Chapter Text
Eerie voices were heard coming from the mountain, drifting slowly down, toward the village as though carried on an unseen current of wind, singing a song steeped in such profound sadness that it seemed less a melody and more a lamentation, one that drew tears to the eyes of most who listened and stirred sorrow deep within their hearts without truly understanding why. The singing continued relentlessly, growing even more mournful as night fell, its haunting strains unsettling those who resided in the shadow of the Burial Mounds.
Requests for help were sent to every sect and rogue cultivator who would listen, and they answered the call, for not much time had passed since the siege that had secured victory for the righteous sects and marked the death of the Yiling Patriarch.
They feared that the demon might have returned, yet they could no longer enter the mounds, for the pass was barred not by any visible ward or shield, but an unseen force repelled all who approached. As time wore on and they remained powerless to silence the mournful lament drifting endlessly from the Burial Mounds, their agitation deepened into a restless unease that gnawed at both courage and conviction.
The Lan brought their most senior cultivators, who played unceasingly melodies of rest and calm, their strings trembling with spiritual power in the hope of soothing whatever unseen force stirred within the mounds, yet their efforts achieved nothing but the dreadful multiplication of voices, as more and more tones rose to join the swelling chorus.
“The dead are lamenting the Yiling Patriarch,” said one of the Yiling elders in a grim voice. “We must pay our respects, lest we invite misfortune upon ourselves.”
The cultivators sneered at what they called a superstitious rabble, scorning the fearful whispers of the townsfolk, until a small shrine appeared near the Mounds, fashioned with a flat stone for an altar and a simple wooden roof to shield it from wind and rain. The residents of Yiling gathered there, lighting incense and burning paper money for the Yiling Patriarch, praying earnestly for the peace of his restless soul.
The humble shrine did not stand for long. When Jinag Wanyin saw it, his expression darkened, and he ordered it torn down, striking and driving away any who dared approach or attempt to rebuild it. Yet soon after its destruction, a strange disease began to spread among the cultivators themselves. No physician could name it or prescribe a treatment. They exhausted every known method, consulted ancient texts, brewed rare elixirs, and summoned their spiritual power to counter it, yet still they found no cure, as the affliction continued its silent advance.
It began as a faint weakness in the golden core, so subtle that many dismissed it as mere exhaustion, but it soon deepened into a searing pain that tore across their meridians like fire coursing through dry reeds, and they withered beneath its relentless progression, powerless to halt its cruel evolution. Rumours spread about Jin Guangyao and Jin Guangshan writhing in their private chambers, no narcotic or spiritual remedy capable of dulling the agony that consumed them. Before long, other sect leaders fell ill, followed by some of their disciples, reduced to trembling shadows of their former selves.
The Jin sect watched in mounting horror as his disciples grew frail and useless, defeated by a disease they could neither name nor comprehend, their cultivation rendered meaningless against an affliction that defied all knowledge and reason.
It was not difficult to discern a pattern: only those who had participated in the siege were afflicted, and from that realization arose a darker tide of whispers, murmurs of the dead seeking vengeance against the righteous sects. For if they had truly acted in the name of justice, if they had struck down an enemy of peace, a tormentor of the living, a corrupter of all that was held sacred, then why would the heavens permit such suffering to befall them? Why would those cultivators who had once stood united against a common foe now found themselves singled out for punishment, their strength turned to frailty, their triumph curdled into dread?
The questions did not fade, they lingered and travelled from region to region, slipping into guarded conversations and restless silences, sowing suspicion where certainty had once reigned, until the unspoken answer grew so heavy and so persistent that it could no longer be denied: the sects had offended the heavens, and the heavens, in their vast and inscrutable judgment, had chosen to answer in kind.
None were spared: not the Lan, not the Jiang, not the Nie and, most afflicted of all, not the Jin. In Lanling, the air itself seemed thick with rumour, for the cries of Jin Guangshan and Jin Guangyao were said to echo through the gilded halls of Jinlintai, their anguish carrying beyond closed doors and lacquered screens, while the suffering of their disciples stirred discontent against leaders who had once appeared unassailable.
