Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Breath slammed into Wei Ying’s lungs like a punch to the stomach.

It had been years since he’d last drawn air, long enough for his body to have forgotten the rhythm of it. Each gasp felt almost manual. In, then out. Pause. In, then out. Repeat.

Memories reeled, flickering like old film caught in the teeth of a projector. They said a man’s life flashed before him at the moment of death, but Wei Ying had experienced no such thing. Instead, it seemed, fate had saved that torment for his return.

The last thing he remembered was the siege. The black tide of vengeance marching over the brow of the Burial Mounds, the sharp glint of drawn swords, the cries of men who had already condemned him, bloodlust in their eyes. The scent of blood thick in the rain-heavy air, the earth beneath him churned to mud; petrichor tainted with the stench of death.

And Jiang Cheng. His face twisted beyond recognition.

Whatever fear that had lived in Wei Ying’s chest unravelled the moment their eyes met. Fear dissolved into a resigned, tired acceptance.

Gratitude, even.

Jiang Cheng’s blade found its home in Wei Ying’s stomach, and relief rather than agony flooded his chest.

He had tried. God, he had tried. He had given everything.

But he hadn’t given enough.

He remembered falling, the weight of the dead no longer in his control descending upon him.

Then, nothing.

Now-

Wei Ying blinked. An unfamiliar ceiling stretched above him as he found himself sprawled across the floor.

Unable to control his limbs, slowly, he dragged his hand across the ground, searching for some clue as to where he was. When he lifted it, his palm was stained with red.

His breath caught.

He was intimately familiar with the sight of bloodstained hands.

But, then, there was no sharp tang of iron in the air. No sticky warmth. Even at its freshest, blood was never this vibrant; no, this was paint. Just paint.

Feeling crept back to his body in waves, the numbness receding to…

Nothing. No searing aches, no burning joints, no fire in his lungs when he took a slow, careful breath.

Wei Ying could not remember the last time breathing had been this easy. So easy, in fact, it felt alien. Like he was waiting for the catch, for the pain to rear its ugly head again like some cruel joke.

But it didn’t. It never did.

He just breathed. In, then out. Pause. In, then out. Relax.

Gingerly, Wei Ying pushed himself into sitting, staring at the red paint on his hands and then around him as he searched for the source.

Wei Ying was not a fool. He knew he was dead.

So, there was only one explanation for why he was inexplicably breathing life again.

His gaze dropped to the floor. Vivid red markings sprawled across the old wooden boards, curling in intricate flourishes and carving into precise incantations.

Wei Ying would not be the founder of demonic cultivation if he couldn’t recognise this for what it was.

A summoning circle.

Some poor soul had gambled their very life away in exchange for his return. And now, here he was, bound in the body of a man desperate enough to have called upon him of all people.

Whoever this man had been, Wei Ying pitied him.

To summon the famed Yilling Patriarch. It was hardly the mark of a man who had better options. That, or the man had fallen for his wicked reputation and called upon him for unsavoury reasons. Neither option filled Wei Ying with confidence.

Sighing, Wei Ying stood, carefully dusting off his robes. There was no sense in smearing red paint all over them, not when they weren’t truly his. He wasn’t so heartless as to immediately desecrate the belongings of the man who had just sacrificed himself for Wei Ying’s sake.

The robes he wore, while unfamiliar in Clan association, were not dissimilar to the clothes he had chosen to don in his final years. Layers of dark black with flourishes of red silk accents. Nothing of fine make, but simple and sturdy in execution. Well-worn but far from rags. At least, his summoner had not been destitute, Wei Ying mused.

His living conditions, however, were another matter. It was more a shack than anything livable, but, clearly, the man had lived here. A threadbare mattress in one corner, a pale bucket in the other, and a makeshift shelf against the wall that sagged under the weight of countless books, scrolls, and loose papers.

Curious, he stepped closer.

His fingers traced the cracked spines, skimming the titles, and-

He stilled. His eyes widened.

They were books on demonic cultivation.

And they were hardly stolen or blackmarket. They were proper print, leatherbacked and bound for commercial sale. Just how much had the world changed since his death?

Wei Ying shuffled towards the bookshelf, reaching for the first book that caught his eye. Another professional release, the title embossed in fine gold down its spine: ’The Practical Implementation of Safe Demonic Cultivation’.

Wei Ying almost scoffed. It seemed, in his absence, much had been learned and honed of his techniques.

First, they had killed him for it. Now, they printed instruction manuals.

Still, he wasn’t one to hold grudges. Not against an entire world, at least. He saved that for the select few deserving of his ire. Let the rest do as they pleased. If they had refined his techniques so that it no longer killed the user then all the better.

He set the book down, turning back to the shelf, searching now for something far more pressing.

Every summoning had a clause.

No one brought back the wicked without reason. One wouldn't risk communing with the rightly dead just for fun; no, there was always a wish to be fulfilled.

And, if the summoned failed to fulfil that wish, they were cast back into the afterlife. Permanently.

Wei Ying wasn’t particularly attached to his second life. He had been quite grateful for the reprieve the end of his first had granted him for a reason, after all. But, throwing away the soul gifted to him felt wrong.

If someone had given their life for his sake, he owed them at least this much.

Now, if only they had had the decency to make their wish easier to find.

The bookshelf was a catastrophe of loose pages and scrap parchment. For all Wei Ying knew, the summoner could have scribbled his final decree on any of these torn-off page corners.

Still, he searched.

Wei Ying didn’t want to advocate for the destruction of private property, but, truly, if the man had just had the foresight to scrawl his wish across the floor in the same red paint as his circle, it would have saved them both a lot of trouble.

