trace of noise or shadow. Zewu-jun had always been such; in the cultivation world, none did not know it—let alone that Jiang Cheng had stood shoulder to shoulder with him in the Sunshot Campaign.

Compared to his sharp-tongued mother, his senior brother whose Way was not his own, and Zewu-jun’s younger brother whose face was cold as ice, Lan Xichen was far easier to understand. Every move, every thought, was on his face—pure and honest.

So broad and luminous was this person that Jiang Cheng almost felt a touch of jealousy. If he had to be frank, the only ill-feeling he had toward Lan Xichen likely came from that instinctive longing and unwillingness to concede.

So when Lan Xichen said he admired Madam Yu, he believed it was sincere. When Lan Xichen said he was too hard on himself, he could not help but feel lost and at a loss.

It had been far, far too long. In thirteen years, this was the first time someone had cared.

Lan Xichen said, “There is one more matter, Sect Leader Jiang.”

“What is it?” Jiang Cheng’s brow twitched. In front of others, Lan Xichen had been calling him “A-Cheng” all these days; Jiang Cheng had grown used to hearing it. To suddenly be addressed as “Sect Leader Jiang,” respectful yet distant, and with that soft, quiet accent of the Gūsū region—it left one at a loss.

Somehow a bit grating, and somehow piercing.

It was clearly a form of address he had heard for thirteen years, yet for no reason it made him yearn for the past.

“Regarding Sect Leader Jiang’s return to childhood—my uncle has consulted many texts and today finally obtained some clues. Have you ever heard of a divine artifact called Mùgǔ-Chénzhōng—”

“—Zewu-jun.” Jiang Cheng suddenly interrupted.

“What is it?” Lan Xichen started, a little surprised.

Jiang Cheng drew a deep breath. His eyes dropped, his gaze wandering, looking anywhere but into the other’s eyes. “There’s no need to be so particularly formal. This Jiang is not so unfeeling; you may, as before, address me by my courtesy name.”

Lan Xichen looked at him as if he were the moon in water.

He blinked slowly; then a gentle, delighted smile rose from the depths of his heart to his eyes, as if traveling back across a dozen springs and autumns to that sealed-away past.

Chapter Text

The Mùgǔ-Chénzhōng, it was said, was forged in the Southern Dynasties by the cultivator Daoist Hanyun, who melted four parts sunlight, three parts moonlight, two parts mountain soul, and one part water essence into a single bell. It was said to have the power to turn back time, to chase after the years gone by.

Yet this tale had been told for hundreds of years, and never once had anyone seen the slightest proof. Even Daoist Hanyun himself, said to have forged the bell and wielded its power to “reverse time,” had long since passed away. The matter of the Mùgǔ-Chénzhōng was like a wisp of smoke, fading into scraps of words buried in old paper, reduced to a line of dusty ink deep in the Lan Sect’s Library Pavilion.

Such nonsense should not have merited a second thought—yet the problem was that just when the book reached the line describing where Daoist Hanyun had hidden the bell before his death, the next page had been torn out. That single rip had turned an outlandish myth into something with eight-tenths credibility.

Lan Xichen brushed the frayed edge of the torn, brittle page, silent and pensive.

Jiang Cheng leaned in to glance, his mind working quickly, and at once frowned. “Jin Guangyao?”

Lan Xichen nodded, his sigh falling heavy as dew. “Other than my family, only Yao-di and Young Master Wei have ever come in here.”

“Yao-di?” Jiang Cheng gave him a sharp look, mocking. “Always skulking about with such despicable tricks.”

Lan Xichen said nothing, thoughts scattered. The whole world knew his knot was yet unbroken. Jiang Cheng’s heart filled with nameless fire; he clenched his teeth and gave a cold, bitter laugh, refusing to look at him again. “Truly loyal, aren’t you.”

The book recorded only a few vague lines, nothing detailed. Jiang Cheng thought: if not for his stumbling into this by chance, who would ever imagine that this legendary divine artifact said to turn back time and reach heaven and earth would have the actual effect of turning someone into a child?

How absurd.

Mùgǔ-Chénzhōng—it was indeed a fitting name. The morning bell restored one to childhood; the evening drum returned the soul. Jiang Cheng stared at those few lines, deep in thought. That scattered cultivator Daoist Hanyun's personal name was Yu Zhao, a man of Shǔ. So if his relic had been lost somewhere in his homeland, it might not be entirely impossible.

But if the missing pages still existed, only by finding them could the bell’s whereabouts be determined.

“Wanyin,” Lan Xichen said at last, closing the book after long deliberation, “it seems tomorrow we must make a trip to Jinlintai.”

Atop Jinlintai, in the Peony Pavilion, there was Jin Ling.

The young sect leader of the Jin Sect stood beneath the eaves, almost unable to believe his eyes. Though his uncle had written him a letter explaining, this scene still struck him as absurd. Yet Lan Xichen bent down, gently gathering A-Cheng close, and softly introduced him: “A-Cheng, this is the sect leader of the Jin Sect.”

The child, who had been gazing curiously around, hastily collected his thoughts, half-wary and half-intrigued by this unfamiliar youth before him. Somehow this golden-robed boy made him feel a strange closeness—perhaps because he resembled A-Jie just a little? A-Cheng crept out from behind Lan Xichen, secretly studying the cinnabar mark between the boy’s brows, and bowed properly. “A-Cheng greets Sect Leader Jin.”

The boy had almond eyes, slightly upturned at the corners, like a little kitten. When they shifted, they shone like dew rolling on a lotus leaf, pure and clear beyond words.

Jin Ling… Jin Ling’s head spun. Jin Ling was overwhelmed. Jin Ling’s face went scarlet as he covered it with his hands.

He bent down, trembling, still hardly daring to believe it, and met those childlike eyes. “N-no need to be so formal,” he stammered, caught between acting friendly or dignified. “Just… just call me A-Ling. After all, our families are kin.”

Lan Xichen had already told him: this child was only seven, knowing nothing, and best not to know. Since taking up the sect leader’s seat, Jin Ling had grown steadier and understood what mattered. Even if he could not openly acknowledge his bond with his uncle, he swallowed his grievance and acted the kindly elder.

“Really?” A-Cheng’s eyes lit up, turning eagerly to look at Lan Xichen.

He looks at Sect Leader Lan and not at me! Jin Ling fumed silently.

Lan Xichen smiled and nodded. “Yes. The Jin family’s maternal line has ties with the Jiang Sect. By strict reckoning, Sect Leader Jin should be calling A-Cheng ‘jiujiu.’”

“Jiujiu?” A-Cheng laughed aloud. “Really? But Sect Leader Jin is so much older than me!”

Jin Ling faltered, suddenly remembering his own childhood—when he was so small, and his jiujiu seemed so large, so large he filled his whole lonely world.

But now he was sect leader of the Jin Sect, and his uncle was perched in Lan Xichen’s arms, smiling innocently at the snowy-golden blossoms outside. A-Cheng tilted his head back, laughter spilling from his young face as he pointed. “Zewu-jun, Zewu-jun, look! Aren’t those flowers beautiful?”

Jin Ling couldn’t help but lean close, smiling before he spoke. “This is my family’s Jinxing Xuelang. A-Cheng likes them?”

“Y-yes.” A-Cheng forced solemnity, but his eyes shone.

So Jin Ling plucked a blossom and held it out, eyes brimming with hope. “Here. For you.”

The flower was nearly larger than A-Cheng’s face. When he took it, the snow-white and gold brilliance lit his features. “Thank you, A-Ling-gege!” he laughed, utterly guileless.

Jin Ling was struck dumb, overwhelmed, and full of yearning.

At that moment he only wanted to run to Cloud Recesses, seize Lan Yuan’s collar, and shake him madly:

Sizhui, ahhhhhhh!!! How can my jiùjiu possibly be this cute!!!

