Listen to the song

This presents something of a problem, given that he himself is a ghost, albeit of the still-breathing variety. Lan Zhan might have scowled at Wei Ying if he ever described himself as such aloud, but it’s one of those truths that suit silence more than sound, anyways. A knowledge that keeps itself company better than company ever could. No need to bother the Chief Cultivator with such whimsical thoughts.

Even if the Chief Cultivator is one of the leading experts on soothing spirits and corpses and essentially everything not-quite-dead-enough in between.

His fingers tighten around Chenqing, rigid against the silky black wood, and the lilting melody he’s playing falters. Wei Ying makes himself breathe; makes himself smile at the dirty wall of the empty temple he’s currently seated in. The trick works, like so many of his tricks do. He relaxes, loosens his hand, smooths his thumb against the flute instead. An apology to an old friend. Then he keeps playing.

Lan Zhan will be annoyed that Wei Ying went on this night hunt without him, but given what he suspects he’s dealing with, there are worse things than an annoyed Twin Jade. Off the top of his head, a dead one. Or worse than dead. (That was just a casual example. Certainly not something he’s thought about again and again and again and –)

Pausing now, pulling Chenqing slightly away and uncrossing his legs, rearranging his black and red robes, Wei Ying smiles even wider. He’s learned so much since their early years of attending the Gusu Lan Sect’s indoctrination sessions, but truth be told, he’s known how to smother his worries for longer than that. Fidgeting and smirking are excellent, day-exclusive antidotes to anything that could (and might and would and did) keep him up at night.

He lets go of thoughts of Lan Zhan as he gets a tighter grip on his focus. Closes his eyes and, bringing Chenqing back to his lips, resumes the song even as he rids himself of his wards.

The ghosts rush in when he beckons with his music. They press against his ears with their echoes, almost but not quite drowning out the flute. Most, polite by now, only murmur, to each other or themselves. Others, newer or simply more resentful, more inclined to disturb and powerful enough to manage it, are shrieking or wailing, sobbing or swearing. Not in literal words: he can’t commune with them in that way without Empathy or Inquiry. But they can impart sensations, feelings, flashes of memories that whirl across his mind, and he has become better at understanding the dizzying array of impressions the more he’s practiced demonic cultivation. There are many ghosts here, smothering him with the weight of their soul-cemented grief and rage. The sheer level of turbulent emotion – so much emotion – is a muddied current, sweeping around him and threatening to drag him to the depths that these spirits have already reached. That he reached, once before.

Some of them hate him. He can’t blame them. What right does he have to the oxygen flowing through these lungs? Wei Ying has been in this body for several years now, and yet, sometimes, he still feels like an intruder, as if his soul slipped through a crack and never could find the way out. Sometimes, he wonders – fears – that Mo Xuanyu’s invitation was not an invitation, but a cry for help. A trust offered and then betrayed. If only he had known how to refuse. How to stop hearing the summons. How to forget the offer like he had forgotten so much else. If only –

Communing with spirits wasn’t so hard. Taking in another deep breath, keeping the melody steady, Wei Ying gently rejects the accusations being flung at him. Smiles in the face of all the hatred. Not now, he tells the hordes of hungry ghosts. Not yet. I’ll answer for my crimes, for the crimes of everyone, later, but not now.

He is searching for one spirit in particular. One obstinate soul that eludes his reaching power, slips across fingertips and is gone in a flash of heat so intense it feels like melting. This ghost came to his attention only recently, and for all of his knowledge, Wei Ying doesn’t know if that’s because it just chose to reveal itself to him, or if it only found him in the last few weeks. He hopes it’s the latter. If it has been following him for longer, without him being aware of it… well, he’s mostly decent while alone.

(While he’s with Lan Zhan is another story entirely, but no ghosts could penetrate the wards he has placed around their dwelling.)

Refusing to be distracted by that tantalizing thought, he offers, I just want to talk. When there is no response, he says it out loud, around his flute. “I just want to talk. Just a little exchange of information. No tricks, I promise.” Some of the gathered spirits murmur, but no one comes forward. He could command them to find the one he is looking for. To drag it before him. But if it is who he suspects, that could very well be a mistake. He’s familiar enough with those, but not so much that he wants to make more.

Pouting, eyes still closed, Wei Ying lets Chenqing fall limply into his lap, crosses his arms. “Yah, stalker!” he calls. “It’s not fair if you get an eyeful whenever I’m doing anything, and I get nothing in return! Have you no shame? No pride? Are you so ugly you’ve nothing to show me?”

The teasing gets no more of a reply than a flicker of amusement through some of the friendlier spirits surrounding him, and he opens his eyes. Gaze slipping by the congregation of ashy-black, wispy figures and skipping through the ruins of the temple, he brings up a finger to tap thoughtfully against his nose. He’s sure this decrepit building belonged to the Wens, long before the Sunshot Campaign was a seed in the minds of any of the Sects. Conversation with the townsfolk a short distance from here, who had only moved in during the last decade or so, had confirmed it. The temple had been obliterated when the seed bloomed and the fatal fruit was reaped, but it had been beloved by one of their offshoot clans, a place where cultivators and normal folk alike mingled.

With a sudden, stiff movement, Wei Ying springs to his feet. After shaking out his limbs with a few exaggerated moans and limbering himself with even more exaggerated stretching, he begins to wander through the building, followed by a billowing escort of barely-perceptible spirits. It is not a large temple, but he thinks it was once well built and well cared for. There are shattered pieces of frescoes and statues throughout, many painted in long-faded colours, but the fragments he can make out suggest pride of craftsmanship and ownership. Now, dust covers everything, and anything of value has been snatched by greedy fingers. It may as well be a graveyard.

“Ah, it’s such a shame,” Wei Ying comments as he comes to the main hall, just as demolished as the rest. Ghosts are more raucous company than some (and one in particular, with a pretty headband and prettier lips that are altogether too good at pressing together), and many of those here are lonely; they are eager to be heard, in whatever form that takes. Though he knows none of them by name, and they don’t know him, they crowd closer, resonating with his pitying declaration and clamoring to tell their stories. Until the spirit he wants appears, Wei Ying is in no hurry, and sometimes listening is enough to ease those lingering on the border to their final rest.

It’s the least he can do.

The loudest are the saddest and angriest. Many are soldiers or cultivators who died by the sword when the forces of the Qinghe Nie, Lanling Jin, and Yunmeng Jiang Sects took this area and annihilated all who resisted. (And some, the ghosts convey frantically, who did not.) Still others, with their houses and fields burned, died of starvation, their souls screaming their hunger even now. None perished in this building, but, a focal point in life, it has become a focal point in death, too, a place for familiarity when resentment trapped hapless souls and caged them from going further.

Sooner rather than later, he is going to have to ask Lan Zhan to come here and play Rest. It should have been done a long time ago – years and years ago – and Wei Ying only hopes the resentment hasn’t grown too powerful for the lapse.