Instead, Wei Ying was left rifling through endless piles of nonsense notes and shoddily drawn drafts. Clearly, his host had been well-read on demonic cultivation. His application, however, seemed third-rate at best.

A particularly crude page caught Wei Ying’s attention - an attempt to reverse-engineer a traditional incantation to ensnare another man’s affections.

Wei Ying clicked his tongue. Sloppy. Ineffective. And utterly doomed to failure.

So, his summoner had been a cut-sleeve and an inept demonic cultivator.

Wei Ying would only judge him for one of those things. He could only hope the man’s reckless incompetence had not extended to his soul summoning. Already, there were concerning signs. He had used paint instead of blood for the circle, for example. A small mercy, perhaps, but one that reeked of either foolishness or plain naivety. Who knew what ramifications that may have for him? Had his summoner no care for the summoned?

As he shuffled through the rest of the pile, a loose sheet slipped free and drifted to the floor.

Wei Ying would have dismissed it as just another scrap until his eyes caught sight of his name at the top.

He dropped to the floor, fingers hesitating before reaching for it.

This must be it. The final wish.

Some small, irrational part of him feared what would be written there. He knew his own legacy too well. If they wanted evil wrought, they had the wrong man.

Slowly, he turned the page over.

It was surprisingly chaste. The handwriting crass, unpolished, and as sloppy as his notes.

Wei Ying wasn’t sure what he had expected. Perhaps, a desperate plea, a long-winded essay, maybe even a list of demands.

Instead, all it said was:

Wei Wuxian,

Please, live a good life.

Wei Ying stared at the page.

That was it.

Crouched on the ground, in a body that wasn’t his, clutching such a nonsensical last wish, Wei Ying felt hysteria bubble in his chest.

That was it?

Then, his hands flew over his body, searching, half-crazed. Wasn’t there supposed to be a time limit to these things? A consequence to unfinished business? He wrenched his sleeve up, expecting to find the telltale cuts - self-inflicted wounds meant to mark the summoner’s conditions.

Wei Ying found nary a scratch.

The man hadn’t used his blood for the summoning circle. Of course, there were no such wounds.

Well, Wei Ying was almost glad for that fact. A fourty-eight hour time limit on such a loose wish like live a good life would certainly be unfair.

A breathless laugh crawled its way up his throat. Then, another. And another.

Wei Ying crumpled the paper in his hands as full-bodied laughter bowled him over.

He fell back onto the floor, arms sprawled wide at his sides.

Wei Ying closed his eyes and breathed in, slow and steady as his laughter died down. The pain-free novelty of breathing had yet to wear off. And now, with the knowledge that the only thing asked of him was to live a good life, Wei Ying felt lighter than he had in many years.

Though, that particular thought gave him pause. He had no idea how many years it had actually been. And he wasn’t sure how to find out without drawing unwanted attention.

Surely, the only way to fulfil this particular wish was to wipe the slate clean, to start completely fresh as someone other than himself. Letting it be known that he was Wei Ying reborn was hardly the way to live a good life. The moment word got out, he would be dead all over again.

But, that was a worry for another time.

For now, he just wanted to lay here. To breathe.

To exist without pain.

It had been far too long.

—

Pale sunlight spilt through the crack in the shack’s door as Wei Ying opened his eyes.

He wasn’t sure if it was his own exhaustion or his host body’s weariness, but he had slept, long and interrupted, through the entire night. Something he hadn’t managed in years.

He sat up, stretching. The old mattress beneath him groaned in protest.

Nightmares had plagued him like the devil ever since the Xuanwu Cave incident and beyond. A night of dreamless sleep felt foreign and strange, but was entirely welcomed. It had been too long since he had felt refreshed like this.

Perhaps, the idea of starting fresh, of slipping into the skin of another man, had loosened the grip of his past demons.

A knock at the door cut through the morning quiet.

“Mo Xuanyu?” a voice called.

Wei Ying blinked, sluggish with sleep. The name came again, firmer this time.

It took him longer than it should have to realise that they were calling for him.

So, he was this Mo Xuanyu now. He rolled the name over on his tongue. It would take him time to learn to respond properly to it, but he supposed he would grow into it eventually.

Pushing himself upright, he crossed the small room and pulled open the door. Only to find no one waiting. The courtyard stretched empty before him, silent save for the rustling leaves in the morning breeze.

Wei Ying hummed. Was Mo Xuanyu someone to fear? For someone to come looking for him, only to vanish before he could so much as step outside.

Wei Ying dropped his gaze to the floor. A small wooden tray sat on his doorstep, holding a steaming bowl of congee.

Wei Ying kicked the door shut behind him after scooping up the tray and settling down inside. The aroma, rich, aromatic, and inviting, filled the small space. As he sat, his stomach let out a well-timed growl.

Wei Ying had no one around to judge him, so he happily devoured the congee without care to propriety, savouring its warmth. It was delicious. His only complaint was the distinct lack of spice. Though, who knew what preferences Mo Xuanyu had before him. Wei Ying could only complain so much.

Settling the empty bowl back outside, Wei Ying leant against the wall, letting the silence settle around him once more.

It was peaceful. Quiet.

It was nice.

Though, the isolation had its drawbacks. He had so many questions. And answers would not find him here trapped in this tattered little shack.

So, he sifted through Mo Xuanyu’s scattered notes, flipping absently through page after page of half-scrawled, half-legible notes.

As he read, he turned his situation over in his mind.

Live a good life.

Wei Ying let out a small chuckle, tapping a finger against his knee.

He would do just that.

