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In a world untouched by Sunshot Campaigns and simmering resentments, the cultivation world was a tapestry of (mostly) peaceful, if fiercely competitive, sects. The Qishan Wen were renowned for their powerful, sun-themed cultivation and their surprisingly benevolent, if distant, leadership under Wen Ruohan. The Gusu Lan were the undisputed pinnacle of grace, power, and restraint. The Lanling Jin were gloriously, unapologetically wealthy. The Qinghe Nie were robust and straightforward. And the Yunmeng Jiang…
Well, the Yunmeng Jiang had Jiang Cheng.
Jiang Wanyin, the sole heir to Yunmeng Jiang, was a spoiled, sharp-tongued, devastatingly handsome menace. He was the worst combination of traits: his mother’s cutting arrogance and his father’s… well, his father’s apparent inability to say ‘no’ to his only son. He was a playboy of legendary repute, a connoisseur of beauty in all its forms. Gender was a trivial detail; if you were beautiful, Jiang Cheng had, in all likelihood, tried to woo you, charm you, or outright seduce you.
His best friends—a terrifying thought for any sane parent—were the equally spoiled but far less clever Wen Chao, and the endlessly amused gossip-monger Nie Huaisang. Wei Wuxian, his brother in all but blood, was often dragged along for the ride, mostly to invent the escape routes they would inevitably need.
It was at the annual inter-sect archery tournament hosted by Lanling Jin that Jiang Cheng’s world tilted on its axis.
He was lounging in the Jinlintai pavilion, basking in the admiring glances and the irritated glares he collected with equal pleasure, complaining to Wen Chao about the lack of interesting company.
“The new Meishan Yu disciple has a face like a slapped bottom,” he sniffed, swirling the expensive wine in his cup. “And the Laoling Qin heir has the personality of a damp rag. This tournament is a bore.”
“You’re just grumpy because that pretty rogue cultivator from Moling turned you down,” Nie Huaisang said, hiding a smile behind his fan.
“She had no taste,” Jiang Cheng snapped. “And her swordwork was mediocre.”
Wei Wuxian, dangling upside down from a beam above them, grinned. “A-Cheng, your standards are so high, even the moon isn’t pretty enough for you!”
“The moon is bland and overrated,” Jiang Cheng retorted, just to be contrary.
And then he saw him.
The Gusu Lan contingent had arrived, a wave of serene white and cool blue amidst the gold and finery of Jinlintai. And at their head was Sect Leader Lan Xichen.
Jiang Cheng’s cup halted halfway to his lips. His breath caught. All the air seemed to have been sucked from the pavilion.
Lan Xichen was… perfection. Tall and elegantly built, his posture was both regal and effortless. His face was a symphony of gentle slopes and kind eyes, yet it was framed by an aura of immense, untouchable power. He was the First Jade of Lan, the top cultivator of his generation, and the man unanimously voted the most handsome in the entire cultivation world. And he was smiling, a gentle, diplomatic curve of his lips as he greeted Jin Guangshan.
Jiang Cheng felt a jolt go straight through him. This wasn’t just want. This was a need. A burning, possessive, bratty need to have that man look at him, to unravel that perfect composure, to have that celestial beauty sighing his name.
“Oh no,” Wei Wuxian whispered, dropping to the floor. “I know that look. That’s your ‘I-see-a-new-shiny-toy’ look.”
“Who is it this time?” Wen Chao leaned in, following Jiang Cheng’s gaze. His face paled. “Oh, you can’t be serious. Not him. That’s Zewu-Jun! He’s… he’s a sect leader! He’s… righteous!”
“He’s beautiful,” Jiang Cheng breathed, his voice full of covetous awe. “And I’m going to have him.”
Nie Huaisang’s fan fluttered frantically. “Jiang-xiong, no! He’s not one of your flings! He’s Zewu-Jun! He’s practically a deity! He’ll obliterate you!”
Jiang Cheng just smirked, a familiar, dangerous glint in his violet eyes. “We’ll see.”
His campaign began immediately, and with the subtlety of a thunderstorm.
During the tournament, he made sure his arrow always landed just a hair’s breadth from Lan Xichen’s own perfect shot. He “accidentally” let a practice arrow fly astray, landing at Xichen’s feet with a Jiang clarity bell tied to it. He positioned himself directly in Xichen’s sightline during every break, striking what he thought were alluring poses.
Lan Xichen, for his part, responded with infuriating, impeccable politeness. He would nod. He would smile that distant, sect-leader smile. He would return the clarity bell with a gentle, “I believe you lost this, Young Master Jiang.” He was a wall of serene, unbreakable jade.
It was maddening.
The climax of Jiang Cheng’s frustration came at the banquet that evening. Emboldened by Jin wine and his own towering ego, he swaggered up to the head table where Lan Xichen was discussing night-hunting routes with Lan Wangji and Jin Zixuan.
“Zewu-Jun,” Jiang Cheng purred, leaning against the table and deliberately invading the man’s space. “You’ve been ignoring my… messages all day. Surely a man of your standing appreciates directness.”
Lan Wangji’s gaze could have frozen hell. Jin Zixuan looked deeply uncomfortable.
Lan Xichen merely took a slow sip of his tea. “My apologies, Young Master Jiang. I have been occupied with my duties. What message did you wish to convey?”
“That the most beautiful jade deserves the finest setting,” Jiang Cheng said, his voice dropping to what he hoped was a seductive register. “I have a suite overlooking the lotus ponds at Lotus Pier. It’s far more… stimulating than the silent, cold mountains of Gusu. Perhaps you’d like to see it? I could show you the sights. Personally.”
The air grew still. Wei Wuxian, from across the room, was making frantic slashing motions across his throat.
Lan Xichen finally set his cup down. He turned fully to face Jiang Cheng, and for the first time, the gentle smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. Instead, there was a glint of something else—something sharp, amused, and utterly dominant.
“Young Master Jiang,” he said, his voice a soft, melodic rumble that nonetheless commanded the attention of everyone within earshot. “You have, I am told, a great appreciation for beauty.”
Jiang Cheng preened. “I have excellent taste.”