I am sorry for what happened. It was not just, Wei Ying tells them, the words too heavy to give voice to, and most are grateful to receive his compassion. He wishes he could leave it at that. Let them be soothed by sympathy. But there is a sudden scent in the air, one that’s been plaguing him for weeks now, the ozone reek of discharged electricity. It’s so strong he’s almost surprised that there are no clouds in the sky, no lightning bolts hurling into the ground. So, Wei Ying wishes he could leave them all alone, but he is too good at doing hard things to let a simple wish stop him. He continues, idly twirling Chenqing as he strolls across the hall and out a crumbling archway into what might have once been an enclosed garden, long overgrown. “It’s not really their fault that you died, though. The soldiers who came here, I mean.”

The reaction is immediate. It feels like constricting, like water being sucked out of a bay before a tsunami, like thunder in the distance. An oppressive warning. Not quite dangerous – but it could become deadly. He holds up his hands in appeal to the audience only he can see. The villagers would probably start lighting torches if they saw him wandering about and talking to himself, so it’s lucky they stay away from here. “Think about it. Who began the war? Who gave the first insult? Surely you have all heard of the atrocities the Wen Sect committed, long before the others retaliated.”

Some are too far gone to heed him. They buzz angrily, jarred and jarring in their rejection, and their vehement antagonism stabs into his temples, threatening to spin the world off its axis. That’s fine. The trick to dealing with that is a simple one; Wei Ying’s world hasn’t been on its axis for a very long time now.

He brings Chenqing up, plays a few calming notes. It would be better if no one but the one he’s hunting attacked him. Or none of them did, but Wei Ying isn’t quite as much of an optimist as he pretends to be. He’s been trying to draw the spirit into a conversation for weeks now, whenever he catches a hint of lightning on a breeze or the not-his memory of pressure constricts his throat. (Dancing around Lan Zhan’s blank faced suspicion each time the Chief Cultivator catches him talking to thin air has been a hectic mix of fun and stressful.) His attempts at making contact have been in vain. If even presenting himself at this temple didn’t evoke a response, where the spirit should be most comfortable (unless Wei Ying is wrong about who it is, which would be embarrassing), he can only imagine that the entity’s intentions aren’t entirely peaceful. Given who it might be, they may in fact be the exact opposite of entirely peaceful.  

Which is a shame, because he’s actually beginning to enjoy himself here. This outdoor space is quite pretty, blue and purple wildflowers doted throughout the thicker tangles of green, and his music suits the abandoned atmosphere of the area. There are fractured stone columns here and there, broken by overly enthusiastic purgers, holding up nothing now, but he imagines the temple had some kind of pavilion for enjoying the outdoors in the shade. A long gone comfort, but one that could be brought back with a bit of work. This is the sort of place that welcomes visitors but asks no one to extend their stay. His kind of place.

Eventually he finds what is either a worn bench or a toppled statue, half conquered by the overgrowth, and, after dusting it off, he takes a seat, leans back, and props himself up on his elbows.

If he weren’t communing with a bunch of livid spirits, this would almost feel like one of his informal teaching sessions with the juniors. “Yes, it was the Wen Sect who started all of this. The insults, the degradation, the murders, the puppets… who could stand by when such injustice was going on? I’m sure very few of you knew what Wen Ruohan was doing. You’re all decent people, aren’t you?”

That’s a joke, coming from him, but it settles them down a little, makes them less defensive. All well and good, and still no stronger sign of the presence he’s searching for. Well, he has always said that patience was meant to be tested. “Those that did know, though…” Wei Ying looks around, arches an eyebrow in a chiding expression. Only vaguely wonders if he’s pushing things a little too far. “They’re to blame for all of this. They could have stopped Ruohan if they’d chosen. Cowards, sycophants, bootlickers… they’re the reason for all of your deaths. For all of the death. They –”

The man was, in life, an imperturbable individual, but death does things to a person, things more significant than just stopping the heart. Wei Ying doesn’t know what the final trigger is – the place, the accusation, or maybe the spirit just loses its patience with their game of cat-and-mouse – but regardless, one moment he’s having a delightful garden chat.

The next he’s been heaved off the bench and thrown across the enclosed space, to crash into one of the taller columns with a strangled, “Umph!” while heat and an ozone stench invade his senses.

Wei Ying lands – hard – on his hands and knees, the breath fleeing from his lungs as though it’s finally realized it doesn’t belong there. Wheezing, blood a coppery coating at the back of his throat, he clutches his flute a bit too hard and tries not to regret how differently this fight would have gone in a different life. No time for what-ifs – only time for enthusiastically trying not to pass out from the impact his head had made with the pillar. He doesn’t manage to do more than get unsteadily to his feet before he’s slammed into again, the force too fast and distorted to get a good look at the spirit attacking him.

This time he’s not flung as far, and he lands in a bush – a distinct improvement. Sprawled in the plant, several pointy bits jabbing him in the back, Wei Ying yanks his sleeve off a particularly malevolent twig and jerks Chenqing up. He’s aware of the thing rushing forward – of a pulsing, fragmented, confused rage – of a disconcerting emptiness where the other ghosts were just moments before – (of static anxiety, an old companion) – of Chenqing’s smooth warmth under his fingers as he begins to play –

Of time, pretending to come to a sudden, violent halt.

Just an illusion. With the spirit abruptly suspended before him, caught up in the invisible threads of power cast out from his flute, Wei Ying has a disjointed moment where the overwhelming emotions from his attacker bleed through his vision, painting everything in reds and golds. Anger and anger and not-anger, something he can’t understand, something like the tempered steel of Suibian, flexible and resilient, yet so sharp it could slice a careless wielder.

The spirit is vaguely man-shaped, all blurred edges and flaring shadows. He can’t force it to assume a more distinct form; the mere effort of keeping it still is enough to have sweat pouring down Wei Ying’s skin, sticky between his fingers as he performs a tune that has by now become second nature. This spirit isn’t the most powerful he’s ever encountered, but it comes rudely close. It’s not surprising, exactly, but he’s won this battle before. Maybe he got just a little overconfident.

Lan Zhan is going to be really furious with me, Wei Ying thinks cheerfully, all the better to drown any second-thoughts about not bringing the other man. Because, really, bringing his lover into this specific kind of danger just wasn’t an option.  

He won’t be able to suppress his opponent through Chenqing alone. That much becomes obvious as their stalemate draws on and Wei Ying’s mouth and lips begin to dry. He changes his tune, literally. Broadens it, with only a twinge of guilt. The appeal – a command, really – sings through the air, as pointed as any sword, and begins to draw on several of the ghosts that had scattered when the more powerful spirit revealed itself. He only calls to the angriest, the most formidable in their own right; no point in subjecting the souls of peasants to this demonic contest of wills.

They come, but only reluctantly. More reluctantly than he expected. Harnessing dark spirits for violence is rarely difficult, given that they already want to commit harm. Hell, half of the battle is usually keeping them directed and contained, not getting them to fight at all. Yet these ghosts need to be chided by Chenqing’s stern voice, prodded to do as bidden. Is it fear? Wei Ying doubts that. Very few spirits have maintained their hold on life enough to fear losing it even more.

