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Lan Qiren exited the serene and orderly confines of the Lanshi with his hands clasped neatly behind his back, his posture reflecting the dignity of a long day well spent. He had just finished delivering a series of lectures to the junior disciples, meticulously covering everything from sword forms to the finer points of Lan sect rules. Though the lectures had gone smoothly, the effort had left him weary, and he sought to clear his mind with a leisurely walk back home.

The air was crisp, and the sun bathed the white walls of the sect in a golden glow. It was a peaceful day, unmarred by the chaos he so detested. Yet, as he followed the path winding through the quiet mountains, that tranquillity shattered when he heard the unmistakable voice of Wei Wuxian echoing further along the way.

“Lan Zhan, my legs are tired! They’re going to fall off, I’m telling you. How can you let your beloved husband suffer like this?” Wei Wuxian’s playful whine carried far, as it always did.

Qiren’s steps faltered, and his brow furrowed in disapproval. He paused just behind a grove of trees, hidden from view, but the voices continued.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji’s voice was soft, but there was an unmistakable indulgence in his tone. “You walked all the way here.”

“That was hours ago! My legs have reached their limit. Lan Zhan, you wouldn’t abandon me in my time of need, would you?”

Qiren clenched his jaw. Disgraceful! Outrageous! Wei Wuxian’s antics never ceased to astound him, and the worst part was that Lan Wangji—his proud, disciplined nephew—allowed it. No, not allowed—encouraged it.

“Fine,” Lan Wangji said finally. The faint rustling of fabric followed, and Qiren’s stomach turned as he realized what was happening. He didn’t need to see to know that Lan Wangji had knelt down to let Wei Wuxian climb onto his back like a child.

Lan Qiren turned away sharply, his face red with frustration. To this day, he refused to acknowledge Wei Wuxian as part of the Lan family. Though the pair had performed their marriage bows, Qiren had never accepted that disrespectful boy as Lan Wangji’s husband. The very thought grated on his sensibilities. How could someone so flippant and undisciplined be worthy of a place in their clan?

To make matters worse, Wei Wuxian had clearly corrupted Lan Wangji, his precious, once-perfect nephew. The Lan Wangji he had raised would never stoop to such behaviour, indulging Wei Wuxian’s antics and carrying him through the revered Cloud Recesses like some common porter.

“Inappropriate! Improper!” he muttered under his breath. Yet, he made no move to confront them. It was against the Lan sect’s rules to meddle in the private affairs of others without due cause, and he’d already given up trying to rein in Wei Wuxian’s irreverence.

With a huff, Qiren strode away, his steps brisk and agitated. He did not notice that his route had deviated from the usual paths within the Cloud Recesses. His mind was too consumed with silent complaints about Wei Wuxian’s audacity and Lan Wangji’s apparent lack of dignity.

“The younger generation has no respect for tradition,” he grumbled. “Carrying his husband through the Cloud Recesses as if it were a common marketplace… disgraceful.”

It wasn’t until his surroundings grew quieter, the familiar orderly pathways replaced with untamed grass and scattered rocks, that Lan Qiren realized he had wandered to the back hill. He stopped abruptly, blinking in surprise. Before him stretched a small meadow, and in the centre, a group of white rabbits hopped lazily in the sunlight.

Lan Qiren sighed, his irritation ebbing slightly at the sight. The rabbits were a curious addition to the Cloud Recesses, and he had long suspected Lan Wangji of being their caretaker. It was another indulgence he chose to overlook—though barely. At least the rabbits didn’t disrupt the sect’s order.

As he observed the fluffy creatures, his sharp eyes caught something unusual. Among the bushes surrounding the meadow, a piece of paper fluttered slightly in the breeze. Lan Qiren frowned and stepped closer, recognizing it as a talisman. His irritation returned in full force.

“Wei Wuxian!” he muttered. “Careless as always. Leaving talismans lying about… what if a junior stumbled upon it?”

Without hesitation, he reached into the bush and yanked the talisman free. It was intricately drawn, the markings precise and deliberate, but Lan Qiren had no patience to examine it closely. His annoyance blinded him to its craftsmanship. Crumpling the talisman in his fist, he muttered, “Littering the Cloud Recesses with such things… utterly disrespectful.”

The moment the talisman crumpled in his hand, a sharp jolt shot through him. Lan Qiren staggered, his vision swimming. “What…?” he managed to whisper before a wave of nausea overtook him. The world tilted, the ground seemed to lurch beneath his feet, and the distant sounds of the rabbits’ soft movements faded into an ominous silence.

Darkness enveloped him, and Lan Qiren collapsed among the quiet meadow, the crumpled talisman still clutched in his hand.

When Lan Qiren finally stirred, his senses returned sluggishly. He became aware of the soft tickle of grass beneath him, the faint rustling of leaves in the breeze, and the distant chirping of birds. As his thoughts began to coalesce, irritation flared in his chest. How long had he been lying here? Why had no one come to find him? Surely the juniors should have noticed his absence by now.

“Lazy,” he muttered to himself, his voice low and rough. “Inattentive… juniors these days have no sense of responsibility.” His grumbling gained momentum as he tried to push himself upright, only to freeze mid-motion. Something was off.

When his sight cleared, the first thing he noticed was the odd angle of the ground beneath him. It was much closer than it should have been, the blades of grass towering unnaturally before his eyes. Confusion clouded his mind as he realized that the usual solid presence of his legs felt strangely diminished. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the lingering disorientation, but the strange perspective remained.

“What…?” he thought, a flicker of unease creeping into his chest. He attempted to move, but his body responded in a way that was foreign and awkward. He wasn’t standing upright—he was crouched. His hands felt small and unfamiliar, the fingers stiff and uncooperative. Panic bubbled in his throat as he tried to rise, only to fumble and collapse back down, his limbs unsteady and uncoordinated.

As he struggled to orient himself, a sudden presence brushed against him. It was large and solid, the unexpected touch ruffling what he belatedly realized was fur. His fur. Lan Qiren froze, his panic spiking as his mind raced. A creature that large should not have been able to creep up on him unnoticed. The thing circled around him, its movements deliberate but unthreatening, until it finally came into his view.

His breath caught in his throat. The creature—no, the rabbit—towered over him, its pristine white fur shimmering in the sunlight. It stared at him with calm, unblinking eyes, its sheer size making it appear both familiar and entirely foreign. Lan Qiren’s heart raced as he took in the scene. The rabbit was unmistakably like the ones that resided on the back hill, except for its impossible size.

He tore his gaze away, only to find himself surrounded. Everywhere he looked, there were more of the colossal rabbits, their soft fur and serene movements a stark contrast to the rising dread pooling in his chest.