“Indeed. You pursue it with the single-minded focus of a hunter. You see a pretty thing and you must have it, much like a child coveting a shiny new toy from the market.” Xichen’s smile widened a fraction. “But tell me, what do you do with the toy once you have grown bored of it? You break it. Or you discard it.”
Jiang Cheng’s smirk faltered. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do.” Lan Xichen leaned forward, just slightly, and the move was so unexpected that Jiang Cheng actually leaned back. “You are a brat, Jiang Wanyin. A spoiled, beautiful, and incredibly talented brat. You have never been denied anything you truly wanted. You play with hearts and reputations because you have never faced a consequence that truly stung.”
Jiang Cheng’s face flushed with anger and humiliation. “How dare you—”
“I dare,” Xichen interrupted, his voice still gentle but now laced with steel, “because I am not one of your conquests. I am not a plaything to be won and discarded. If you are truly interested in me, you should understand something.”
“What?” Jiang Cheng snarled, his composure shattered.
Lan Xichen’s eyes swept over him, from his furiously knitted brows down to the white-knuckled grip on Sandu. It was an assessing, possessive look that made Jiang Cheng’s skin prickle.
“I do not GET into anyone’s bed,” Lan Xichen said, his voice dropping to a intimate murmur meant only for Jiang Cheng. “If you wish to share a bed with me, Jiang Wanyin, you will have to be PUT there. Mine. And I do not share my toys. I do not break them. I cherish them, I discipline them, and I expect their absolute devotion in return. I am not a chapter in your little black book. I would be the entire library.”
He reached out and, with breathtaking audacity, tapped Jiang Cheng’s chin with two fingers, forcing his mouth to close. “You wish to play a game with me? Very well. But understand the rules. You are not the hunter here. You are the prey. And I always catch what I set my sights on.”
He leaned back, his serene smile returning as if he’d just commented on the weather. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must continue my discussion. I suggest you go cool down. You’re looking a little flushed.”
Jiang Cheng stood there, utterly speechless, his heart hammering against his ribs. He was furious. He was humiliated. He was… unbearably, desperately aroused.
No one had ever spoken to him like that. No one had ever seen through him so completely and then had the gall to find him wanting. And the sheer, unshakable confidence in Xichen’s voice, the promise of discipline and possession…
He stumbled back, away from the table, and nearly collided with Wei Wuxian.
“What did he say?!” Wei Wuxian hissed. “You look like you’ve been hit by Zidian!”
Jiang Cheng couldn’t form words. He just stared past his brother at Lan Xichen, who was now calmly talking to Jin Zixuan as if he hadn’t just turned Jiang Cheng’s entire world upside down.
The game had changed. Drastically.
And for the first time in his spoiled, bratty life, Jiang Cheng wasn’t sure if he was the one holding the dice. He was, however, suddenly and intensely certain of one thing.
He didn’t just want to get Lan Xichen into his bed.
He desperately, passionately wanted to be put in Lan Xichen’s.
The journey back to Lotus Pier was a silent, seething storm contained within the purple robes of Jiang Cheng. Wei Wuxian, for once, wisely kept his mouth shut, though his eyes danced with unasked questions and suppressed laughter. Nie Huaisang had already fled, claiming a sudden, critical need to repaint all his fans. Wen Chao had been dragged back to Nightless City by a displeased Wen Xu.
Jiang Cheng saw none of the scenery. He replayed the encounter in the Jinlintai pavilion on a loop, each time feeling the same hot flush of humiliation—and that infuriating, traitorous thrill.
‘I do not get into anyone’s bed. You will have to be put there. Mine.’
The words echoed in his head, spoken in that calm, melodic voice that held more authority than any shout. Jiang Cheng gripped Sandu’s hilt until his knuckles turned white. Who did he think he was? Lan Xichen, with his perfect face and his perfect posture and his perfect… everything. He couldn’t just… say things like that!
But he had. And the worst part was, it had worked.
For the next week, Jiang Cheng was a nightmare. He snapped at disciples for the slightest misstep, criticized the seasoning of his favorite lotus root soup, and nearly caused a diplomatic incident by accusing a visiting silk merchant of selling inferior-grade fabric. The entire Jiang sect tiptoed around him.
He tried to forget. He flirted outrageously with a beautiful musician passing through Yunmeng. He spent a day boating with a trio of siblings from a minor sect, all of whom were exceptionally easy on the eyes. It was hollow. Boring. Their admiration was too easily won, their conversations trivial. They weren’t… challenging. They weren’t him.
His frustration peaked during a solo night-hunt. A particularly nasty water ghoul had been capsizing ferries. Jiang Cheng tracked it to a murky bend in the river, his mood as dark as the water. He fought with brutal, careless efficiency, letting Zidian crackle and Sandu flash, not with his usual precise grace, but with raw, unfocused anger. He subdued the creature but got sloppy, and a whip of corrupted water slammed into his side, knocking the breath from him and sending him stumbling into the reeds, soaked and stinking of river mud.
“Incompetent,” he snarled at himself, wiping mud from his face. This was beneath him. This was—
“That was an impressive display of power, if perhaps a lack of finesse.”
The voice was like a cool, clean breeze cutting through the humid, foul air.
Jiang Cheng’s head snapped up.
Standing on the riverbank, pristine in moon-white robes that seemed to glow in the twilight, was Lan Xichen. Shuoyue was held loosely in one hand, not a hair was out of place. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a meditation session, not a night-hunt.
“What are you doing here?” Jiang Cheng demanded, scrambling to his feet and immediately wishing he hadn’t. He was covered in slime, his hair was a mess, and he probably smelled like a bog. Lan Xichen looked ethereal. It was unbearably unfair.
“The water ghoul was reported to have migrated from a tributary that begins in Gusu,” Xichen explained calmly, his eyes sweeping over Jiang Cheng’s disheveled form with open amusement. “I came to ensure it was dealt with. It seems Young Master Jiang had the situation… well, in hand, if not entirely under control.”
The gentle teasing was worse than outright mockery. Jiang Cheng felt his face heat. “I had it perfectly under control! I don’t need you checking up on me!”
“Of course not,” Xichen said, his tone placating in a way that felt deeply condescending. He stepped closer, and Jiang Cheng instinctively took a step back, his boot squelching in the mud. Xichen’s smile widened. “You are clearly a master of your environment.”