---

After Jin Guangyao’s death, his rooms at Jinlintai had been sealed, accessible only to the sect leader. In just the short walk to Jin Guangyao’s old chamber, Jin Ling had already tied A-Cheng’s forehead ribbon into a huge bow. He kept circling around him, itching to scoop him up but not daring, utterly besotted.

By the time they entered Jin Guangyao’s secret room, A-Cheng was already dozing against Zewu-jun’s chest. Jin Ling glanced sideways, astonished—never in his life had he seen Jiang Cheng so quiet, so soft, so clingy.

From the first day he had known jiujiu, his jiujiu had always been solitary, alone. The Jiang Sect’s Sandu Shengshou wielded his long whip with unmatched skill, carrying the entire Yunmeng Jiang Sect on his shoulders. No one dared provoke him.

But who would have thought that such an uncle, too, had once been like any child—so simple, so pure, delighted for so long with a single flower? That kind of ordinary innocence, on Jiang Cheng, seemed almost impossible. Who knew how many years of blood and pain, how many blows of sword and whip, had been needed to carve this soft little thing into the harsh, fierce thunderbolt of Zidian, spitting lightning and defiance?

In thirteen years, Jiang Cheng had never relied on anyone. He had had no one to rely on.

But now Jin Ling had grown, become a sect leader himself, capable of sheltering his uncle. Yet jiujiu did not recognize him, and instead clung to Lan Xichen.

Why did it always have to be Lan Xichen? Xiaoshu or jiujiu, one after another, they all grew close to Lan Xichen.

The more Jin Ling thought, the more bitter he felt. He schemed to keep A-Cheng at Jinlintai no matter what. But now duty came first, and he set aside his feelings. Lighting a candle, he kindled the lamp; its dim glow lit a room thick with dust.

Jin Guangyao’s secrets lay here, hidden among these shelves.

Lan Xichen laid the sleeping Jiang Cheng on a couch, covering him with a cloak, then turned to face the crowded shelves. Jin Ling said: “Everything of xiaoshu’s is here. I had people move it all in and then sealed the room. No one has touched it.”

Lan Xichen glanced at him, his gaze unsteady. “Sect Leader Jin still calls him ‘xiaoshu’?”

“Why not, Sect Leader Lan?” Jin Ling shot him a glance, a flash of irritation giving way to subdued sorrow. “I know what he did was unforgivable. But when I was little and no one played with me, he was the only one who would. He was the one who gave me Fairy.”

At that glance, Lan Xichen was startled—the boy really was like his jiujiu.

The thought passed like water. Lan Xichen gathered himself, but at the memory of Jin Guangyao’s kindnesses, he could not help but sigh.

Toward him, had Yao-di ever not been good?

But if he had a thousand kindnesses for him, he had a thousand cruelties for others. Even if he remembered the good, who could remember the good for the innocents who died?

Jin Ling saw his silence and could not help prompting. “Sect Leader Lan?”

“I was only thinking,” Lan Xichen answered softly, gazing at the qin on the table. “If only I had understood Yao-di better back then, perhaps Da-ge would not have died so tragically.”

Jin Ling was left without words, unwilling to disturb Zewu-jun’s thoughts. He cast another furtive glance; there was no place for him to speak here. The shade of Jin Guangyao’s soul hung in the dark chamber, along with three lifetimes of entangled history. They fell silent, focusing on searching for the missing pages of the Mùgǔ-Chénzhōng records.

Jin Guangyao had been skilled at scheming, but in research he was as cautious and painstaking as anyone. The room held many books, but few truly taboo or important. Likely he had hidden them elsewhere, or destroyed them himself. Jin Ling searched through several volumes without result. Rubbing his sore eyes, he looked up to see stacks still towering. It would take ages. With a thought, he coughed lightly and said: “Sect Leader Lan, we won’t finish tonight. Why don’t you rest at Jinlintai and continue tomorrow?”

Lan Xichen considered, then shook his head with a wry smile. “Thank you, but staying overnight will not do. The fewer who know of A-Cheng’s identity, the better. The more he’s seen, the more suspicion it will raise.” And besides, the eyes of Jinlintai were countless, all on this young sect leader. For a child to suddenly appear at his side, one who resembled him so closely—it would only provoke trouble.

Jin Ling hurried to say: “Then don’t let anyone see! If jiujiu stays in my rooms, who would dare intrude?”

“But we don’t know how many days this search will take. With another person in Sect Leader Jin’s rooms, some will take notice.” Lan Xichen said gently, “Besides, since I promised Wanyin, I mean to be thorough and won’t let him put himself in danger.”

Wanyin? Sect Leader Lan actually called his jiujiu Wanyin?

Jin Ling froze, puzzled and suspicious. Before he could speak further, from the couch came a child’s cry of pain. Both startled, they rushed over. A-Cheng had already tumbled down, stumbling into Lan Xichen’s arms, gasping for breath. “Die… diedie, A-Niang…”

Lan Xichen swept him up, but A-Cheng buried his face in his chest, sobbing until the tears soaked his white robes. Jin Ling, flustered, patted his back and asked what was wrong. A-Cheng hiccupped, unable to breathe, before finally whispering broken words in Lan Xichen’s ear: “I… I had a nightmare…”

Lan Xichen froze. The more he listened, the more his very blood seemed to chill into ice.

“Bad men… bad men broke into Lotus Pier…”

“Diedie and A-Niang were lying on the ground, bleeding so much…”

“They… they tied me up, and… and the man had a sun drawn on him… he whipped A-Niang, but A-Niang didn’t move at all…”

He dreamt of blood everywhere, drenching the Jiang Sect’s training grounds. The blazing sun seemed to scorch the lotuses to ash.

He dreamt of his parents’ corpses pierced through by arrows, even in death lashed by Wang Lingjiao’s whip, with Wen Zhuliu standing to the side, cold and unmoved, his sword dripping blood.

He dreamt of Zidian coiled in his small hand, dreamt of the discipline whip lashing his own body, dreamt of his helpless cries. He dreamt of his father’s final touch on his head: “A-Cheng, you must live well.” Then he turned and never came back.

He did not know whose memory this was, whose blood and tears. He only knew it must be a nightmare, nothing more. Once he woke, it would be false. Zewu-jun had said his diedie and A-Niang were away night-hunting; they were the strongest in the world. How could anything have happened?

And yet—somehow, with a child’s too-keen instinct, A-Cheng felt a creeping dread. He tried to tell himself boys shouldn’t fear dreams, but the tears spilled out regardless, a flood of a decade’s pain breaking through. He clutched Lan Xichen as if to his last straw, and at last, no longer caring for anything, burst into sobs.

“Zewu-jun, I—I want to go home!”

Chapter Text

The three of them descended quietly into Lotus Pier. As soon as they touched down, Jin Ling dismissed all the servants from the main house.

A-Cheng was sobbing uncontrollably, insisting he had to see his diedie and A-Niang. Jin Ling’s heart twisted like a knife at his cries. At his wit’s end, he exchanged a glance with Lan Xichen, and the two could only mount their swords and head toward Yúnmèng. Along the way, both Jin Ling and Lan Xichen were silent, each considering how to respond when the moment came. Exhausted from crying, A-Cheng fought against sleep, and the instant they landed at Lotus Pier he darted inside.

It was near dusk. The light was dim. Through tear-blurred eyes, A-Cheng failed to notice the differences in Lotus Pier since its reconstruction—he only ran straight toward Jiang Fengmian’s room. Not finding his father, he turned at once to seek his mother. Of course, Yu Ziyuan’s quarters were empty as well. Before that vacant chamber, A-Cheng’s tears spilled all the harder.

“Don’t—don’t cry, jiu—A-Cheng!” Jin Ling panicked, his heart about to break. He hurriedly scooped the boy up and pointed toward the window. “Look! Look at the training yard. Isn’t everyone still practicing their swordwork? No one’s bleeding, everyone’s fine, aren’t they?”