Madam Jin, fearful of what many had begun to call the curse of the Lamenting Ghosts, gathered Jin Ling into her arms and withdrew with her family, retreating from the heart of Lanling in hopes of escaping a calamity that no ward, no wealth, and no authority had thus far been able to contain. Yet none of the suffering cultivators died; though they lay suspended in relentless agony, their bodies ravaged and their spirits worn thin, the merciful release of death never came to claim them, even that final refuge had been deliberately withheld.
Gathered in quiet corners of tea houses, the sect leaders who had remained untouched by the curse, having taken no direct action alongside the others during the siege, met in uneasy council to discuss what might be done and how the matter should be brought before the only two great sect leaders still capable of acting with authority: Lan Xichen and Jiang Wanyin.
Though Sandu Shengshou appeared pale and noticeably thinner than before, he showed none of the wracking pain or other symptoms that tormented those who had taken part in the siege. But his condition was far from untroubled, and was believed to be because he bore witness to the slow suffering of his own disciples, who were steadily losing their cultivation as the mysterious curse gnawed away at the very foundations of their spiritual strength.
Zewu-jun looked no better. His complexion had grown wan and drawn, and he spent most of his days traveling tirelessly between Jinlintai, Qinghe Nie, and his own sect, which had not been spared from the curse, though it was said their suffering was not nearly so severe as that of the Jin.
The Nie, however, were afflicted in a manner altogether different from the others: many of their cultivators endured repeated, nonfatal qi deviations that did not kill them but instead eroded their cultivation bit by bit, slowly stealing away their clarity of mind and, with it, the fragile boundary that guarded their sanity.
Chifeng-zun was confined to his quarters and kept under constant guard, for he had already lashed out in several violent episodes, attacking some of his most trusted advisors and even killing a few of them in moments of uncontrolled fury. In one such outburst he had injured his own younger brother, Nie Huaisang, who was afterward seen moving slowly with the aid of a cane, his face pale and drawn with exhaustion, the weight of the calamity pressing upon his sect settling heavily upon his shoulders.
At last, one of the sect leaders proposed a solution that, under ordinary circumstances, might have been met with derision due to it’s superstitious nature, yet now seemed almost reasonable to the others, who had grown weary and disillusioned by the state of the cultivation world. With little strength left for further quarrel, they agreed to bring the matter before those whose authority still carried weight. And so, together, they set out for Gusu, determined to present their proposal.
Soon, after weeks of unrelenting suffering, two Daoist monks were seen being quietly escorted by Zewu Jun through the halls of Jinlintai and guided into the private chambers of Jin Guangshan and Jin Guangyao. What took place within those closed doors no one could say, for the meeting remained shrouded in secrecy, yet only a few days later a manifesto began to circulate throughout Jianghu, read aloud in tea houses and market squares alike.
The document contained the confessions of the Jin sect leader and his son, Jin Guangyao, and the revelations within it stirred such outrage that the shock did not remain confined to wandering cultivators or gossiping townsfolk. Common people spoke of it with anger and disbelief, while landlords, magistrates, and even the imperial court found themselves surprised by the depth of depravity and corruption laid bare within those pages, corruption that had festered for years within cultivation sects who claimed to walk the righteous path of the Dao.
They painted a grim and unsettling picture of the events that had led to the vilification and death of the Yiling Patriarch, exposing the web of lies and calculated deceit that had allowed the Jin to elevate themselves above the other clans. In that retelling, the Yiling Patriarch emerged not as the monster so many had been taught to fear, but as a misunderstood figure, an easy target for hatred because of the unorthodox path of his cultivation and because he had chosen to protect the innocent rather than accept the shameless offer the Jin had made to draw him into their ranks. Because what they had desired above all was his power, a power he refused to surrender or place under their control, and for that refusal he had been cornered, slandered, and ultimately driven to his death.
The most damning revelation contained within the manifestos was that the Jin sect had secretly kept Wen Ning captive, studying him in the hope of replicating the process that had created him and raising an army of fierce corpses under their command. In hidden camps scattered far from prying eyes, countless innocents had been taken and killed in the name of these experiments, their lives reduced to nothing more than grim attempts to imitate a power the Jin could neither truly understand nor control. Among the victims were not only the unfortunate and the defenceless, but also those who had dared to oppose them, people who had simply spoken too loudly against the sect’s growing influence.
