“I suppose it’s too much for Hanguang-Jun to show some cheer for Jin Ling’s birthday. Even at a party you have to look as dour as if you wife died.”
Lan Sizhui didn’t have a chance to step forward, was still formulating the permissible ratio of subtle scolding to include in the request for Sect Leader Jiang to forgive his father, when Hanguang-Jun pulled his blade from his waist.
Jingyi sucked in a shocked breath and Jin Ling grabbed the handle of his own sword with an anxious look toward his Uncle, but before anyone could brace themselves, Bichen, still in it’s sheath, thumped heavily against Lan Sizhui’s chest.
“H-Hanguang-Jun?” he wheezed out, hands automatically lifting to grasp the shining blade.
Rather than answering, Hanguang-Jun took a single, long step forward, eyes still set in that odd middle distance he always looked in Jiang Wanyin’s general direction with.
Sect Leader Jiang was clearly thrown, but took a half step closer, chin tilting up and clearly about to bluster, when, still not looking at him, Hanguang-Jun punched him full-force in the face.
Jingyi and Jin Ling both screamed. Delight and horror crescendo up and drawing every eye in the Jin clan’s vibrantly decked hall to the alcove just out of the way where the two groups had had the misfortune of running into each other.
Coughing blood, from rage or his broken nose or, by the faint clack against the floor, a shattered tooth, Jiang Wanyin staggered back, but didn’t fall.
“You-” he said thickly, eyes already squinting closed as his face began to puff up and bruise.
Hanguang-Jun struck out again. An almost delicate flick that snaped Jiang Wanyin’s head to the side.
This time Jiang Wanyin rolled with the motion to reduce damage, turning the spin into a roundhouse toward Hanguang-Jun’s face that was dodged with and undoubtedly deliberate casualness, then they were fighting.
Lan Sizhui collared Jingyi and Jin Ling and dragged them out of range. Jingyi called out encouragement to Hanguang-Jun and Jin Ling to Jiang Wanyin, but neither seemed to see how serious this was.
“FATHER, STOP!” Lan Sizhui shouted over the two of them, heart racing as he hoped the sound of his voice would snap his father out of this inexplicable anger.
The dull murmur of casual conversation around them was replaced with a cacophony of screaming and running as people tried to get closer, get away, get a better view; and all ended up tangling together in a wall around them.
Jiang Wanyin’s back hit a pillar as Hanguang-Jun successfully herded him deeper into the enclosed space of the alcove, but just before the next punch could land, he dropped and let himself fall sideways, then rolled and sprung back up in a very unorthodox cartwheeling motion.
Hanguang-Jun’s eyes widened as he watched the motion, mute, fathomless rage tightening the lines of his face even as his expression didn’t change much.
A second later, his left fist slammed into the pillar beside him.
The marble around his knuckles turned to dust, a sizable chunk of it careening off into the crowd of miling feet, and a crack split the pillar straight to the ceiling and all at once everyone realized this wasn’t a petty brawl.
The space around them immediately widened and suddenly those struggling to get closer while yelling for them to stop were given room to rush forward, and Lan Sizhui had a much easier time dragging his two peers away.
No one wanted to be that close to two such powerful cultivators when they were fighting in earnest.
Jiang Wanyin wasn’t able to dodge the next barrage of form-perfect Lan martial style. He raised his arm to block and watched in shock along with everyone else as his forearm neatly snapped into a right angle under the force of Hanguang-Jun’s fist.
“Wangji!” Uncle Xichen shouted as father threw himself forward to follow Jiang Wanyin’s attempt at retreat. Right behind him came Nie Mingjue.
Lan Sizhui sagged in relief.
“No, cover Sect Leader Jiang!” Lan Xichen snapped when Nie Mingjue made to head toward Hanguang-Jun. With only a sharp nod, he placed himself in front of Jiang Wanyin, who seemed equal parts grateful and resentful of the protection through the blood and bruises swelling his face.
“Get out of my way.” Hanguang-Jun’s voice was rough and low in a way Lan Sizhui had never heard it. Zidian crackled to life behind Nie Mingjue, snapping against the floor.
“Hanguang-Jun! Lan Wangji! You dare attack me in so cowardly a way? Without warning or cause at my own nephew’s birthday?!”
“Not without cause. And not without warning.”
Lan Xichen bodily grabbed his father, speaking low, though his voice carried in the listening silence. “Calm yourself Wangji.” his fingers tightened and he moved to place himself more in front of Hanguang-Jun, ducking his head until their eyes met. “Calm.”
For a moment, Lan Sizhui feared he would bull forward regardless, but as suddenly as he’d struck out, Hanguang-Jun backed down. Not relaxing by any means, his body none-the-less lost the tension of battle and he rocked back onto his heels.
In jerky motions, Lan Xichen let go of him, leaving his hand’s hovering in the air as Hanguang-Jun took one, then another step back. Preparing to grab him again.
Hanguang-Jun’s eyes lowered to the floor, rage cooling back to that cold distain - a thin crust over that molten heat - and in two quick jerks, he righted his robes back to a pristene state. Tucking his arm behind his back, he turned and walked toward the door.
Forcing his clenched hands to release the wads of white and yellow fabric he still had a hold of, cool air uncomfortable on the damp skin of his palms and between his fingers, Lan Sizhui hurried to follow the open path through the crowd that was left in his father’s wake.
The next time they were in a room together, Jiang Wanyin said only what was required for politeness sake. After a pause too long, Lan Sizhui spoke a polite greeting in turn. Jiang Wanyin nodded as if Hanguang-Jun had said the words himself, then joined him in staring into a middle distance while the cultivators around them tutted and spoke words of relief even as they sighed in disappointment.
The rest of the conference was mild and unexciting.
As if nothing had happened.
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