From Yu Ziyuan’s room one could see through the pavilion to the Lotus Pier training grounds. At twilight, Jiang disciples gathered in small groups to spar or chatter, the scene calm and ordinary. A-Cheng stared desperately at the yard, calming somewhat, his tears slowing. But then another thought struck him: “Where’s A-Jie? Where’s A-Ying? Where’s A-Ying?” His murmuring grew frantic. He turned, bolting out again. At the threshold he tripped, gasped at the pain, yet scrambled up at once, staggering deeper into the corridor.

“A-Cheng!” Jin Ling reached out, but Lan Xichen stopped him with a hand and shook his head. Striding forward, he said, “A-Cheng has been gone long from home. Sooner or later, he would want to seek it. Let him vent.”

Jin Ling protested: “How can that be good? We can’t really tell him that Waigong and Wainiang are gone, can we?”

Lan Xichen only sighed. “Leave it to me.”

While they spoke, A-Cheng had already run far ahead. The two followed quickly, winding through the covered water walkways, until they saw him rush into a room and push the door open without hesitation. Jin Ling froze on the spot, startled—this was a forbidden place of Lotus Pier. His jiujiu had never allowed anyone inside, not even him! What was A-Cheng doing here? And what was this room for? But before he could intervene, A-Cheng had gone in, and even Lan Xichen, unknowing, had crossed the threshold. Gritting his teeth, Jin Ling followed.

Yet the room held nothing unusual.

Just an ordinary chamber, filled with old things: two small beds, two small desks, two wardrobes. Even the cloth tiger dolls atop the wardrobes came in a pair. Though unused for years, the room was spotless—clearly cherished and carefully cleaned. Jin Ling picked up the pair of cloth tigers on the desk and saw each had a character stitched into its belly: one “Cheng,” one “Ying.”

Crying, A-Cheng snatched away the yellow tiger. “Don’t you touch A-Ying’s things!”

Jin Ling stood dumbfounded, almost pinned by shock.

This was his jiujiu’s and Wei Ying’s childhood room.

Why… why would his jiujiu keep it so, still cleaned with such care?

“Fine, fine, I won’t touch it,” Jin Ling stammered, all composure gone, panic and confusion stabbing through him. “Jiu—A-Cheng, don’t cry, alright? I—I didn’t mean it…”

“You’re just bullying A-Ying because he isn’t here!” A-Cheng wept and shoved him aside, clutching the tiger and stomping to the wardrobe. He hid Wei Ying’s toy inside. As he pulled open the cabinet, a few papers slipped free, fluttering down. Jin Ling had never dealt with a child before, much less been scolded by his jiujiu in this way. He was nearly crying himself, utterly lost, only able to look helplessly to Zewu-jun.

Lan Xichen, hearing A-Cheng’s sobs, thought of those Yúnmèng brothers, their twists of fate and bitter enmity. It felt like another lifetime—things, people, utterly changed. Pity welled in him, almost overflowing. He stepped closer, knelt, and wrapped an arm around A-Cheng’s shoulders, gently patting his back. Softly he said: “A-Cheng, Sect Leader Jin didn’t mean it. He didn’t know that tiger belonged to your shixiong. Don’t blame him, alright?”

“But—but I promised to protect A-Ying,” A-Cheng choked. “This was made for us by A-Jie. A-Ying liked it so much…”

“Then… how about this. Right now A-Ying and your sister are visiting Méishān. When A-Ying returns, let Sect Leader Jin apologize to him in person, alright?” Lan Xichen tried to soothe him, lifting the fallen pages. Glancing at them, he asked, “Did you draw these, A-Cheng? They’re wonderful. What’s this one—a little stool?”

“These are the puppies I raised—sob—before…” A-Cheng’s cries eased as he pointed to each crooked figure. “That one’s Jasmine, that’s Princess, and this one with the short tail is Little Love.”

Lan Xichen smiled, stroking his hair. “So cute. And this one?”

“That’s… lotus root pork rib soup.”

“Is it tasty?”

“Tasty! A-Jie made it once, it was the best!”

“And this one? This one is—” Lan Xichen broke off.

It was a family portrait.

A-Cheng scrubbed his tears and pointed seriously at the tall man and woman in purple robes holding hands. “That’s diedie and A-Niang. They just came back from a night-hunt—” He pointed to the girl with a flower crown. “They brought A-Jie gifts, a crown and new clothes.” Then he pointed to two little boys: “That’s me, that’s A-Ying. We practiced sword forms, caught birds, picked a hundred lotus pods and a hundred blossoms for diedie.”

The two little boys in the drawing were stubby like potatoes, round and smiling, one with a red ribbon, one holding a lotus pod. They wore matching purple robes, with clumsy little silver bells and toy swords at their belts, grinning ear to ear. Though childish and crooked, the scene radiated innocence and joy.

They had a kind father, a beautiful mother, a gentle sister, each other, and a future.

Above them, a red sun hung. Around them, huge crimson lotuses bloomed. The Jiang family stood in Lotus Pier, smiling with simple, foolish happiness.

Jin Ling could bear no more. He ran from the room.

But A-Cheng went on, oblivious, solemnly describing his dreamed-of Jiang family life. At last he lifted tear-bright eyes to Lan Xichen. “Zewu-jun, when diedie comes back, can I show him my swordwork? I’ve been practicing so hard lately. Do you think diedie will praise me?”

“…Sect Leader Jiang surely will be proud,” Lan Xichen murmured, holding him close, eyes stinging.

A-Cheng clung to his neck, nodded, then after a while whispered in his ear: “Zewu-jun, that really was just a nightmare, wasn’t it?”

Lan Xichen only held him tighter, stroking his hair. “Sleep.”

He raised Liebing and played Zhìmèng. For the first time he grasped its true meaning: to weave the child the best dream. A dream of a family in harmony, of peace in the world. A dream where A-Cheng plucked a hundred lotus pods, where Jiang Fengmian smiled and praised him.

No Wen Sect. No massacre. No betrayal.

Father and mother holding hands, siblings hand in hand.

The xiao’s sobbing notes carried on the night breeze, fading into the dusky summer twilight, like a dream with no trace. At the lotus pond, Jin Ling stood in the darkening wind, tears dried on his face by the sound of the flute.

When the piece ended, footsteps sounded behind him. He hurriedly wiped his face and turned aside.

Lan Xichen stepped out, his forehead ribbon and robes stirred by the evening wind. He saw Jin Ling’s reddened eyes but said nothing, only: “He’s asleep.”

Jin Ling nodded, gathering his tangled feelings. Hesitantly, he asked: “What A-Cheng dreamed—were those my jiujiu’s memories?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Then what do we do?” Jin Ling grew anxious, eyes rimmed red again. “A-Cheng is still so little. He can’t possibly…”

Lan Xichen replied: “Do not worry. Each day I will play Qīngxīn and Zhìmèng for him, and he will not dream of such things again.”

Jin Ling froze, then solemnly bowed deeply. “Thank you, Zewu-jun.”

“Young Master Jin, no need.” Lan Xichen helped him up, a gentle, steady smile softening his face, fading almost into the twilight. “I promised Wanyin I would help him.”

“…Zewu-jun and my jiujiu are close?” Jin Ling’s eyes were curious, searching. Before Lan Xichen could reply, a voice called from behind.

“Jin Ling.”

The one who had fallen asleep now stood at the doorway. His voice and gaze carried not a trace of childishness. The Sandu Shengshou had awakened in the body of a seven-year-old. He stepped into the rising moonlight, purple-white eyes blazing in the night.

“Who the hell gave you permission to enter this room?!”

“Ji—A-Cheng—jiujiu!” Jin Ling froze, barely remembering to change his words, stumbling in panic. “I-I-I didn’t mean it, don’t be mad!”