Regardless, they can only drag their feet (metaphorically speaking), not reject his orders entirely. Before too long, he has all of them sparring with the other spirit, colliding with it and ripping off chunks of smoke-like substances that dissipate into the air as though they were never there. The assault is enough to let Wei Ying heave himself off the (very flattened) bush and, in a quick scramble, begin to search his robe for a few specific talismans.

All the while, the passions of the ghosts haven’t abated. Actually, they’re thunderous, almost a physical pressure wreaking havoc against his thoughts, crushing them into the here and now and nothing else. He can’t understand why fury isn’t the most prevalent emotion of this fight. He can’t understand why the aggressive spirit hasn’t torn apart at least a couple of his minions yet – or done worse. No time for speculation. There’s just the music, pulling his power from him with reckless abandon and carrying his will out in waves that distort the air and exhort his servants to greater efforts.  

His pulse is pounding in his throat, an unpleasant counterpoint to the rhythm his fingers are tapping on Chenqing. Fatigue is a grey murkiness that makes each controlled breath a little more rattling than it should have been, makes every thought just a bit too slow, a bit too hazy. Not for the first time, he wishes Mo Xuanyu had spent a little less time on impeccable face makeup and a little more on his cultivation. Or at least cardio.

Of course, Wei Ying could probably have spent a little less time drinking and a little more time training, so he supposes he should graciously let the man off the hook.

Shoving his power against the spirit is like pushing against a mountain or trying to convince Jiang Cheng to change his mind: a lot of gross sweating and no satisfactory payoff. Or at least, it is until, with a jolt of energy that Wei Ying feels as an agonizing shock straight through his muscle and bones, all the way to his core, the fierce spirit does something to one of its opponents. One that’s latched on and refusing to be shaken off. Some kind of implosion ripples across the other ghost, and there is a screeching wail, cut brutally short, and then… nothing. Wei Ying’s servant is just – gone.

He is concentrating too hard to be able to fully see what happened, but still – he knows. Or remembers. Remembers something he never actually saw happen, but remembers all the same. And abruptly the fear is there, a stranger this time, acidic in his mouth, and the shadow of words he never said come unbidden to his tongue, words like please, no and I’ll do anything and stop, stop, stop. There’s no room amidst the horrified realization for anything like contempt, but somewhere in the groping dread is a tingling empathy, a sour sympathy for things long finished and dead.

He hasn’t ever blamed Jiang Cheng for his fear before, but now Wei Ying’s understanding isn’t just nestled patiently in the core he used to own; it’s throbbing in his heart, coursing through his veins, forcing every artery to personally acknowledge the wrenching terror. His jaw is aching, he realizes numbly, but can’t stop clenching his teeth until a strained sob almost cracks them in its attempt to escape. That startles him, yanks him viciously out of a torture he never experienced, and he slams back into himself and awareness of his surroundings so hard that it practically winds him. With a gasp, Wei Ying flings up his arms, a reflexive attempt to protect himself from –

Nothing.

People have called him lucky before. Blessed. With good looks and a sparkling personality, sure, but he’s never been able to look back on his life and concede that luck had much of a place in it after his adolescence. Now, though…

There really isn’t another word to describe it. While he had been distracted (Wen Qing had mentioned something about possible triggers, but that had been in another body, another life, so why the hell had it carried over to–) Chenqing had clattered to the ground, the music grinding to a halt. With the goad gone, the spirits he’d yoked to his will – the ones still left – had faltered, gone from raging to ragtag in the span of seconds. They’re wandering adrift now, though none of them have left. By rights, they should have turned on him. And if not them, then his enemy should have taken the opportunity to finish what it started.

Lucky indeed.

The spirit is still standing in front of Wei Ying, and of it’s own free will it’s taken on a much clearer form. A distinct face, distinct features, an almost distinct wardrobe. Distinct hands, big and partially covered by fingerless gloves, the kind that remind Wei Ying of an age when holding a sword hilt meant cutting through muscle and bone as if they belonged to monsters. The spirit is currently staring at its hands like it expects them to sprout claws.

It – he – slowly curls his fingers, until they’re formed into shaking fists, and then he looks up. Not at Wei Ying. At the other spirits. “I am sorry,” he says, or projects, or offers, and regardless of how he does it, they understand. Wei Ying can feel the waves of sorrow, of grief, of acceptance. The fury is still there, a frigid undercurrent compared to the warmth of this – this –

What is this? It feels like a reunion, like a meeting between friends or family long parted. The way he stares at the other ghosts, the stream of recognition that links them all, the guilt that has his features crumpling as if he just murdered…

Oh. Oh.

It’s not as if Wei Ying has never used the dearly departed against their loved ones. He has. It’s just that he’s never done it accidentally before. Coming here hadn’t been about that, hadn’t even crossed his mind. He’d thought it might draw the spirit out and had forgotten in the process that stone walls and a ceiling don’t make a home. It’s the people who manage that. The people and the soup.

His heart lurches at a rebuke that hasn’t dulled despite how long it’s been. Regret, grief, and guilt are all excellent whetstones, and besides, it hasn’t really been so long for him. Wei Ying feels too sharp, like anything or anyone could be cut by the edge of his shame, and it makes him restive, anxious. He stoops, picks up Chenqing from the ground with silken-soft gentleness, just in case the flute somehow shatters against his jagged margins.

The motion attracts the spirit, but when he looks towards Wei Ying, there’s no spike of rage coming from the restless ghost. The guilt of what he just did has smothered it, and Wei Ying doesn’t think he’ll ever understand the dead man more than he does right in this moment.

He’s not even wary anymore. It’s as if the echo of Jiang Cheng’s fear was too big, too reverberating, its aftershocks clearing his chest of anything too light to resist. Hollowed out, Wei Ying can’t manage to feel much of anything at all. Or maybe that’s just – himself. He’s already been parted with one core. Why should a second threat, against an admittedly shabbier core, be viewed as worse than the first?

Gathering up his black sleeves and linking his hands together, Wei Ying bows to his opponent. Maybe holds it a bit too long, dips a bit too low, making respect into a mockery, but he can’t stop himself. His concern for the safety of Lan Zhan, of the juniors – and especially of Jiang Cheng – has been his sole focus for the last few weeks of investigation into this spirit’s background. However, confronted with a slightly clouded face that suits his slightly clouded recollection, Wei Ying has to acknowledge something that crackles, ugly and vengeful, just below his lips, frozen into a smile.

Consciousness is relentless. No matter how hard he tries to push it away, it just comes back, nudges him with ever firmer insistence. Like a mangy dog, burying its cold nose against his skin. A groan peels through his too-dry lips – the music stops – and it feels like his soul is separating from his body with the pitiful sound. Like if he breathes too hard, he’s going to end up losing whatever churned up mess is inside. And gods, that will not be pretty for anyone involved.

Anyone involved… Who is involved? With another low moan, he reaches up, prods tenderly at his forehead. It seems to be distinctly Wei Ying shaped, which is a weird enough discovery to pry his eyes open. He’s greeted by a very welcome face, and a much less welcome surge of pain and dizziness as the light stabs at him.