The Ghost General was eventually released, because no one dared attempt to destroy him, fearing that such an act might invite further misfortune. Left to his own path, the fierce corpse returned to the Burial Mounds, where he vanished into their dark forests and was never seen again.
Soon after the manifesto’s release, the Jin sect leader and his son died, their passing swiftly followed by that of several other high-ranking members of the Jin clan. Not long afterward, the afflicted cultivators began to feel their suffering gradually ease, the relentless pain that had scorched their meridians fading little by little until, at last, it vanished altogether. Yet the price of that relief was enormous: their cultivation was gone, their golden cores extinguished, leaving them to live out the remainder of their days as ordinary people.
Witnessing the fate of the Jin and hearing the reason behind the calamity that had befallen them, the other sect leaders rose in fury against them, demanding compensation for the deception that had led them into ruin and for the suffering that had spread through their sects. Yet outrage alone did not free everyone from the curse. Though many were granted release from their torment, the cost remained the same, their cultivation stripped away along with the pain.
Meanwhile, the two monks continued their quiet journey from sect to sect, collecting confessions from those who were still under the lingering effects of the curse and revealing them openly to the public, allowing even more hidden truths of past deeds to be laid bare before the entire Jianghu. Only after these confessions were spoken and acknowledged did the curse finally loosen its grip. Not all of those who confessed died as the Jin leaders had, but every one of them lost their cultivation, their spiritual power stripped away as though the heavens themselves had demanded that such a price be paid.
Thus, after weeks of turmoil, what remained of the sects, great and small, finally found a fragile peace, freed at last from torment, yet left exposed before the world, their shame laid bare for all to see. The power and prestige that had once defined them now seemed hollow, overshadowed by the memory of what their leaders had confessed and the price that had been exacted.
Nie Mingjue’s condition slowly improved as the storms that had clouded his mind receded, and clarity returned to him at last. Yet his cultivation was gone forever as well, leaving behind only the strength of his will and the scars of all that had passed. His anger toward the Jin felt strangely hollow, for despite his outrage, the many Nie disciples who had lost their cultivation could not be ignored, because it spoke of their own complicity in the actions that had driven an innocent man to his death. Nie Huaisang was named the new leader of the Nie sect, stepping into a role few had ever imagined he would and certainly not so soon.
The Jiang did not fared better than the others. Many of their senior disciples lost their cultivation, and their leader suffered the same fate. Sandu Shengshou appeared older than his years, thinner and more worn, as though the weight of the past months had carved itself into his very bones. With so many of his cultivators stripped of their power, the future of the sect now rested heavily upon the shoulders of the younger disciples, those who had been too young to take part in the siege and who must now rebuild what remained of their shattered legacy.
As for Zewu-jun, he accepted the mantle of Chief Cultivator, though the title now bore far more burden than honour, for he found himself struggling to hold together a cultivation world that was slowly crumbling beneath the weight of its own sins. The once-unshakable pillar of righteousness, Lan Qiren, withdrew into seclusion, accompanied by many elders and senior cultivators of the sect, and none of them were seen again thereafter. In their absence, the responsibility of preserving the Lan legacy fell again to the younger generation, who were now regarded not merely as disciples in training, but as the uncertain future of a world left fractured and humbled by its own failings.
Yet the lamenting ghosts did not fall silent. Their song continued to drift from the Burial Mounds in slow, sorrowful waves, night after night, with no sign of release or peace. The two Daoist monks were after seen in Yiling, accompanied by Nie Huaisang and Lan Xichen, and for several days they remained at the base of the Mounds, performing ritual after ritual in the hope of quieting the restless dead. Yet nothing changed; the mournful chorus endured, untouched by their efforts. Not long afterward, workers began to arrive, and construction quietly commenced near the foot of the Mounds. When a full year had passed since the death of the Yiling Patriarch, a small temple stood completed there. Its structure was simple and elegant, built with reverence rather than grandeur. Inside, at its heart, a central altar stood beneath a large portrait of the Patriarch himself, said to have been painted by the Nie sect leader with his own hand.