“Didn’t mean it? Was someone forcing you to come in here?” Jiang Cheng’s anger boiled, his teeth clenched. “Lan Xichen might not know, but you—you didn’t know this is forbidden ground of Lotus Pier?!”

“Jiujiu! That place is just you and—” Jin Ling stopped, realization dawning. “Wait… jiujiu, how do you know? Were you awake when we went in?”

Jiang Cheng gave a cold laugh. “You think just because A-Cheng is awake I must be asleep? I’m not some seven-year-old who needs a nap. I just couldn’t come out. Did you take me for blind?”

Jin Ling thought, You were just sleeping so sweetly in Zewu-jun’s arms, how are you this fierce now? Aggrieved, he stomped. “If you saw, why blame only me? I wasn’t the only one! Jiujiu, if you’re so fierce, then why keep Wei Wuxian’s room at all!”

With a snap, Jiang Cheng yanked Zidian’s ring from his neck.

“Jin Ling.” His furious laugh was sharp. “Do you think just because my spiritual power hasn’t recovered I can’t use Zidian? That I couldn’t still break your legs?”

Fear jolted Jin Ling. His voice wavered as he bolted behind Lan Xichen: “Zewu-jun, save me!”

Lan Xichen quickly tried to smooth things: “Wanyin, Young Master Jin truly didn’t—”

“Lan Huan, don’t defend him!” Jiang Cheng roared, almond eyes blazing. “This brat dares ignore my words—how can that be allowed?!”

He lunged, but in that child’s short-legged body he couldn’t catch Jin Ling. Worse, he tripped over his too-long forehead ribbon and fell flat at Lan Xichen’s feet.

—This was a disaster. Lan Xichen gave a helpless smile. With Wanyin’s pride, he might make himself sick from rage.

Lan Xichen reached, then stopped, letting Jiang Cheng climb up himself. The boy’s small face burned with shame and fury, shoulders trembling. Oddly, watching him, Lan Xichen felt an impulse to laugh—and more, a pang of tenderness. It had been so long since he’d seen Jiang Cheng so unguarded.

His heart softened. Before he could think, his hands had already lifted the small Jiang Cheng into his arms, seating him at eye level.

Jiang Cheng froze, stunned. “…Lan Xichen, what are you doing?”

Lan Xichen smiled gently. “This matter is not wholly Young Master Jin’s fault. I share the blame. If punishment is due, let it fall on me first.”

Jiang Cheng processed their posture and words. His face went through a dozen shades. “…Lan Xichen, put me down.”

Lan Xichen didn’t answer. Carrying the squirming Jiang Cheng, he walked back inside. The strength of Lan hands were always steady; after several failed struggles, Jiang Cheng burst out in fury: “Lan Xichen, do you think I really won’t do anything to you?!”

“Do with me as you will, Sect Leader Jiang; the decision rests wholly with you.” Lan Xichen said, smiling gently, unruffled. He even threw a glance at Jin Ling. “Young Master Jin, it’s late. You should return to Jinlintai.”

Chapter Text

Jin Ling lingered and stalled before finally leaving. With Lan Xichen standing open and unguarded, accepting blame, Jiang Cheng’s anger had nowhere left to go. Furious, he grabbed a boat and rowed it straight into the lotus pond.

The moon hung at its zenith, stars scattered across the sky, the pond so still that only the cool sound of water could be heard. Jiang Cheng lay alone in the boat, letting the night breeze wash over him. He thought of that old room sealed away for thirteen years. Once the shame and rage passed, bitterness and self-mockery welled up instead, the night wind blowing cold through his robes.

What was this?

Was he the tiger fallen to the plain, left for dogs to bully?”

Those secrets sealed for so many years, never spoken, had been exposed in an instant. Even he himself could not face them calmly. Lowering his head, he looked at his own small child’s hand, and the absurdity cut deeper. The day had been too long; even the distant echoes of flute song still in his ears felt like a dream of spring and autumn. He let out a bitter laugh when the boat suddenly swayed.

Zewu-jun descended at the stern like an exiled immortal, his wide white sleeves like moonlight given form. “Still angry?” he asked.

“What do you think?” Jiang Cheng’s sorrow gathered back into sharpness in an instant. He was not surprised, only glared at Lan Xichen. “What are you here for? I haven’t even settled accounts with you yet!”

Lan Xichen only smiled: “Seeing you here alone, I was uneasy.”

“What’s there to be uneasy about? A three-year-old in Yunmeng swims better than you.”

“You know that isn’t what I mean… forget it.” Lan Xichen sighed, his gaze clear as water, steady and unflinching. “In truth, Wanyin, you needn’t worry too much. Your heart toward Wei-gongzi—even without today, Sect Leader Jin and I already saw it clearly.”

“Already saw it clearly?” Jiang Cheng laughed, the coldness of his eyes like blades, laced with sarcasm. “Even I don’t understand myself. What would Jin Ling understand? What would you understand?”

Lan Xichen only looked at him, gaze steady, flickering like moonlight rippling across a spring river.

“You really don’t remember.” His voice was low. “Wanyin, do you remember what you told me, the day you were drunk?”

“What day?” Jiang Cheng faltered, face dark with confusion.

“Long, long ago,” Lan Xichen lowered his eyes, a trace of remembrance softening his expression. “Over ten years now. You only drank to that point in front of me once.”

“…What did I say?” Jiang Cheng fell silent, unease stirring faintly in his chest. Of course he remembered that drunken night: it was in the early days of the Sunshot Campaign, Wei Ying still missing, the Jiang Sect left with only him to fight at the front, carrying blood debts on his back. A half-grown teenager, bearing the title of sect leader but hardly able to convince the masses, struck by the destruction of his home and kin. It was then he first became close with Lan Xichen.

At that time, Lan Xichen was already a young man of noble bearing, gentle and steady. Jiang Cheng had instinctively felt him to be like a brother, even a father, and could not help but grow close. But Jiang Cheng’s nature was proud, his self-respect fierce. Lan Xichen was mindful of his need to project authority, and so he rarely showed this closeness openly. Few ever knew there was friendship between them.

Later, after they captured the Discipline Hall, their first great victory, and reclaimed Bichen, Sandu, and Suibian, Jiang Cheng had finally raised his head in triumph. He remembered clearly: he had pulled Lan Xichen to drink with him late into the night. But what had happened once he was drunk—he had no memory.

He tried to recall, but only fragments came, hazy and broken.

But back then, his sister and brother-in-law were still alive, Wei Ying had been missing for long but not yet returned, the later betrayals and grief had not yet happened. Even drunk as he was, what could he have said?

Lan Xichen’s voice fell into his ear with a sigh, like thunder striking the ground.

“Wanyin,” he said softly, “your golden core was lost for Wei-gongzi, was it not?”

Jiang Cheng stared at him, his face blanching of all color. He stumbled back, the child’s body swaying, eyes wide with shock, blank for a long moment before trembling out: “You… how did you…”

“You told me yourself, back then.” Lan Xichen steadied the small body with his gentle hands, leaned closer, and whispered:

“I didn’t understand at the time. Not until that night at Guanyin Temple.”

Over ten years ago, that night, seventeen-year-old Jiang Cheng had been dead drunk in the war tent.

He had drunk too much, and broke into tears mid-cup. He had even drawn Suibian, swinging it wildly, then throwing it to the ground like a child. “Why hasn’t that idiot Wei Ying come back yet,” he cried, banging his cup against the table, tears spilling into the wine, voice breaking with childish grievance, “I went through so much… so much just to draw the Wen dogs away from you, to get your sword back, even got myself captured, nearly had my cultivation destroyed, and where the hell have you gone? Why—why haven’t you come back…!”

Lan Xichen had moved the wine away, steadying the limp Jiang Cheng, coaxing gently: “Wei-gongzi is blessed with fortune. He’ll be back soon, Wanyin, don’t worry.”