Since the face has been seared on the insides of his eyelids for years now and he doesn’t fear losing it in the next few minutes, Wei Ying shuts his eyes again. The blackness is a pleasant balm to the pain, though the dizziness seems to have lodged itself into his brain.

“Lan Zhan,” he rasps, only slightly more pathetically than he feels. “Ah, Lan Zhan, I swear I didn’t steal the Emperor’s Smile this time.”

There’s no verbal response, but a hand catches his wrist, fingers skimming gently along his skin until they find what they’re looking for and press more firmly against his meridian line. It would be soothing, that touch, if it didn’t almost feel like it was pushing against someone else’s flesh. The transfer of energy is more familiar, though, ticklish and light and refreshing, and Wei Ying’s eyes flutter before he forces them open again.

It would be altogether too selfish to let himself enjoy the elegant lines of Lan Zhan’s face for a few moments… but oh, it is tempting. Even when those lines are just a trifle too sharp, a little too slanted, his lips pressed a bit too hard together. Even angry, Lan Zhan’s beauty is a visceral thing, summoning a bloom of warmth in the pit of Wei Ying’s stomach, and honestly, he should have more near-death experiences just for the pleasure of waking up to that leaning over him.

Of course, near death or not, Lan Zhan is very often nearby when he wakes up. It’s just that the looming thing is kind of sexy.

But because he is not selfish – and because the anger has something guilty and anxious swarming up his throat – Wei Ying swallows hard and tries to sit up. Lan Zhan immediately puts his free hand on his chest and keeps him pinned, though the man isn’t meeting his gaze, eyes fixed elsewhere. Wei Ying thinks he has nice wrists, but probably not nice enough to warrant them being stared at for thirty or so seconds.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, trying to delicately pry the hand from his chest. It doesn’t move. Even when his other hand joins in the attempt, with Lan Zhan’s fingers still curled around his wrist, he can’t get the other man to shift. “Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying whines, mainly because the Chief Cultivator still isn’t really looking at him.

“Rest,” is his companion’s flat insistence. It’s not the good kind of flat, either, the kind that is steady and stable and extends forever. It’s the kind that makes Wei Ying feel like he’s going to fall, with absolutely nothing to stop the downward slide.

He wilts, dizziness still swimming across his vision. Head falling back onto the bed, Wei Ying keeps his hands clasped around Lan Zhan’s forearm as he murmurs, “I’m glad to see you.”

There’s a pause, a silence that’s too deep, too thick, too easy to suffocate in, and he almost has time to be really, truly afraid. Almost. But not quite. Because then Lan Zhan is replying, in a voice that nearly breaks, “As am I. Wei Ying, you…” Extra pressure from the hand still pressed against his chest, a tightness in the fingers wound around his wrist. They’re the only physical signs of the aggravation Wei Ying knows the other is feeling. It all comes to nothing. “How are you feeling?” his lover asks, as though that were really what he had been about to say.

It’s – almost frustrating. He almost wishes Lan Zhan would let loose the anger, set out accusations in neat little rows, if only so Wei Ying could knock them all asunder. How is he supposed to be chaotically endearing if there’s nothing to whirlwind his way through?

“I’m feeling well rested,” is his response, a trifle more than a trifle obnoxious, and also a lie. A line actually appears between Lan Zhan’s fine eyebrows, which means Wei Ying is really making some progress on the maddening front. Partly because he knows it will annoy the other man, but mainly because he’s genuinely puzzled, he changes the topic. “How did you get here? And where is here, anyways?”

The room they’re in is a generic one, at least from what Wei Ying can tell when he cranes his neck, still unable to sit up because of a certain stubborn someone. One window is letting in a good deal of light, and the place is clean but largely unadorned. A simple bed, a nondescript table with plain sitting cushions, unadorned sectioning screens, little in the way of decoration. It’s also ghost-free, which may or may not be a good thing, but it’s a thing his head is throbbing too much to think about. At least for the next few minutes.

He hasn’t received an answer, but nonetheless he knows. “An inn, right? Which one?”

“Tiantan.”  

The village at the foot of Suntouched Sanctuary. The one he’d passed through this morning. Or – actually, he has no idea how long it’s been since his feet took him up towards the temple. That’s a realization that has disorientation tumbling down his spine, counting out each vertebra like there might be a few too many jammed in there. He wiggles uncomfortably at the thought, and decides he’s probably let Lan Zhan steep in his protective anger for long enough.

Relinquishing his grip on the other man’s arm, he reaches up, trails his fingers over the exposed hollow of Lan Zhan’s throat, brushing back little strands of silky black hair to bare the skin better. His lover doesn’t pull away, and the quizzical half-tilt of his head, the swallow that Wei Ying can feel through the pads of his fingers, they have a helpless little sound stirring behind Wei Ying’s lips. Gods, how can anyone so beautiful be so charming, too? He resists his impulse to wax eloquent about Lan Zhan’s many virtues and says instead, “You know, if you’re so determined to keep me in bed, I can think of a few ways you might convince me to stay.”

It’s light enough in the room to see Lan Zhan’s pupils flare, dark and intent in the splash of sun spilling across his austere face. His throat convulses, another hard swallow, and for half a second, he leans in closer, unbound hair tickling Wei Ying’s face. It looks like he’s actually thinking about what he could do to keep Wei Ying obediently in place. Wei Ying’s body tenses, an automatic response to the smoldering expression, and it occurs to him that he really could think of a few things they could do on this bed. They’re so close right now, the least they could do was kiss…

Lan Zhan’s frustrated exhale puffs against his lips, and then the other man is straightening and backing away. Wei Ying doesn’t bother hiding his disappointed pout, which, given that his masterplan had been to get Lan Zhan to let him up, is a bit ridiculous. Whatever. No one has ever called the Yiling Patriarch a fount of Maturity and Constancy; he sees no reason to get them started now.

“You nearly died. You think I’d want to do… anything… after that?” Lan Zhan’s voice is so strangled with indignation that it’s somewhat funny, and Wei Ying has to stifle his rash impulse to point out that Lan Zhan certainly did want to do something, if only for a moment.

Quickly discarding his disappointment in favour of a smug grin, he sits up before Lan Zhan can change his mind. He only regrets it by about ninety percent when his stomach immediately lurches, nausea and dizzy pain warring for supremacy. The dizziness wins – thankfully – and, swallowing the urge to retch, he swings his legs over the side of the bed. He even (almost) manages to persuade himself that there hadn’t been a moment, half a second or less, when he’d thought his legs might not respond, given that they still don’t feel entirely like his legs. Nothing about this body feels entirely his, right now. A familiar sensation, but one aggravated by his use of Empathy.   

“Wei Ying…”

Ignoring that, he straightens, rolls his shoulders, mainly to convince himself that he has the ability to do so. Giving the room a more careful scan, he notes Lan Zhan’s guqin settled on the low table. The sight of the beautiful instrument has his throat closing, and it takes him a moment to realize why. The music that had been playing – the cursive, melodic trail he had followed out of the wrenching blackness of Wen Zhuliu’s despair – belonged to those strings. And those strings belong to Lan Zhan. Of course he feels like crying.