“Stop it!” Jiang Cheng snapped, Zidian sparking on his finger. “Stop talking to me like I’m a child!”
Xichen’s gaze flickered to the crackling spiritual weapon, then back to Jiang Cheng’s furious face. The amusement in his eyes faded, replaced by something more intent, more assessing. “Then stop behaving like one. Throwing a tantrum because you didn’t get your way is hardly the mark of a man.”
“I am not throwing a tantrum! And what I want is none of your business!”
“Isn’t it?” Xichen took another step forward. The space between them crackled with more energy than Zidian. “You made it my business at Jinlintai. You declared your… intentions quite publicly. Do you often give up so easily when faced with a challenge? Or do you only pursue things that require no effort?”
Jiang Cheng was speechless, his heart hammering. This was all wrong. He was the predator. He was the one who pursued. He was the one who left others flustered and speechless.
“I don’t give up,” he growled, low in his throat.
“Prove it,” Lan Xichen challenged, his voice dropping to that intimate, dangerous murmur. “You want to play your game? Let’s play. But we play by my rules. The first rule: no more of this.” He gestured dismissively at Jiang Cheng’s mud-covered state. “Careless arrogance is not attractive. True confidence is cultivated. If you wish to capture my attention, do it with your skill, not your petulance.”
He leaned in, close enough that Jiang Cheng could smell the faint, clean scent of sandalwood on him. “The second rule: I am not one of your simpering admirers. You will not win me with cheap flirtations and boasts. You will prove you are worthy.”
Jiang Cheng was trapped, held in place by that intense gaze and his own riotous emotions. “And what’s the third rule?” he heard himself ask, his voice barely a whisper.
A slow, devastating smile spread across Lan Xichen’s face. It was the first truly genuine smile he’d ever directed at Jiang Cheng, and it was breathtaking.
“The third rule,” Xichen said, his eyes gleaming with promise, “is that when you have finally earned my regard, you will kneel for me willingly, and I will finally put you where you’ve been trying to get me to go.”
He reached out, and before Jiang Cheng could react, he gently plucked a piece of reed from Jiang Cheng’s hair. His fingers barely brushed Jiang Cheng’s temple, but the touch burned like a brand.
Then he stepped back, the infuriating, serene Sect Leader mask sliding back into place. “The night is deep. You should return to Lotus Pier and clean up, Young Master Jiang. I look forward to seeing your… improvement.”
With a final nod, Lan Xichen turned and walked away, disappearing into the night as silently as he had arrived, leaving Jiang Cheng standing alone in the mud, soaked, humiliated, and more determined than he had ever been in his life.
He wasn’t giving up. Oh, no. Lan Xichen had no idea what he’d just started.
Jiang Cheng, the bratty heir of Yunmeng, had just been given a challenge. And he’d be damned if he was going to lose. He was going to become so skilled, so refined, so utterly worthy that Lan Xichen would be the one on his knees.
…Probably.
The thought was less convincing than he’d like. But the fire was lit. The game was on. And for the first time, Jiang Cheng wasn't just playing for a conquest. He was playing for keeps.
The transformation at Lotus Pier was so sudden and so profound that many suspected Wei Wuxian of finally perfecting a body-possession talisman. The bratty, indolent heir was gone, replaced by a… well, he was still sharp-tongued and imperious, but now he was sharp-tongued, imperious, and applying himself.
Jiang Cheng rose at dawn. He drilled forms with Sandu until his muscles screamed and his movements were not just powerful, but poetry in motion. He meditated, scowling ferociously the entire time, but he did it. He even—to the absolute horror of the kitchen staff—asked for the texts on sect logistics and trade agreements, locking himself in the library for hours.
Wei Wuxian found him one afternoon surrounded by scrolls, rubbing his temples.
“Are you dying?” Wei Wuxian asked, poking his head in. “Should I call the healer? Or an exorcist? This can’t be natural.”
“Shut up,” Jiang Cheng snapped, but it lacked its usual venom. He was tired. “I’m busy.”
“Busy doing what? Actually reading? Who are you and what have you done with my shidi?”
Jiang Cheng threw an inkstone at him. Wei Wuxian dodged, laughing. “It’s him, alright! But seriously, Jiang Cheng, what’s going on? This is about Zewu-Jun, isn’t it? What did he say to you on that night-hunt?”
“None of your business,” Jiang Cheng muttered, staring down at a complex trade ledger for lotus seeds as if it held the secrets of the universe. Which, in a way, it did. Lan Xichen would probably understand it perfectly.
“He’s gotten under your skin!” Wei Wuxian crowed. “The great Jiang Wanyin, brought to heel by a smile and a few stern words! I have to tell Nie-xiong!”
“You tell Huaisang and I’ll feed you to the puppies!”
Wei Wuxian just grinned, utterly unthreatened. “So what’s the plan? You’re going to become the model sect heir to impress him? That’s so… predictable. And boring.”
Jiang Cheng slammed the ledger shut. “The plan,” he said, his eyes flashing with a familiar, competitive fire, “is to become so undeniably, spectacularly excellent that he has no choice but to acknowledge that I am his equal. No, his superior! Then he’ll be the one trying to win MY favor.”
Wei Wuxian blinked. “You’re going to try and out-Lan the First Jade of Lan?”
“I’m going to out-EVERYTHING him.”
The next opportunity came at a discussion conference in Qinghe. The Unclean Realm was all stark granite and brisk winds, a complete contrast to the opulence of Jinlintai or the watercolors of Lotus Pier.
Jiang Cheng arrived looking like the very image of a powerful sect heir. His robes were immaculate, his posture was ramrod straight, and his gaze was keen and focused. He participated in the discussions on border patrols with intelligent, if bluntly delivered, points. He didn’t flirt. He didn’t preen. He was… competent.
He could feel Lan Xichen’s eyes on him throughout the day. Not the amused, dismissive glance from before, but a watchful, considering gaze. It was infuriatingly satisfying.
During a break in the proceedings, Jiang Cheng found himself on a high balcony overlooking the Nie training grounds. He was mentally congratulating himself on his performance when a calm voice spoke from behind him.