He just had to figure out how.

—

Dusk fell slowly. With it came another meal.

The morning repeated itself with almost comical predictability. An uncertain knock. An abandoned plate of food left on his doorstep. The fading echo of hurried footsteps retreating into the distance.

The next morning, Wei Ying tried to catch them.

He lingered by the door, poised, ready for the inevitable call of his borrowed name. He hoped, if he timed this right, he could catch the hand that fed him.

Still, he was too late.

The knock came. Wei Ying launched for the door, but, in the space of a breath, they were gone again, leaving behind another bowl of congee and the sound of someone running far, far away from him.

Wei Ying sighed, retreating back inside with his meal.

At the very least, he was being fed. That was something.

Yet, he was beginning to grow lonely. He’d been alone enough in his first life. Was it too much to ask for some company in his second?

He could hardly live a good life if there was no one to live it with.

—

A few days passed in much the same routine.

Just as Wei Ying was beginning to grow antsy with boredom, a ruckus beyond his door jolted him awake.

The commotion was neither panicked nor ugent. Rather, it was excited. Voices tittered in hushed, eager tones, gossip spilling from one mouth to the next.

Wei Ying cracked his door open, curious, and slipped out into the throng. The gathered villagers paid him no mind, too caught up with whatever had caused the commotion.

He strained to see over the bobbing heads and weaving crowds, cursing Mo Xuanyu’s short stature as he walked. If he were still in his original body, he wouldn’t have had to tiptoe like some restless child just to catch a glimpse.

And then, through the shifting sea of bodies, he saw them.

A flash of pristine white, stark against the drudgery of the common folk. The gleam of perfectly polished swords and the sway of fine silk.

Lan cultivators. Two of them, no less.

And not just any Lan disciples. Ones of the main family, if the cloud motifs patterning their headbands were to be believed. Juniors, too. Barely more than children, babyfat still clinging to their cheeks as they held their heads regal-high and haughty.

Had he once looked so young? How could anyone have truly taken him seriously at that age?

One of the boys caught his eye, and instinct had him ducking out of sight. There were some people he steadfastly wanted to avoid, and the Lan were near the top of that list.

Keeping his head low, he wove himself carefully through the crowd, inching closer to hear what had drawn such prestigious young masters to their little old compound.

A woman he’d never seen before swept forward from the main house to meet the two boys.

Draped in deep purple silks, she was tall, elegant, and coldly beautiful, though her face was pinched with thinly veiled irritation. Her purple painted lips curled into a strained smile, an expression she was clearly unfamiliar with wearing.

“Madam Mo,” one of the Lan greeted, bowing low.

His companion only dipped his chin. Until an elbow to the ribs startled him into a hasty, belated bow.

Wei Ying barely suppressed a laugh. Even the Lan weren’t perfect in their youth.

How amusing.

“It is an honour to host such renowned young men,” Madam Mo purred, her voice thick with empty pleasantries. “To have such esteemed cultivators lending their aid in ridding our village of these wandering corpses. We are ever so grateful.”

Wei Ying hummed. Wandering corpses. Hardly the sort of grand catastrophe that warranted the attention of a clan as prestigious as the Lan.

Any young cultivator worth their salt could handle a wandering corpse. They were slow, brainless, their attacks predictable and obvious. Dull.

Much too dull for the Lan.

Well, Wei Ying mused, unless Lan Wangji hadn’t changed. Wherever chaos went, Lan Wangji would follow. Or so the saying used to go.

If Lan Wangji had mentored these juniors, then, perhaps, it wasn’t so surprising that they were here for something so trivial.

Still, it was incredibly dull. Wei Ying had hoped for something a little more exciting.

“Of course,” the more gracious of the disciples replied. “The Lan are happy to help. Let us discuss further indoors. We will begin at nightfall.”

Madam Mo continued her careful flattery as she lef them inside. The door shut behind them, sealing off the conversation entirely.

A silencing talisman. How very Lan.

The crowd lingered, hoping for more, but when it became clear that no further entertainment would be offered, they began to disperse, drifting back to their routines with mild disappointment.

Wei Ying turned on his heel, returning to his little shack with a spring in his step.

He may not have heard the finer details of their plan, but he had caught the most important part: they would make their move at night.

Wei Ying tilted his head up, eyeing the sun hanging high in the sky.

He counted the hours.

A grin tugged on his lips.

He couldn’t possibly let those boys hog all the fun.

—

The pale, waxing moon cast a muted glow over the Mo family courtyard. The air was crisp but not cold, a soft breeze rippling through the dry leaves and barren fields.

Wei Ying stalked the perimeter, silent, watching the two boys work.

He had not been watching long, but he had learned much.

Their names were Lan Sizhui and Lan Jingyi. They were close, despite what their endless squabbling and seemingly polar opposite personalities would have suggested.

Watching Lan Jingyi grumble loudly while Lan Sizhui shot him pointed, unimpressed looks felt strangely nostalgic.

Their dynamic. It was much like him and Lan Wangji in their youth.

He tore his gaze away before the thought could settle. No. That was not his life anymore.

Wei Ying ducked low behind some bushes as Lan Sizhui glided past, guiding the people of the Mo compound inside, his white robes pristine despite the dirt paths beneath his feet.

“Please, everyone return to your homes and do not come out until sunrise,” he ordered, voice commanding but calm. “It will be dangerous. For your own safety, please comply.”

Wei Ying pressed himself closer to the ground. If he were caught, he would surely be shepherded away like the rest of the herd.

A wandering corpse could be dangerous to the common man.

To a cultivator such as himself, they were no more than ants beneath his feet.

