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Lan Wangji has never met a worse supervillain.
He finds this rather remarkable considering that he has, during his tenure as Hanguang-jun, fought quite a large number of villains. The “super” part of supervillain can of course be determined by the villain in questions’ power level, which is what separated Wen Ruohan and Jin Guangshan from their minions and successors. Certainly some of them, like Wen Ruohan’s two successors, Wen Xu and Wen Chao, lacked style, as did Su She and Jin Zixun. But what they lacked in style, each and every one of them made up for in sheer villany. Even Wang Lingjiao didn’t hesitate to kick a puppy she saw on the street.
The Yiling Patriarch, on the other hand. Well.
“My evil plans will not be foiled this time!” The Yiling Patriarch shouts, black robes billowing in the howling wind.
Lan Wangji isn’t entirely sure where the wind is coming from. He suspects a military-grade fan.
The Yiling Patriarch stands on edge of the city skyscraper, a violently red sun setting dramatically behind him. His wild black hair obscures the red light crackling in his eyes. His black mask obscures his face, but doesn’t manage to obscure his evil smile. He pauses his villainous speech briefly to play shrieking flute music, warbling, lightning-fast scales and melodies; very thematically appropriate.
It cannot be said that the Yiling Patriarch lacks style.
Lan Wangji hovers in the air in front of the skyscraper, his white robes floating elegantly around him. As he pulls out his guqin, corpses flood the streets below. They’ve all been summoned on the Yiling Patriarch’s command. On streets throughout the city are Zewu-jun, Chifeng-zun, Sandu Shengshou, and another dozen of Lan Wangji’s fellow superheroes. No other supervillain has forced so many heroes into action all at once.
“You have no hope! My corpses cannot be stopped!”
It cannot be said that the Yiling Patriarch lacks power. Not even Wen Ruohan was as powerful as the Yiling Patriarch is now.
What the Yiling Patriarch does lack, however, is something that Lan Wangji struggles to explain.
It’s on a stormy night that Lan Wangji finds the Yiling Patriarch leaning against the side of a building, deep in some alleyway, clutching his side with one hand. His breath comes out in erratic bursts, and his sopping wet hair runs down his face and his back like ink down a brush. His silver eyes are dull when he sees Lan Wangji land lightly on the paved ground, clear umbrella held above his head, moonlight filtering through the plastic. They barely register shock, or fear, or anything else.
The Yiling Patriarch slowly pulls his hand away from his ribs, lets both of them hang by his side. Black liquid drips off his hands like ink onto paper.
“Have you ever seen blood in the moonlight, Lan Wangji?” The Yiling Patriarch asks. “It appears…” He lifts his hands. Raindrops pelt his palms, rinsing away the dark liquid. “…Quite black.”
Lan Wangji looks at him. The Yiling Patriarch tilts his head back, closes his eyes. He lets rain pelt his face as well, as if it could wash him away.
“No one at the prison died,” he says.
“There’s that, at least,” the Yiling Patriarch murmurs after a pause.
Lan Wangji has never met a villain who cared if people lived or died. So there’s that, at least.
Are his robes blacker than they were just a minute ago? Between the rain, the night, and the already black robes, Lan Wangji cannot tell.
The Yiling Patriarch cracks open an eye and squints at Lan Wangji. “You really do glow, you know that, Hanguang-jun? It’s unfair.” He sighs, then pulls a face and clutches his side again. “The joys of gut wounds,” he mutters under his breath. His eyes close again, and his knees start to tremble. “Ah, but I kind of broke your super prison, didn’t I?” The Yiling Patriarch says, louder. “So where are you going to put me?”
The Yiling Patriarch doesn’t move from his position against the wall until the rain abruptly stops falling on him. He opens his eyes again, and this time sees Lan Wangji holding his umbrella over him.
“I will walk you home,” Lan Wangji says.
“Walk me home?” The Yiling Patriarch echoes. “Lan Zhan, you’re supposed to take me in. What are you talking about?”
