Chapter Text
The flames of conflict licked the sky long before the screams of agony and war stopped with an abrupt halt.
The Burial Mounds had always looked like a gaping wound in the earth, a stain on the cultivation world. But tonight, the resentment seemed to stir with more hunger -more ferocity- as the blood of fallen Wen and cultivators alike dropped to the floor in violent sprays.
The air itself felt alive with hatred. The Burial Mounds had never been a peaceful place, but the sheer number of dying souls tonight had awakened something deeper within the cursed land. Every drop of blood that struck the rocky ground seemed to seep downward and feed the resentment buried beneath the soil. The wind carried the metallic scent of blood and smoke across the slopes, mingling with the bitter taste of spiritual energy and the dark, suffocating pressure of resentful power.
Swords clashed below, while talismans exploded in flashes of gold and white.
Spiritual energy carved glowing arcs through the night, cutting down fierce corpses that rose again moments later under the influence of darker power.
Wei Wuxian stood at the edge of the cliff overlooking the chaos serenely, the wind whipping through his hair and tugging at the loose sleeves of his black robes begging him to go down to the conflict, to fight. Yet he stood firm, his feet rooted to the floor of the cave stubbornly. Below him, the cultivation world had come to cleanse the evil “Yiling Patriarch” from their lives. Their history.
Sect banners snapped in the smoke-filled air. Some ripped, some covered in blood. All apart of massacre.
The banners told their own story. The golden peony of Lanling Jin flickered through the smoke. The fierce beast crest of Qinghe Nie moved like a blade through the battlefield. The white clouds of Gusu Lan glowed faintly in the night as disciplined cultivators moved in tight formations. And further down the slope -barely visible through the firelight- the purple lotus banners of Yunmeng Jiang cut through the smoke like bruised lightning.
Wei Wuxian did not need to see the cultivators clearly to know who stood among them.
He could almost hear Jiang Cheng shouting orders, voice sharp with anger and grief.
He did not look too closely.
They had come for a monster.
So, he would give them one.
The fierce corpses he had raised fought with terrible loyalty, throwing themselves against cultivators who believed righteousness lived in the edge of a blade. The resentful energy thrummed in the air, thick enough to taste.
It pressed against Wei Wuxian’s skin like a living thing.
Resentful energy had always responded to strong emotions—fear, rage, despair—and tonight the battlefield was overflowing with all three. Every dying cultivator fed the storm. Every fallen corpse rose again beneath Wei Wuxian’s command.
The fierce corpses obeyed without hesitation. Their movements were jerky and unnatural, bones snapping back into place even after spiritual blades shattered them. Their eyes glowed a deep crimson as they hurled themselves into the battle again and again.
But Wei Wuxian barely watched the battle. His eyes unfocused in detachment.
Instead, he laughed, a cold, hollow laugh.
It wasn’t the bright, carefree laugh that had once echoed through Cloud Recesses while Lan Wangji glared at him over a stack of rules.
This laugh was quieter. Stranger.
Tired. Built on the ruins of his former life, of what could have been.
The sound of it vanished quickly into the roaring wind.
For a moment he simply stood there, listening to the chaos below. The clash of swords. The screams. The roar of resentful energy tearing through spiritual formations.
Five years ago he might have rushed into the center of it all, reckless and fearless. He might have laughed in the face of danger and played his flute with wild abandon.
Tonight he remained where he was.
Still.
Watching the end of his life unfold beneath him.
“Come then,” he murmured, voice carrying into the smoky wind. “Let’s see how far your righteousness goes.”
A distant explosion lit the sky purple.
Someone had breached the outer defences.
Wei Wuxian turned away from the cliff sharply.
Inside the cave that served as his shelter, the air was cooler, the stone walls flickering with candlelight. Talismans and scattered scrolls lay across the floor where he’d left them.
The cave looked less like a home and more like the workshop of a madman.
Sheets of talisman paper covered the ground. Strange symbols written in dark ink curled across their surfaces. Some were designed to control resentful energy. Others were defensive charms meant to slow the advance of the cultivators outside.
At the back of the cave sat broken instruments, jars filled with strange ingredients, and stacks of hastily written notes documenting experiments no orthodox cultivator would ever dare attempt.
Wei Wuxian had built this place piece by piece over the years.
And tonight he would abandon it.
The resentment outside howled like a storm, urging him to fight.
He ignored the whispers and moved deeper into the cave with new found purpose as he stalked towards where a small wooden table held a single object.
A knife.
Not a spiritual weapon. Not a blade meant for fighting.
Just a simple knife. Delicate in its shape, deceptive in nature.
Wei Wuxian picked it up and weighed it in his hand.
Outside, someone shouted his name in a familiour furious tone.
“WEI WUXIAN! COME OUT AND FACE JUDGMENT!”
He smiled faintly.
Ah.
They had come personally.
Sect leaders. Heroes. The righteous cultivators of the world.
They wanted his head.
He glanced once more toward the cave entrance. Then he sat down. The knife flashed in the candlelight as he untied the red ribbon in his hair and wrapped it around his wrist with gentle ease, before he gathered his hair in one hand with steady fingers. His other hand finding the knife, gripping the hilt with such force that his already pale skin seemed to drain of any remaining colour.
For a moment, memories drifted through his mind.
Running through lotus fields with Jiang Cheng.
Being doted on by his Shijie
Stealing Emperor’s Smile with a grin.
Lan Wangji standing beside him beneath the cold moonlight of the Burial Mounds.
You’re not alone.