“No… no, this isn’t right,” he whispered, his voice trembling. His mind reeled as he tried to piece together what had happened. But there was no time to think. The sheer number of the rabbits, combined with their unnatural size, overwhelmed his senses.

Lan Qiren’s composure broke. He scrambled to his feet—or what should have been his feet—and bolted. His movements were clumsy, his legs… paws fumbling against the uneven ground. His ears flattened instinctively against his body, his eyes wide and frantic as he searched for a place to hide. The meadow seemed endless, and the rabbits watched his panicked flight with an eerie calm. Lan Qiren ran, his thoughts a chaotic mess, the indignity of his situation fuelling his desperation to escape. Yet no matter how far he fled, the meadow seemed endless, its boundaries elusive. His frantic sprints brought him no closer to safety, and with every moment, the enormity of his predicament sank deeper into his bones.

As he pushed forward, his paws slipped on the dewy grass. The treacherous terrain sent him careening uncontrollably, and he collided painfully with the rough trunk of a tree. A sharp, high-pitched squeak escaped him—an undignified sound that only added to his mortification. Pain radiated through his body, and he instinctively tried to stand, but his left back leg buckled beneath him. It didn’t feel broken, but the sharp ache suggested it was twisted, rendering him unable to run.

Lan Qiren collapsed in defeat, his small form trembling with exertion and frustration. “How did it come to this?” he thought bitterly, the humiliation of his predicament gnawing at him. The vast meadow stretched around him, indifferent to his plight, the gentle rustling of leaves and the occasional twitch of rabbit ears the only sounds to break the stillness.

As he lay there, contemplating his next move, the rabbits began to approach. Their movements were unhurried, serene, as if his panic and struggle were of no concern to them. One of the large creatures bent its head and sniffed delicately at his injured foot. The unexpected touch made Lan Qiren flinch, and the sharp motion sent a jolt of pain shooting up his leg. He whimpered softly, his pride warring with his discomfort.

The other rabbits followed suit, surrounding him in a circle of soft white fur. They moved closer, their warm bodies pressing against his sides, encasing him in an unbidden but oddly comforting pile of fluff. Their collective warmth seeped into his aching limbs, and though his mind screamed against the indignity of the situation, his body betrayed him, succumbing to the soothing heat.

The early morning sun cast a golden glow over the meadow, and despite himself, Lan Qiren felt his eyelids grow heavy. The steady rise and fall of the rabbits’ breaths lulled him into an uneasy sense of calm. Before long, his exhaustion overcame him, and he drifted into a fitful sleep, cocooned in the strange companionship of the fluffy creatures.

Lan Qiren was roused by the subtle movements around him. The rabbits that had encased him in their warm, fluffy embrace were now stirring, rising one by one and hopping away from the cuddle pile. He blinked groggily, an uncharacteristic sluggishness clinging to him. As a morning person, he was used to feeling sharp and alert upon waking, but now he felt heavy and disoriented, his body refusing to cooperate.

Before he could fully collect himself, the world shifted beneath him. A sudden, jarring movement sent a spike of panic through him. The ground, which had felt so solid and dependable moments ago, seemed to disappear entirely as he was lifted into the air. A startled, high-pitched squeak escaped him as he flailed his small limbs, his heart pounding wildly.

Twisting his body, Lan Qiren whipped his head around in an effort to make sense of the situation. What he saw froze him in place. Looming before him was the colossal, familiar face of Lan Wangji, his expression as impassive as ever but magnified to an overwhelming degree. Lan Qiren stared in horror, his mind struggling to process the sight.

It hit him all at once. The rabbits weren’t massive; he was tiny. The realization struck like a thunderclap, and he felt his heart sink as the pieces fell into place. Somehow, inexplicably, he had been reduced to the size of a small animal, small enough for Lan Wangji to pluck him from among the rabbits that resided on the back hills.

Lan Qiren could hardly believe it. His sharp mind, usually so adept at analysing and understanding the world, floundered in the face of this absurdity. He was cradled carefully in Lan Wangji’s hands, and the sheer scale of his nephew’s calm, stoic features only deepened his sense of helplessness.

“Wangji,” he tried to say, but the words came out as another squeak. His indignation and disbelief bubbled beneath the surface, though his current state left him utterly powerless to express it. For the first time in decades, Lan Qiren felt completely and utterly at a loss.

Lan Wangji had risen early, as he always did, to tend to the rabbits on the back hill. The first light of dawn painted the sky in soft hues as he quietly made his way to the paddock, carrying a basket of greens. The rabbits, accustomed to his presence, hopped toward him eagerly as he distributed the morning’s feed. Yet, as the sun crested the horizon, his sharp eyes noticed one rabbit had remained beneath the tree where the others had been corralled to sleep.

Lan Wangji’s concern deepened as he approached the unmoving figure. While the other rabbits scattered with the rustle of grass, this one stayed in place, its small body still nestled against the roots. Carefully, he crouched down and extended his hands, scooping the creature up with a gentleness born of years of practice.

The rabbit squeaked in pain and panic at the movement, and Lan Wangji immediately stilled, his brow furrowing. His gaze shifted to its left back leg, which the rabbit seemed to favour. A quick inspection revealed no visible injuries—no swelling or misalignment—but the way it moved suggested the leg was twisted. That wasn’t ideal for a rabbit living outside, even one semi-wild like these. Though he ensured they were fed and warm during the winter, they still roamed freely, exposed to the elements.

Cradling the rabbit securely, Lan Wangji stood and began the walk back to the Jingshi. His movements were brisk but careful, his mind already turning to how he could help the small creature. The rabbit’s unexpected docility was curious, but he attributed it to exhaustion or injury. As he entered the Jingshi, the quiet, orderly space greeted him, and his gaze flicked briefly to the bed where Wei Ying was still sound asleep, the blanket tangled around him in disarray.

Lan Wangji decided to see to the rabbit first. He carried it to a quiet corner and set it down gently on a soft blanket. Pulling out a small dish, he filled it with fresh greens and a bit of water, placing it within easy reach. The rabbit seemed calmer now, its small body sinking into the blanket as it nibbled tentatively at the food. Satisfied that it was settled, Lan Wangji turned his attention to the rest of the morning’s tasks.

He moved about the Jingshi with silent efficiency, setting a warming talisman on the bath to heat the water and laying out a fresh set of robes for Wei Ying. The kettle was placed over a small flame, and he selected tea leaves and a jar of oil, placing them neatly on the table in preparation. Every movement was precise, a practiced routine born of care and devotion.

With everything ready, Lan Wangji returned to the bedside. His gaze softened as he looked at Wei Ying, still peaceful in sleep. Reaching out, he placed a hand on Wei Ying’s shoulder, gently shaking him awake. “Wei Ying,” he said softly, his voice low and steady. “It is time to rise.”