But he doesn’t resist when Lan Wangji pulls his arm over his shoulders. Nor does he see the way Lan Wangji’s ears turn bright pink.
“I will walk you home,” Lan Wangji repeats.
The Yiling Patriarch is a terrible villain.
The tip of Wang Lingjiao’s five-inch high heel jabs into the side of the dog currently begging at the hems of her lilac robes.
“Excuse me,” she says peevishly. “Do continue,” she says to Lan Wangji.
“This conversation is over,” Lan Wangji snaps, fists clenched.
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on,” she says. “Just because a stupid mutt interrupted?” She bats her eyelashes at Lan Wangji. “We were at the part where you convince me to join your side? Hanguang-jun? Hanguang-jun! Lan Wangji!”
Lan Xichen finds him later buying a leash for his new pet dog. “Wangji,” he says, on the exasperated side of fond, “why do you insist on debating morality with villains?”
Lan Wangji doesn’t glare at him, but he does clutch his new dog closer in his arms.
“Do you really think you can just make one of them see reason if you quote enough philosophers?”
“Yes,” Lan Wangji says stubbornly.
Lan Wangji is halfway through his sentence when the Yiling Patriarch starts moving.
One moment, he's leaning against the black lamp post, very intently listening to Lan Wangji’s lecture on ethics. There’s a smirk playing at the corner of his lips that Lan Wangji very definitely isn’t thinking about. Nor is he thinking about the way the light from the lamp post shines on the Yiling Patriarch from above until he glows, or how it feels to have all the notoriously frantic, unfocused energy of the Yiling Patriarch directly entirely at him.
The next moment, the Yiling Patriarch’s eyes widen behind his mask, and he practically teleports on top of the pole.
“Not that I’m not enjoying our discussion on morality,” the Yiling Patriarch calls down nervously, “but. There’s a dog.”
Lan Wangji blinks. He looks down. A stray dog wanders past. It stops at the bottom of the post and sniffs. The Yiling Patriarch whimpers.
Lan Wangji removes the dog.
“Wen Ning,” says Wei Wuxian, with the urgency of a doomed man. “You gotta help me.”
“What’s the problem?” Wen Ning says immediately.
“Absolutely not,” Wen Qing says, without looking up from her book.
She’s sitting comfortably on the single couch in Wei Wuxian’s so-called villain lair. In reality, he couldn’t afford anywhere else, and the Burial Mounds are rent-free and neighborless. She still made Wei Wuxian buy the red couch, and it remains the only splash of color in the whole complex.
Wei Wuxian pauses, his palms still slammed down on the creaking table in the center of the room. Wen Ning continues mixing his tea. “Okay, first off,” he says, mortally offended, “you didn’t even know what I was going to say. And second, I wasn’t even asking you!”
“I’m answering for A-Ning,” Wen Qing says calmly.
“Wen Ning is a free man!” Wei Wuxian argues. “He can make his own decisions!”
“What do you need help with?” Wen Ning intervenes, dragging Wei Wuxian’s attention away from the argument.
“I’m not being taken seriously!” Wei Wuxian wails.
Wen Qing snorts. “Why would I?”
“I didn’t mean you,” Wei Wuxian says, once more mortally offended. “I mean the superheroes! They’re not taking me seriously as a villain! Last time I robbed the national bank, they just sent Lan Zhan, and we didn’t even fight!”
“Right,” Wen Qing says drily. “You just debated philosophy for two hours.”
“He had some interesting points,” Wei Wuxian mutters sulkily. “What was I supposed to do, just not debate him?”
“Yes,” says Wen Qing.
“I can’t just ignore Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian says belligerently. “Anyway, shouldn’t you be concerned? If the superheroes don’t take me seriously, how am I supposed to secure the safety of your family? If I just rescue them the government will never stop hunting them!”
Wen Qing rolls her eyes. “It’s not my fault you chose the stupidest way to go about it. Now both of your siblings are mad at you.”
