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Nie Huaisang has had enough.
The Wen have taken two of his fingers, taken his blood and his pain, taken his happiness and his freedom, and now, they seek to take his brother from him as well. His precious, beloved brother, the most important thing in this world.
His brother, and his best friend, Wei Wuxian. Wen Chao had bragged at length about all of the things he was going to do to A-Xian when he got his hands on him – before Huaisang had divested him of his head, that is. Huaisang would love to see the faces of the Sect Leaders when they open that particular box, but he has more important things to attend to right now.
They want to threaten the lives and safety of his two most beloved people? The only ones in this world he would do anything for?
Absolutely fucking not.
No, Huaisang won’t allow it. If he has to kill Wen Ruohan himself to prevent it, then he will.
In fact, that’s what he’s on his way to do right now.
He has his bladed fan already open in his hand as he slips down the hall, darting behind any guard he comes across and slicing through the back of their necks before they can cry out. He slices the tendons as well for good measure, rendering the corpses’ arms and legs useless before he moves on. No need to give Wen Ruohan any more backup here than he already has, after all.
Though, Huaisang kind of doubts it will matter. He doesn’t intend to let this fight last long enough for Wen Ruohan to call in any backup, let alone summon the nearest corpses to carry out his bidding.
The fresher of the scars on his face stings as his expression shifts into a sharp glare the closer he gets to the throne room. That familiar fury is bubbling up in his chest, overflowing the deep well he’s always shoved it into, and for once, he lets it. There’s no need to hold that rage back – not now.
He’s going to need it soon enough.
The halls of the Wen Palace seem to stretch on forever, black stone stained with the red dripping from his fan as he walks toward the throne room. It’s all black and red, stone and smoke and blood and flame, so close yet so far from the robes his best friend always favours. It only reminds him of what he’s doing here – of why he’s doing this. Of the people he refuses to let go of, no matter how hard these enemies try to yank them away from him.
Huaisang has always been greedy, and now is no different. When he finds something he wants, something he likes, he holds on and never lets go.
His feet carry him to an ornate stone door embellished with a carved sun motif, and for a moment, he simply pauses and examines it. Through this door, his enemy awaits. It will lead him to the back of the throne room, and from there, Huaisang can finally see to it that Wen Ruohan does not make it out of this day alive.
And with one deep breath, he nudges the door open, and slips inside.
Not a soul notices him as he slinks behind the tall black throne, his small figure hidden by the sumptuous dais on which the seat rests. Huaisang stays low to the ground, fingers tightening around his fan as he draws closer and closer to his target. He can practically hear the man breathing at this distance. He can only anticipate what he’ll feel when that sound finally ceases.
One step closer. Then, another. Wen Ruohan is lounging carelessly on his throne, listening to some trembling vassal report on the state of the battles. His corpses, according to the servant, are being destroyed just as quickly as they are being replaced.
Wen Ruohan scoffs, loud and presumptuous, and deep in his chest, Huaisang feels something snap.
The next thing he knows, he’s cleared that last few chi between himself and the throne, and the blade of his fan is pressed unyieldingly against Wen Ruohan’s quivering throat.
“If you try to scream,” Huiaisang murmurs, “this is going right through your throat.”
No regrets. No hesitation. No mercy. Wen Ruohan started this mess, and now, Huaisang’s going to fucking finish it.
Wen Ruohan stares at him with wide, shocked eyes, but he doesn’t move, and Huaisang feels oddly vindicated by the note of fear rising in the man’s eyes. His gaze is darting all over, from the fan at his throat to the scars on Huaisang’s face to the still-shaking vassal kneeling at the foot of the dais. He doesn’t seem to be able to comprehend the situation he’s in, but that’s all right. Huaisang is more than happy to explain.
“You,” he begins, grip tightening on his fan and making it shift where it’s pressed into the man’s jugular, “have been making my life very miserable. Not only did you imprison me and allow your people to torture me at whim, but you also had the audacity to target the two people in this world that I would do anything for.”
A weak noise leaves We Ruohan’s mouth, like a choked-out wheeze, and Huaisang cuts it off by nudging the blade further into his flesh. There’s a line of red forming along its edge – perfectly straight, just like the scars on Huaisang’s own face.
How satisfying.
“Now, here’s what’s going to happen, Wen-zongzhu. You’re going to tell me where you put those stolen swords from the Indoctrination. Then, I’m going to walk out of here, alive, and you’re not going to stop me. Do you understand?”
Wen Ruohan doesn’t respond. Huaisang frowns, and he knows his gaze must be downright icy right now.
“I believe I asked you a question, Wen Ruohan. I expect an answer.”
Another nudge of his fan. “Y-yes. Yes! The s-swords, they’re in the armoury. The east wing. It– it has an engraving of a dragon on the door.”