Of course, Lan Jingyi and Lan Sizhui wouldn’t know that.

Wei Ying could tell that Mo Zuanyu had once been, or at least attempted to be, a cultivator. He could feel it - the faint, pulsing warmth in his chest. A Golden Core. Small. Weak. But present.

(Again, a feeling Wei Ying hadn’t known in so, so long. He had almost forgotten the comfort. The safety. The certainty. He only recognised the aching void he’d had in his chest for so long now that it was full again.)

But, whatever Mo Xuanyu had been, he had never reached his full potential.

Wei Ying had no way of knowing how the world had remembered Mo Xuanyu. But the signs were there, scattered in remnants of a life abandoned. An undeveloped Golden Core. The demonic cultivation manuals. The cut-sleeve notes. The isolated shack.

Not abused, but not cared for, either.

A disciple kicked out early into his learning, if Wei Ying had to guess.

Which meant, if he was caught, he would certainly not be allowed to stay.

So, unless strictly necessary, out of sight it would be.

Once the commonfolk had been shut tightly indoors, Lan Sizhui returned to Lan Jingyi’s side, helping him with their preparations.

Amused, Wei Ying held his chin in his hands. Even from a distance, Wei Ying recognised what they were planting around the courtyard.

Spirit-attracting talismans. His own creation.

Wei Ying couldn’t even muster the will to be resentful - the way they were using the same techniques they had once hunted him for. He was simply happy his legacy could continue on, with or without him present. If it could help them, that was all he needed.

Lan Jingyi gave a silent signal to Lan Sizhui as he hammered the last flag into the ground, activating the talisman’s effects.

The results were immediate. Mere seconds later, Wei Ying heard the deep, warbling groans of the undead stumbling closer from the darkness, their steps uneven and laboured.

The two boys fell into position, stance straight and perfect - so very Lan.

Wei Ying had always been more lackadaisical, preferring to dance to his own made-up routine than follow the strict structures of some cultivation manual. An obvious fact, given his whole demonic cultivation route.

However, even he could admire the perfect grace and polish of the Lan boys’ technique. As soon as the first corpse entered their array, they descended on them like angels, white robes fluttering around them like wings.

Their swords gleamed in the moonlight, pale light reflecting white as they brought the corpses down with ease. There was barely a foot misplaced; no unnecessary flourish, nor excessive bloodshed. Just simple, refined work with flawless execution.

Again, so very Lan.

Despite himself, Wei Ying had hoped for an opportunity to launch into action himself. He waited for one of the boys to stumble, to let their guard down enough to give him the chance to swoop in and fight.

He didn’t wish the boys harm, it was just that his fingers ached for action. The last time he had fought, it had been for his life. He missed the simplicity of cultivation: night hunts and direct missions like these. Cultivation for the sake of helping the common people, not for fighting wars.

Instead, the corpses were taken out with little fanfare. The boys did their due diligence, laying the corpses down, letting the souls trapped inside free, and passing them on to their final resting places. All methodical and proper, as the Lan always were.

With the action seemingly over, Wei Ying sighed and made to turn in for the night.

Until, an excited yell from Lan Jingyi pulled Wei Ying’s attention back.

“Hanguang-Jun!”

The name struck him like a physical force.

Wei Ying turned. The world shifted beneath him.

Descending from the sky, came Lan Wangji, mourning robes and perfect, silken hair drifting in the wind

Both boys bowed low in greeting.

Cultivation kept a man young, but, still, Lan Wangji looked so much more mature than Wei Ying remembered. He was always a handsome young man, but, now, he looked almost ethereal. His face was carved from jade, sharp, angular, and perfect. Expression cold and calm but far from unkind. He was…

Beautiful.

Wei Ying couldn’t breathe.

“You have finished?” Lan Wangji asked.

“Yes, just now,” Lan Sizhui answered, straightening with pride. “The corpses will no longer bother these people.”

Lan Wangji nodded once. “Well done.”

It was a simple compliment, but both boys glowed beneath the praise, their backs a little straighter, their voices a little lighter as they eagerly recounted their mission. Lan Jingyi spoke with endless enthusiasm, his hands gesturing wildly. Lan Sizhui added his own comments, less animated but just as eager to show off in his own way.

And then, Lan Wangji smiled.

Such a soft expression on Lan Wangji’s face had Wei Ying’s stomach twisting. Rarely, so rarely, had he seen Lan Wangji smile.

He had craved it so deeply. Yet, all he had done in his last life was cause Lan Wangji pain. All he had done was cause him hurt.

Hurt until it had turned to hate.

Wei Ying still remembered that night, where Lan Wangji had faced him, had intended to fight him. He still remembered how his heart had shattered.

Wei Ying had broken him.

And now, here he was, on the precipice of doing it all again, of stealing that smile from Lan Wangji’s lips.

He couldn’t stay here.

He inched himself backwards, desperate to beat a hasty retreat.

Then, in a moment of pure blindness, he stepped onto a dry twig. The sound of it snapping beneath his boot was unfathomably loud in the quiet of the night.

Wei Ying froze.

Lan Wangji turned, and immediately locked eyes with Wei Ying.

Wei Ying knew he wore another man’s face now, but it felt as though Lan Wangji could see all the way into his soul.

It felt as though, with just one look, Lan Wangji knew it was him.

Without looking back, Wei Ying ran.

—

Wei Ying ran until his feet could carry him no longer.

His chest heaved, his breath coming in harsh, sharp gasps. He had no destination in mind, only distance.

Of course, it had been Lan Wangji.