Of course he doesn’t cry. “Have you seen a spirit recently?” he asks instead, because really, that should take priority over his ripped up insides. “About this tall,” Lan Zhan’s eyes follow his vague hand gesture, “and really grim? You might recognize him, though it’s been a few –”

“Wen Zhuliu,” the other man says. “Yes. He was near when I found you. After you came back from Empathy...” There’s a pause, stagnant with more words that his beloved won’t say, and Wei Ying shifts restlessly, trying not to picture what pitiful state Lan Zhan had probably found him in. Trying not to remember the gut wrenching desperation in the voice that had called him back. “He disappeared when the connection broke. I’ve had the disciples preparing wards to ensure he cannot attack here.”

That distracts him. “The disciples? The – you brought some of the Lans? Who?”

An impassive expression. “Lan Jingyi, Lan Sizhui, Lan Feiyan, Lan Keung. Clan Leader Jin, who was visiting on Sect business, also demanded to come.”

“The kids? You brought the kids!?”

“Wei Ying.” For the first time since Wei Ying has woken up, Lan Zhan’s stone faced glower softens into something awfully close to amusement. “They are not children, despite your insistence on calling them as such.”

His hands flap dismissively. Semantics! “They’re younger than me,” he says by way of explanation, conveniently ignoring the fact that in some ways, he’s not truly much older than they are. “They’re also innocents! Defenseless idiots! How could you bring them into something like this?” If he had been on the sharp side of panic at the thought of Lan Zhan confronting Wen Zhuliu, that’s nothing compared to the gristly fear currently grinding up his insides at the prospect of the juniors being thrown into the mix. 

“It will be a learning experience,” Lan Zhan replies placidly. “Besides, I am here. Does Wei Ying think the Chief Cultivator is incapable of confronting this spirit? Of defending those he’s sworn to protect?” By the end of that, his voice has sharpened, and the very fact that he’s referring to himself by his title shows how upset he is.

“Of course not,” Wei Ying replies instantly. “If I had to choose anyone to be at my side, anyone at all, it would be you. It’s always you.” He leans forward as he says it, the truth of what he’s insisting stark in his eyes, and his lover doesn’t look away.

“Yet you chose to face this alone. You used Empathy alone, despite knowing how dangerous it is.”

Resisting the urge to wince, thankful that Lan Zhan is willing to speak about what’s hurting him and not bottle it up, Wei Ying smiles ruefully. “And that decision worked out so well. I’m… I might have made a mistake. A small one.”

“That almost got you killed.”

“But lucky for me, I have a handsome cultivator ready to swoop in to save me from demons and ghouls and such.” There’s no budge in his companion’s flat expression – not yet – and Wei Ying curbs his levity. “Ah, Lan Zhan, it’s not that I didn’t want you by me. It’s not that I didn’t think you could protect me from Wen Zhuliu. It’s just…” Lan Zhan is still watching him quietly, and he can’t help but reach out a hand, hopeful and yet a little breathless with apprehension, even after all this time.  

The other man doesn’t hesitate to entwine their fingers, and a second later he joins Wei Ying on the bed. Lan Zhan pulls their clasped hands into his lap, a seemingly unconscious gesture, as unconscious as the way he traces gentle lines across Wei Ying’s knuckles. “It’s just…” he prompts patiently, and gods, what did Wei Ying do to deserve such a man by his side? Perhaps he’d been a Saviour of the People in a previous life.

Not in this one, though. Shame creeps along his shoulders, making them hunch, and the raw vulnerability he feels, drawn out by Lan Zhan’s touch, is no less humiliating. Share his fear? Share his pain? Put yet another burden on the Chief Cultivator, as though Wei Ying deserves to be relieved of this weight? The urge to joke – to lie – wavers uneasily on his tongue.

But this, at least, is a habit Wei Ying has learned to restrain. For Lan Zhan, at least. “It’s just…” His free hand gropes along his sternum, like it could sink through his skin and cradle the pit of energy within. “I saw Jiang Cheng without his core, and I saw what it did to him. And when I gave my core to him...” He laughs, but the sound is hollow, and the smile he affixes to his lips is a reflex more than anything. “Lan Zhan, I know people called me a mad dog back then, but truly, sometimes, when I felt the emptiness inside me, well, they were not as wrong as they usually tended to be. I suppose even fools must be right once in a decade, hmm?” He laughs again and the sound rattles through the room before dying.

Lan Zhan is very, very still. He is not moving at all, except for his thumb, still stroking Wei Ying’s fingers. It is a stress response in reaction to grief and guilt for a tragedy long passed. It’s not a judgement. Wei Ying knows this, yet he still feels restless, restive, waiting for his lover to chide him for his thoughts and weakness. Deliberately careless retorts stack on his tongue, ready to topple off and dismiss what he just said, to reassure with a chuckle that the gouges in his soul are nothing.

Yet the man next to him does not offer a reproach. After a long moment, he just shifts, leans his shoulder lightly into Wei Ying. “You were afraid,” he observes quietly, and Wei Ying stiffens at the implication. Before he can argue, though, Lan Zhan shakes his head, a miniscule movement. “For me,” is his clarification.

Wei Ying is quick to agree to that as he relaxes. In his own way. This is swiftly becoming cloying, and he’s eager to move on. Not because he doesn’t want Lan Zhan to know he cares – that’s a battle he’s glad he lost more than a decade ago – but because there is pain in the tightness of his partner’s lips, and Wei Ying is so tired of this phantom ache that neither of them have healed. So… jokes.  

"What would we do if Wen Zhuliu took your core, and you couldn't cast the Silence Spell? I don’t know if our bond could survive the stress."

Lan Zhan does not laugh, or even smile. His intense stare might have been unsettling for someone else, and it had been unnerving for Wei Ying in a different time and place. Now, however, he basks in the attention, in the fierce devotion that inspires such a focus. "Wei Ying," Lan Zhan says, "I understand."  

As ever, he cuts straight to the heart of the matter, accepts without the need or desire to dwell on it. Before Wei Ying can be appropriately grateful for that forgiveness, the other man adds, "Next time, tell me. Whatever it is."

"Ah, Lan Zhan, I don't think we'll have the misfortune to meet two Wen Zhuliu ghosts in this lifetime."

A light furrow appears on his lover's forehead, and his posture, already immaculate, somehow becomes even straighter. "Wei Ying, promise me. Whatever it is next time, you'll tell me."

So the stare, as it turns out, can still be a bit unsettling for Wei Ying. He looks away, squirms in his seat and then makes to get up. Lan Zhan still has his hand, however, and the man's grasp is an anchor, forcing him to stay in place. "Wei Ying," he repeats, as close to an anxious entreaty as Lan Zhan ever gets.

Despite being a bit of an escape artist extraordinaire, the Yiling Patriarch is helpless to evade the sincerity of that plea. Huffing, he slouches back on to the bed and pouts. "Aish, fine. Next time I'll drag you with me to hell or wherever I end up."