Wei Wuxian opens his mouth to retort and then pauses. “Okay, but,” he tries, “it’s too late now! After last Friday–”
“There were easier ways to explain to Meng Yao where he got his psychic powers from,” Wen Qing notes, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
Both Wei Wuxian and Wen Ning flush bright red.
“–the truth, Meng Yao,” the Yiling Patriarch said melodramatically, and his black coat billowed out behind him as he stalked towards Meng Yao.
The young man scrambled backwards over the rubble of the destroyed convenience store, his honey eyes wide with fear at the sight of the masked supervillain loomed over him. He was the communications director for the superheroes before all this happened, but during this fight Wei Wuxian had noticed his fledgling psychic powers and looked at the young man, who happened to look eerily similar to Jin Zixuan, and realized what was going on.
“They never told you what happened to your father,” Wei Wuxian continued, easily cornering Meng Yao.
Back in the Burial Mounds, Wen Ning leaned towards his computer like he could merge into the scene. His fingers flew across the keys, as he suddenly remembered some quote about a father that would be perfect for this situation. If only he could get to his list of villain phrases fast enough–
Wei Wuxian paused as the line flashed in front of his eyes, projected by his mask. Without registering the words, he read it out loud. “I am your father!”
Meng Yao stopped cowering.
The Yiling Patriarch stopped stalking dramatically. “Ah, fuck,” he said, his pointed finger drooping. “Wait–I meant–”
Two superheroes landed on the pile of rubble beside Meng Yao.
“Darth Vader, The Empire Strikes Back,” Hanguang-jun said confidently.
“How are you so fucking stupid,” Sandu Shengshou said, almost wonderingly. Bright purple lightning crackled around his fingertips.
“Shut up, I don’t know you!” The Yiling Patriarch cried. “I meant Jin Guangshan! I meant Jin Guangshan!”
“I think Zewu-jun’s handling it,” Wei Wuxian says evasively.
Wen Qing snorts. “Sure.”
“The point is they’re not taking me seriously!” Wei Wuxian insists. “Wen Ning, what can I do to make them take me seriously as a villain?”
“Do something only a villain would do,” Wen Ning suggests.
“Well obviously,” Wei Wuxian says. “But what?” He pulls out the chair across from Wen Ning and plonks himself down in it. They both ponder this question.
“Maybe you could kidnap a hero?” Wen Ning suggests.
Wei Wuxian brightens. “That’s a great idea! But who?”
“Oh my God,” Wen Qing mutters from her comfy seat on the couch.
“Not Jiang Cheng, he’d kill me,” Wei Wuxian muses. He props his chin up with one hand. “And I don’t want to kidnap someone who’d get actually scared…Lan Zhan! Perfect. I’ll kidnap their precious Hanguang-jun. Then they’ll have to take me seriously!”
When Lan Wangji wakes up to see the Yiling Patriarch looming over him, he thinks he’s still dreaming for one embarrassing moment. He’s glad he recognizes his mistake, or he would’ve said or done something mortifying that he prefers not to think about.
“Good morning, Lan Zhan!” The Yiling Patriarch says, cackling evilly. “You are in the lair of the Yiling Patriarch.”
Lan Wangji sits up. He’s on a soft red couch, wrapped in at least three blankets. Other than that, the large room is rather sparse; the walls are plain stone, as is the floor, save for a threadbare rug on top of which a rickety old table sits, with four chairs of varying styles situated around it.
“How does it feel to know you’ve been kidnapped by your worst enemy?” The Yiling Patriarch says gleefully.
He leans closer, and Lan Wangji swallows, his throat dry. It seems that the Yiling Patriarch forgeos his high-collar black coat when he’s at home. He’s currently wearing a baggy black shirt and black ripped jeans, which means that when Lan Wangji looks up, he’s looking directly at his collarbone, then up at his jawline, and then at the bottom half of his face. As he leans in, his lips curve in a wicked smile, and no, Lan Wangji not thinking about his forearms, or those beautiful, slender hands–
“How does it feel knowing you’ve been rendered powerless?” The Yiling Patriarch continues. His silver eyes track the movement of Lan Wangji’s throat. “Are you uncomfortable?” He asks worriedly. “This place has no heating–you know, free rent, that’s how it is–and I didn’t have anywhere else to put you, but I thought I brought enough blankets. Do you want tea? I can make tea!”