Of course, the first night he dared venture out of Mo Xuanyu’s little hovel, Lan Wangji had been waiting for him in the dark.

Wei Ying’s chest still twisted in phantom heartache. Lan Wangji had looked so well. One look at Lan Wangji’s face was a physical reminder of how many years had passed since Wei Ying’s death.

It was unfair, for him to just waltz back into their lives and shatter the fragile peace they had cultivated in his absence.

He tore through the trees, dry grass crunching beneath his feet, the scent of old bark and fallen leaves thick in the nighttime air. He recognised this place. Vaguely, from his old life. A hunting ground, perhaps. The details of his memory blurred at the edges, lost to time.

He paused. Listened. Held his breath and waited.

Nothing.

He didn’t think Lan Wangji had followed him, but he couldn’t let his guard down.

He pressed forward again, the incline of the mountain steepening beneath his steps. Gnarled tree roots clawed out of the ground like reaching hands, as if struggling to hold upright. More than once, he stumbled. He never stumbled. But this body was not his own, and his mind… his mind was worse. Clearly, just one glance at Lan Wangji had shaken him to his core.

He needed to decide his next move.

He had run from the Mo estate. Though, he wasn’t sure he would be dearly missed. Perhaps, he could disappear. Find a quiet place. A farm, maybe. Raise livestock. Spend his days tending to something small and simple. Live a good life.

He barely had time to finish the thought before his foot caught again.

This time, it wasn’t a root.

Something coiled tight around his ankle, and, before he could react, the world flipped violently upside down, the ground disappearing from beneath him.

He was yanked upward, shocking the breath from his lungs. His body was encased in a thick weave of netting, the night sky rushing past until he hung suspended from a tree branch.

Wei Ying tensed, pulse bright and uneven in his throat. His whole body struggled, fighting against the feeling of being trapped.

Willing his body to calm, Wei Ying exhaled slowly.

Panicking would not help.

He brushed his fingers lightly against the netting. There, beneath the coarse weave of rope, hummed a thin thread of power, pulsing faintly against his skin.

A spirit net. A high-grade one at that.

Wei Ying closed his eyes, pushing back against the instinct to fight. Whoever had set this trap would know it had been sprung. There was nothing for him to do but wait.

He hoped, to whatever god would listen, that it wouldn’t be someone he knew.

A breeze whispered through the branches, rocking the net gently like a baby in a cradle.

He let out a low, quiet breath, tilting his head back so it was pillowed by the netting. If he thought about this positively, if he focused on the gentle sway, the cool press of the night air against his skin - he could almost convince himself that this wasn’t so bad.

If he weren’t so hopelessly incapable of escape, maybe, he could take a nap here.

That was a nice thought.

Just as Wei Ying had managed to calm his racing heart, it skyrocketed once again at the sound of storming footsteps.

A flash of gold emerged through the thicket of trees. Another junior cultivator - a Jin, this time, judging by the rich, gilded robes he wore - ducked beneath a hanging branch.

He paused beneath the trap, glancing up and clicking his tongue as he caught sight of Wei Ying entangled in the ropes.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Wei Ying blinked, dangling, still twisted ungracefully in the net. “Uh-”

Wei Ying was unsure how to respond. He couldn’t exactly say he was running away without raising suspicion.

The boy didn’t seem particularly interested in answers anyway. Instead, he drew his blade and made quick work of the netting.

“These were expensive, you know,” the boy muttered under his breath.

“Apologies,” Wei Ying replied, before letting out a surprised yelp as he was unceremoniously dropped to the forest floor.

The boy eyed him cautiously. “Who are you anyway?”

Wei Ying’s own name nearly slipped from his lips before he caught himself.

Isolated as he was in Mo Xuanyu’s shack, he hadn’t had nearly enough practice responding to his new title. “Mo Xuanyu,” he managed after a moment.

Clearly, his hesitance did not go unnoticed. The boy continued to stare at him, glare calculating. He hummed. “You’re a cultivator?”

Wei Ying stood, dusting the dirt and dead leaves from his lap. “I was,” he answered, hoping he wouldn’t be pressed for details. He was going off pure speculation. He truly did not know much - or anything at all, really - about Mo Xuanyu’s life before him.

“These are hunting grounds. It is dangerous for non-cultivators. You shouldn’t be here.”

Wei Ying let out a nervous chuckle, more than happy to accept the obvious invitation to get the hell out of there. “Of course, of course. Just passing through! I’ll be on my way!”

The junior scoffed, turning his back on him to gather the remnants of his ruined trap.

But, just as Wei Ying made to escape, the boy paused. “Mo Xuanyu…” he whispered. “That name…” Then, just as Wei Ying feared, the boy turned back towards him, something like realisation in his eyes. “Wait. You say you used to be a cultivator. Where did you study?”

Wei Ying’s stomach dropped. Discarded disciples were a dime a dozen. Many young men made their attempts at immortality only to fall short of the mark. There was no way this Jin boy would know of Mo Xuanyu unless he too had studied at Lanling Jin.

Wei Ying pretended not to hear him. He ducked quickly, turning, moving to disappear between the trees.

Only to collide, hard, with something solid.

The sudden impact stole a gasp from his lungs. He staggered, weight shifting dangerously. But, before he could fully fall, he was steadied by a firm hand on his arm.

“Are you alright?” a young, familiar voice asked.

Wei Ying’s breath hitched. He looked u to meet the concerned gaze of Lan Sizhui.

Wei Ying cursed inwardly.

If these boys were here, then Lan Wangji-

No. No, he couldn’t think about that. Not now.

“I’m fine!” he said, voice too high and entirely unconvincing.