It is a little bit ridiculous, how pleased the Chief Cultivator looks to be told such a thing. Wei Ying senses a shift in the room, a subtle loosening that means, once again, he’s been believed. Lan Zhan is not a simpleton, nor even particularly naïve, but he does have a tendency to think promises are not, in fact, made to be broken, and a habit of believing everyone else must think the same.       

Lan Zhan hums, whether in pleasure or conciliation, it's hard to say. Either way, the sharp lines of his face have softened, and the tension in his fingers has faded away. With a light snort, Wei Ying returns the pressure with his shoulder, the contact grounding him, letting the fear and guilt die down to a low flicker.

He still feels horrible, but at least it's only his body this time around.

"Speaking of our bond... I don't think it's quite strong enough to let you track me down. How'd you end up finding me?"

The smile is finally there, and Wei Ying had long ago learned to love the subtleties of that barely perceptible quirk, the slight tempering that so many people are likely to overlook.

Although he appreciates it slightly less when it’s at his expense.

“Lan Jingyi was to receive punishment for his actions during the Summer Recital of Values,” Lan Zhan explains calmly, as if that cleared up everything. Wei Ying truly doesn’t know how the young man had gathered so many butterflies, not to mention kept them concealed and unharmed until the moment he’d set them loose throughout the Chamber of Orchids, but he suspects there were accomplices. He also doesn’t know what the lecture-halting prank has to do with the Chief Cultivator finding him.

Seeing his befuddled pout, Lan Zhan’s smile grows by at least a millimeter. It’s dangerously close to being a smirk, now. Bastard. “Wei Ying encourages flexible punishments. I gave Lan Jingyi the choice between writing out the Values four hundred times, or keeping me appraised of your whereabouts and actions. He chose very quickly.”

Clutching dramatically at his chest, Wei Ying gasps, “You got him to spy on me? Isn’t that against the Lan Clan rules? What was the one… ‘Do not take part in dishonest practices.’”

“Be loyal,” Lan Zhan replies without hesitation. “Perform acts of chivalry. Believe sincerely.”

Wei Ying shakes his head. “Ah, Lan Zhan, I have been a bad influence. Lan Qiren would beat us both to hear you degrading the Values by actually thinking about their contradictions.”

The other man’s face loses some of its amusement, eyebrows furrowing in solemn contemplation, and Wei Ying has a moment to regret what was supposed to be a joke. However, Lan Zhan doesn’t seem upset. More softly than before, but more firmly too, the Chief Cultivator quotes, “Do not fail to carry out your promise.”

Their eyes meet, then, and Wei Ying thinks about a sky filled with floating lanterns, about hands clasped under his chin in fervent, naïve prayer. Of Lan Zhan, by his side even then. No regrets. "One of the Jades of Lan could not possibly fail at anything, let alone their promises," he jokes, but means it all the same. Lan Zhan might think differently, but the man has never failed him. Not on a mountain, or anywhere else.

That is not a path he wants to go down, however, so he draws himself up with officious huffiness. “Never mind. That brat has been tailing me? How could I not have noticed?”

“Lan Jingyi is very wily when motivated. Besides, I believe he has mostly followed your tracks, not your presence.”

Head cocking, finger going up to rub at his nose, Wei Ying stares narrowly at the Chief Cultivator. Lan Zhan gives nothing away, ghost of a smile still playing across his lips as he waits for Wei Ying to figure out what he means. Very smug. Very bastardly. And all in such an upright way, it’s impossible to challenge him on it.

Besides, Wei Ying’s attention is caught by the quandary. It takes a long moment, sorting through his mind what he’s done in the last month or so that could possibly count as tracks, but eventually it dawns on him. “The library. He asked Lan Kuan what scrolls I requested!”

A shallow nod is all the confirmation he needs, and he throws up his hands in disgust, ignoring the way it makes his head pulse with pain. He had spent weeks in the library, trying to determine where Wen Zhuliu’s former home was located, and, after he thought he'd figured it out, the best route to get there. He'd also familiarized himself with cases of non-aggressive hauntings, and situations where a cultivator's power continued even after death. It hadn’t occurred to him while researching that the old man who helped him wade through Cloud Recesses’ mountains of scrolls might tip off where he was going. “Aish! Lan Kuan, that doddering meddler!”

“Elder Lan Kuan is your senior, and a respected member of Gusu Lan Clan,” Lan Zhan says disapprovingly. He’s about to say more, no doubt a thrilling if stilted lecture about propriety and appropriate deference to the elderly, when they both hear something. A soft rustle at the screen doors, followed by a sharp inhale, more discrete rustling, and then silence.

Pointing at the door, Wei Ying grins. Anyone else would miss the way his lover inclines his head by just a little, but it’s all the benediction Wei Ying needs. Still smiling, maybe a trifle too evilly, he declares abruptly, “At any rate, Jingyi will pay! I’ll have spirits moan outside his bedroom for a month, at least!”

There’s a pause as Lan Zhan decides whether he actually wants to participate, and then the Chief Cultivator blandly comments, “That would be disruptive to the other disciples.”

“Then I’ll make him eat congee for weeks! Let’s see him spy on me when there’s a hole through his tongue!”  

It’s impossible to say if his learning-to-be-lenient lover would have continued the prank, because there’s a yelp from behind the door, followed by someone else’s wordless protest.

“You lunatic! Don’t you dare!” The exclamation comes as the screen is violently slid open, and three people are revealed, two latched on to the other’s white robes and trying to drag him away. Jingyi won’t be held back, however, and he points accusingly at Wei Ying. "Eating your cooking is a worse punishment than copying the Values ten thousand times!"

While Wei Ying gasps in affront like such a comment could actually wound him, Jingyi spins around. "Hanguang Jun," he says in desperate appeal, "I was just doing what you asked. Don't let this lunatic get me!"

Meanwhile, the two people who had tried to stop him from entering the room have relinquished their grip on his robe and now stand in sheepish silence. Lan Sizhui looks properly remorseful for the spying and interruption – and probably feels that way, too – while Jin Ling is just embarrassed and, to judge from his expression, getting sullen about it.

The Hanguang Jun in question hardly looks at the trio, just rises from the bed and puts his arm behind his back with elegant grace. He says nothing and, with the light from the window shining on his perfect form, accentuating the pale blue designs on his white inner robe, he looks like a god removed from them all. Stern, implacable, and hugely unimpressed with the shenanigans of mortals.

Of course, from where he's standing, Wei Ying can just make out a quirk of oh-so-pretty lips, and he rather suspects the reason Hanguang Jun isn't looking at the kids is to avoid any of them noticing his amusement.

"Hanguang Jun, we are sorry. We were coming to report that we've finished our preparations, and we heard you talking and didn't want to interrupt, so..." Sizhui's voice isn't meek or cringing; it's the steady cadence of a man admitting to his wrong.

Or Wei Ying is just a bit biased when it comes to the disciple.

Jin Ling lifts his chin. "Does Gusu Lan Sect own this inn, huh? Why shouldn't we go where we choose?"

"Be polite," Sizhui mutters, which just goes to show that Jin Ling's elevation to Clan Leader didn't destroy the bonds between them; the ever-polite Lan disciple wouldn't have chided a leader otherwise.