“Your points on coordinating night-hunt patrols along the Yunmeng-Gusu border were well-considered, Young Master Jiang.”
Jiang Cheng turned. Lan Xichen stood there, a faint, approving smile on his lips. It wasn’t the polished sect-leader smile. It was warmer. It made Jiang Cheng’s stomach do a foolish flip.
“They were obvious,” Jiang Cheng said, aiming for nonchalance and landing somewhere near haughty. “It’s inefficient to have our disciples tripping over each other. A shared schedule is basic logic.”
“Basic logic that many older, more experienced sect leaders often overlook in favor of guarding their own territories too jealously,” Xichen replied, stepping forward to lean on the balcony rail beside him. “It shows foresight. And maturity.”
Jiang Cheng preened internally. See? he thought. I can be mature. I can be excellent.
He glanced at Xichen’s profile, the sharp line of his jaw, the way the Qinghe wind teased a few strands of his dark hair. The old, bratty impulse surged up. He couldn’t help himself.
“So,” Jiang Cheng said, leaning his hip against the rail and letting a familiar, sly smirk touch his lips. “Have I earned a kiss yet for my ‘foresight and maturity’?”
It was a mistake.
The warm approval in Lan Xichen’s eyes vanished, replaced by a flicker of disappointment that felt like a physical blow. He didn’t move away, but the space between them suddenly felt cold.
“And there it is,” Xichen said softly, almost sadly. “The moment you show true promise, you revert to the playboy. You cannot help yourself, can you? You are like a talented musician who, after playing a sublime melody, immediately follows it with a crude, off-key noise.”
Jiang Cheng’s smirk died. He felt like a child being scolded. “I was just—”
“I know what you were ‘just’,” Xichen interrupted, his voice still gentle but firm. “You were testing me. Seeing if the new, improved Jiang Wanyin could get a quicker reward. The rules have not changed. You do not win this with a pretty comment any more than you win a battle with a single swing of your sword.”
He pushed off from the rail. “The maturity was impressive. This?” He gestured vaguely at Jiang Cheng, encompassing the failed attempt at seduction. “This is a setback. I expect better.”
He began to walk away, and a panic, cold and sharp, lanced through Jiang Cheng. He was losing ground. He was losing face. He was losing… HIM.
“Wait!”
Xichen paused, looking back over his shoulder.
Jiang Cheng fumbled for words, his pride and his desperation at war. “I… Your rules are impossible,” he finally gritted out. “You want me to be better, but you won’t… you won’t even give me a hint that it’s working! How am I supposed to know if I’m doing it right?”
A slow, real smile touched Xichen’s lips again, this time tinged with something like fondness. “You’ll know.”
“How?”
“Because I will tell you,” Xichen said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “And because when you truly succeed, the reward will not be a kiss stolen on a balcony. It will be a covenant. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Sect Leader Nie is waiting.”
He left Jiang Cheng standing there, more confused, more frustrated, and more utterly, hopelessly captivated than ever.
He wasn’t just playing a game anymore. He was being rebuilt, piece by piece, by the most infuriatingly patient man in the world. And the terrifying, thrilling part was that Jiang Cheng was starting to think he might actually like the person Lan Xichen was trying to make him become.
The infamous Yunmeng Jiang hospitality was in full, glorious swing. Lotus Pier was festooned with lanterns, the air thick with the scent of lotus blossoms, chili oil, and the promise of good liquor. Sect Leader Jiang had, with a rare flash of insight, handed the reins of the annual mid-summer banquet to his son. It was a test, and Jiang Cheng was determined to ace it.
He had planned everything meticulously, from the seating arrangements to the entertainment (a tasteful blend of Yunmeng folk music and a demonstration of water-based cultivation forms). He was the picture of a gracious host—welcoming guests with a curt but polite nod, his purple robes impeccable, his mother’s Zidian a subdued hum on his finger rather than a crackle of impatience.
He was, in short, being perfect. And he was painfully aware of a certain pair of light-brown eyes watching his every move.
Lan Xichen had arrived with his brother, a serene pillar of white and blue amidst the vibrant Jiang colors. He had complimented the decorations, praised the tea, and exchanged pleasantries with Sect Leader Jiang. He had not, Jiang Cheng noted with a mix of irritation and relief, looked directly at him once.
The banquet proceeded smoothly. The food was excellent, the wine flowed freely (except at the Gusu Lan table, where a pot of tea remained steadfastly untouched by alcohol), and the atmosphere was jovial. Jiang Cheng allowed himself a sliver of pride. He’d done it. He’d hosted a major sect event without a single scandal.
Then came the informal mingling. The wine had loosened tongues and inhibitions. Jiang Cheng, feeling the weight of his successful duties lifting, accepted a cup of Emperor’s Smile from a beaming Wei Wuxian. It was a mistake.
He was standing near the lotus ponds, taking a moment to himself, when he heard it. Wen Chao’s loud, nasal voice, slurred with drink, carrying over the chatter.
“…and then Young Master Jiang said, ‘If the bed is big enough for three, it’s a waste not to use the space!’ Can you believe it? The look on their faces!”
A roar of laughter went up from the small circle of minor sect disciples Wen Chao had cornered. Jiang Cheng’s blood ran cold, then hot. It was an old, stupid story from years ago, exaggerated and crass. The kind of story that used to make him preen. Now, it felt like mud being slung on the perfect event he’d just crafted.
He stormed over, his face thunderous. “Wen Chao!” he snapped. “Shut your mouth.”
Wen Chao, too drunk to sense danger, clapped him on the back. “Ah, Jiang-xiong! Tell them! Tell them the one about the twin courtesans from Caiyi Town! That one’s even better!”
Jiang Cheng saw red. He grabbed Wen Chao’s arm, his grip like iron. “I said, shut up.”
“Ow! Let go! What’s your problem? You used to love these stories!” Wen Chao whined, trying to shake him off. “Acting all high and mighty now? Just because you’re trying to impress a certain sect leader who’s too good for the likes of— mmph!”
Jiang Cheng didn’t let him finish. He shoved Wen Chao, hard. The drunk heir stumbled back, tripped over a low table of refreshments, and landed flat on his back in a platter of spicy duck necks, sending sauces and porcelain flying.