Huaisang smiles, innocent and sweet, as he chirps out his thanks. “There now, see? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
But tellingly, he does not remove his fan.
The vassal is inching toward the door, like he thinks Huaisang won’t notice, and it costs no effort at all to use his wounded hand to draw out a small blade from his sleeve and send it through the servant’s forehead. The man crumples to the ground after a beat of silence, the quiet thud ringing deafeningly throughout the room.
Wen Ruohan is properly shaking now. Something stirs in Huaisang’s chest – something sated.
A beat passes, then another. “Do you want me to take this blade away from your neck, Wen Ruohan?”
“Yes.” The response is barely more than a whisper.
And Huaisang?
Huaisang grins.
“That’s unfortunate. I’m not going to.”
Wen Ruohan’s breath hitches in his throat. “I told you where to find the swords. I did what you wanted, now uphold your end of the deal!”
“Mmmm… nope.”
And in one smooth gesture, Huaisang presses the blade in and draws it across Wen Ruohan’s throat, cutting through his windpipe and jugular. The head isn’t severed, not fully, but the blood spurts out regardless, and Huaisang knows it’s more than enough to kill a man.
Well. A normal man, at least. Wen Ruohan, however, is still a powerful cultivator, and it will take more than that to subdue his Core enough that it will no longer heal the mortal wounds that Huaisang inflicts.
Sure enough, he’s already dragging himself up off of the throne, gurgling blood from the wound on his neck and out of his mouth. It’s pouring down his chin and front, but he ignores it, instead grabbing his sword in a deathly white grip as he staggeringly advances like one of the shambling corpse soldiers he so carelessly commands.
Now, the fight will truly begin.
oOoOo
Time stands still in the main encampment of the Sunshot Campaign when he arrives.
A familiar figure appearing out of nowhere, covered in blood both new and old. He ignores all attempts to get his attention or delay him from his goal, walking straight into the camp with no reservations as he heads for the meeting tent right in the centre where the Campaign’s leaders are still embroiled in a strategy meeting. The clamour of shock and confusion is almost hushed in his presence, held back by the awe of his state, but the din begins to grow as he walks past them all without a second glance.
Nie Huaisang has returned, clothes torn and dripping with blood, armed with his newly reclaimed sword on his belt and a bladed fan in his right hand. His left, to those who look closely, is missing the two outermost fingers, and the wounds are wrapped tightly in bloody cloth that was obviously ripped from the sleeve of his outer robe.
A crowd is beginning to amass around him, cultivators of numerous Sects demanding answers to where he’s been, what happened to him, how he escaped, but he answers none of them. It’s as if they don’t exist.
The smarter disciples of the Nie Sect are working to keep the path to the leaders’ tent clear, eyeing him worriedly as he strolls right past them. They’re all wondering about his state, but they know better than to demand answers now. If it’s necessary for them to know, then they’ll find out soon enough.
At long last, he reaches the tent, and the rising clamour of the crowd dulls to a murmur as he steps forward, past the two shocked sentries, and lets himself inside without a word.
oOoOo
Nie Mingjue is worried.
He’s been worried for months now, ever since he sent his little brother off to that wretched Indoctrination. He can’t forget the last time he saw A-Sang, looking even paler than usual with one hand inside his sleeve. Mingjue knows he was clutching his battle fan under those thick layers of fabric. He wonders if it did him any good against the Wen dogs, or if he even got the chance to use it at all.
Every moment the war is not won is another moment that the Wen will torture his baby brother. It’s another moment that A-Sang will be forced to spend trapped and scared and alone, far from his home and all who love him. It’s another moment that Mingjue has failed to protect what is most precious to him.
God, he wants to rip Wen Ruohan’s heart from his chest for daring to take his brother from him. Even now, it’s taking all he has not to run out of this tent and–
And–
And the flap of the ten opens, and it feels as though Mingjue’s heart stops beating when he lays eyes upon the familiar figure standing there, silhouetted against the sunlight streaming in through the gap.
It’s Huaisang. Beat to hell and back, clutching his battle fan and still dripping blood that Mingjue can only pray is someone else’s, but he’s here. He’s alive. He’s standing here, still alive and breathing, away from the Wen and finally, finally, within Mingjue’s reach.
“So, good news,” A-Sang says conversationally, and Mingjue wants to sob at the sound of his baby brother’s voice after so long. “Wen Ruohan’s dead, and I got everyone’s swords back. How’s the war going?”
The second he finishes speaking, Mingjue is on the other side of the room, wrapping his arms around Huaisang in an embrace that would be bone-breaking if not for just how fucking careful he’s forcing himself to be. This is his precious, delicate, beloved baby brother, and if Mingjue causes harm to even a single hair on his head, he just may qi-deviate on the spot. A-Sang fits so perfectly in his arms even now, just like he did as a little child, and it settles something in Mingjue’s chest to have him back in his rightful place at last.