Lan Qiren’s eyes narrowed as he watched his nephew go about his morning routine, each movement deliberate and tailored to Wei Wuxian’s comfort. It grated on his nerves, the sight of Lan Wangji—his perfect, disciplined nephew—reduced to nothing more than a housekeeper, catering to the whims of that irreverent boy. How dare Wei Wuxian make Wangji attend to his every need so shamelessly? It was preposterous. Lan Qiren didn’t want to see this, didn’t want to witness how far gone Wangji had become. Behind closed doors, his once-pristine nephew had turned into a mere servant for his husband’s comfort.

Lan Wangji knelt beside the bed to gently wake Wei Wuxian, his movements tender and precise. Lan Qiren made to turn away, unwilling to watch any further. No matter how much he disliked Wei Wuxian, every man deserved at least a shred of dignity—or whatever was left of it.

But he was shocked still when a soft whimper of pain echoed through the Jingshi. The sound, fraught with discomfort, froze him in place. Despite himself, Lan Qiren turned back, curiosity overriding his indignation. What could have caused such a noise of pain from someone who had only just woken up?

The sight that greeted him made his breath catch. Wei Wuxian’s face was contorted in such agony that Lan Qiren was certain the pain must have been worse than the sound let on. Lan Wangji was carefully easing Wei Wuxian upright, his hands steady but firm as he helped support his husband. Even the slight shift in position seemed to cause Wei Wuxian immense discomfort. Lan Wangji, unfazed by the sharp intake of breath or the tight grip Wei Wuxian had on his arm, moved with practiced care. He positioned Wei Wuxian so that he sat with his legs hanging over the edge of the bed, and they waited there for a moment—Wangji’s hand resting gently on Wei Wuxian’s shoulder—allowing him to catch his breath.

Then, with great caution, Wangji helped Wei Wuxian to his feet. The younger man leaned heavily against him, his movements slow and laboured, every step a visible struggle. Again, they paused, Wei Wuxian’s breathing ragged as he clung to Lan Wangji for balance. Together, they shuffled toward the bath, disappearing behind the screen. Lan Qiren could still hear muffled sounds of pain and aching groans, each one piercing his composure, until they were abruptly cut off by the splash of water and a loud, almost blissful sigh of relief.

Lan Wangji reappeared after a short while, carrying an armful of sleeping robes. He placed them neatly into the laundry basket alongside his own, then set about tidying the bed with efficient precision. Once the bed was restored to its immaculate state, he moved on to the kettle, which had begun to boil. Lan Qiren watched as Wangji prepared two teas: one a familiar blend that he recognized as Wangji’s preferred morning tea, and another, unknown blend that he assumed was meant for Wei Wuxian. Finally, Lan Wangji poured the remaining hot water into a small bowl and placed a jar of massage oil inside to warm it.

Lan Qiren stood frozen, his emotions tangled between disapproval, confusion, and a growing unease he couldn’t quite name. This was not the image of Lan Wangji he had held in his mind, and it left him uncomfortably aware of just how much had changed.

Lan Qiren watched as the morning routine unfolded before him, each moment filling him with a mixture of disapproval and something he could not quite name. After a couple of minutes, the sound of movement came from the bath. The rustling of fabric indicated that Wei Wuxian was dressing himself for the day. From behind the screen, there was a faint sound of struggle, followed by a mumble so small and defeated that Qiren wasn’t sure he had heard it at all.

“A-Zhan?”

Whatever hesitation Qiren felt about the sound was immediately dispelled as Lan Wangji stood from the table and crossed the room in a matter of seconds, his usual calm unshaken.

“It’s my hands,” Wei Wuxian admitted quietly. “I can hardly move them. My knees keep buckling.”

Lan Wangji simply hummed in acknowledgment as he set about helping his husband tie the intricate knots and fasten the ties that Wei Wuxian’s uncooperative fingers couldn’t manage. Every motion was calm and practiced, as though this was a task he had done countless times before. Once Wei Wuxian was dressed, Lan Wangji guided him back toward the bed and gently eased him down to sit. With quiet efficiency, he knelt to put Wei Wuxian’s socks on, ensuring each layer fit snugly but comfortably.

Lan Qiren’s sharp eyes noted the unusual amount of clothing Wei Wuxian wore. It was more than was necessary for this time of year, though the layers were quickly covered by a lightweight over-robe.

“Thank you, Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian said earnestly, genuine gratitude lacing his voice.

“No need for thank yous,” Lan Wangji responded simply.

“I know, but I like to,” Wei Wuxian murmured, his tone filled with quiet affection.

Lan Wangji straightened and offered his hand. “Come, let us have tea.”

With steady hands, he helped Wei Wuxian to his feet. Together, they shuffled across the room to a padded kneeling stool, the kind Lan Qiren recognized as being used by elders in the Lan sect who could no longer kneel for extended periods. It allowed them to maintain the appearance of propriety without discomfort. Once Wei Wuxian was settled, Lan Wangji resumed his own authentic kneeling position on the opposite side of the table.

He poured tea for his husband first, then himself. They sipped their tea in amicable silence, breaking their fast with bowls of simple vegetable congee. When they finished, Lan Wangji gathered the dishes and set them aside. He retrieved the bowl of warm water and poured a small amount of oil into his hands, warming it further between his palms.

At this, Wei Wuxian tied back his sleeves with a silk sash, presenting one stiff hand to Lan Wangji. With practiced care, Lan Wangji began to massage his husband’s hands, fingers, and knuckles with strong, firm movements. At first, Wei Wuxian hissed in pain, the stiffness resisting the motion, but as Lan Wangji worked, the discomfort gave way to relief. Once he finished with one hand, he moved to the other.

Lan Wangji’s gaze shifted upward when he finished. “Hm.”

Wei Wuxian took a deep breath. “I plan to meditate today,” he said. “I need to look a little deeper into Mo Xuanyu’s core. Cultivation isn’t working, so I need to see what physically ailed him. I’m no stranger to pain, you know that. But Mo Xuanyu’s pain—it doesn’t make logical sense.”

“Hm,” Lan Wangji acknowledged. “I have lectures today. I will return by noon.”

“Okay. Love you, Lan Zhan.”

“Love, Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji replied, leaning forward to press a kiss to Wei Wuxian’s cheek. The gesture was unexpected, and the sudden intimacy startled Lan Qiren, pulling a squeak of surprise from him. He had been so deep in his thoughts, consumed by Wei Wuxian’s apparent daily pain, that he hadn’t expected to be shocked back to the present with a display of affection.

Wei Wuxian’s eyes darted to the rabbit in Lan Wangji’s care. “Uh, Lan Zhan, is that a rabbit?”