The music screeched to a halt. Every eye in the pavilion turned to them.
Wen Chao spluttered, covered in oily sauce and humiliation. “YOU BRAT! You think you can just—!”
“Get out,” Jiang Cheng snarled, his voice low and venomous, Zidian sparking dangerously on his finger. “Get out of my sight before I throw you in the river.”
The air was thick with tension. This was the Jiang Cheng everyone knew. The spoiled, violent, temperamental heir. The brat. All his hard work, his weeks of discipline, evaporated in a single moment of rage.
He could feel the weight of his father’s disappointed gaze. He heard Wei Wuxian’s hissed “Jiang Cheng!” from across the room. And then, he felt another gaze. He didn’t need to turn to know it was Lan Xichen’s. He could feel it like a physical touch: calm, measuring, and utterly devastating.
Humiliation, hot and bitter, washed over him. He’d failed. He’d proven Lan Xichen right. He was just a child throwing a tantrum.
Without another word, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the pavilion, leaving a stunned silence in his wake.
He didn’t stop until he reached the farthest, most secluded dock, where the only light came from the moon and the distant lanterns of the banquet. He kicked a wooden piling, then slumped down, head in his hands. He was an idiot. A hopeless, irredeemable idiot.
The gentle sound of footsteps on the wooden planks made him freeze. He didn’t look up. He knew who it was.
“Go away,” he muttered, his voice thick.
Lan Xichen said nothing. He simply stood there for a moment, then gracefully sat down beside him, not quite touching. The pristine white of his robes seemed to glow in the moonlight, a stark contrast to Jiang Cheng’s own rumpled, disgraceful state.
They sat in silence for a long time, the only sounds the lap of water against the piers and the faint echo of music from the distant party.
“I ruined it,” Jiang Cheng finally said, the words torn from him. “The whole banquet. I proved you right. I’m just… a brat.”
“You lost your temper,” Xichen acknowledged, his voice quiet. “You acted impulsively. It was not… ideal.”
Jiang Cheng winced. “Ideal? It was a disaster.”
“However,” Xichen continued, and Jiang Cheng dared a glance at him. He was looking out over the dark water, his profile thoughtful. “Your initial reaction was not incorrect.”
Jiang Cheng blinked. “What?”
“Wen Chao was a boor. He was disrespecting your home, your hospitality, and your guests with his crude gossip. A sect leader cannot allow such behavior to go unchallenged.” Xichen turned his head, and his gaze was soft. “The intent to defend your sect’s honor was correct. The method… lacked finesse.”
Jiang Cheng stared at him, utterly bewildered. This wasn’t the scolding he’d expected.
“A public shoving match is beneath you,” Xichen explained gently. “A single, cutting remark from the host, delivered with icy politeness, would have silenced him more effectively and preserved your dignity. You have a sharp tongue, Wanyin. You could have flayed him with words and left him standing there, exposed and foolish, while you remained the gracious, untouchable host. That is power. That is control.”
Jiang Cheng was speechless. He was being… coached.
“I… I didn’t think of that,” he admitted quietly.
“I know,” Xichen said, a hint of a smile in his voice. “You reacted with your fists because that is your instinct. It is a strong instinct, but it is not your only tool. You are learning to use your mind. Now you must learn to use your words as your sharpest weapon.”
He shifted slightly, turning more fully toward Jiang Cheng. “Do not mistake my meaning. I am not disappointed that you acted. I would have been disappointed if you had done nothing. I am merely showing you a better way.”
The use of his given name, ‘Wanyin’, spoken in that calm, certain tone, sent a shiver through him. The anger and humiliation were gone, replaced by a strange, warm vulnerability.
“You’re not… disgusted with me?” The question was out before he could stop it, sounding young and uncertain.
Lan Xichen’s smile was tender. “No. I am intrigued. And… invested.”
He reached out then, and this time, his fingers didn’t just brush accidentally. He gently cupped Jiang Cheng’s chin, forcing him to meet his gaze. The touch was electric.
“You are trying. You are striving. That is all I have ever asked for. The fact that you care so much about what I think…” He trailed off, his thumb stroking a faint, soothing line along Jiang Cheng’s jaw. “That is a reward in itself.”
Jiang Cheng’s breath hitched. He was leaning into the touch, his eyes wide.
“The path to becoming a man worthy of respect is not a straight line,” Xichen murmured, his face close now. “There will be missteps. The important thing is that you get up, learn, and continue. Do you understand?”
Jiang Cheng could only nod, mesmerized.
“Good.” Lan Xichen’s eyes dropped to Jiang Cheng’s lips for a heartbeat, and the world narrowed to that single, searing point of contact. Then, he leaned in and pressed a kiss—not to Jiang Cheng’s mouth, but to his forehead. It was chaste, firm, and felt more intimate than any kiss Jiang Cheng had ever received.
It was a kiss of promise. Of ownership. Of expectation.
Xichen pulled back, his hand dropping away. He stood up, looking down at Jiang Cheng, who was still sitting frozen on the dock.
“The banquet is not ruined,” Xichen said, his sect leader voice returning, though his eyes were warm. “Your guests are waiting for their host to return. Go and show them the man you are becoming.”
He turned and walked back towards the lights and the music, leaving Jiang Cheng alone in the moonlight, his skin tingling where he’d been touched, his forehead burning with the imprint of a kiss that felt like a brand of belonging.
He had not been chastised. He had been… guided. Forgiven. Seen.
He got to his feet, his movements slow, his mind reeling. He straightened his robes, took a deep breath, and walked back to his party. He wasn’t sure what kind of man he was becoming yet.
But he was desperately, fiercely determined to find out.
The invitation to the Cloud Recesses arrived on a crisp autumn morning, its paper thick and imbued with the faint, clean scent of sandalwood. It was not a general missive to the Jiang sect, but a personal letter addressed to Jiang Wanyin, extending an invitation for a week of "cultural exchange and advanced spiritual discourse."
Jiang Cheng’s fingers trembled slightly as he held it. This was it. The battlefield. The heart of the enemy—no, the beloved’s —territory. Gusu Lan. The land of three thousand rules and one infuriatingly perfect man.