“You!”

The sharp bark made Wei Ying visibly flinch, and he felt Lan Sizhui’s grip around him tighten. Wei Ying looked up to see the Jin boy storming towards them.

“Is Jin Ling bothering you?”

Wei Ying’s thoughts immediately stilled.

Jin Ling.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Oh, Gods.

That was Jin Ling.

His nephew, who had been just a child the last time Wei Ying had seen him. A child whose mother had been taken from him by Wei Ying’s own hands.

And now, he stood before him in a stranger's body, and Jin Ling would have no idea it was him.

“Who am I bothering?” Jin Ling huffed. “This guy just tripped my net and I let him go.”

“Those nets are all yours? Just how many did you set?” Lan Jingyi asked, crossing his arms petulantly over his chest. “You’re hogging the whole mountain.”

Jin Ling lifted his chin. “Uncle gave them to me.”

“And did Sandu Shengshou give you permission to use all four hundred of them?” Lan Sizhui asked, still refusing to relinquish his hold on Wei Ying’s arm.

Jin Ling stiffened. “Well, he didn’t explicitly say I couldn’t. So-”

Lan Jingyi snorted, and Jin Ling whirled on him with an indignant glare.

Wei Ying barely heard them as they continued to bicker. He had no idea how these juniors knew each other so well, how these Lan boys knew his nephew so well.

To speak so informally with each other, they had to be close…

Just as the dynamic between Lan Sizhui and Lan Jingyi had been reminiscent of himself and Lan Wangji. Now, watching Lan Sizhui and Jin Ling trade teasing retorts, another wave of painful nostalgia washed over Wei Ying.

They acted just like him and Jiang Cheng, back in their youth.

The only thing to break Wei Ying out of his reverie was the sound of a growl, guttural and inhuman, curling from the darkness beyond the trees.

It was joined by another.

Then, more.

Wei Ying felt it before he saw it.

The juniors turned in unison, heads snapping towards the trees. Immediately, they fell into stance, swords drawn and poised.

Finally, Lan Sizhui let go of his arm, allowing Wei Ying to slip back between the trees.

Then, the corpses arrived. A whole horde.

They came in droves, a staggering mass of half-rotted limbs and glazed-over eyes, lurching forward with snapping, bloodthirsty jaws.

Wandering corpses were not difficult beasts to defeat. However, in numbers such as these, it was easy to become overwhelmed.

These juniors, still babied, not yet hardened by war like Wei Ying at their age, were at risk. They were outnumbered.

Spirit-trapping nets, though not among Wei Ying’s creations, worked much like his flags that the Lan boys had used earlier. Rather than blindly hope to place the trap in the right place at the right time, instead, their power lured the spirits towards them.

Apparently, high-grade traps such as these worked a little too well.

Lan Jingyi turned on Jin Ling. “Look at what you’ve done,” he hissed. “Did you even think about what setting so many traps would attract?”

Jin Ling shot Lan Jingyi a nasty look. “This isn’t my fault! How was I supposed to know?”

Lan Sizui held up a hand. “Now is not the time for arguments,” he chastised.

And then the corpses were upon them.

The first struck fast, but not fast enough. Jin Ling’s sword cut a clean line through decayed flesh, sending a head tumbling into the grass. But for every one that fell, another rose in its place.

The tide, slow and merciless, crept ever closer, trapping them in on all sides.

Wei Ying knew he should take the opportunity to escape. He was cornered here, stuck between his nephew and the Lan, and with Lan Wangji and, gods fordid, Jiang Cheng surely nearby.

If he was found out by either, Wei Ying knew he would be captured. He would be struck down once again. He would fail Mo Xuanyu.

But something kept him planted.

Watching Jin Ling fight. Watching him briefly lose his footing, the claws of a corpse coming far too close to breaking the skin of his cheek - a surge of something protective roared in Wei Ying’s chest.

He was sure, if Jin Ling found out his true identity, he would hate him. He would hate Wei Ying doing anything to try and protect him, as if it could ever atone for what he had taken.

Still, the thought arrived before the choice. Wei Ying moved.

His hands fashioned a makeshift flute. A poor substitute for Chenqing, but it would do.

As long as the notes forced the corpses to a standstill, Wei Ying didn’t care that they were out of tune.

Even years out of practice, Wei Ying’s fingers flew graciously over his flute, willed by muscle memory alone.

He cringed at the discordant sound that came creaking out. But, demonic energy curled through it all the same, imbued with Wei Ying’s order to stop.

Immediately, the corpses attacking the juniors stilled, their dead joints stiffening in place. It was all the reprieve the boys needed, as, without a second’s hesitation, they attacked.

They flew through the frozen mass, easily carving through the horde like knives through silk.

Wei Ying’s concentration was so wholly on helping the juniors, that he failed to notice the pull of something far more powerful answering his call.

Until a painfully familiar roar split the night apart.

Wei Ying hesitated.

One missed note, and the corpses broke free of his spell.

Jin Ling faltered as the once-frozen corpse suddenly lurched towards him. He fell back with a panicked yelp.

Wei Ying’s heart jumped to his throat. His mouth opened, a warning on the tip of his tongue.

Then, just as quickly, the corpse fell.

Jin Ling scrambled back, wide-eyed, uncaring of how he dirtied his robes.

Wei Ying’s stomach curled into itself. There, looming where the corpse had just stood, looking just as Wei Ying remembered was-

“The Ghost General!” Lan Jingyi cried.

Wei Ying was caught between panic and the overwhelming need to cry. He hadn’t meant to summon Wen Ning. Of course, he hadn’t. He didn’t even know how he’d managed it.