“Hm,” Lan Wangji confirmed.

“What’s he doing here?”

“Injured.”

Wei Wuxian’s face softened. “Oh no. I guess that means you’re nursing him back to health, eh?”

“Hm.”

“Oh, you’re so caring, Lan Zhan. Looking after your poor, poor wife and a poor, defenceless bunny.”

Lan Wangji’s expression remained stoic, though there was a faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes as he helped Wei Wuxian stand and guided him to a mat for meditation. After a final goodbye, Lan Wangji stepped out of the Jingshi to begin his day of lectures.

Lan Qiren watched as Wei Wuxian struggled to find a comfortable position on the meditation mat, shifting and adjusting as if even the act of sitting still was a battle against his own body. Qiren could tell that the boy was struggling to clear his mind, his furrowed brows and uneven breathing a clear indication of his difficulty. But after a significant amount of time, Qiren could see the moment Wei Wuxian finally succeeded in sinking into deep meditation.

Qiren continued to observe for a while, but as the minutes dragged on, his thoughts began to drift. The morning's events weighed heavily on him—the glimpses he had unwittingly caught of his nephew's private life, the quiet devotion in Lan Wangji's every action, the pain and struggle that both men bore. He had expected to see indulgence, irresponsibility, the corruption of his perfect nephew at the hands of the Yiling Patriarch. But what he had seen was something nauseatingly sweet. The depth of their love, their unwavering support for one another—it was unsettling. And, to his dismay, Qiren felt the sharp edges of his anger at Wei Wuxian begin to dull.

His silent contemplation was abruptly shattered by a low, pained groan. His initial instinct was irritation. Could the boy not even meditate quietly? But when Qiren turned his gaze back to Wei Wuxian, his annoyance gave way to shock. The boy's meridians pulsed erratically, flaring with fractured energy. It wasn’t demonic, but it was dangerous—his cultivation was going wrong, so catastrophically wrong that if it continued, it could shatter his core beyond repair. If he didn’t stop, he would suffer a qi deviation. A lethal one.

Panic surged through Qiren. He no longer cared about propriety. Ignoring the sharp pain in his injured leg, he launched himself forward, bounding across the room as fast as his small, furry body would allow. Without hesitation, he leapt into Wei Wuxian’s lap, pressing his tiny paws against the boy’s chest, desperately attempting to transfer his own qi to stabilize him. But the moment he tried to call upon his cultivation, he was met with an impenetrable wall—his well of qi was sealed off, utterly inaccessible.

Frantic, he resorted to more physical means, pressing against Wei Wuxian’s arms, jostling him, trying anything to break him from the meditation that was killing him. The boy remained locked in place, his breathing growing shallower, his lips turning a worrying shade of blue. He was running out of air.

Qiren pushed harder, his small body trembling with exertion, until at last, with a gasping, shuddering inhale, Wei Wuxian broke free. His arms clutched at his chest as his whole body shuddered violently, lungs heaving in desperate gulps of air.

For a long moment, Qiren simply sat there, his own heart hammering in his tiny chest. Then Wei Wuxian’s dazed gaze drifted downward, finally noticing the furious little rabbit sitting in his lap.

Qiren wasted no time in expressing his fury, thumping his hind legs against Wei Wuxian’s thighs, squeaking in indignation. How dare he be so reckless? So utterly careless with his own life? Did he have any idea what he had just put himself through? What he had put others through?

Wei Wuxian blinked blearily at him, his expression slowly shifting from confusion to guilt.

“I’m sorry, Master Rabbit,” he murmured, his voice hoarse but sincere. “That must have been really scary, huh? Thank you for helping me.”

Qiren huffed, shaking his ears, still agitated. He expected the boy to laugh it off, to push aside the severity of the situation as he always did. Instead, Wei Wuxian sighed, his fingers absently stroking Qiren’s fur, as if grounding himself in the softness.

“It’s been difficult circulating qi through this body,” he admitted quietly. “I was trying to see if I could fix Mo Xuanyu’s unstable cultivation. His meridians are terribly scarred. My guess is that they were damaged during his early training—outside interference, probably demonic in nature.” He swallowed hard, his voice growing quieter. “I had thought… maybe that was the reason for all the pain I’ve been feeling. That without Lan Zhan, I wouldn’t even be able to stand. But it’s not that. It’s not Mo Xuanyu’s body that’s the problem.”

He exhaled shakily. “It’s me.”

Qiren stilled.

“This body… it hasn’t suffered the way my old one did,” Wei Wuxian continued. “But my soul remembers. And it’s tearing itself apart trying to reconcile the difference.” He let out a bitter, humourless laugh. “Master Rabbit, can I tell you a secret?”

Qiren remained frozen, his small heart still racing, but Wei Wuxian didn’t seem to expect an answer. He simply continued, his voice low and confessional.

“I really did fall into the Burial Mounds,” he said, his tone flat, detached, as if speaking of someone else. “After the fall of Lotus Pier, Wen Chao and his little band of cowards flew me out over the mounds and let go. I fell. A long, long way down. With no core, no way to slow myself.” His fingers trembled where they rested against Qiren’s fur. “The landing shattered me. And the only thing keeping me alive was the Burial Mounds themselves.”

Three months, he said. Three months of mindless wandering, of dragging himself through cursed, barren lands. Three months of fighting against the pull of resentful energy, until, in the end, it wasn’t he who conquered the Burial Mounds, but the other way around.

“I thought I left it behind,” he whispered. “But the Burial Mounds never left me. They held me together. My body, my mind… my soul.” His voice dropped to an almost imperceptible hush. “I wasn’t in control, not really. I was too busy keeping them at bay, the thousands of souls screaming inside me. I thought I had control, but I was just… holding back a flood. And when I finally let go, they tore me apart. Piece by piece.”

He went silent then, his grip on Qiren tightening for just a moment before loosening again.

“This body is struggling to hold my soul together,” he admitted finally, exhaustion evident in every syllable. “But I never wanted to be whole again. I was… not happy, but content. Content to let myself scatter in the wind and never think again.”

Lan Qiren could do nothing but stare, frozen in the warm prison of Wei Wuxian’s lap, as the weight of the boy’s words settled over him like an avalanche.

Lan Qiren sat still in the quiet of the Jingshi, his tiny rabbit form barely twitching as he processed the storm of revelations Wei Wuxian had spilled so carelessly before him.

The weight of those words settled heavily on him, the depth of pain and suffering far beyond anything he had imagined. He had always known Wei Wuxian to be reckless, always throwing himself headfirst into chaos, but to hear him speak so plainly of his own destruction—of the way he had been torn apart, not just in body but in soul—left an uneasy weight in Qiren’s chest.