He arrived with a single trunk of his finest robes—deep violets, rich silvers, and embroidered lotuses—and a heart pounding with a mix of competitive fire and nervous dread. He was met at the gate not by a junior disciple, but by Lan Xichen himself.
He looked, if possible, even more devastatingly handsome against the backdrop of the serene, mist-shrouded mountains and elegant pavilions of his home. He smiled, a genuine, welcoming curve of his lips that made Jiang Cheng’s knees feel suspiciously weak.
“Welcome to the Cloud Recesses, Wanyin,” Xichen said, and the use of his name was like a private caress in the silent, rule-bound air.
“Zewu-Jun,” Jiang Cheng replied, aiming for cool composure and landing somewhere near strangled. He bowed, the movement precise and formal. He would be impeccable.
His resolve lasted approximately one hour.
Gusu was… maddening. The silence was oppressive. The food was abominable—flavorless, textureless, and utterly without spice. The rules were inscribed on every available surface, a constant, judgmental litany. Do not run. Do not shout. Do not laugh loudly. Do not be disrespectful. Do not have a personality.
Jiang Cheng felt his carefully constructed facade of maturity beginning to crack at the edges. He was bored, hungry, and his voice felt rusty from disuse.
Lan Xichen, of course, was the perfect host. He showed Jiang Cheng the library, the lecture halls, the rabbit meadow. He spoke in his calm, melodic voice about history and music and sword forms. He was grace personified.
And Jiang Cheng, the brat, was dying.
It all came to a head on the third day. They were in the Hanshi, Xichen’s personal quarters, sharing a pot of tea that tasted like boiled grass. Xichen was explaining the nuances of a complex musical score for inquiry, and Jiang Cheng was trying desperately to pay attention. But his stomach growled loudly, protesting the lack of edible sustenance. He was restless. He missed the loud, bustling energy of Lotus Pier. He missed chili oil.
“—and the third variation is particularly delicate, requiring absolute control of spiritual energy,” Xichen was saying.
“This is torture,” Jiang Cheng blurted out.
Xichen paused, setting his teacdown. “I beg your pardon?”
“This!” Jiang Cheng gestured wildly around the tranquil, minimalist room. “The silence! The… the beige! The food that tastes like regret! How do you stand it? Don’t you ever want to… I don’t know, break a rule? Just a small one?”
A slow, dangerous smile spread across Xichen’s face. It was the same smile he’d had on the riverbank. “What rule did you have in mind, Wanyin?”
Jiang Cheng’s bravado, once unleashed, was hard to contain. He leaned forward, a familiar, mischievous glint in his eyes. “I don’t know… ‘Do not consume alcohol within the Cloud Recesses’?”
Xichen’s eyebrow twitched. “A fundamental rule.”
“Or… ‘Do not shout’?” Jiang Cheng’s voice was a whisper.
“Also fundamental.”
“Or…” Jiang Cheng’s voice dropped even lower, laced with pure, bratty challenge. “‘Do not engage in frivolous intimacy’?”
The air in the Hanshi grew thick and still. Lan Xichen’s gaze darkened, the amusement shifting into something hotter, more intense. He didn’t move for a long moment, just held Jiang Cheng’s defiant stare.
Then, he did something entirely unexpected.
He laughed.
It wasn’t a loud laugh, but a soft, deep, genuine sound that seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards. “You are utterly incorrigible.”
“You knew that,” Jiang Cheng shot back, his heart hammering. The shift in mood was dizzying.
“I did,” Xichen agreed, his eyes sparkling. He stood up and walked to a beautifully carved cabinet. From within, he produced two small ceramic cups and a jar. It wasn’t a Gusu Lan jar. It was unmistakably from Yunmeng. The label read: Emperor’s Smile.
Jiang Cheng’s jaw dropped. “You… you have contraband? In the Hanshi? You?”
“A gift from a friend,” Xichen said, his expression innocent as he poured the clear, fragrant liquor. “I find it… educational to understand the customs of other sects.” He handed a cup to Jiang Cheng. “Consider this a special exception. For educational purposes.”
They drank. The familiar, fiery taste of home exploded on Jiang Cheng’s tongue, a rebellion in a cup. It burned away the last of his restraint.
“This place is going to be the death of me,” he groaned, but he was smiling now, a real, unforced smile.
“It is an acquired taste,” Xichen conceded, sipping his own wine with an elegance that shouldn’t be possible. “As is its Sect Leader.”
The boldness fueled by the alcohol and Xichen’s own rule-breaking surged through him. “And have you acquired it? The taste of me?”
Xichen set his cup down with a soft click. The playful glint was gone, replaced by sheer, unvarnished intensity. He closed the distance between them in two strides.
“I have been savoring it,” he said, his voice a low rumble. He reached out and captured a lock of Jiang Cheng’s hair, rubbing the silken strands between his fingers. “I have been patient. I have watched you strive and struggle and rebel. I have seen the man you are beneath the brattiness. The loyal son. The fierce protector. The capable heir.”
Jiang Cheng was frozen, mesmerized by the touch, by the words, by the raw desire in Xichen’s eyes.
“Your spirit is too bright for these silent mountains, Wanyin,” Xichen murmured, his other hand coming up to cradle Jiang Cheng’s jaw, his thumb stroking his cheekbone. “You are like a lightning storm in a library. You are chaos and fire and life. And I want you.”
The confession, so blunt and certain, shattered the last of Jiang Cheng’s defenses. This was no longer a game. This was real.
“All those rules…” Jiang Cheng whispered, his voice unsteady.
“Rules are for governing a sect,” Xichen said, leaning in until their foreheads were almost touching. His breath was warm against Jiang Cheng’s lips. “They are not for governing the heart. And my heart has been yours since you stood in Jinlintai and looked at me like I was a prize to be won.” He gave a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “The arrogance of it should have offended me. Instead, it captivated me. Only you, Jiang Wanyin, would be so brazen.”
He finally closed the last inch of distance and captured Jiang Cheng’s mouth in a kiss.
It was nothing like Jiang Cheng had ever experienced. It wasn’t playful or hurried or conquest-driven. It was deep, possessive, and devastatingly tender. It was a kiss that spoke of patience rewarded, of desire finally unleashed, of a covenant being sealed. It tasted of Emperor’s Smile and the faint, clean scent of sandalwood, and it felt like coming home.