Upon the wide canvas was the image of a handsome young man dressed in flowing dark robes, a flute poised lightly in his hands as though caught in the middle of a quiet melody. His expression held a deep melancholy, a sorrow that seemed to linger within the painted eyes, as if the artist had tried to capture not only the man’s likeness, but the tragedy that had followed him into death. Upon the altar rested his sword, Suibian, and the flute Chenqing, each placed with great care upon a beautifully carved wooden stand, as though they were not merely weapons but sacred relics.
The residents of Yiling came in great numbers to offer their respects, lighting incense and bowing their heads in quiet prayer, hoping at last to bring peace to the soul of the hero they believed had been wronged by the world.
Hanguang-jun himself was named the keeper of the temple, and he took up residence in one of the modest lodgings built within the temple’s courtyard, accompanied by a young child who came to live there with him.
That night, after the temple had been blessed by the two Daoist monks and formally opened for worship, the lamenting ghosts fell silent. The sudden quiet felt almost unnatural after nearly a year of constant wailing drifting down, the absence of sound seemed strangely loud, filling the air with an eerie stillness.
The residents of Yiling fell to their knees, many with tears in their eyes, thanking the heavens for the forgiveness they believed had finally been granted. Word spread quickly, and with it came a collective breath of relief that the long ordeal had at last come to an end.
In the months that followed, many small shrines began to appear throughout the Jianghu, built by common folk and wandering cultivators alike. Travelers would stop before them to light incense and pay their respects to the Yiling Patriarch, who, slowly came to be remembered not as a villain of dark cultivation, but as a protector of the innocent.
The Temple of Lamenting Spirits, as it came to be known, became a place of pilgrimage in the years that followed, drawing travellers from distant regions of the Jianghu who came to offer incense, whisper prayers, and seek quiet reflection beneath the shadow of the Burial Mounds.
Hanguang-jun remained its devoted keeper, living within the temple grounds alongside the boy Lan Yuan, the young child he had taken in as his own. Later that same year, two more cultivators arrived and chose to remain at the temple, both of whom quickly rose in the esteem of the common people. One was the disciple of the immortal Baoshan Sanren, who had only recently descended from her celestial mountain, while the other was a wandering rogue cultivator from one of the northern temples, their strength and humble conduct soon earned them the respect of those who came seeking help. Together with Hanguang-jun, they founded a small school of cultivation within the temple grounds. Under their guidance, the temple began to take in the street children of the region, sheltering them as wards under their protection. The people of Yiling brought their own children to the temple so they might study there, if not to become cultivators, then at least to receive an education that could aid them later in life.
The three cultivators accepted the children on the condition that their guardians contribute, in whatever way they could, to the temple’s continued growth. As the number of students increased, new buildings had to be raised to house them, and more resources were needed to feed and care for them all. The residents of Yiling complied gladly, each offering what they could—labour, food, timber, coin—and so , little by little, the temple began to expanded. Thus were laid the foundations of what would come to be known as the Yiling School of Cultivation.
The sects that did not join the siege and the rogue cultivators, prospered after the purge of the Curse of the Lamenting Ghosts. Unable to respond to hunting requests themselves, due to the limited number of disciples who still retained their cultivation, the Nie and Lan sects commissioned them to assist with their night hunts. The Jiang sect followed their example, going so far as to offer rogue cultivators a place within the Jiang sect under highly advantageous contract terms. Few accepted, however, since remaining a rogue proved far more lucrative and the situation of the cultivation world greatly benefited them. The newfound openness toward them granted partial access to resources that had previously been difficult or impossible to obtain, thereby allowing them to deepen their cultivation knowledge and master techniques that had once been out of reach. Meanwhile, the smaller unaffected sects steadily expanded their sphere of influence, acquiring more territory not through force or conquest, but simply because the need arose and the major affected sects were in no position to contest or answer the needs of those regions.
The Jin sect suffered the most devastating losses. After the Burial Mounds fell silent, Madam Jin returned to Jinlintai with Jin Ling and took command of a sect that now existed more in name than reality. More than three-quarters of their disciples had lost their cultivation entirely and those who still retained theirs, were either too young or too inexperienced to contribute meaningfully to the more challenging night hunts. The sect continued to stand on little more than residual presence, rather than any real substance or merit. Their name became cursed and sneered at by all those who had suffered in the aftermath of their schemes.