“A-Sang,” he murmurs, muffled by the way he presses his lips to the top of his brother’s head. A rather parental gesture for a sibling to make, but… Mingjue raised this boy. A-Sang was so young when their parents died, and Mingjue flat-out refused to let anyone else take him under their wing. That was his baby brother, his family, and even now, he sometimes thinks of Huaisang as more of a son than just a brother. “What happened? What did they do to you? How did you escape?”
He draws back just enough to cradle A-Sang’s face in his hands, and it’s then that he registers the marks. Two thin red lines, one on each side of his face, running from the delicate skin beneath his eyes to the very edge of his jaw like a twisted mockery of tear tracks. They’re perfectly symmetrical, and perfectly intentional.
Mingjue nearly growls at the thought of someone taking a blade to his little brother’s face, of someone gripping his face and inflicting these wounds with the intent to hurt, with the intent to leave marks that will last. “What. Happened. ”
“Da-ge, Da-ge, calm down a moment and at least let me tell my story,” A-Sang placates. If it were anyone else, Mingjue would only become even angrier, but if it’s A-Sang, then he will listen. “The left was from some disciple whose name I never got – I think I killed him on the way out, though, so don’t worry about that – and the right was Meng Yao. He’s not dead yet, mostly because I couldn’t find him and I didn’t really care to stick around just to take one person out.”
Meng Yao.
Meng Yao had tortured his little brother. His precious A-Sang had suffered at the hands of that traitor.
If not for the way Huaisang’s hands are currently resting on his forearms, Mingjue would be seeing red right now. As it stands, he’s doing his almighty best to force the blinding rage down, if only for long enough to see his brother to the infirmary and make sure his wounds are being taken care of.
Oh, gods, his wounds. His fingers. Sure enough, when he glances, two of them are missing from the left hand, the wounds bandaged by what looks like a torn chunk of his robe.
“Anyways,” A-Sang says, apparently oblivious to Mingjue’s inner crisis, “I’m sure you all have questions. If Xichen could do the asking, that would be great. I feel like he would be the most capable of prioritising the important bits.”
Xichen dips his head in acknowledgement. Mingjue notes that he, too, is looking a bit pale at Huaisang’s state – he may need to drag Xichen along as well when they finally get to the healers, if only for his peace of mind. “I’m glad to see you well, Huaisang. How did you escape from the Wen Palace? And… did you say that Wen Ruohan is dead?”
“That’s what I’d like to know!” Yao-zongzhu shouts, slamming a fist on the table. The glare Mingjue sends his way for that unnecessary gesture could burn a hole through steel. Unfortunately, Yao-zongzhu’s head is made of flesh and bone, not steel, and so it stubbornly stays intact. “How could Wen Ruohan have died?”
“You would know already if you would let me speak,” Huaisang points out, raising one eyebrow in a surprisingly dangerous expression.
Yao-zongzhu, tellingly, shuts up.
A-Sang hums. “Now. Wen Ruohan is dead because I killed him, and I escaped because I managed to cause enough chaos to slip out before anyone realised that it was me behind the mess.”
“How could you have done that?” One of the smaller Sect Leaders pipes up from the back of the room. Chen, or maybe Fa.
“Well, I set their throne room on fire,” A-Sang informs him. “And a few other rooms.”
“I believe Chen-zongzhu was wondering how you killed Wen Ruohan,” Xichen clarifies. He’s starting to look a bit strained – Mingjue may need to start asking the questions if this continues for much longer, but he’s also loath to detach himself enough from A-Sang to actually ask any questions.
A-Sang’s eyes light up in understanding at Xichen’s words, and he nods. “Ah, I see. I managed to figure out the layout of the place, and I waited until the throne room was empty enough that I could sneak in through the back and take my fan to Wen Ruohan’s throat. I did have to take out a vassal, but that was only a knife, not much effort at all.”
The gathered Sect Leaders are starting to look a bit pale overall. Even Mingjue is finding himself rather shell shocked – his sweet, innocent A-Sang killed Wen Ruohan in cold blood. He… can believe it, especially after he considers it for a few moments, but to hear it said so plainly is giving him whiplash.
“Where’s Wei Wuxian, by the way?” A-Sang asks, turning to Jiang Wanyin (who’s been opening and closing his mouth silently this whole time). “Wen Chao was getting upsettingly specific about all of the agonising things he wanted to do to him, before I had to dispose of him, too. I’d like to see for myself that Wei-xiong’s intact, if you don’t mind – he’s the only one I haven’t been able to catch a glimpse of so far.”
“ Dispose of him? Wen Chao?” Someone wheezes.
Jiang Wanyin nods mutely. “I’ll– I’ll go retrieve him. I’ll be right back.”