When they finally broke apart, both were breathing heavily. Jiang Cheng’s head was spinning, his lips tingling.
Xichen rested his forehead against Jiang Cheng’s, his eyes closed. “You have beaten the brattiness out of me,” Jiang Cheng admitted, the words a soft confession in the space between them.
Xichen’s eyes opened, and they were full of a warm, possessive light. “No,” he whispered, kissing him again, softly this time. “I haven’t. I would never want to. I just want it directed only at me.” He pulled back slightly, a true, unguarded smile on his face—the most beautiful thing Jiang Cheng had ever seen. “Now. Would you like to break a few more rules, Furen?”
The word *Furen* hung in the air of the Hanshi, more intoxicating than the Emperor’s Smile. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. A claim. Jiang Cheng felt the weight of it settle deep in his bones, not as a shackle, but as an anchor.
“Yes,” he breathed, the single word leaving him in a rush of surrender and triumph.
Lan Xichen’s smile could have powered the sun. He didn’t say another word. Instead, he took Jiang Cheng’s hand, his grip firm and sure, and led him from the main room of the Hanshi. The world narrowed to the point where their hands were joined, to the silent, confident steps Xichen took, to the pounding of Jiang Cheng’s own heart.
They ended up in a secluded courtyard within the private family compound, a place Jiang Cheng hadn’t seen before. It was smaller, more intimate than the main gardens, with a single, ancient tree whose leaves were beginning to blush with autumn fire. The silence here was different—not oppressive, but peaceful. Private.
Xichen stopped and turned to face him. The moonlight caught the silver threads in his forehead ribbon, the one that now seemed to shimmer with a new, personal meaning. He looked at Jiang Cheng, his gaze a mixture of awe and possessiveness.
“You have no idea,” Xichen began, his voice hushed with emotion, “how difficult it has been to be patient. To see you across banquet halls and night-hunt grounds, a storm contained in violet silk, and not simply…” He reached out, tracing the line of Jiang Cheng’s jaw with a reverence that made him shiver. “…not simply claim what I knew, in my soul, was meant to be mine.”
Jiang Cheng leaned into the touch, his own brashness softened into something quieter, more vulnerable. “You could have had me weeks ago,” he admitted. “On that riverbank. Covered in mud.”
Xichen chuckled, a warm, rich sound. “I didn’t want you covered in mud, my love. I wanted you like this.” His hand slid to the back of Jiang Cheng’s neck, pulling him closer. “Sure. Certain. Standing in my home, not as a guest, but as its master. Our home.”
He kissed him again, and this time it was a conflagration. All the pent-up tension, the months of teasing and challenging and wanting, exploded into a feverish, desperate need. Jiang Cheng kissed back with equal fervor, his hands fisting in the pristine white robes, determined to muss them, to leave his mark. He was done being the well-behaved guest. He was Jiang Wanyin, and he was where he belonged.
They didn’t break a few more rules that night.
They set the rulebook on fire and danced in the ashes.
The following days in the Cloud Recesses were a revelation. The silent pathways no longer felt judgmental but serene. The bland food was a minor inconvenience, easily forgotten when he could steal kisses in the library between texts, or when a discreet servant would place a single, secretly procured jar of chili oil beside his plate with a knowing smile.
The change in Jiang Cheng was visible to everyone. The sharp edges of his temper were still there, but they were now sheathed in a new, confident calm. He didn’t snarl; he issued commands with an authority that was innate, not forced. He debated strategy with Lan Qiren and didn’t back down, but his points were sharper, better reasoned, and delivered with a respect that had the old master grudgingly nodding.
He was, in every way, the partner of a Sect Leader. The other half of the whole.
The news, when it was formally announced, sent pleasant ripples through the cultivation world. The union of Yunmeng Jiang and Gusu Lan was a powerful one, a merging of water and cloud, of vibrant life and serene discipline. The most common reaction among those who knew Jiang Cheng’s reputation was sheer, unadulterated shock, followed by a healthy dose of awe for the man who had managed to tame the untamable.
Wei Wuxian laughed for a solid hour before getting spectacularly drunk in celebration. Nie Huaisang immediately began designing their wedding robes. Wen Chao was forbidden from attending the ceremony by his own father, who sent a staggeringly expensive gift instead.
The wedding itself was a magnificent fusion of both sects’ traditions. It was held at Lotus Pier, the air filled with the scent of lotuses and the sound of laughter and Jiang music. But amidst the vibrant purple and silver, there were also accents of Gusu’s white and blue. The ceremony was a joyful, noisy affair, but there was a moment of profound silence when Lan Xichen, his eyes never leaving Jiang Cheng’s, carefully tied a new forehead ribbon around his husband’s head—this one woven with a single, delicate thread of Jiang violet amidst the cloud patterns.
It was a symbol. He was still Jiang Wanyin, heir of Yunmeng, a force of nature. But he was also Lan Furen, the respected partner of Zewu-Jun. The two were not in conflict; they were in perfect, powerful harmony.
Months later, they stood together on the same secluded dock at Lotus Pier where Xichen had found him humiliated and furious. The water was calm, reflecting a sky full of stars.
Jiang Cheng, now comfortably splitting his time between the two sects, leaned back against his husband’s chest, Xichen’s arms wrapped around him. He was quieter now, but the fire was still there, banked and warm.
“You know,” Jiang Cheng said, a familiar, bratty smirk playing on his lips as he looked up at Xichen. “You never did actually get into my bed. I ended up in yours.”
Lan Xichen laughed, the sound vibrating through Jiang Cheng’s body. He tightened his embrace and pressed a kiss to his husband’s temple.
“A technicality, my love,” he murmured. “And a victory I will gladly grant you.” He turned Jiang Cheng in his arms to face him, his expression soft and full of a love so deep it still stole Jiang Cheng’s breath. “Because I got the one thing I truly wanted. Not a conquest. Not a prize. You. All of you. The brat, the sect heir, the fierce protector… my husband.”
Jiang Cheng’s smirk softened into a genuine, contented smile. He looped his arms around Xichen’s neck. “Your furen,” he corrected, the title now a badge of honor, not a constraint.