She addressed the demands for compensation from the sects that believed themselves misled into joining the war against the Yiling Patriarch, honouring most of those requests, likely to preserve goodwill and keep open the possibility of future alliances. These concessions only deepened the fragility of an already severely weakened sect.
Her boldest action, however, was the expulsion of every useless disciple, along with the senior figures who had amassed excessive power and influence under Jin Guangshan’s rule. Though many of them, despite having lost their cultivation, could still have contributed to administrative duties, Madam Jin refused to retain them. She adopted an uncompromising stance, to rebuild the sect, even if it meant starting entirely from the bottom, and she would do so free of the corruption and the enduring shadow cast by Jin Guangshan’s legacy.
That shadow would linger for many years, during which the Jin would have to endure not only the scorn of the cultivation world but also the contempt of the common people. Madam Jin changed the sect’s colours, stripped Jinlintai of its opulence as thoroughly as possible without completely demolishing it, and added the character “Wu” to the Jin name, transforming its meaning to “no gold.” This served as a clear acknowledgment of past mistakes and a declaration of their new purpose: to rebuild on unshakable ethics. The Jin sect became the Wujin sect, and Jinlintai was renamed Qiān Xiāo Diàn (Humble Hall Under Heavens). She retained the white peony as the central motif of the sect, but now it was elegantly embroidered on grey robes accented with purple. Gold, once so prominent, completely vanished from their attire. The Jin sect, as it had once existed, was no more.
The world slowly began to heal. What had been destroyed was gradually rebuilt, and the Burial Mounds began to turn greener with each passing season. The heavy resentment that once clung to the air started to thin, the atmosphere grew lighter, and the sun seemed to shine brighter as time went on.
The heart of the Burial Mounds was a large plateau nestled between rocky peaks. Hidden from view by the sheer stony walls that surrounded it on the north, east, and south, this core remained a complete mystery, dinspite cultivators who attempted to fly overhead to peer inside and found themselves unable to approach, the same unseen force relentlessly repelled anyone who tried.
As news of these developments spread, the figure of the Yiling Patriarch attracted even more worshippers. Pilgrims flocked to the temple in ever-growing numbers, offering prayers and witnessing the miracle of the Burial Mounds slowly being cleansed.
Cultivators attributed the feat to the heavens, while the common people credited it to the Yiling Patriarch himself. To them, he had become their patron deity: the protector of Yiling and all the ordinary folk. Every year, they celebrated him on the anniversary of the day the Lamenting Ghosts were finally quelled, which coincided with the date of his death. On that day, Yiling was filled with lanterns, prayers, and crowds honouring their hero.
Wen Ning stood at the edge of the Burial Mounds, swaying gently to the eerie song drifting down from the mountain. He had no clear memory of how he had gotten there. He vaguely recalled being aware of people speaking in hushed tones around him, familiar faces from a time of peace flickering in and out of his vision. Was that Zewu-jun? he had wondered, straining to make out what they were saying. Calamity and curse were words frequently uttered in angry, bitter tones. Then, he found himself in a large clearing, surrounded by a group of Lan and Nie cultivators watching him warily. They told him he was free and as long as he did not harm any innocents, no one would pursue him.
“Free,” he had repeated slowly. Free for what? His sister was dead, his family had been massacred, Wei Wuxian was gone. Why had he alone been left to linger? In the end, he simply began walking. He avoided populated areas, following a faint calling he could hear echoing in the back of his mind. That was how he had found himself here, at the edge of the Burial Mounds. He knew now what it was. They were calling him home. Yet what he found were only the burned remnants of an existence once squeezed from a cursed land, built with little more than the stubborn will to wring more time from a life of hardship.
He wished he could cry and properly mourn his family, but his nature forbade any such display of emotion. Instead, he turned the cave that once sheltered a group of outcasts into an ancestral hall. With painstaking care, he carved every single name into the stone wall at the back of the cave, even his own, placing Wei Wuxian’s name in the centre, surrounded by all the others. Then built a large fire in front of the wall, stepped into the flames, and let them consume his corrupted flesh, no longer needed. He could not feel the painful lick of the fire, but he did feel the moment his soul was finally released from its cage and when the flames died down, he found himself surrounded by his entire family, everyone except his sister and A-Yuan. She moved on and A-Yuan, according to his family, was taken by Hanguang Jun soon after the siege. He must still be alive.