“How soon? Lan Xichen, tell me, how soon is soon?” Jiang Cheng would not stop, leaning against him, tears streaming as he muttered, “Even if it takes long, it doesn’t matter, as long as he comes back, as long as he comes back…”

“At the time, I thought you were talking about when we disguised ourselves to infiltrate the Discipline Hall. But after Guanyin Temple, I understood…”

“Stop.” Jiang Cheng cut him off, pale-faced, voice trembling. “Don’t say it.”

Lan Xichen was silent for a long while before speaking again.

“All these years, I’ve never told another soul. If you don’t wish it, no one will ever know.” He hesitated, then crouched, brushing a fallen lotus petal from Jiang Cheng’s shoulder. “Wanyin, don’t be afraid.”

---

They returned together to Lotus Pier in silence, moonlight flooding the earth. Jiang Cheng picked a dewy lotus bloom and offered it before his parents’ memorials. Lan Xichen stood outside the ancestral hall, gazing up at the moonlit sky, listening to the stillness, when at last he heard a quiet “thank you” behind him.

He turned to see Jiang Cheng still kneeling before the memorials, back straight despite his small body. Jiang Cheng was speaking to him: “Lan Xichen, I will only say this once. Once we leave this hall, I will never acknowledge it again. Today’s events, you are not to speak of them to anyone.”

“I understand.”

“I knew you would answer that way. That’s why I thank you.”

Lan Xichen was caught off guard by the frankness. But Jiang Cheng went on: “Last time I was here, I cursed your brother. Too harshly. I should apologize.”

“….” Lan Xichen knew this was the greatest concession Jiang Cheng could manage. Such a stiff, misplaced apology, yet it was the first time he had ever heard one. He almost laughed, sighed instead. “Wanyin, why not just tell Wangji yourself?”

“No.” Jiang Cheng refused flatly. “Lan Wangji asked for it.”

“……”

“The affairs of the Jiang Sect are not his to meddle in.” Already laid bare, Jiang Cheng seemed to throw up his hands, sharp and blunt as always. “Besides—if I owe anyone, it’s you. What does it have to do with him?”

The words were so unreasonable, domineering and protective, that Lan Xichen couldn’t help but laugh, sighing as he tried to advise: “Wanyin…”

“Save it. Back then you came begging me to help your bro—” Jiang Cheng stopped short, fell silent, then muttered, “Forget it.”

The past, unknown to others, was vivid to them both.

Lan Xichen gazed at his back. “Wanyin, don’t take it out on Wangji on my account.”

“Who said it was on your account? I’ve never gotten along with him, and you’ve always known it.” Jiang Cheng’s voice rose with flustered anger, then softened again. “But I didn’t come to talk about that today, Lan Xichen.”

Lan Xichen blinked, surprised.

Jiang Cheng hesitated, rare for him, then said: “What’s past cannot be undone, but the future can still be grasped. Jin Guangyao is already dead. You… should let it go. If you can, go talk with Nie Huaisang.”

“…” Lan Xichen was silent for a long time before asking, “Why Huaisang?”

“Because he’s alive, that’s why.” Jiang Cheng said. “Am I wrong? You haven’t been dwelling on how he used your hand to kill Jin Guangyao?”

“…”

“Lan Xichen, I don’t know exactly what happened among the three of you. But Chifeng-zun is dead, Jin Guangyao is dead, only you and Huaisang remain. At least with Huaisang, there’s someone left to talk to. If you’re troubled, what use is it to stew alone? Ask what you should ask, say what you should say. If there’s grievance, air it. If there’s vengeance, take it. Don’t be like me—thirteen years wanting to demand answers of Wei Ying, searching heaven and earth, and never able to find him.”

“Wanyin…” Lan Xichen hadn’t expected Jiang Cheng to comfort him, his heart moved. Jiang Cheng, so proud and severe, had from youth borne a sharp self-respect. For him to admit even a fraction of grief for Wei Wuxian was nearly impossible, let alone to use his own painful Jiang family past to console another.

Only in such hidden nights, with the wild sky and the quiet moon, could they lay down their sect burdens and show the weary corner of a true heart.

Moonlight washed the world white, cleansing the spirit. Lan Xichen’s feelings were mixed and heavy, but he could not help voicing them: “Huaisang or A-Yao, it’s all the same—I knew them for so many years, yet perhaps I never truly understood them. Because of my foolishness, my da-ge died a tragic death, and Huaisang lost his brother. I wronged them both.”

“You are foolish,” Jiang Cheng snorted, unexpectedly agreeing, then turned sharp and direct: “But that’s no excuse for them using you like a knife. Jin Guangyao killing Chifeng-zun—what does that have to do with you? Nie Huaisang avenging himself—what does that have to do with you? Their feud was theirs alone. You were just the blade to sever it. If it wasn’t you, it would’ve been someone else. They chose you only because your heart was clean, easy to wield.”

“Lan-zongzhu, your dead-headedness comes from being bound too tightly by your clan rules. You treat everyone with sincerity, but not everyone is a gentleman in return. What Huaisang thinks, whether he blames you, how can you know unless you ask? Better to open the window, speak plainly, separate grudges and debts, let bridge be bridge and road be road.”

The words were sharp, blood-edged, yet in the end tinged with sorrow. Lan Xichen froze, remembering Jin Guangyao’s last confession, recalling the long bond of Yunmeng’s twin heroes, and thought: Wanyin himself has never been able to make bridge be bridge, road be road.

So what of himself? Could he really separate feelings from justice?

He didn’t know. But Jiang Cheng’s harsh words cut clean as a blade, yet carried with them a strange courage. He looked up into the summer night, where the bright moonlight pierced the clouds, shining on the pond full of lotus leaves.

The night was endless, but at least the moonlight pointed the way.

Brooding alone was useless. Better to walk with another.

Chapter Text

Half a month passed in a blur. The scrolls brought from Jin Guangyao’s secret chamber had been searched through cover to cover, yet still no trace of Mùgǔ-Chénzhōng could be found.

A-Cheng, meanwhile, had grown used to life in Cloud Recesses. He had even memorized a good many sect rules, and played cheerfully with Jingyi, Sizhui, and the other juniors. Whenever Jin Ling had a spare moment, he would hurry over to see him. The first time he caught sight of Lan Jingyi carrying A-Cheng in his arms, teasing him, Jin Ling’s face went crimson.

“Lan Jingyi! Y-you—how could you—!”

“What? What did I do?” Lan Jingyi blinked in confusion.

Jin Ling had nearly shouted, How could you treat my jiujiu so disrespectfully? But A-Cheng’s identity was a secret he could never reveal. He swallowed hard, cheeks burning, and finally blurted: “—How can you call him A-Cheng so casually? Where’s the propriety in that?”

“…Why not? Everyone calls him A-Cheng. Don’t you?” Lan Jingyi was utterly baffled. “Young Mistress, what’s wrong with you today? Did a screw come loose?”

Sizhui could only laugh and step in hastily: “Jingyi!”

Jin Ling was half-angry, half-mortified, so flustered he could only huff, “I don’t care! Does the Lan Sect’s rulebook mean nothing to you? Treating A-Cheng like this—don’t you feel any shame?”

Lan Jingyi: “????” How’s this shameless? Aren’t you the one trailing after A-Cheng every day, begging to hold him?

The younger disciples were always squabbling like this, pulling A-Cheng back and forth between them. Poor Sizhui was left trying to mediate, weary to the bone.

Time flew. Summer drew to its close, and Lan Wangji finally returned. Hanguang-jun and his cultivation partner had been away long on their travels, and the moment they entered through the mountain gate, the juniors swarmed to greet them.

Lan Wangji was always an icy mountain, distant and forbidding, but his partner Wei Wuxian brimmed with wit and easy laughter, impossible not to draw close to. He chattered away with Sizhui and Jingyi about their travels in Nánjiāng, from astronomy and geography to life lessons, even joking that Hanguang-jun had nearly been taken by the Nánjiāng women as a captive husband.