“My furen,” Xichen agreed, sealing the promise with a kiss under the starlight, in the heart of the home they were building together—a perfect, brilliant, and occasionally bratty, union.
Epilogue:
The air at Lotus Pier was usually one of vibrant chaos, a symphony of lapping water, shouting disciples, and Jiang Yanli’s gentle laughter. Today, however, it was dominated by a single, stormy note: the sound of Jiang Cheng’s voice, pitched to a whining, imperious snarl.
“I don’t care about the new training schedule! I want a dog! A proper one! Or three! Father has his precious spiritual hounds, why can’t I have my own? It’s not fair!”
He stood in the main pavilion, arms crossed, lower lip jutting out in a spectacular pout. His mother, Yu Ziyuan, looked like she was counting to ten thousand, her hand white-knuckled around Zidian. Jiang Fengmian wore his usual expression of weary disappointment.
“A-Cheng,” he said, his voice tired. “We have been over this. The kennels are for hunting and guard dogs. They are not pets. You are the sect heir, not a child playing with puppies.”
“I AM a child!” Jiang Cheng shouted, the hypocrisy of his usual posturing as a worldly playboy completely forgotten in the heat of his tantrum. “Wei Wuxian got to have pets when he was little! Why does he get everything?”
From the sidelines, Wei Wuxian winced. “That was before you were scared of them, shidi! And I gave them away!”
“I’M NOT SCARED!” Jiang Cheng roared, his face flushing violet. “I just want what I want! Is that so difficult? Or am I just not important enough?”
It was a performance of truly epic brattiness. Jiang Yanli was trying to soothe him with a plate of lotus cakes, which he petulantly knocked aside, sending them scattering across the floor.
It was at this precise moment that the soft, clear sound of a bell chimed from the entrance gate. A disciple announced, “Sect Leader Lan, of Gusu Lan!”
The scene froze.
Lan Xichen stood at the edge of the pavilion, having witnessed the entire glorious meltdown. He was immaculate in flowing white and blue robes, a picture of serene grace amidst the Jiang family’s domestic typhoon. A faint, unreadable smile played on his lips.
Jiang Fengmian looked mortified. Yu Ziyuan’s scowl deepened, anticipating judgment from the pristine First Jade. Wei Wuxian looked like he was trying to decide whether to laugh or flee.
Jiang Cheng’s eyes went wide with a different kind of horror. This was worse than being caught by his father. This was being caught by him. By Xichen. In his most childish, undignified state. The shame was instant and paralyzing.
Jiang Fengmian found his voice first. “Sect Leader Lan, please, forgive my son’s… unseemly display. A-Cheng, apologize at once!”
But before Jiang Cheng could be forced to stammer out an apology, Lan Xichen stepped forward. His movement was calm, his presence instantly commanding the room’s attention.
“There is nothing to forgive, Sect Leader Jiang,” Xichen said, his voice a soothing balm. He walked directly over to where a single, unscathed lotus cake had rolled near his feet. He picked it up, dusted it off with fastidious care, and then… he offered it to Jiang Cheng.
The family stared, dumbfounded.
“If my Furen wants puppies,” Lan Xichen said, his tone utterly reasonable and kind, as if discussing the weather, “then he shall have puppies.”
Jiang Cheng’s jaw dropped. His parents looked at Lan Xichen as if he’d just declared the sky was green. Wei Wuxian’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.
“The Cloud Recesses has several excellent breeding pairs of spiritual hounds,” Xichen continued, as if listing items on a menu. “They are intelligent, loyal, and far superior to any common breed. I will have a selection of the finest pups sent to Lotus Pier by the end of the week. You may choose as many as you like.”
He said it with the casual authority of a man who could, and would, move mountains to fulfill a whim. He was not just permitting it; he was enabling it on a grand, lavish scale.
Jiang Fengmian was speechless. Yu Ziyuan looked between Lan Xichen’s serene face and her son’s stunned one, her anger replaced by sheer, bewildered shock.
But the most shocking transformation was in Jiang Cheng himself.
The bratty heir vanished. The pout disappeared. The angry flush receded, replaced by a faint, pleased pink. He straightened his robes, took the offered lotus cake from Xichen’s hand with a slight, graceful nod, and his entire demeanor shifted from a tempest to a calm, obedient lake.
“Thank you, Zewu-Jun,” he said, his voice suddenly soft, respectful, and utterly demure. “Your generosity is… deeply appreciated.”
He cast his eyes down, the picture of a properly chastened and grateful young master. It was a performance so flawless and so instantaneous that it was terrifying.
Wei Wuxian, who had known Jiang Cheng his entire life and had borne the brunt of a thousand of his tantrums, felt the world tilt on its axis. He stared at his shidi, who was now looking up at Lan Xichen through his eyelashes with a look of sweet deference.
“What,” Wei Wuxian whispered, his voice hoarse with disbelief, “in the name of all the gods was that?”
Jiang Fengmian simply shook his head, a slow dawning of understanding and profound relief on his face. His son, the untamable storm, had just been calmed by a single word. A single look.
Lan Xichen’s smile finally reached his eyes, warm and possessive. He reached out and gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind Jiang Cheng’s ear, a gesture so intimate it made the air in the room feel charged.
“It is my pleasure to provide for my Furen’s happiness,” he said, his gaze locked on Jiang Cheng, who was now the very image of a docile, devoted partner. “No wish is too small. Or too great.”
He had seen the brat, the spoiled heir in all his glory, and instead of reprimanding him, he had spoiled him further. He had not just given in to the tantrum; he had validated it, elevated it, and in doing so, had instantly and completely quelled it.
As Lan Xichen led his now perfectly behaved Furen away for a walk by the lakeshore, the Jiang family remained in the pavilion, surrounded by scattered lotus cakes and the echoing silence of their own astonishment.
Wei Wuxian finally found his voice, turning to his shijie with wide eyes.
“Jie… did that just happen? Did the Tyrant of Lotus Pier just get… domesticated?”
Jiang Yanli, a slow, knowing smile spreading across her face, simply picked up another lotus cake.
“I think, A-Xian,” she said softly, “he just met someone who speaks his language.”
THE END!