And the Yiling Patriarch bustles off, throwing a “Be right back! Don’t go anywhere!” over his shoulder.
Lan Wangji pushes the blankets off. “I am quite comfortable,” he says to himself. Perhaps he could’ve said it earlier, but he wasn’t going to dissuade the Yiling Patriarch from making him tea.
The Yiling Patriarch returns with two cups of jasmine tea, and invites Lan Wangji to take a seat at his table.
“Sorry about the chairs, they’re kinda falling apart,” the Yiling Patriarch says. “I got them at a yard sale. Well, four different yard sales, so none of them match.”
“It is fine,” Lan Wangji says.
“Right, right.” The Yiling Patriarch clears his throat, and pushes one teacup towards Lan Wangji. “Anyway. I thought it was time I proved my worth as a villain, don’t you think?” He leans back in his chair. One of the chair legs squeaks.
“You could always retire,” Lan Wangji suggests.
The Yiling Patriarch’s casual smile drops. “Not until I’ve done what I set out to do,” he says seriously. He pulls up his villain smile again. “Though I’m sure you heroes must be eager for me to retire, hm?”
“I am worried one day you might be seriously injured,” Lan Wangji replies.
“Ah, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan,” the Yiling Patriarch says, shaking his head. “The tragedy is not to die, but to be wasted. I have so much–”
“Hannibal Lecter,” says Lan Wangji.
The Yiling Patriarch scowls at him. “Stop doing that. As I was saying, I have so much to do, and so little time on this earth. If I must turn to villany to accomplish my goals, then I will. You cannot debate me into giving up my pursuits.”
“Why must you turn to villainy?” Lan Wangji asks. He drinks his tea. It’s over boiled, but still the best tea he’s ever had.
“Because otherwise, nobody listens,” the Yiling Patriarch says. “You think I didn’t try the proper way first?”
“No doubt you tried,” says Lan Wangji. “Nevertheless: what are your goals? Why do you hide your face? Who are you protecting?”
The Yiling Patriarch slams his teacup down. “You want the truth?” He pauses. “You can’t handle the truth!”
Lan Wangji sips his tea. “Colonel Nathan Jessup, A Few Good Men.”
“Stop doing that!” The Yiling Patriarch cries. He stands up and shakes his finger very threateningly at Lan Wangji. “You seem to have forgotten that you have been kidnapped, Lan Zhan.”
“I have not,” Lan Wangji says. The location leaves something to be desired, but other than that he thinks it’s a very fine first date.
“Then–! Don’t forget who holds the power in this situation!”
“Mhm,” Lan Wangji agrees. He sips his tea again. “Thank you for the tea.”
“O-oh, of course,” the Yiling Patriarch says, thrown. He sits down again. “You seemed like a no sugar type of person.” He pauses. “I mean, if you want sugar, I have some in the pantry. I think. Unless we ran out.”
“No need,” Lan Wangji says. He is, in fact, a no-sugar type of person.
“That’s good,” the Yiling Patriarch says. He smiles at Lan Wangji, who almost smiles back, heart set aflutter by the gentle smile on the Yiling Patriarch’s face.
“What is your plan?” Lan Wangji asks.
“My plan?” The Yiling Patriarch echoes, thrown once more. “I mean, my villainous plan! Uh. The one that I have.”
“Is this all for your image?” Lan Wangji presses.
“Of course,” the Yiling Patriarch says immediately. “You know me. Vanity, definitely my favorite sin.”
“John Milton, The Devil’s Advocate.”
“Shut up! I can’t believe you memorized all these quotes,” the Yiling Patriarch bemoans. “Lan Zhan, you’re ruining all my fun.”