The Burial Mounds. The shattered soul. The thousands of voices clawing for control.

It was an impossible tale, and yet, as much as he wanted to dismiss it, the weight of truth sat heavy in the boy’s voice, in his hunched shoulders, in the way he clutched his own arms as if trying to hold himself together. It wasn’t just dramatics. It wasn’t just words.

Lan Qiren thought of Lan Wangji, of the nephew he had raised with strict guidance and firm discipline. A boy turned man, turned husband—one who bore far too much weight on his shoulders. How much of that burden had he taken on willingly? How much had he suffered in silence while tethering himself to Wei Wuxian’s fractured existence? How had Qiren been so blind to it all?

He might have sat there lost in thought forever had the door not slid open with a quiet urgency.

Lan Wangji stepped inside, his movements measured but unmistakably tense. Only someone who had known him his whole life would recognize the faint signs of distress—the way his fingers flexed slightly before settling at his sides, the way his gaze darted once around the room before resting on Wei Wuxian.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji said, voice steady but laced with something deeper.

Wei Wuxian looked up from where he had been absently rubbing his hands, still stiff from the earlier massage.

“Lan Zhan? You’re home early.” He smiled, but his eyes flickered with concern.

Lan Wangji shook his head. “No. I returned to tell you—I may be late. Uncle is missing.”

Lan Qiren stiffened.

Wei Wuxian frowned, setting aside his tea. “Missing?”

“He was last seen yesterday evening,” Lan Wangji explained. “No one has seen him since.”

Wei Wuxian’s face shifted, worry creeping into his usual easygoing expression. “And no one thought to tell us sooner?”

“I have been searching all morning.” Lan Wangji’s voice remained calm, but his knuckles tightened slightly at his sides. “There is no sign of him within the Cloud Recesses. If he is not found soon, I will have to leave the mountain to continue searching.”

Qiren blinked, surprised by the level of distress in his nephew’s voice. He had no doubt that the Lans would be looking for him—he was a man of status, a senior of the sect, and naturally, they would search until he was found. But to see his normally composed nephew troubled, and to hear Wuxian’s immediate reaction of alarm, unsettled him. He had expected Wangji’s worry, but Wuxian’s concern was unexpected.

Wei Wuxian exhaled sharply. “Then I’ll help you look.” He shifted as if to rise, his hands pressing into the mat. Before he moved further, however, he hesitated and looked down. “Ah—Master Rabbit, I need you to move for a moment.”

Qiren felt himself being lifted with careful hands and gently set down beside Wuxian before the boy attempted to stand.

He made to push himself up from the mat, only for his body to immediately betray him. His legs trembled, his breath hitched, and his balance faltered before he could even take a step.

Lan Wangji caught him immediately, his arms steady and strong as he held him upright.

Wei Wuxian groaned in frustration. “Damn it.”

“You are not well,” Lan Wangji stated firmly, adjusting his hold as Wei Wuxian sagged against him.

“I’m fine.”

“You are not.”

Wei Wuxian let out a sharp breath. “Lan Zhan, your uncle is missing. We have no idea where he is, if he’s hurt, if—”

“No.” Wangji’s voice was gentle but firm. “You will rest.”

Qiren felt a strange tightness in his chest as he watched Wuxian’s expression shift—guilt, frustration, and worry all flickering across his face. “But—”

Wuxian clenched his jaw, glancing away. “He’s your uncle, but… he’s my family too. I don’t want to just sit here while he’s missing.”

Qiren’s breath caught. He had always assumed Wuxian barely tolerated his presence, that the boy would sooner celebrate his disappearance than worry over it. Yet there was no mistaking the sincerity in his voice, the genuine concern in his furrowed brow. It was… unexpected.

He had always thought the boy had no regard for his authority, had no care for his presence beyond how much trouble he could stir in his life. And yet, here he was, voice tight with genuine distress, attempting to fight through his own pain just to aid in the search for him.

“I will find him,” Lan Wangji said, his voice a quiet certainty. “You will stay here and rest.”

Wei Wuxian huffed but didn’t argue immediately. His fingers curled weakly into Lan Wangji’s sleeve, his earlier bravado dimming. “What if he’s—”

“He will be found,” Lan Wangji repeated. “I will not stop until I find him.”

Wei Wuxian stared at him for a long moment, before finally exhaling and nodding, his grip on Wangji’s sleeve lingering. “Okay.”

Lan Wangji guided him carefully back to the bed, helping him sit before straightening. He reached down, fingers briefly ghosting against Wei Wuxian’s meridian's.

As Wangji’s fingers ghosted over Wei Wuxian’s meridians, his normally unreadable expression subtly darkened. His brows furrowed ever so slightly as his fingertips pressed with more intent, tracing the chaotic, unbalanced qi lingering beneath Wuxian’s skin.

Wei Wuxian, ever perceptive despite his usual flippant nature, caught the shift immediately. “Lan Zhan?” His voice was light, but there was a wariness beneath it.

“You have disrupted your meridians,” Wangji stated plainly, though Qiren could detect the way his voice softened just slightly, a rare tell of concern. “Your qi flow is unstable.”

Wei Wuxian shifted under the scrutiny, his smile appearing a second too late to be entirely natural. “Ah… yeah. About that.” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking vaguely guilty. “I was… trying to take a deeper look at Mo Xuanyu’s core.”

Wangji’s fingers twitched slightly, as if resisting the urge to tighten his grip. “You pushed too far.”

Wei Wuxian let out a nervous chuckle. “Maybe a little.” Seeing the disapproval in Wangji’s gaze, he held up a hand. “Alright, alright. I went too far. But I needed to know—Xuanyu’s body is weak, and I had to figure out what was causing it. I got a bit… carried away.”

Lan Qiren was fuming. To brush off such a reckless mistake, to so easily dismiss what could have been a fatal qi deviation—what kind of fool was this boy?! If he had a voice, he would have given Wei Wuxian the sharpest lecture of his life. But since he did not, his frustration erupted the only way it could:

Thump.

A loud, angry stomp of his back paws against the wooden floor.

The sound echoed through the quiet room, shocking both Wangji and Wuxian into looking directly at him. Qiren immediately regretted it as pain spiked up his injured limb, but he refused to acknowledge it. His indignation burned hotter than the pain.

Wuxian blinked at him, startled, before his face softened in guilt. “Oh no, Master Rabbit, don’t hurt yourself even more.” He reached down, carefully petting Qiren’s head in an attempt to soothe him. “I know you’re angry with me. I’m sorry for worrying you.”

Wangji, watching the exchange with a barely-there hint of amusement, tilted his head slightly. “Master Rabbit?”