Bathed in their love and joy at finally being free and together again, he joined their singing, to help gather the fragmented soul of Wei Wuxian. Small pieces were held among them, carefully protected, waiting to become whole once more. Many other souls joined the chorus, drawn by an instinctive need even if they did not fully understand why. Those who remained more conscious understood the injustice clearly and released a call for retribution through their song. Others simply lamented the loss of the only person who had ever tried to release them from their torment, the one who had done his best to bring peace to a place that had known none for centuries. No two voices were alike, yet together they formed a strangely cohesive choir. Wen Ning wondered briefly how far the song could be heard outside the Burial Mounds, because he had heard it when he stood at the base. But the thought did not linger; he simply let himself be carried by the melody and not care about the world anymore.
Thanks to the energy they poured into the song, their will and wishes, more small fragments of Wei Wuxian’s soul gradually appeared. Each piece was gently gathered by the ghosts of his family and placed within a protective circle, where they slowly began to merge and regenerate. In the end, they succeeded. Wei Wuxian’s soul became whole once more. It flickered into existence in pure, radiant splendour, shining a bright, gentle light upon every single entity present.
Those touched by the light felt instantly lighter, freed from their burdens and able to move on if they wished, as if all their sins had finally been forgiven. Bathed in that radiant glow, Wen Ning and his family drew closer to the pure soul taking shape, forming a closed protective barrier around it. Wei Wuxian’s soul felt different from all the others, even those of his own family. His presence was stronger, and the energy emanating from it as it regenerate was so powerful that every soul nearby felt more aware of their own existence. The stronger his soul grew, it seemed to lend them greater substance and clarity.
Time held no meaning for a ghost, so Wen Ning could not tell how long the ritual lasted. At one point, in the midst of them all, stood Wei Wuxian , lightly glowing, not fully corporeal yet not entirely a ghost either. He looked around slowly, taking in the presence of every soul, and smiled. Then approached each member of his family one by one and with a single gentle touch, he released them from whatever lingering duty still bound them to this realm. Wen Ning felt the wave of relief and quiet happiness that washed over from each and every one of them as they were freed.
Finally, Wei Wuxian stopped in front of him.
“I will not force anything on you ever again,” he said softly. “You must choose when to finally rest.”
A pleasant warmth spread through Wen Ning’s essence, felt more solid, more aware of his surroundings. He had hands and legs once more and could feel the firmness of the ground beneath his feet.
“Thank you, Young Master Wei,” he said, his voice carrying actual sound, not merely intent or meaning, but real, audible words.
They walked together, wandering the lifeless slopes of the Burial Mounds, freeing the ghosts that approached them and cleansing the creatures that still lingered, trapped by the resentment-soaked land. Wen Ning gradually realized just how vast this place truly was, as they slowly left the plateau nestled between the jagged cliffs and explored the hills and gorges that formed this forbidden realm no outsider could enter. They kept their distance from the southern edges, focusing mostly on the eastern and northern side and venturing deep into the ravines that bordered the western mountains.
After a while, however, he began to feel a strange pull, a gentle call to rest. He answered it, releasing the force that had kept him anchored to this realm and after sending a final wave of gratitude toward Wei Wuxian, his soul found peace at last and quietly slipped into the cycle of rebirth, no sadness, no regrets.
Wei Wuxian was alone. After Wen Ning finally let go, his only companions were the small creatures of the forest that had slowly formed a bond with him over time, especially the two rabbits he had rescued from a hungry fox. The little creatures had wandered into the Burial Mounds and did not look like wild hares; they had most likely escaped from some warren or breeding pen in Yiling. They reminded him strongly of the two rabbits he had gifted long ago to a certain handsome, stoic young cultivator. These gentle creatures followed him everywhere as they grew, and Wei Wuxian often found himself having long, one-sided conversations with them.
“Aiyah! Look at these beautiful flowers,” Wei Wuxian exclaimed, admiring the delicate blossoms on a tree. “This mountain is coming back to life more and more with each passing season.”