He staggers out of the tent, presumably to go track down his adoptive brother. In his wake, someone repeats the earlier proclamation of shock – “Did you say you disposed of Wen Chao?”
“Oh,” Huaisang answers, looking a bit surprised. “I guess you didn’t get the box yet, then.”
“The… box?” Xichen asks. “What box would that be?”
“The one with his head in it, of course.”
What.
“He tried to cut off my hand, so I cut off his head,” A-Sang shrugs. “It fit in the box, and it was already prepared to ship off, so I sent it. I thought you might appreciate the knowledge that one of your enemies was no longer an issue.”
Mingjue… Mingjue needs to sit down. He does do that, in fact, pulling Huaisang across the tent and into one of the empty seats beside his own and sitting heavily in his chair. The other Sect Leaders, graciously, don't say a word about his state of mild desperation.
All the while, he refuses to take his hands off of his brother – it feels as though A-Sang will vanish if Mingjue looks away for even a second.
“Huaisang,” Xichen begins, and if he were anyone else, Mingjue is sure his voice would be wavering. “How about you start from the beginning? What happened when you were captured? Wei Wuxian, Jiang Wanyin, and Wangji sent a letter saying that you had been dragged away from the Indoctrination.”
“They managed to get a letter out?” A-Sang muses. “Well, if anyone could do it, it would be them. They were right, I did get dragged off – for a while, they just stuck me in a cell and tried to beat me up, hence the scratches on my face. I don’t think they really knew what to do with me, other than contain me for the purposes of leverage. They really only started cutting off fingers once they realised the Sunshot Campaign could be a legitimate threat to their power.”
Oh, Mingjue was right. He is going to qi-deviate today. The thought of his little brother being hurt, of him losing fingers, and especially as an indirect result of Mingjue’s own actions–
If he were any less steadfast, he would have already been sick by now. As it stands, he’s simply feeling more and more unstable by the moment.
In his own seat off on the other side of the war table, Xichen is growing paler and paler. “What… other injuries do you have? Should you not have gone to the medical tent first, rather than the command tent? If you’re in need of a healer–”
“Aiyah, it’s nothing so bad,” A-Sang reassures him, waving a hand – one with two missing fingers. “I stole some of the healing herbs from the apothecary’s office while I was there, so nothing is infected. The healer’s tent can wait until afterwards, can’t it? Besides, I had to make sure everyone was still alive before I went haring off to do other things. The only one i haven’t seen so far is–”
“Huaisang!”
The flap of the tent swishes open to reveal Wei Wuxian, his expression a mix of terror and hope that perfectly matches Mingjue’s own internal state. He doesn’t miss how Huaisang lights up at the sight of his best friend either, though he does place a hand on his brother’s shoulder to gently nudge him back down when he tries to stand up to greet the other boy. Wei Wuxian, noticing this, barely spares the gathered Sect Leaders a glance as he rushes across the tent to see A-Sang up close.
“So you’re okay, that’s a relief,” Wei Wuxian sighs heavily. “Tell me, how did you escape? All Jiang Cheng would say was that the war was over and you’d come walking in here covered in blood! It isn’t yours, is it?”
Huaisang smiles sweetly, something that’s wildly at odds with his wrecked appearance (and yet somehow, still fits his face perfectly despite the bloodiness of his countenance). “No, no, it’s not mine. It’s mostly Wen Ruohan’s, I think. I got out of the cell they were keeping me in, killed him, and then set some of the place on fire to cover my escape.”
Wei Wuxian nods, as if this is all perfectly normal and not an absolutely deranged thing to tell someone. “Ah, so it’s his blood, then. That explains why Jiang Cheng told me we’d won the war! You must’ve had your work cut out for you, fighting someone like that!”
“Ah, I mostly got him because it was a sneak attack. I came up behind him, so he didn’t have time to hit back before I had a blade to his throat.”
“That’s quite clever!”
“Thank you! Oh, and by the way, something else.” Huaisang reaches into his sleeve and pulls out… a sword. An actual, whole entire sword, that he had somehow fit in there – and now that Mingjue thinks about it, he can recall the qiankun pockets that A-Sang had personally stitched into the linings of his favourite outer robes. Exactly how powerful were they, to hide entire swords in his clothing without so much as a lump? “Here, Suibian. I found all of the swords – I have Jin Zixuan’s and Jiang Cheng’s as well, I’d forgotten about it earlier in light of– well. Everything else.”
And sure enough, he draws two more swords from his sleeves, sheath and all, and passes them to their respective owners. Now the entire room is staring at him like he’s a feat of insanity made real – which, honestly, Mingjue can understand.
But at this point, logic’s gone out the window, and common sense can wait. Mingjue finally has his brother back, as safe and sound as he can be given the circumstances.
He’s alive, and for now, that’s more than enough.