“Of course.” Wuxian huffed, still focused on Qiren, not noticing the way Wangji’s lips threatened to curl into the smallest of smiles. “Master Rabbit here is obviously someone wise, noble, and deeply respected. Look at how dignified he is! Even his scolding is refined.”

Qiren, had he been in human form, might have lost composure entirely. Instead, he settled for an exasperated twitch of his nose.

Before anyone could speak further, a knock at the door interrupted them.

Wangji turned, striding toward the entrance and sliding the door open to reveal Lan Xichen standing there, his expression contemplative yet laced with worry.

“Xiongzhang.” Wangji inclined his head.

“Wangji,” Xichen greeted, then let his gaze shift to Wei Wuxian, assessing him briefly before continuing. “There has been a report from the back hills. Traces of an unknown energy were detected near the rabbit meadow.”

Wuxian sat up straighter, his entire body tensing. “Unknown energy?” His concern was immediate. “What kind of energy? What about the rabbits?”

Xichen held up a hand in reassurance. “There was no sign of demonic energy or anything harmful. Only remnants of a powerful talisman. Ashes of talisman paper were found near the meadow.”

Wangji’s brows knitted together in thought. “I was there this morning. I noticed nothing unusual.”

Xichen nodded. “The only thing of note was an injured rabbit. The other rabbits were protecting it in its sleep.”

Xichen hummed in acknowledgment, but his next words gave Qiren pause.

Xichen’s contemplative expression deepened as he considered the reports. “A talisman strong enough to leave lingering traces of energy is not something ordinary. It must have been carefully crafted for a specific purpose.”

Wangji nodded, his gaze sharpening. “A concealment talisman? Or something to alter appearances? Perhaps even suppress spiritual signatures?”

“It is possible,” Xichen agreed. “Something to obscure an individual’s presence completely, or perhaps even disguise them as something else.”

Wei Wuxian hummed thoughtfully, tapping his fingers against his knee. “But for what reason? If someone was hiding in the Cloud Recesses, they must have had a goal.”

“Spying,” Wangji suggested, his voice quiet but firm. “Sabotage.”

Xichen folded his arms, his expression unreadable. “A talisman capable of such concealment would require significant skill to create. Whoever left these traces is not an amateur.”

Wuxian huffed, shaking his head. “And yet, if they were so skilled, why leave behind such obvious residue? Either they were careless, or…” His eyes narrowed slightly in thought. “Or they didn’t think they’d need to hide their tracks.”

“Then they could still be nearby,” Wangji said, tension threading his voice.

“Maybe.” Wuxian leaned back slightly, tilting his head toward the ceiling in thought. “Maybe they’re watching us right now, and we don’t even know.”

A heavy silence settled over the room, both Lan brothers considering his words.

Wangji frowned. “If so, what form would they take?”

Wuxian grinned, amusement glinting in his tired eyes. “I don’t know, maybe they’re hiding among the rabbits.”

The two Lan brothers turned to him in perfect unison, their expressions shifting into deep contemplation.

“…I was joking,” Wuxian said, his amusement faltering at their serious faces.

Wei Wuxian’s mouth fell open in absolute outrage. “What?! Who would even do that? And for what? To get close to Lan Qiren? What would they do—sit silently and judge their target to death?!”

Xichen’s lips twitched in amusement, though he kept his composure. He, after all, was one of the few who knew that his uncle frequently “checked on” the rabbit meadow under the guise of ensuring the little creatures were not “damaging the local environment.”

Lan Qiren felt an odd sense of unease settle in his stomach. Had he still been human, he would have straightened his robes with dignity and informed them himself that this was an absurd theory. But as it was, all he could do was sit stiffly on the straw mat, feeling a very real sense of foreboding.

Xichen turned back to Wuxian. “Is it possible to craft a talisman for such a purpose?”

Wei Wuxian frowned, about to answer immediately, but then hesitated. He opened his mouth, then closed it, a dawning realization flickering in his eyes. “Well, I mean, of course it’s possible, but the creator would have to be very skilled… and I—”

He stopped abruptly, eyes widening as if struck by lightning.

“I—” he started again, voice an octave higher. “I’ve been trying to make this talisman work for months now.”

The room went silent.

Wei Wuxian scrambled—not elegantly—to where he had left his notes, frantically flipping through loose pages as both Lan brothers watched him with varying degrees of bemusement. His hands moved with increasing urgency, rifling through stacks of parchment, muttering under his breath.

“It was meant to be—ugh, where is it—it was supposed to be fun! Just a harmless transformation talisman, a little experiment!” He huffed in frustration, fingers twitching as he upended another pile of notes. “It was never meant to be a concealment talisman, not exactly. But, now that I think about it… the way I designed it… it could work that way too…”

Xichen and Wangji exchanged glances.

“I wanted it to change the wearer into, well…” His voice trailed off, guilt creeping into his tone as he glanced toward Wangji. “It was a surprise for you.”

Wangji blinked. “For me?”

Wuxian rubbed the back of his neck, laughing sheepishly. “I thought—since you like rabbits so much—it’d be funny if you could, you know, see the world from their perspective for a little while.” His voice softened, growing more hesitant. “A temporary transformation into a bunny. Just for fun.”

Silence stretched between them before Xichen let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. Wangji, however, was still watching him intently, unreadable as always.

“But it wasn’t finished,” Wuxian went on, eyes scanning the mess of notes with increasing panic. “It was unstable—if the talisman was damaged in any way, it could trigger on its own or malfunction completely. If the paper was crumpled or torn, it could cause unpredictable results.”

His hands stilled suddenly. He turned slowly toward the small white rabbit sitting on the floor.

“Master Rabbit,” he said, voice thin with realization.

Qiren, who had been listening with increasing exasperation, froze as all three sets of eyes landed on him.

Xichen stepped forward, kneeling gracefully as he reached out to pick up the rabbit. Lan Qiren stiffened at first but did not resist as Xichen’s hands gently cupped around him, lifting him with the same reverence one might use for a delicate artifact.

“I’ll check his qi,” Xichen murmured, his voice calm and careful. Closing his eyes, he let a stream of spiritual energy flow through his fingertips, seeking any familiar traces within the rabbit’s small form. It only took a moment before he felt it—a deep, steady qi, carefully contained yet undeniably familiar. Lan Qiren’s qi, locked away within this tiny body.

Xichen’s eyes fluttered open, meeting Wangji’s gaze with certainty. “It’s him.”

Wei Wuxian, who had been frozen in horrified silence, suddenly sprang into action with a loud, strangled noise.