He had limited knowledge of plant names in general, but he could recognize most medicinal herbs thanks to his training as a disciple. The need to identify plants that could save lives had been paramount, and the time he had spent with Wen Qing had only deepened that knowledge. This particular tree, however, was so unique that he decided to name it himself.
“What do you think of ‘Mooncake Flower Tree’?” he asked, turning to the two rabbits sniffing around the tree trunk. “Because their flowers look like mooncakes,” he explained when he got no reply.
“Ah, you two are so judgmental, just like someone I used to know,” he huffed, walking away. Yet the small creatures followed him anyway, even without answering, not caring that their companion seemed anoyed by their inability to talk.
And so his days passed, caught between admiring the new life slowly blossoming around him and chasing the last resentful creatures that still lingered in the shadows. The flow of time meant little to him, only the changing seasons marked its passage. He was alone, yet content. There were no sects to defy, no sect leader to answer to, his time was entirely his own. He missed the Dafan Wen. He missed Wen Ning and Wen Qing. But he carried no regrets about their passing. He had done his best for them, and he would always be grateful that they had helped pull him back from the brink of extinction.
He did not fully understand his current situation, nor the fact that he was gradually becoming more and more corporeal as time went on. He suspected it had something to do with the soft whispers he occasionally heard in the back of his mind. At first they had been easy to ignore, but now they were multiplying and growing far more insistent.
He could not understand the words, but the tone grew clearer with each passing day. Some voices sounded regretful, while others were supplicant, like prayers carried on the wind in the hope that they might reach a helpful ear. But what could he do? All his attempts at helping ended in disaster. His time among the living was over, his feet were now walking a different path, one that, he hoped in time, would come to understand. He had heard legends of wandering spirits cursed to walk among the living for eternity as punishment. If this was his fate, then he would accept it. Perhaps he would receive some leniency from the heavens for cleansing the Burial Mounds. He laughed softly at his own naïveté. When had the heavens ever truly helped him? They had punished him plenty, with searing pain and bitter betrayal, but help? Not once that he could remember.
Still, he did what he knew was right. He continued freeing the tormented spirits trapped within these grounds, one by one. Each release brought a rush of cool, whispering wind that brushed across his increasingly solid skin, carrying away the heavy, metallic tang of old resentment. Some spirits dissolved into soft sighs that smelled faintly of rain on stone and distant pine; others left behind a fleeting warmth, like sunlight breaking through long years of shadow.
Day after day, the Burial Mounds grew quieter, lighter. The air lost its sharp, acrid bite and slowly filled with the clean scent of damp earth and new green growth. Birds began to sing again in the distance, their bright calls piercing the heavy silence that had ruled for centuries. Small animals, foxes, deer, and more curious wild rabbits, cautiously returned, their soft footfalls rustling through tender shoots and fallen leaves that now carpeted the once-barren ground.
In the end, only he remained, accompanied by the two rabbits that followed at his heels and the growing number of birds and small creatures that had reclaimed the hills after centuries of exile. The land itself seemed to breathe easier beneath his feet, cool soil and fresh grass replacing the old crunch of dry bones and blackened rock.
It was because of those persistent whispers echoing in the back of his mind that Wei Wuxian eventually found himself drawn to the southern edge of the mountain, the slope facing Yiling. The town lay a good distance below, nestled in the valley, yet he could still see it clearly. Hundreds of tiny golden lights rose slowly into the night sky like glowing fireflies. Is it the Lantern Festival already? he wondered, watching from the shadows as the delicate paper lanterns drifted upward, their warm glow painting faint trails of light against the dark velvet of the evening.
Curious, he walked eastward along the edge. Almost immediately, he spotted a large compound built perilously close to the Burial Mounds, brightly illuminated by countless lanterns. Their golden radiance spilled across polished wooden beams and tiled roofs, casting long, dancing shadows. He could have sworn it was late summer.
Drawn by the lively scene, he approached slowly. A large crowd of people moved about the spacious main courtyard, their voices rising in a gentle, continuous murmur. In the centre stood a small, elegant temple, its doors wide open. Worshippers entered and exited in orderly fashion, some carrying incense, others bowing deeply before stepping back into the cool night air. The scent of burning joss sticks drifted up the slope, mingling with the crisp mountain breeze.