Though Hanguang-jun was present, the juniors dared not be too bold. Still, Lan Jingyi nearly choked trying to stifle his laughter. Then Wei Wuxian asked:

“Right, we’ve been gone so long—how has Cloud Recesses been? Everything all right?”

Sizhui replied politely, “All is well, Wei-qianbei, Hanguang-jun. You need not worry. Ah, though… there has been one matter.”

“Oh? What is it?”

“Zewu-jun brought back a child, said to be the son of an old friend. He’s been raised here ever since, and everyone adores him.”

“A child?” Wei Wuxian blinked. Even Lan Wangji’s expression shifted. Wei Wuxian elbowed him playfully, laughing: “Well, now! Your elder brother actually brought back a child?”

“Exactly!” Jingyi chimed in, brimming with excitement. “Wei-qianbei, you don’t know—everyone’s gossiping about it. They say the Sect Leader dotes on A-Cheng so much, maybe he really is his son.”

At that, Lan Wangji’s brows drew together faintly, a trace of confusion in his eyes. Wei Wuxian only found it funnier: Zewu-jun, such an upright gentleman—could he possibly have a secret child? Impossible. Surely Zewu-jun was simply fond of the boy, enough to invite misinterpretation. Still, with the Lan Sect’s four thousand rules, how could such a rumor spread unchecked in Cloud Recesses? And Lan Qiren hadn’t stamped it out? Was that old man so eager for Zewu-jun to continue the line?

His thoughts spun rapidly—when suddenly Sizhui gave a soft laugh of surprise. Wei Wuxian turned his head.

A small child in Lan robes stumbled out of a room, rubbing his eyes blearily. He had clearly just woken from his nap, his forehead ribbon crooked. Still drowsy, he toddled forward and, without hesitation, hugged Lan Wangji’s leg, rubbing his cheek against the snow-white robe.

“Zewu-jun, you’re back.”

Lan Wangji: “…” Sizhui: “…” Jingyi: “…”

Wei Wuxian burst into laughter. The Lan sect’s twin jades looked so alike, no wonder a child would confuse them.

The boy, puzzled at not receiving the usual pat on the head, raised his eyes. Meeting Lan Wangji’s icy gaze, he flinched, shrank back several steps, and turned to flee.

Wei Wuxian swooped down with practiced ease, catching him up and coaxing with a grin: “Hey now, don’t run. Hanguang-jun won’t eat you, what’s there to be afraid of?”

“L-let me go!” The boy stiffened, his voice trying for calm but betraying shame and fluster. Something in it struck Wei Wuxian like a half-remembered chord.

He had always been good at dealing with this kind of stubborn pride. Without a blink, he patted the boy’s head cheerfully: “That’s not Zewu-jun, that’s his younger brother, Hanguang-jun. Look closely—don’t they look exactly alike?”

Fearing the boy might not see clearly, Wei Wuxian simply hoisted the solid little body up into his arms, lifting him until he was eye-to-eye with Lan Zhan.

A-Cheng stared blankly at Lan Zhan. Then blankly at him.

Wei Wuxian met those almond-shaped eyes—and his mind went utterly blank.

…Jiang Cheng?

How could this be? Who was this child? The son of some old friend? Jiang Cheng’s child? Could Jiang Cheng have had a child in secret? His nephew? Impossible. It could not be. How could Lan Xichen have brought him here? Where was Jiang Cheng? What had happened? No—nothing could have happened. Impossible. Was there really some art in this world that could turn a man back into a child—

“Wei Ying?” Lan Wangji’s cool voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. Wei Wuxian jolted, blinking back to himself, only to find those clear, puzzled almond eyes still gazing at him.

“Hey—you, what’s wrong? Are you all right?”

Even the voice was the same. Wei Wuxian nearly choked on the recognition.

What was the boy’s name again?

Without thinking, he asked. The child answered, “My diedie and A-Niang both call me A-Cheng.”

A-Cheng? Truly A-Cheng? How many years had it been since anyone had called him that?

Wei Wuxian asked in disbelief, “Sizhui—which cheng is it?”

Jingyi interjected: “Sect Leader never said. I’d guess chéng like in yánchéngchéng.”

“A-Cheng is just A-Cheng.” The boy frowned. “I don’t know how it’s written. Why are you asking?”

“…” Wei Wuxian stared at him, expression blank, stunned.

That frown—there was no second person in the world who wore it. From childhood, Jiang Cheng had always been this way. Through all the years, it had never once changed. No one alive knew it better than Wei Wuxian.

So that was it. No wonder Lan Xichen and Lan Qiren had allowed the rumors to spread unchecked. It was all to conceal this child’s true identity. He did not know what had happened, how Jiang Cheng had become like this—but that was the truth.

“I—I’m talking to you!” The boy’s cheeks flushed, his grape-dark eyes fixed on Wei Wuxian with wary confusion. “Who are you? Put me down!”

But this Jiang Cheng did not know him. And he did not hate him.

So innocent, so pure. Untouched by everything.

Wei Wuxian blinked, as though waking from a dream. Slowly, a dazzling smile spread across his face. “My surname is Wei. My name is Wei Yuandao. A-Cheng—hello.”

He had no idea what had happened, or why Jiang Cheng had become like this.

But it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter.

What mattered was that this little A-Cheng had not yet lived through any of it.

“Wei… Yuandao?” the boy repeated carefully, syllable by syllable. “Huh, you’re surnamed Wei too? A-Ying is surnamed Wei.”

How old had Wei Wuxian been when he first came to Lotus Pier? Eight? Jiang Cheng had been seven, eight at most.

“Yes…” Wei Wuxian murmured. But in the next instant, he tucked the daze away, his face lighting up with cheerful mischief. “—Little A-Cheng, come on, call me Wei-shixiong once, let me hear it.”

Chapter Text

Wei Wuxian was born with a laughing face, warm and playful by nature, always winning over juniors. And if he set his mind on winning over a particular child—especially one he already knew—there was no way he would fail.

So when Lan Xichen returned by sword from the Nie Sect’s Unclean Realm, he found not only his younger brother and brother-in-law back, but also that in just half a day Wei Wuxian had nearly spirited A-Cheng away, playing with him as though they had been inseparable all along.

Lan Xichen stood on the grass, watching from a distance as A-Cheng crouched among the rabbits with a cabbage leaf in hand, earnestly copying Wei Wuxian in feeding them. He could not help but laugh and sigh: A-Cheng, dressed in snowy white robes, bundled into a tiny ball on the ground, looked exactly like one of Hanguang-jun’s rabbits—a soft, round snowball. And yet Wei Wuxian still teased him, tying his forehead ribbon into long loops like rabbit ears, then catching a bunny for him, teaching him how to stroke its ears, how to rub its belly.

In all the world, likely only Wei Ying would dare play tricks with Hanguang-jun’s rabbits.

A-Cheng, curious and delighted, stroked the rabbit’s ears, then its soft, snowy back. Feeling how gentle it was, he finally plucked up the courage under Wei Wuxian’s encouragement to hug it tight against his chest, rubbing it over and over with his cheek.

When the rabbit startled and leapt from his arms, bounding away in fright, Lan Xichen reached out and caught it, smiling as he came forward to greet them. “Wei-gongzi, you are back?”

“Yes.” Wei Wuxian stood, brushing off his trousers and pulling the grass stalk from between his lips with a grin. “Dage must be tired—just returned?”

Lan Xichen had only just opened his mouth when A-Cheng ran up and wrapped his leg in a hug, joyfully welcoming: “Zewu-jun, you’re home! Look—Wei-shixiong showed me the rabbits. I didn’t know there were so many here!”

Wei-shixiong?

Lan Xichen raised his brows, surprised, then could not help but laugh. Lifting A-Cheng into his arms, he teased gently, “Oh? I leave for half a day, and already you’ve gained a new Wei-shixiong?”