“Oh no. Oh, nononono, this is bad—this is so bad—” He lurched back toward his scattered notes, knocking over ink pots and papers in his frantic desperation. “I turned Lan Zhan’s uncle into a rabbit. Lan Qiren. A rabbit. Me! Oh, he already hates me and now I’ve—he’s going to kill me. No, no, worse, he’s going to have me thrown out of the Cloud Recesses! Banishment! Immediate and permanent exile! Maybe even—”

His fingers fumbled over a blank talisman paper, ink smudging as his hand trembled. He squeezed his eyes shut, sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth. “Think, Wuxian, think. A reversal talisman, that’s all I need. Simple, really. Just undo what I—oh, but what if it was unstable? What if I wrote the entire array wrong? What if I—”

His breathing hitched, coming in short, rapid bursts. He could feel panic clawing up his throat, self-recriminations tangling in his mind.

So stupid. Reckless. Irresponsible.

His fingers clenched into the fabric of his robes, knuckles white.

Then—a sudden, unexpected warmth.

A small, soft weight landed in his lap. Wei Wuxian cracked his eyes open, breath still shallow, to find a white rabbit sitting there, pressing against him. Master Rabbit—no, Lan Qiren—had hopped back into his lap.

Wei Wuxian stared, frozen.

Qiren stared back at him, twitching his nose once before settling against him with a finality that left no room for argument.

Wuxian let out a breath, shaky but steadying. He swallowed past the tightness in his throat, his panicked thoughts slowing just a little.

“…He’s not mad at me?” he asked weakly, glancing up at the two brothers for confirmation.

Lan Wangji’s expression softened just slightly. “Mn.”

Xichen smiled faintly. “It would seem not.”

Wei Wuxian let out a huff, lifting a hand to rub at his temple. “He’s definitely mad. Just not ‘banish me forever’ mad.”

“He will not banish you,” Wangji said firmly. “Nor will he harm you.”

“He still might never let me live this down,” Wuxian muttered under his breath.

“Perhaps not,” Xichen admitted, amusement in his tone.

Wei Wuxian sighed, absently stroking the fur between Qiren’s ears.

Lan Wangji considered his husband for a moment before speaking. “If it was a temporary talisman, the effect should end on its own.”

Wei Wuxian blinked, mind stuttering over the simplicity of that logic.

“Wait,” he said slowly, tilting his head. “You’re right. I designed it to only last a few hours, maybe a day at most…”

His eyes darted to the window, then back to Qiren in his lap.

“…It’s already been over twelve hours,” he realized. A nervous laugh bubbled out of him. “So, uh, any minute now?”

Any minute now…

Turned out to be three hours later.

When this whole event was well in the past, Wei Wuxian would surely find the humor in the fact that Lan Qiren had returned to his human form just before afternoon tea. But right now, all he could do was shrink under the scathing scowl that the surprisingly pristine Lan Qiren was directing his way.

Not a hair was out of place. His robes were spotless, crisp, and perfect, as if he hadn’t spent half a day hopping around the Cloud Recesses as a rabbit. The man’s composure was unwavering, the only crack in his façade being the glare that was currently drilling into Wei Wuxian.

Without breaking eye contact, Lan Qiren addressed his nephews. “You two are dismissed.”

Xichen’s expression flickered with worry, but he gave a small bow. “Uncle—”

“Now.” Qiren’s tone brooked no argument.

Wangji lingered for a heartbeat longer, his gaze shifting to Wuxian before he gave a single nod, trusting his uncle’s intentions. He turned and quietly left, the door sliding shut behind him.

The silence that followed was stifling.

“Wei Wuxian,” Lan Qiren began, his voice even and controlled, “we need to have a talk.”

Wei Wuxian swallowed hard, a cold sweat breaking out at the back of his neck.

“Put the kettle on. We have many things to discuss,” Qiren continued, his eyes narrowing. “Primarily about the pains you brought over from your first life into this second one.”

Wei Wuxian’s blood ran cold.

His mind raced back to that moment—his body shaking from near qi deviation, his emotions raw and exposed, spilling his pain, his grief, his guilt… all of it confessed to a soft white rabbit who’d looked up at him with such innocent eyes.

Those same eyes were now piercing right through him with a gaze as sharp as a blade.

“Oh… no…” he whispered, his voice small.

“Tea. Now,” Lan Qiren ordered, his expression unmoving.

Wei Wuxian scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over himself as he rushed to the kitchen. His heart was pounding, his fingers trembling as he filled the kettle and set it to boil.

This was, without a doubt, the most anxiety-induced tea he had ever made in his life. His hands shook so badly that he was honestly surprised he didn’t scald himself as he poured the hot water into the teapot. Somehow, he managed to arrange the tray with two cups and an assortment of Lan Zhan’s favorite savory treats—the type of Lan-appropriate snacks that wouldn’t offend Lan Qiren’s sensibilities.

His knees wobbled dangerously as he carried the tray to the low table, every step filled with dread. When he finally reached the table and went to kneel, his legs began to tremble from the strain. His balance wavered, the tray tilting just slightly—

A steady hand reached out, supporting the tray before lifting it away entirely.

Wei Wuxian gasped, his grip slackening in relief as Lan Qiren took the burden from him, placing the tray safely on the table.

The tension drained from his body all at once, his knees giving out. He sank unceremoniously to the floor, catching himself on his hands before his forehead could meet the floorboards. His head hung low, shame curling tightly in his chest.

How pathetic must he look right now? He couldn’t even serve tea properly…

A shadow fell over him, and he dared to look up, his vision swimming until Lan Qiren’s face came into focus.

Qiren was crouched in front of him, one hand grasping his elbow firmly but gently. There was no anger in his expression, only a sternness laced with an unexpected softness.

“You foolish boy,” Qiren muttered, his voice low. “Don’t force your body to do things it cannot. You’ll only end up hurting yourself more.” He sighed, the sound carrying the faintest hint of exasperation. “Come on, let’s get you settled.”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes widened in shock. He allowed himself to be helped upright, leaning heavily on Qiren’s support as they made their way around the low table. Only then did Wuxian notice the small kneeling stool already positioned in front of his place at the table.

Qiren must have moved it there while he was in the kitchen.

Wei Wuxian’s chest tightened, his mouth opening before he could think. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” Qiren interrupted, his tone firm. “Or do you believe me to be so heartless as to deny an injured man one of his few comforts?”

Wei Wuxian had no response to that. His mouth moved soundlessly before he clamped it shut, eyes flicking downward in silent obedience.

Satisfied, Lan Qiren helped him settle on the stool before circling the table to take his own seat.

Wei Wuxian barely had a moment to adjust before his eyes widened in disbelief. Lan Qiren was pouring the tea.

Breaking propriety.

Wei Wuxian’s jaw fell open, his mind struggling to catch up with the reality before him.

Lan Qiren didn’t seem to care about propriety at all as he poured the tea with practiced elegance, filling both cups without a word. He picked up the first cup, his movements precise, and placed it in front of Wei Wuxian before retrieving his own.