Lan Wangji sips his tea again. “I am quite capable of research.”
“I’ll say,” he mutters.
“It is not too late to turn back,” Lan Wangji says, trying for once to put the turmoil of emotion he feels into his tone. “We can still put old wounds behind us. I can help you.”
The Yiling Patriarch slumps against his table. “Can we?” He asks, subdued. “After all, our scars have the power to remind us that the past was real.”
“Hannibal Lecter again,” says Lan Wangji.
“Fuck you! Hannibal Lecter is a good villain!” The Yiling Patriarch swells belligerently.
“And you,” Lan Wangji says calmly, “are not a very convincing villain.”
“What do you mean?” The Yiling Patriarch demands. “I kidnapped a hero! Only villains do that!” He sweeps one arm across the situation, gesturing at the hot jasmine tea and the pile of blankets on the couch behind them, and at Lan Wangji, seated primly on the old wooden chair provided for him. “This is a kidnapping!”
“Hm,” Lan Wangji says.
“I am a supervillain!” The Yiling Patriarch insists. “There’s no coming back from that. I destroyed a skyscraper last week. I’ve cost the government too much money for them to ever forgive me. There’s no way for you to redeem me!”
“There is nothing to redeem,” Lan Wangji says sharply.
The Yiling Patriarch flinches. When he stops, his expression is scraped raw. “R-right,” he says shakily. “O-of course–”
“I meant there is nothing to redeem, because you are already good,” Lan Wangji says hurriedly, realizing the misinterpretation of his statement.
The Yiling Patriarch pauses, mouth half open. “Lan Zhan, there’s no way for you to know that,” he croaks. “You don’t even know my name.”
“I do,” Lan Wangji says quietly. “And I don’t need to.” He hesitates, then reaches for the Yiling Patriarch's hand. He grips it tight, and the Yiling Patriarch lets him. “You are good.”
The Yiling Patriarch draws in a shaky breath. “Wei Ying,” he blurts. “Courtesy Wuxian. That’s. My name.”
Lan Wangji can feel the corners of his lips curve into a smile. “Wei Ying,” he repeats. “Wei Ying, you are good.”
The moans and roars of corpses rise up from street level. The Yiling Patriarch flicks all the hair out of his face, then throws his head back and lets loose a suitably evil cackle. “Comply with my demands, Hanguang-jun…or else!”
“Or else what?” Lan Wangji asks.
“Or else…uh.” The Yiling Patriarch thinks for a moment. The wind blows his hair back, and Lan Wangji sees a flash of metal tucked in the Yiling Patriarch’s right ear. “Fava beans! I will…eat your liver with fava beans? Wait–”
“Hannibal Lecter,” Lan Wangji interrupts. He nods knowledgeably. He’s done his research. Extensive research, as it’s not a topic he’s ever encountered before. “Additionally, “‘Have you ever seen blood in the moonlight? It appears quite black.’ Also Hannibal Lecter.”
The Yiling Patriarch’s cheeks flush dull pink. “Both of them? Really?” He mutters under his breath. He never seems to realize that Lan Wangji can still hear him. He clears his throat. “Ahem! I am a god, you dull creature–”
“Loki, The Avengers,” Lan Wangji interrupts again, pleased with himself.
The Yiling Patriarch points his flute at Lan Wangji, flustered. “Well then…do what I say or all your base are belong to me! Wait. Fuck. No. Wen Ning,” he hisses. “What rubbish lines are you feeding me?”
“I am afraid I do not recognize that one,” Lan Wangji says regretfully. He’ll have to research that one once this is over. “Though I have unlimited access to all of our databases and records. As you would, if you joined us.”
The Yiling Patriarch pauses. The tip of his flute waves. “Are you trying to bribe me to the heroic side…with library access?”
Lan Wangji considers this for a second. “Yes.”
The Yiling Patriarch wavers some more, and then he laughs helplessly. The sound is bright and clear. “Alright, Lan Zhan,” he says. “You got me there.”