It was the first time anyone had said something like this to him. A-Cheng blushed at once, shy and wordless, turning his head to look toward Wei Wuxian instead. Lan Xichen sighed inwardly. He truly did not know what spell his younger brother’s spouse had cast—half a day, and already they were so close? Perhaps it was true what they said of childhood ties.

Wei Wuxian, who had grown up alongside Jiang Cheng, naturally knew all his likes and dislikes. Winning his favor was all too easy. Young Jiang Cheng was not yet the proud, sharp-edged man who would later hide his heart—he was still straightforward, still soft. A few rabbits, a few stories of borrowed kinship (“Your father once guided me—so I suppose I barely count as your shixiong!”), and he had coaxed out one crisp call of “Wei-shixiong.” How rare. Wei Wuxian thought, Jiang Cheng had never called him shixiong before.

Those dark, bright eyes fixed on him made his heart warm. Enjoying himself, Wei Wuxian laughed as he explained, “Don’t blame me, dage. I knew he’s loved small animals since he was young, so I brought him to see Hanguang-jun’s rabbits.”

“Is that so?” Lan Xichen thought. This child’s identity would never stay hidden from Wei Wuxian—no surprise there.

“Mm.” Wei Wuxian ruffled A-Cheng’s hair, his gaze complicated. “When Jiang Cheng was little, he kept a few puppies at Lotus Pier. But once I came, Uncle Jiang sent them all away.”

Lan Xichen suddenly asked, “Were they called Jasmine, Princess, and Little Love?”

Those names, ridiculous as names for song-house courtesans, sounded all the more out of place spoken in Lan Xichen’s refined tones. Even Wei Wuxian blinked in confusion. “…Dage, how do you know that?”

Lan Xichen only smiled faintly without answering. He led him back to his room and pointed to a painting hanging on the wall.

Wei Wuxian stared, struck speechless.

Because A-Cheng had been living in Lan Xichen’s Hanshi these past days, a small bed and desk had been set up for him. Children’s things filled the space, lending warmth and human touch to the once austere quarters of the Lan Sect Leader.

But that was not the point.

The point was—the wall where once hung works by famous calligraphers now displayed a carefully mounted painting… a childish scrawl of three dogs that looked suspiciously like benches.

As someone who had feared dogs since childhood, Wei Wuxian had no memory of what Jiang Cheng’s puppies actually looked like. But Jiang Cheng’s astonishing childhood “art” style he remembered all too well.

Faced with this crooked, clumsy painting, even the Yiling Patriarch himself fell into silence. For a moment he did not know which was more childish—that A-Cheng had drawn it, or that Lan Xichen had carefully mounted it and hung it as if it were a masterpiece. Wei Wuxian swore this judgment had nothing to do with his prejudice against dogs.

He opened his mouth but could not find words. “…Zewu-jun, where on earth did you get this?”

“Lotus Pier,” Lan Xichen answered simply.

Wei Wuxian’s heart jolted. Only then did he remember why he was here at all. He asked seriously, “Dage—what exactly happened to Jiang Cheng?”

Lan Xichen sighed, sending A-Cheng to play outside, then told the story from the beginning—leaving out only what they had discovered at Lotus Pier. Perhaps from the simple desire to preserve his own work, A-Cheng had insisted on bringing two drawings back with him. Lan Xichen had not stopped him, even helped him mount them. The dog painting A-Cheng hung proudly for himself; the other, a family portrait, he would take out again and again to look at.

“It’s this one.” The drawing was sprawled across the table, likely left there by A-Cheng himself, forgotten.

Wei Wuxian stared at the complete family portrait. At last he shut his eyes, burning, and whispered, “I remember this. He was so proud of it, so happy. Said he was going to show it to Uncle Jiang.”

“And then?”

“And then… I don’t know. He never mentioned it again.” Wei Wuxian’s gaze darkened. “I teased him, said the lotus flowers looked ugly. I even added strokes myself. He was so angry he wouldn’t leave me a rib in the soup for days.”

“…”

“When we were children, Uncle Jiang favored me. Jiang Cheng cared about that—cared deeply. He really…” Wei Wuxian’s voice faltered, the rest lost, drowned by the sting of memory. He looked at the family portrait, thought of boats and birds at Lotus Pier, and was filled with a bitter ache of things long gone.

Lan Xichen watched him a long while, then said softly, “Wei-gongzi, Wanyin likes you very much.”

Wei Wuxian looked at A-Cheng playing in the courtyard, eyes glinting with self-mockery. “I know. Since we were young, he treated me well. But—” He stopped, shaking his head. “But that’s all.”

“I do not mean the past.” Lan Xichen shook his head.

Wei Wuxian blinked, then laughed loudly, careless. “Impossible. Jiang Cheng hates me to death. If you don’t believe it, wait until nightfall—you’ll see.”

Lan Xichen gazed at him deeply, then sighed. “So be it. Wei-gongzi, in time, you will know.”

Wei Wuxian only smiled, letting it pass. Then, with a mischievous grin, he asked, “What I do want to know, dage—since when did you and Jiang Cheng become so close?”

Wei Wuxian was always sharp. No hiding it from him.

Lan Xichen rose. His brows and eyes softened with warmth, dark gaze alight with rare, playful ease. “In the days when Wei-gongzi was not watching.”

Chapter Text

Many years ago, when Jiang Cheng and Wei Ying were still small, Jiang Fengmian once took them out to see the lanterns. The streets were packed shoulder to shoulder, lanterns bright as day. Jiang Fengmian carried one child in his arms and held the other by the hand, afraid they might be swept away by the crowd.

The one in his arms was, of course, Wei Ying.

Jiang Cheng held his father’s hand, but sulked all the way, too aggrieved to enjoy the lanterns, head down and distracted. Before long, Wei Ying tugged Jiang Fengmian, begging to be put down. Once on the ground, he grabbed Jiang Cheng’s other hand himself.

Wei Ying leaned in grinning by his ear, whispered: “Shidi, look. Now we’re the same.”

Jiang Cheng stared at their joined hands, then at Wei Ying. At last, his wide almond eyes lit with the first smile of the night. “Mm!” With one hand in his father’s, one in A-Ying’s, he lifted his head and saw the most beautiful lanterns and fireworks of his life.

Jiang Cheng had always been anxious before his father, striving to please, never daring to ask for what he liked, afraid of being disliked. Wei Ying, already close to him then, knew his prideful, tearful temper. Feeling it his duty as shixiong not to let his shidi suffer, he would always boldly ask Jiang Fengmian for whatever Jiang Cheng secretly coveted.

Wei Ying was never greedy. After it happened enough times, Jiang Fengmian quickly saw through their little trick. He felt some guilt in his heart, yet also thought the two’s brotherly closeness was very endearing. So he sighed, patted Jiang Cheng’s head, and bought the two little radishes one lotus lantern each.

The memories were hazy, but vivid. And the scene before his eyes now was so alike, and yet so utterly different.

Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng stood on the lantern street, one grown, one child, both stiff and awkward.

“…Why are you the one with me?” Jiang Cheng muttered at last, irritation still heavy in his voice.

“What could I do? You insisted on following Jin Ling out.” Wei Wuxian shot back, the coaxing tone of the afternoon slipping out again. “All right, all right. I know you wanted to come with Lan-dage. But Zewu-jun had sect matters. Oh—don’t tell me you really wanted to come with Lan Zhan? Who would’ve thought, Jiang Cheng?”

“Don’t use that tone on me! And who the hell would want to come with Lan Wangji?!”

“Yes, yes. But honestly—you’re overdoing it. Jin Ling’s grown. He and Jingyi, Sizhui, and the others are fine on their own. If you follow, how’s he supposed to look at girls? It’s a wonder your nephew doesn’t hate you.”