With a scowl, Jin Ling is about to reply with something no doubt unflattering, but Wei Ying cuts in. "You mean you choose to lurk in hallways, Jin Ling? Very strange."

The younger man flushes, but it's Lan Zhan's turn to interrupt. "Sizhui. Everything is prepared?"

"Ah, yes, Hanguang Jun. We've assembled the wards and created a watch schedule. The others are downstairs, making final preparations." So, in Wei Ying’s experience, they’re taking the opportunity to goof off away from Lan Zhan’s somber eyes. As much as Lan Clan disciples ever goof off.  

"I still don't see why we're bothering to ward against some random spirit," Jingyi mumbles, probably not purposefully loudly enough for them all to hear. Jin Ling bobs his head in agreement.

Lan Zhan is unmoved, and starting to get serious. "Wei Ying was harmed by it. That is reason enough." Still, his lover's eyes flicker over to Wei Ying, and for Lan Zhan that might as well be a scream of curiosity. Of course, the Chief Cultivator had been too disciplined – and kind – to jump all over him with questions when Wei Ying first woke up, but it's obvious the questions haven't been far from the front of his mind.

Given that his plan to keep them all safe and in the dark has failed so spectacularly, he has no reason to withhold this information now. “That ‘random spirit’ is Wen Zhuliu,” Wei Ying begins. He expects to have to explain further, about who Wen Zhuliu is and why it matters, and is rather taken aback when all three young disciples jump at his name, exchanging looks of trepidation.

“The Wen Zhuliu?” Jin Ling demands, while Jingyi yelps, “Core Melting Hand?”

Is he ever going to stop being surprised that the things so long gone – the things he lived through – are all but revered as legends now? Including the villains?

Especially the villains, he tells himself playfully. You know better than most how much people like a devil.

Waving a hand, dismissing their concerns, Wei Ying replies, “The very same. I assume Lan Zhan told you I was attempting Empathy before my… uh, nap?” Their blank expressions reassure him that the Chief Cultivator had told them no such thing. He resists the urge to roll his eyes, knowing well enough that the more anxious Lan Zhan was, the more he tended to close up, to communicate only what was directly and immediately relevant. It had probably genuinely not occurred to him to let the disciples know what was going on beyond direct orders.

“Well, I was. Wen Zhuliu was skulking around Cloud Recesses for several weeks, and I couldn’t get him to talk to me. So…” His haphazard gesture is meant to indicate everything that’s happened since then.

Apparently it’s not quite enough for any of them. “For weeks!?” Jingyi looks like he’s picturing rounding a corner in Cloud Recesses and running straight into the imposing spirit. “Why was he there!?”

“And why are you here now?” Jin Ling asks.

More tactful but still confused, Sizhui adds, “And forgive me, Master Wei, but why didn’t you say anything?”

Under the onslaught of questions, he can feel his headache surging, but Wei Ying pushes it back and grins. He struggles with some things, but performing under pressure is not one of them. “So demanding! Well, let’s see…” He’s about to start twirling Chenqing when he realizes the flute isn’t tucked into his belt. Now discomfort does writhe in his chest, and he fumbles at his robes like the instrument might be hidden there. Had it been left at Suntouched Sanctuary? Before he can become more alarmed, Lan Zhan moves forward. Chenqing is in his hand.

Wordlessly, the other man hands it over. With a grateful smile, Wei Ying takes it, the wood comforting under his agitated fingers. He doesn’t know why, but this item – this flute, out of everything he’s ever owned – connects him most to… who he is. Reminds him, when it feels like he’s forgetting.

And he forgets so often.

Whirling Chenqing, perhaps too wildly, Wei Ying resets himself. “As I was saying. He was there to find me. He couldn’t contact me, because…” That still wasn’t entirely clear. Slowly, tasting the words to see how they sound, his gaze drifting over to Lan Zhan to include the cultivator in the speculation, he continues. “There are powerful wards up in Cloud Recesses to dampen ghostly presences. Maybe they stopped him.” Which wouldn’t explain why he hadn’t reached out when Wei Ying had left the wards at the beginning of his trip.

“Resentment, too,” Lan Zhan offers, understanding the gap in the explanation.

Wei Ying considers that, then nods. It made sense.

“What do you mean?” Jingyi asks, bold despite the Chief Cultivator’s presence, and the other disciples crowd closer, too, eager to hear the response.

“What are ghosts made of?” Wei Ying replies, grinning at the mingled exasperation and resignation on the faces of his pupils. They well know his preferred teaching style, and how unlikely he is to give them a straight answer.

Sizhui is the first to respond. “Energy.”

“What kind?”

“Resentful!” That from Jin Ling. The Clan Leader announces it like he’s challenging Wei Ying to call him wrong, and it’s almost painfully reminiscent of Jiang Cheng’s belligerent forcefulness. Still, even now, Wei Ying has to wonder if Jin Ling realizes just how much he takes after his uncle – and how much of a blessing that really is.

Mostly a blessing.

“Often resentful, yes. Good!” Beginning to pace around the room, Wei Ying notes his nephew’s quickly stifled pride with inward amusement. “Not always, but often. Particularly when a person is murdered. And what does the culmination of resentful energy cause?”

Jin Ling is blank, which is understandable. Neither the Jiang nor Jin Sects specialize in suppressing ghosts. Sizhui, on the other hand, is quick to reply. “Distorted personalities, mindless rage, and increased aggression.”

“Precisely! So, Wen Zhuliu did not immediately reach out to me after I left Cloud Recesses because…”

This time there is a pause, but it feels more awkward than uncertain. Jinyi is the one to break the silence. “Because Wen Zhuliu hates you for your part in his murder, and that conflicted with whatever he desired to contact you about. So he didn’t attack you, but he couldn’t connect, either. The resentful energy was too strong.”

Wei Ying positively beams, ignoring the awkwardness. Technically speaking, Wen Zhuliu was murdered, so he doesn’t find it an inept description, despite the children being reluctant to describe it as such. “Ah, Lan Zhan, aren’t these students too bright? Who could have taught them so well?”

When he looks meaningfully at the Chief Cultivator, Lan Zhan lets the silence grow before he answers. “I don’t know.” For him, almost a joke. At Wei Ying’s expense.

With an affronted gasp, Wei Ying points Chenqing at his partner. “You lie! Who but a cultivator of renown, of talent, of brilliance, could have taught them so much? A handsome cultivator with a keen mind, a sense of righteousness, a bottomless fount of knowledge, a desirable face and–”

“Wei Ying.”

Though Lan Zhan says it as an interruption, Wei Ying chooses to interpret it differently. “Ah! Lan Zhan, you flatter me. Such kindness from the Chief Cultivator! But of course, I wasn’t referring to myself.” He winks outrageously, and the barest hint of a flush creeps up Lan Zhan’s cheeks, though he doesn’t reply.

Flipping Chenqing with a flamboyant flourish, satisfied as ever to catch his lover a little off guard, Wei Ying snags the flute out of the air and turns his attention back to the disciples.