It was a silent gesture, but the meaning was clear.

For a moment, Wei Wuxian could only stare at the steaming cup in front of him, the warmth of it radiating against his hands.

He swallowed, his throat feeling tight.

The conversation that was about to follow was going to be difficult. There would be no escaping the truths he’d spilled or the consequences of his reckless talisman experiment.

But… as he looked up at Lan Qiren, seeing that same underlying softness in his gaze, Wei Wuxian felt the smallest flicker of hope.

Maybe—just maybe—this wouldn’t end as horribly as he had feared.

Lan Qiren took a slow sip of his tea, his gaze unwavering as he watched Wei Wuxian from across the table. His posture was as poised as ever, every movement precise and measured. Yet, his eyes held a weight that Wei Wuxian had never seen before—a depth that made him feel as if he were being examined down to his very soul.

Wei Wuxian could barely meet that piercing gaze. His hands tightened around the teacup, the heat seeping into his palms as he tried to steady his shaking fingers. His heartbeat was a wild drumbeat in his chest, and no amount of steady breathing could calm the tempest raging inside him.

Lan Qiren placed his cup back on its saucer with a quiet clink, the sound unnervingly loud in the silent room. “I listened,” he began, his voice quiet but firm, “to all you said yesterday.”

Wei Wuxian stiffened, his back going rigid as cold panic shot through him.

Qiren’s eyes narrowed, a sharpness flickering in their depths. “You have been carrying a great burden, one you shouldn’t have been bearing alone.”

“I—” Wei Wuxian’s voice cracked, his words dying in his throat. His mouth was suddenly dry, his thoughts scattered.

Qiren did not relent. “You’ve been in pain, Wei Wuxian.” The words were spoken plainly, with a certainty that left no room for argument. “For a long time.”

Wei Wuxian felt his chest tighten, his grip on the teacup trembling. He looked away, unable to withstand the intensity of that gaze. “I… It’s not…”

“Don’t lie to me.” The firmness in Qiren’s voice cut through his feeble excuse, leaving him exposed. “Not after everything you confessed.”

Wei Wuxian’s stomach churned, his mind replaying the vivid memory of his own voice, desperate and raw, spilling out his grief and regrets to a little white rabbit who had watched him in perfect silence.

He’d been so stupid… so careless…

“Why didn’t you speak of this to anyone?” Qiren demanded, his tone growing harsher. “Why did you suffer in silence?”

Wei Wuxian laughed, a hollow, bitter sound. “Who would’ve listened? Who would’ve believed me?” He gripped his cup tighter, his nails digging into the porcelain. “To most people, I’m just the Yiling Patriarch, the monster who defied the heavens. Even now, they see me as nothing more than a cultivator of demonic arts.”

Qiren’s eyes softened, the harsh lines of his face easing ever so slightly. “Is that truly what you believe? That no one would care?”

Wei Wuxian’s laugh turned shaky. “Isn’t that how it’s always been? Who was there to care back then?” His voice broke, the bitterness giving way to a raw vulnerability. “Who would care now?”

“I care.”

The words were so quiet, so gentle, that Wei Wuxian almost didn’t hear them. He looked up, shock widening his eyes.

Lan Qiren was staring at him, his expression solemn but unwavering. “I care, Wei Wuxian. Wangji cares. Even if you doubt the intentions of others… never doubt mine.”

Wei Wuxian felt his throat tighten, his vision blurring. He looked away, his teeth gritted to hold back the overwhelming wave of emotion that threatened to break him. “Why…? After everything I’ve done…”

Qiren sighed, his shoulders sagging as if under a great weight. “You think I do not know pain? You think I do not understand loss?” His eyes turned distant, his voice growing quieter. “I lost my parents young, my brother… my sister-in-law… I’ve watched my nephews carry burdens that no child should bear. And now, I see you… struggling to live under the weight of your past.”

Wei Wuxian’s mouth opened, but no words came out. He stared at the man in front of him, the image of the stern, uncompromising teacher shattering before his eyes.

Qiren closed his eyes, his hands resting on his knees as he took a long breath. “I was angry with you. Furious, even. But then… you sat before me, shoulders trembling, eyes hollow, and you spoke of your suffering as if it were a sin to feel pain.” His eyes opened, a flicker of sorrow shining through. “You spoke as if you believed you had no right to mourn.”

Wei Wuxian’s shoulders shook, his hands clenching so tightly his knuckles turned white. He lowered his head, his hair falling forward to shield his face. “I don’t… I don’t have that right. Not after all the people I failed to save… Not after all the lives that were lost because of me.”

Qiren’s eyes hardened. “You are wrong.”

Wei Wuxian’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with shock.

“You were a child,” Qiren continued, his voice firm. “A child who was pushed into a war he did not start. A child who was left to fend for himself with no guidance, no support. You were asked to bear responsibilities no one your age should have shouldered.” His gaze grew sharper, his voice unwavering. “Do not mistake the failings of those who should have protected you as your own.”

Wei Wuxian felt his chest tighten, the air leaving his lungs as he fought back the tears burning at the corners of his eyes. “But… I lost control… I…”

“You made mistakes,” Qiren said bluntly. “Grave ones. But you are not a monster. You are human, Wei Wuxian.” His voice softened, his expression growing almost gentle. “You are allowed to grieve. You are allowed to hurt. And you are allowed to heal.”

Wei Wuxian’s breath hitched, the tears slipping free before he could stop them. He ducked his head, his shoulders shaking as he silently cried, his fingers digging into his thighs.

For a long while, neither of them spoke. The room was filled only with the quiet sound of Wei Wuxian’s muffled sobs.

Then, Qiren’s voice broke the silence once more, soft and resolute. “I will help you.”

Wei Wuxian’s head shot up, his eyes wide with disbelief. “What…?”

Lan Qiren’s gaze was steady, unwavering. “I will help you figure this out. Your pain, your fears… all of it.” He leaned forward, his voice firm. “I will help you carry this burden. You will not face it alone.”

Wei Wuxian’s mouth opened and closed, his voice failing him. He shook his head, his tears flowing freely. “You… you want to help me? After everything?”

“Of course.” Qiren’s voice was so matter-of-fact that it left no room for doubt. “You are family, Wei Wuxian. And in this family, no one is left behind.”

Wei Wuxian’s vision blurred again, his heart pounding as a choked sob escaped his lips. He covered his face with his hands, his body curling in on itself as the weight he had carried for so long finally began to lift.

Across from him, Lan Qiren simply sat, his presence steady and unwavering, grounding him in a way that no one ever had before.

And for the first time in a long, long while… Wei Wuxian felt like he could finally breathe.