He kept to the shadows, aware that he was far more solid now than before. Carefully, he edged closer to the temple, but it was too crowded with people. Not wanting to be seen, he took a quiet detour and found himself in a small, secluded side courtyard. A tranquil pond lay to one side, its dark surface rippling gently. Delicate lotus flowers swayed in the cool night breeze, their pale petals glowing faintly under the moonlight. Nearby, an old tree stood beside the front porch, its branches likely offering welcome shade during the day. On the wooden porch, placed elegantly on a low table, rested a guqin. It looked achingly familiar.
Wei Wuxian hesitated only a moment before stepping closer as he glanced around the empty courtyard. Through the open doors of the building, he could see into the dimly lit interior, but no one was inside. The soft glow of a small oil lamp cast long, quiet shadows across the floor. The night air carried the faint, sweet fragrance of lotus, sandalwood and the distant scent of incense from the main temple. Everything was still, save for the soft rustle of leaves and the occasional ripple of water in the pond.
It was a remarkably peaceful place, elegant in its simplicity and clearly lived-in. Wei Wuxian’s fingers brushed lightly across the guqin strings, releasing a single, resonant note that hummed pleasantly in the quiet night. Very well tuned, he thought, admiring the smooth, polished wood. And very well cared for. His hand stilled when his eyes caught the name elegantly carved into the wood at one end: Wangji. He froze. What were the chances that a guqin so familiar would bear that exact name? Why was it here? Was its owner here too?
The thought made him glance around, a flicker of worry tightening in his chest. That was when he noticed his two rabbits lingering near a small gate. The fluffy little creatures had followed him all the way here without him even realizing it.
“Come here, we have to leave,” he whispered urgently.
But his companions had other ideas. They were clearly determined to pass through the gate, which opened onto a narrow corridor formed between the side of the building and the high courtyard wall. With a quiet sigh, Wei Wuxian opened it. The rabbits shot through like arrows, as if they knew the place well. He followed cautiously and stepped into a large enclosed garden. It was a peaceful space, featuring several small earthen mounds dotted with burrow holes, clearly rabbit warrens. A stately old tree stood in the centre, its branches spreading wide. The two rabbits darted straight toward one of the holes and vanished inside without hesitation.
‘Was this where they escaped from?’ Wei Wuxian wondered, curiosity getting the better of him. He moved closer to inspect the garden more carefully. The soft grass felt cool beneath his bare feet, and the night air carried the gentle scent of fresh earth and blooming night flowers. He suspected more rabbits were hidden inside the burrows, but since it was night, they were most likely asleep. His two small companions did not reappear, even after he wandered around the garden for a little while longer. It felt odd, because rabbits were usually most active at dawn and dusk, but the sun had set hours ago. Still, they had willingly followed him all the way here so late in the evening. A quiet wave of sadness washed over him at the thought of losing the two fluffy little balls. They had entered his life not long ago, yet they had become surprisingly dear to him. He lingered a moment longer, then decided it was best to leave before the owner of the house returned.
“Wei Ying!”
Wei Wuxian froze. Slowly, he turned around and found himself face to face with Lan Zhan. The man stood bathed in moonlight, dressed in simple grey and dark blue robes. He wore no forehead ribbon, and his hair was gathered in a neat half-updo. A slight sheen glistened in his eyes as they fixed him with the most intense stare he had ever seen from the stoic Lan. For a brief moment, Wei Wuxian considered pretending this was just a vision, an illusion. After all, he had died. He could simply play the part of a harmless, passing ghost. There was no need to panic, he thought as a shiver ran down his spine, a feeling he had not experienced in a very long time.
It really was his guqin after all. Was this Lan Zhan’s home? The absence of the forehead ribbon raised far more questions than it answered. Wei Wuxian searched the other man’s face but still could not fully read his expression, though he could glimpse the shock buried deep within those golden eyes. That was understandable. After all, Wei Wuxian was supposed to be dead. What was he supposed to say now? How could he possibly explain his existence to this man without prompting him to draw his sword or strike up a song of vanquishment?