Wen Ning was supposed to have been destroyed, burned alongside his sister, or buried like his family in the Siege of the Burial Mounds.

Even if he had, somehow, survived, he shouldn’t have been close enough to heed Wei Ying’s call. Here, they were too close to Yunmeng Jiang, to Lanling Jin, to everyone who had tried to kill him.

And yet, here Wen Ning stood.

Though, the most disorientating thing, the thing that threw Wei Ying so viciously off balance, was the expressions on the juniors' faces.

The call of Wen Ning’s title was not out of fear, it was reverence.

The juniors did not fear him.

Jin Ling should have immediately launched himself at Wen Ning, at the creature that killed his father.

But, instead, he was smiling.

Instead, he looked relieved.

Wei Ying tightened his grip on his flute. There would be time for questions later. He could quietly come apart at this revelation another time.

Now, he needed to protect these juniors.

Now, the fight had to end.

With Wen Ning, no number of wandering corpses could pose a threat.

Wei Ying stepped forward, emerging to stand before the juniors as if to protect them. His fingers danced across his flute as he ordered Wen Ning to leave no corpse left standing.

It barely took him a minute.

As the last corpse fell, the juniors collectively sagged in relief.

Wei Ying did not have the luxury of relaxing just yet, however. He needed to get Wen Ning out of here.

His pulse was still a rabid thing in his chest, his fingers still curled tight around his makeshift flute. Wen Ning was here. Alive. Or, as alive as he could be.

And that meant he needed to go.

Now.

Because surely, surely, the reverence in the juniors’ faces was nothing but a trick of the moment, confusion in the heat of battle. When the dust settled, they would remember.

They would remember who Wen Ning was, what he had done, what Wei Ying had done. Then, their kindness would curdle.

It was the only logical conclusion.

So, he continued to play. His song was not a request but an order.

A flicker of confusion - of hurt - passed over Wen Ning’s face. “Master?” he rasped.

Wei Ying flinched.

It was only one word, but it rang out like a death knell.

The juniors all turned, their gazes snapping towards him.

Everyone knew. The Ghost General only answered to one master.

A rush of panic crashed over Wei Ying. His fingers flew faster, his song rising into a frantic scream, a plea for Wen Ning to please, please, run. For the love of the gods, please run.

With orders overriding what was left of Wen Ning’s free will, he turned.

Wen Ning ran, feet barely skimming the earth before a decisive crack split through the forest.

Wei Ying immediately stopped. So did Wen Ning.

He knew that sound.

How could he not.

Purple lightning streaked through the dark, arcing through the trees.

Zidian.

Wei Ying’s stomach turned to ice.

Then, appearing through the trees-

Jiang Cheng.

Wei Ying stopped breathing.

Jiang Cheng stood at the edge of the clearing, his chest heaving, robes streaked with dirt. Zidian still crackled with the last traces of energy, the glow casting a sharp, purple hue over the forest floor.

Wei Ying expected many things when he pictured his reunion with Jiang Cheng. He pictured the anger, the resentment, the harsh hits and spitting words.

He didn’t expect such a stricken, raw expression on his brother's face.

Jiang Cheng was out of breath, face flushed and chest heaving as if he had run here.

Why would he run? Wei Ying’s head spun.

Was his brother so desperate to kill him that he ran at the first sign of him?

“Uncle!” Jin Ling cried, rushing to Jiang Cheng’s side.

“Jin Ling,” Jiang Cheng breathed, sounding unexpectedly soft. “Wen Ning-”

Jin Ling nodded, pointing at Wen Ning and then at Wei Ying. “He’s here. He’s here!”

Wei Ying stumbled, about to run to Wen Ning’s side and place himself protectively in Jiang Cheng’s line of fire.

But he hesitated when he felt Jiang Cheng’s eyes pinning him in place.

Jin Ling hadn’t been talking about Wen Ning.

His stomach lurched, the ground slipping out from under him. He staggered back until the rough bark of a tree bit into his spine, the only thing keeping him upright.

“Wei Ying-” Jiang Cheng breathed.

Wei Ying laughed nervously. “I- I don’t know what you’re talking about! Who’s that? I don’t-”

“Wei Ying.”

Jiang Cheng took a step forward.

Everyone had seen him controlling Wen Ning. Everyone had heard Wen Ning call him master.

Every excuse Wei Ying could think to muster fell short.

“Wei Ying,” Jiang Cheng said again, his voice tight, constricted by some emotion Wei Ying couldn’t understand.

He sounded desperate. He sounded sad. Gods. He looked so sad.

Wei Ying cringed back. “I’m not- I don’t…” his voice trailed off.

Jiang Cheng reached out, fingers trembling in the air between them.

Wei Ying closed his eyes. He braced himself.

But, the strike never came.

Instead, arms wrapped around him, embracing him in a crushing hug.

The shock left Wei Ying momentarily stunned.

He couldn’t think. He couldn’t move. He could barely breathe, not pressed so tightly against Jiang Cheng’s chest.

Something wet seeped into his shoulder.

Wei Ying’s mind stalled.

It took him far too long to realise it was Jiang Cheng’s tears.

Jiang Cheng was crying.

“Jiang Cheng,” he whispered, words catching in his throat.

Jiang Cheng’s grip only tightened.

“Wei Ying,” Jiang Cheng said again, as if it was the only word left in his vocabulary. “It’s you, isn’t it? It’s really you.”

Wei Ying hesitated. Despite mounting evidence pointing to the contrary, a part of him still screamed that admitting the truth was a death sentence.