Wei Wuxian closed his eyes.
The memories did not come gently.
They struck like blades.
The warm sunlight over Lotus Pier. The sound of laughter echoing across the docks. Jiang Yanli calling his name from the kitchen with a bowl of soup in her hands.
Then the memory twisted.
Blood.
Screams.
The warmth fading from Jiang Yanli’s body as she collapsed in his arms.
Wei Wuxian’s fingers tightened around the knife.
“Sorry,” he murmured -Partly to himself, partly to his parents-
The blade slid through his hair with ease.
The sound was soft -almost delicate. As thick black strands fell across the stone floor like spilled ink.
A cultivation master’s hair was a symbol of discipline and tradition.
Tonight he discarded it without hesitation.
He dropped the knife and turned to stroll over to the pool of resentful energy to stare at his reflection.
The dark liquid rippled slowly as he approached.
The cut was choppy and uneven, barely allowing the hair that remained untouched by the blade to brush his shoulders.
Nothing like the long, elegant hair of a cultivation master.
The man staring back at him looked… wrong.
Wild.
Broken.
Unrecognizable.
Perfect.
Outside, the mountain shook as another explosion tore through the cliffs.
They were getting closer.
Wei Wuxian stood and swept the fallen hair into a cloth bundle. He wrapped it carefully, tying it with a red thread.
A small talisman sealed the knot.
Then called for a fierce corpse to take it from him. As the corpse turned, he slapped a talisman on its back, watching as it morphed to take his appearance before he used his flute to order it to the centre of the battlefield. He watched as it walked off to complete it’s duty to him in a detached and empty way.
The noise of battle roared louder now. Fierce corpses howled. Cultivators shouted commands. Spiritual energy clashed violently against resentful power.
It sounded like the end of the world.
‘Wei Wuxian’ stepped into the smoke.
Figures fought across the rocky slope below.
From a safe distance, he recognized some of them instantly.
Lanling Jin.
Qinghe Nie.
Yunmeng Jiang.
Gusu Lan
His chest tightened briefly before he forced the feeling away.
This was always how the story ended.
The villain falls.
Justice triumphs.
The world moves on.
Wei Wuxian raised the flute to his lips. Infront of him the corpse posing as him mirrored the action.
The first note sliced through the battlefield like a blade.
Resentful energy surged violently in response.
Fierce corpses roared as they hurled themselves forward.
Cultivators cried out.
The battle exploded into chaos.
Spiritual formations shattered under the pressure of dark energy. Swords clashed. Talismans ignited. The corpse puppet fought wildly in the center of the battlefield, drawing every eye toward it.
And in that chaos-
Wei Wuxian disappeared.
Not with dramatic flair.
Not with a burst of power.
Just a single shadow slipping between smoke and rock while everyone watched the monster at the center of the storm.
A puppet woven from resentful energy.
Convincing.
Angry.
Doomed.
Wei Wuxian moved silently through the narrow paths of the Burial Mounds, his shortened hair hidden beneath a ragged hood. The resentful energy that once clung to him like a crown now wrapped tightly around his body, concealing his presence.
Behind him, the illusion fought like a demon.
Ahead, the mountain opened into a narrow ravine.
The wind howled through the jagged cliffs, carrying with it the fading sounds of battle. The deeper he walked into the ravine, the quieter the battlefield became.
For the first time that night, Wei Wuxian allowed himself to breathe slowly.
The Burial Mounds stretched endlessly around him -black stone, twisted trees, and swirling fog born from centuries of resentment.
He knew every hidden path.
Every place where the mountain itself could swallow a person whole.
He had learned them all while the cultivation world called him a monster.
He paused once at the ridge and looked back.
From this distance, the battlefield looked small.
Tiny figures clashing in firelight.
The illusion of the Yiling Patriarch stood at the centre of it all, facing a barrage of resentful energy seeking to destroy him
The figure burst into black smoke, all that remained was the bundle of hair
Cries erupted.
“Wei Wuxian is dead!”
“He’s fallen!”
The words carried clearly through the wind.
Wei Wuxian watched in silence.
Then he turned away.
By dawn, the Burial Mounds were quiet.
Ash drifted across the blackened cliffs.
Cultivators searched the ruins for remnants of demonic cultivation.
Talismans.
Weapons.
Evidence.
One group eventually found the bundle of hair.
“Proof,” someone said grimly.
“The Yiling Patriarch destroyed himself.”
Another cultivator stared at the cut strands in horror.
“He must have gone mad.”
Perhaps.
Far away from the mountain, a lone traveler walked down a dusty road.
His robes were plain.
His hair was short and uneven, barely brushing his neck.
No sword hung at his side.
No flute rested at his lips.
Just another wanderer beneath the wide sky.
Wei Wuxian adjusted the hood over his head and kept walking.
For the first time in years, the resentful energy around him was quiet.
The cultivation world would celebrate their victory.
They would tell stories of the terrible Yiling Patriarch who destroyed himself in madness.
The monster was dead.
Good.
Wei Wuxian smiled faintly.
Let them believe it.
Somewhere far behind him, the smoke from the Burial Mounds finally faded into the horizon.
And the man they had feared most vanished into the world -alive, unseen and known to no one.
Not even the person who had once promised to stand beside him.
Lan Wangji would mourn him.
The thought lingered for a moment.
Wei Wuxian looked up at the bright morning sky.
“…Sorry, Lan Zhan. I guess I couldn’t go back to Gusu with you” He whispered bitterly
Then he continued down the road.
Alive.
And completely forgotten.