Who are currently struggling to contain their amusement at seeing the Chief Cultivator teased. For all that Lan Zhan has, in his own way, relaxed as the years have gone on, that has assuredly not included encouraging others to badger him. Wei Ying tells himself it’s good for the stately cultivator, and it’s definitely good for Wei Ying himself, so…

“So, you well trained trio, why did I go to Suntouched Sanctuary?” A slightly unfair question, if Lan Zhan hasn’t given them all the information, but he isn’t destined to be disappointed today.

“You were researching Wen descendants and the subsidiary Clans at the library!” Jingyi pipes up, only to snap his mouth shut as Wei Ying side-eyes him at the reminder of just who had been spying on him.

Probably to save his friend, Sizhui rushes to fill the gap. “So you found Wen Zhuliu belonged to the Clan who called Suntouched Sanctuary home?”

Relenting his glare, Wei Ying nods. “Mhm. The Zhao Yu Clan lived in Suntouched Sanctuary before the Sunshot Campaign. Empathy with Wen Zhuliu confirmed it; I saw him with… some others from the Clan.” When he says it, his voice changes. Becomes quieter, and Wei Ying is powerless to stop the sorrow that seeps into the words.

He doesn’t want it. Wants to reject the emotion with a vehemence that’s just short of acidic. He’s been avoiding thinking of what Empathy showed ever since he woke up; filled the space in his head with Lan Zhan and the disciples and questions so much easier to answer than the state of his own soul. What does he owe those dead people he never met, strolling through their garden on that sunny day? What does he owe Wen Zhuliu’s Jiaying, with her firm shoulders and growing belly, with her supportive words and eyes so afraid of losing love?

What can he owe her, when she is dead and gone like so many others?

Lan Zhan heard the change and he’s now at Wei Ying’s side, eyes drifting to the floor but senses acutely trained on his partner. Wei Ying knows, can feel, how intently Lan Zhan is focused on him, ready to offer assistance at the slightest word or gesture. Falling into that quiet support, letting it take the weight of his decades-long fatigue, if only for a moment, is a relief he can’t begin to put words to. Not in a way that would do it justice, anyways.

“Is there any alcohol?” he asks, and of course there is, because Lan Zhan foresaw that particular need.  

Though he could order the disciples to do it, the Chief Cultivator strides over to the side table, swipes up two of the jars resting there. Then he is back at Wei Ying’s side, offering the liquid like he’s offering something else. Because, of course, he is.

Wei Ying accepts the drink gratefully, swallows deep and long. Not as good as the Emperor’s Smile, but it does the trick nonetheless, the mild burn tracing down his throat and soothing the pain of far more caustic emotions. By the time he pulls the empty jar from his lips, it’s taken the sting of haunted defensiveness from his thoughts. Not the alcohol itself – after all, Wei Ying is a first class drinker, and one glass is not anywhere near enough to get him drunk – but the familiarity of the motion, of the taste. It brings him memories, and he grounds himself in the sensation of the tart liquor slipping over his tongue.

The disciples are waiting patiently and without surprise. They know his drinking habits well enough – and more than his drinking habits, he is ashamed to admit. Unstopping the second jar but holding off from drinking more just yet, Wei Ying gathers himself. Another reset. He’s no longer in the mood for the question and answer game, as much joy as it usually gives him.

“At a place with strong emotional resonance such as Suntouched Sanctuary, Wen Zhuliu was able to break through the resentment, to reach out to me.” He doesn’t feel like mentioning the way he’d made his target’s resentment surge first. Doesn’t want to talk about the spirit Wen Zhuliu had ripped apart, doesn’t feel like speculating about who they were, who they had been to Core Melting Hand to shatter his fury like they had. Doesn’t want to admit to yet another murder, for all that he hadn’t held the cutting – melting – weapon.

He’ll tell Lan Zhan. Some night, when the candles are out and their bodies speak truths their throats find hard to say, he’ll tell him. But not today.

Tight-lipped, Wei Ying forces a smile. “However, the barriers were not completely gone,” specifically, his barriers, “so I decided to use Empathy to try to understand him more.”

“By yourself,” Sizhui says, and it’s such an echo of Lan Zhan’s disapproval that he has to laugh.

“By myself. It turned out fine.”

Jin Ling snorts. “You tell us all the time that it’s horribly dangerous to do Empathy alone, and then go ahead and do it by yourself anyways.”

With a light shrug, Wei Ying takes a swig out of the jar. “Do as I say, not as I do.” Smacking his lips to drown out Jinyi and Jin Ling’s protests, he waves off their affront. “At any rate, I learned much.” Much more than he’d wanted to, in fact. “Namely, how to get Wen Zhuliu to stop skulking around. He’s looking for someone.”

“To kill them?” Jinyi asks. He and Ouyang Zizhen both have a penchant for the melodramatic.

“No. They were… taken from him. He wants to find them.”

“Who are they?” Trust Lan Zhan to speak and ask the only question that matters. Well, one of two questions that matter.

There’s a tightness in his shoulders that no amount of drink will ease. Why can’t he get the warm feeling out of his chest, the one that Wen Zhuliu had clutched at so desperately when he was searching for her? It’s not his feeling, he doesn’t want it, doesn’t want anything to do with it.

He forces his mouth not to caress the name. “Mingxia. His daughter.”

The juniors react to that with the expected level of shock. Amid the yelps and rush of speculation, though, Wei Ying doesn’t look at the youngsters. His gaze searches out Lan Zhan’s eyes, and when he finds those dark expanses, he can tell the Chief Cultivator is disturbed. There’s a furrow across his brow, and he’s leaning forward just slightly. Is he thinking about that night, when he’d allowed Jiang Cheng’s Zidian to take one life, and had permitted the brothers to take another life after a great deal of pain and screaming? Or is he remembering the many Wens and Wen supporters he’s killed, cultivators all and none defenseless, but belonging to a family nonetheless?

Or is that just Wei Ying, inserting his own guilt into the honorable man?

Jiaying is probably dead. How else could Mingxia have ended up alone, and in such desperate straits? But how had she died? What had happened from the time Wen Zhuliu left the garden, certain he would see his wife again, to this very day?

What had happened, besides Wen Zhuliu being murdered, along with the man he’d sworn to protect?

Wei Ying thinks, if it had just been the two of them, Lan Zhan would have reached out by now. He would have gladly accepted his lover’s touch, gratefully pressed his face against his strong shoulder and hidden from the world. If only for a moment.  

Alas. They’ve an audience.

Interrupting the excited flurry of words between the disciples, Wei Ying says, “If we recover her, Wen Zhuli will probably stop bothering me.” Or at least his ghost will. The memories… well, some things are better at haunting than even ghosts.

“But who took her? Did you see through Empathy?” That from Sizhui, and is it any surprise he asked the second important question?

Wei Ying spreads his hands in a hapless gesture (after finishing chugging the second jar). “I didn’t see enough to be sure. But I think I know who’ll have an idea where to start.”

Jin Ling frowns, exchanging confused glances with his friends, but Lan Zhan’s mouth has thinned. He suspects he knows who Wei Ying is talking about, and he’s not sure if he’s pleased about it. Wei Ying sympathizes.