Still, he sighed. He gave in. “Yeah,” he finally said. “It’s me.”

Jiang Cheng’s hug tightened, his tears came harder.

Hesitantly, Wei Ying brought his own arms to wrap around Jiang Cheng’s shaking shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” Jiang Cheng choked, voice muffled as his face pressed against Wei Ying’s lapels.

“What are you saying? What are you sorry for? I’m the one who-”

Jiang Cheng jerked back, shaking his head, fresh tears tracing silver down his cheeks. “Idiot,” he spat. “You’re an idiot. Don’t be sorry. I know- I know everything now. Don’t be sorry.”

Wei Ying faltered. “Everything?”

“Everything.”

The finality in Jiang Cheng’s voice left no room for doubt.

Wei Ying sagged. His fingers curled into the fabric at Jiang Cheng’s back, gripping tight. He breathed in deep, revelling in the familiarity of Jiang Cheng’s scent; the smell of home.

How long had it been since he and Jiang Cheng had held each other like this? Surely, not since they were children.

“How long?” Wei Ying asked, voice small. “Since I…”

“Thirteen years,” Jiang Cheng said, shuddering. He let out a wet, broken laugh. “Took that bastard long enough to come through on his promise. I was beginning to doubt him.”

Wei Ying barely heard him.

Wei Ying wanted to know what bastard Jiang Cheng was referring to, but his mind was too swallowed by the fact that it had been thirteen years since his death.

Thirteen years.

He had known, of course, that it had been a long time. He had seen it in the length of Jin Ling’s limbs, in the maturity of the faces of those who had once been children.

But knowing and feeling were two different things.

No wonder the world had changed so much.

Still, Jiang Cheng refused to let him go, like Wei Ying might disappear the moment he stopped holding him like this. “I’ve-” Jiang Cheng’s voice wavered. “I’ve missed you.”

Wei Ying’s throat closed. His vision blurred. Finally, he let himself cry too.

“I’ve missed you too,” he whispered.

They stood like that for what felt like forever. Wei Ying couldn’t tell how long, too lost to the warmth of his brother’s arms.

Until, finally, a hesitant cough came from the side, dragging Wei Ying back to reality. He swallowed, stepping back.

Jiang Cheng let him go. Mostly. One hand still lingered at his sleeve, fingers curled as if unwilling to lose contact entirely.

Wei Ying cleared his throat, blinking back the rest of his unshed tears. “Right. Sorry,” he muttered awkwardly.

The juniors were staring. Not with the wariness he had expected. Not with the suspicion, or loathing, or fear he had believed was sure to come.

One gaze stood out amongst them all.

Lan Sizhui.

His expression, wide-eyed and devastated, was not the mere look of a disciple seeing a man of legend come to life.

It was something more.

“Xian-gege.”

For not the first time that night, Wei Ying’s breath fled his body. His heart lurched, seizing in his throat.

There had only ever been one.

“No,” Wei Ying whispered. Hopeful. Terrified. “You can’t be-”

A watery smile graced Lan Sizhui - no, Wen Yuan’s - lips. He nodded.

First, Wen Ning.

Then, Jiang Cheng.

Now-

“I thought you were dead,” Wei Ying croaked.

“Hanguang-Jun found me,” Wen Yuan said. “He saved me.”

Then, as if appearing on cue, Lan Wangji stepped into the clearing.

Wei Ying barely had time to think, to breathe and catch his bearings.

None of the juniors looked surprised. Jiang Cheng had distracted him. In the haze of everything, he hadn't even noticed their summons being sent.

Lan Wangji’s eyes settled on Wei Ying, and the air between them shifted.

“Wei Ying.”

It was soft. Too soft.

Wei Ying couldn’t take this.

He had spent so long convincing himself of the world’s hatred, of the way history would never make space for him again.

But now, Wen Yuan was alive and smiling at him through his tears, Jiang Cheng had not struck him but held him, and Lan Wangji-

Wei Ying couldn’t breathe.

They should hate him. They should all want him dead.

Instead, Lan Wangji stepped toward him.

Wei Ying felt Jiang Cheng’s hand press lightly to his back, encouraging him forward. But he did not move. He couldn’t.

It didn’t matter, as Lan Wangji closed the distance for him.

He did not embrace him. Instead, he lifted one hand, fingers grazing then settling against Wei Ying’s cheek.

Wei Ying startled. The night was cool, but Lan Wangji’s palm was warm.

His thumb traced gently over his skin, the edge of his fingers catching ever so slightly.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji said again.

Wei Ying had heard his name spoken a thousand ways. Screamed in rage, cursed in accusation, whispered in caution.

But never like this.

He swallowed. “Lan Zhan.”

Lan Wangji’s thumb swept lightly over the corner of Wei Ying’s lips. “I have missed you.”

Wei Ying shook his head, throat tightening. “No.”

Lan Wangji tilted his head, pressing slightly closer. “Yes.”

“I don’t-” Wei Ying swallowed. The words stuck. He forced them out. “I don’t understand.”

Lan Wangji’s thumb swept gently beneath his eye, catching the tears before they could call. “It’s okay. You are okay.”

Wei Ying wasn’t sure. He didn’t quite feel okay. He didn’t know how to be okay.

But Lan Wangji’s hand was solid against his cheek. Jiang Cheng’s presence was steady behind him.

He exhaled, steadying. He hesitantly leant into Lan Wangji’s palm, pressing his own hand over it, holding him in place.

Lan Wangji let him.

Jiang Cheng did not move away from him.

Wei Ying closed his eyes.

Maybe, just maybe-

He could live a good life after all.