Jiang Cheng sneered. “And what right do you have to say that? What are you to Jin Ling?”

Wei Wuxian went quiet, then stroked his chin, changing tack. “Speaking of—so you don’t deny wanting to be with Zewu-jun?”

“You—Wei Wuxian! Have you no shame?!”

“Come on, less cursing, more civility. And I never said anything. My good shimei, why twist your own words?”

Jiang Cheng jabbed a finger at him, choked, and finally spat only: “Get lost!” He spun around to leave. Wei Wuxian didn’t even blink before scooping him up, grinning.

For days he’d been spoiling A-Cheng, nearly to the heavens. Between him and Jiang Cheng, too much had piled up—debts, grudges, losses. No path back. But this A-Cheng was new, untouched, clean. A chance to start over. At Guanyin Temple he had said to leave the past in the past. Yet afterward he could not erase Jiang Yanli and Jin Zixuan’s deaths, nor the Jiang Sect’s kindness.

No matter what, Lotus Pier was still home.

But whether he could return or not—this seven-year-old A-Cheng could never return to parents alive and sister’s love.

With guilt and tenderness, Wei Wuxian treated him like Jin Ling all over again, determined to form a new bond. With Jiang Cheng, nothing could be undone. But with this child, at least he could begin again—even if just for a while.

Even at night—with the real Jiang Cheng lodged in a seven-year-old body—he was cute in a “little adult” way. With his spiritual power gone, the hedgehog had lost its spines: the mouth was still sharp, the rest of him soft. For the first time in over twenty years, Wei Wuxian felt him light and pliant; his fingers itched to tease.

So what if his words were sharp? They always were. Now that the golden core secret was out, he wouldn’t lash him with Zidian. What harm was a few insults? Tomorrow morning A-Cheng would still call him shixiong, sweet and obedient. Perfect.

It was Qixi. Lanterns blazed like stars, the streets thronged. Jin Ling and the others walked ahead, laughing. Wei Wuxian trailed Jiang Cheng behind, watching his nephew.

“Hey hey, Jiang Cheng, look. That girl tossed a sachet at Jin Ling!”

“Shut up, I saw.”

“She’s pretty though—”

“Pretty? Are you blind? She’s not even half as good-looking as Jin Ling.”

“You can’t compare like that—”

“I warn you, Wei Wuxian, don’t you dare pass on your rotten habits to Jin Ling!”

“Be reasonable. Jiang-zongzhu, if he doesn’t learn now, how’ll he find a partner later?”

“Hmph. Jin Ling can have anyone. Better than you, you damned cut-sleeve.”

“So what if I am? Hanguang-jun’s the best there is. If you can, Shidi, go find someone yourself.”

“…None of your damn business!”

“Oi, oi, shimei, mind your mouth. You’re in Lan uniforms. If someone hears, they’ll say Zewu-jun taught you badly.”

“Get lost! Who’s your shimei?!”

“Funny… whenever it’s about Zewu-jun, you never refute. Only pick fights with me.”

Jiang Cheng pressed his lips tight. “That’s because you’re the one picking fights!”

“Oh?” Wei Wuxian stretched the word, crouching to meet his eyes. “Then tell me. What’s between you and Zewu-jun?”

“W-what do you mean?” Jiang Cheng flinched like burned, almond eyes sharp.

“If nothing, why so nervous? Since when does my shimei blush?”

“Shut up!” Jiang Cheng’s cheeks reddened.

“Ha! You really are. So when did you get so close to Lan-dage? Last time I saw him, he was sunk in gloom. This time, he’s spirited. Tell me, shimei—what miracle did you slip him? Get me some for Lan Zhan?”

“Call me shimei again and you’ll regret it for life, Wei Wuxian. Don’t think I can’t use Zidian on you.”

Here we go again. Wei Wuxian sighed. “Shidi, don’t dodge.”

But Jiang Cheng only turned, cold. “Don’t compare me to you, Wei Ying. And don’t think Lan Xichen is like you.”

He strode off without another word. Wei Wuxian froze. That look—not cruel, not fierce, but sharp as flame on steel.

Jiang Cheng cared for few beyond family. But now, for Lan Xichen, he was serious. What did that mean? Wei Wuxian dared not dig deeper. Could someone other than himself and Jin Ling truly move him so?

The night wind cut cold, seeping through his robes. Wei Wuxian looked toward the distant lantern glow and, all at once, felt the weight of thirteen years’ absence—an emptiness rising without cause.

Strange, truly strange. The past was long gone. Jiang Cheng’s temper unchanged, still shining as Sandu Shengshou—it even looks as though he has formed some new bond. He’s doing perfectly well, what reason does he have to feel any sense of loss?

Weren’t they even? Bridges return to bridges, roads return to roads?

He stood dazed on the bridge and then jolted. Jiang Cheng was gone.

It was the Qixi lantern market; the streets shoulder to shoulder, crowds packed tight. Jiang Cheng, such a small child, unseen would be only natural—yet he was so very small. Even if his mind was that of an adult, his body was after all just a seven-year-old child, unarmed, stripped of spiritual power. If lost now, he would be hard to find. Wei Wuxian stood on the bridge, sweeping his gaze in all directions, a strange unease rising. Before he could think further—through the crush of people came five sharp, urgent chimes, cutting the air.

Wei Wuxian froze. The nine-petaled lotus bell—only Jin Ling and Jiang Cheng carried it, and Jin Ling would never ring five chimes without shouting as well. That left only one possibility.

At the far end of the street a black-clad man was running, a small body slung limp over his shoulder.

Wei Wuxian’s breath seized.

Before thought could catch up, Chenqing was already at his lips; a sharp note cut the air as he surged forward.

Who dared lay hands on Jiang Cheng? For what purpose? A kidnapping? Why him—and how did they know?

He glimpsed the child’s face, slack and unresponsive, and in that instant terror slammed into him, rage and killing intent boiling up in its wake.

To hell with “even debts, bridges apart!”

What had they done to Jiang Cheng?

The flute’s cry was sharp. Resentful energy surged, corpses lunged, and black mist pressed down and smothered the light of the lanterns.

The black-clad man had only paltry skill. Driven into a dark alley, at last he halted, trembling, and set the unconscious A-Cheng down.

Even on the walls, three shadows squatted, staring coldly, stiffly, leaving him nowhere to escape.

Wei Ying walked out of the night, unhurried, a few corpses following behind him. Half his face hidden in shadow, he lightly stroked Chenqing’s blood-red tassel.

“You ran fast,” his voice carried a trace of laughter, but his eyes burned with icy killing aura, like two ghost-fires in the dark. “Why stop now?”

“Y-Yiling Laozu…!” The man collapsed to his knees, voice shaking to the point of collapse.

“Oh? So you know who I am?” Wei Wuxian smiled. He once again felt that long-buried murderous aura, as though through an unseen glass dome, cold and aloof, gazing down on all beneath.

He lifted a foot, kicked the man back hard, then flicked Chenqing. The corpses behind leapt forward, seized his collar, and smashed him against the wall.

“Then how dare you touch him before me?”

The man trembled, pale, unable to speak.

Wei Ying lifted the unconscious A-Cheng. The instant he felt that soft warmth, his heartbeat returned, blood flowing back into his cold head. Only fainted. No blood. Not dead. Not dead.

“Do you know what became of those who touched Jiang Cheng before me?” Holding the child with one arm, he gently stroked A-Cheng’s forehead. “When I killed Wang Lingjiao, she drove a chair leg through her own throat. When we killed Wen Chao, not to mention a whole corpse, we did not leave even half a piece of flesh. And that innkeeper? He must have cursed me for months; the stench of blood clung to the floor, three months and it still hadn’t gone.”

He tilted Chenqing, flicking away the man’s mask. His cold gaze swept that terror-stricken face up and down.

“So I’m really curious. Who gave you the courage to touch my brother before my eyes? Who sent you here, only to die?”