Archive of Our Own

i.

A whimper echoes through a dark room. 

Within it, a figure shudders. 

Jiāng Chéng exhales sharply as he sits up in bed, heart threatening to beat its way out of his chest with the intensity of the panic rushing through his body. 

You’re safe, he tells himself, hoping that the burning sourness of bile remains nothing but an unpleasant taste in the back of his throat. 

You’re not safe, his body tells him through shivers and raised hairs. It’s the very mantra that has kept him alive for decades now, that has plagued him even at times of peace. 

He looks around the room, unease leaving him dry-mouthed and unsettled. The moon is full tonight, impossibly bright as it shines down through the open doors of his veranda—its reflection is clear across the calm waters of the lake that surrounds his sleeping quarters, creating the type of scenery any skilled artist would be lucky to ink down. 

It’s unfortunate that the artistry of the moment is lost upon Jiāng Chéng. 

Instead, his eyes fixate on the shadows the light casts in the corners of the room, the way they feel tangible, almost viscous at a distance. The muted darkness one would expect from nighttime is nowhere to be found as the unusually bright moonlight deepens dark spots it doesn’t reach, to the point where little pockets of void form around the room. 

Fitting that something that would be a comfort to anyone else would only frighten Jiāng Chéng further. 

The drumming of his heart echoes around the room. He takes another deep breath, and pretends its shakiness is caused by the cold instead of the dread that unsettles him to the bone. 

Even the winds are stronger than usual tonight. He can hear them as they push through the crevices within the room, see the effects as they disturb the waters and the flora surrounding the pier and force open the thin curtains that do nothing to keep out the light. He feels it, too, as it runs through his hair and cools his skin, forcing him to suppress a series of shivers as the sweat running down his spine and his temples turns icy. 

The room is empty. 

The room is empty, he tells himself as he looks away from the shadow hovering at the edge of his vision. 

The room is empty. 

Another deep breath, like his healers taught him. 

Sāndú stands by the door, safe in its scabbard and unmoved from its perch. He could summon it within the blink of an eye, as easy as breathing. Suíbiàn stays, as always, out of sight, hidden away within the confines of his closet like all shameful things ought to do. Its presence feels inexplicably heavier tonight, like the sword is burning hot next to him instead of stashed away across the room, but that’s nothing too unusual. It’s been doing that more and more often lately, longing to be free now that it has been awakened. 

He ignores it, like he always does. 

Zǐdiàn is restful as it sits on his finger, its purple glow muted as it slumbers. There’s not a hint of its distinctive spark, even while its owner attempts not to hyperventilate, uncaring of its master’s turmoil or unpreoccupied with imaginary dangers. He doesn’t know which option is worse. 

The room is empty, Jiāng Chéng repeats to himself in vain. 

His body says otherwise. 

His instincts tell him otherwise. 

His eyes say otherwise, as well. 

“You’re losing it,” He whispers into the night, ignoring the unnatural way the shape dancing just out of sight moves when he blinks. He closes his eyes again, trembling hands tightening into fists on top of his sheets. “You’re finally losing it.” 

For a hysterical moment, bitterness overtakes fear at the thought. 

Hasn’t he earned even a slimmer of peace at this point? Are his sins truly so great to have gained him torment for the rest of his days? 

Maybe he was born under an unlucky star. He’d been prone to bad dreams as a child, too, after all. 

They had been nothing like the harmless, juvenile nightmares of the children around him, either. His always had a weight to them, a gravity that made them feel more like dark omens or presages of ill-things to come. So heavy were his dreams, that even screaming felt out of reach upon awakening, as weighed down by dread as he was. It’s as if his mind had been aware from birth that life would never smile kindly upon him, and had done its best to prepare him for a life of constant sorrows by not allowing him to experience a peace that would only be taken away one day. 

Even the relative privilege of his position as heir to a major sect wasn’t enough to spare him from the cruel hand fate had dealt him, from the crushing weight of a world that did not care for him. His father’s milquetoast indifference and disapproval, his mother’s impossible demands and vicious love, and his sister’s unevenly split affections all contributed to his lack of experience feeling the safety, warmth and comfort most children were granted within their own homes. 

Not to speak of the conflicting bitterness of envy staining the burning adoration for the one person who, at the time, he foolishly believed to be the sole source of unconditional love in his life. 

The horrors of invasion and the subsequent war, of course, only served to damage him further, leaving behind webbed cracks on his mind, deep scars on his body, and a soul so tainted it could barely be considered one any longer. 

Even the glowing spring of his youth was later spoiled by the curse of perspective, by hindsight, by revelations he never could have expected. 

It was all too much—a life of horrible excesses. It was death by a thousand cuts, it was more than enough to break him a thousand times over. 

It did not. 

Jiāng Chéng could not afford to break. 

He didn’t have the same privilege of haughty fools above clouds, loose with their trust and their secrets—there was no one but him within the confines of these piers. That was not to say he was alone; he had faith in his people, the ones who survived with him, who followed him to war, to destruction and rebirth, even trusted them to a degree. But this…

This was something he alone could do. The piers, the lakes, the towns and villages that surrounded it, they were all his. His responsibility, his burden, his pride, his joy. 

And so, it didn’t matter how many cracks and scars he carried, how many pieces he was missing: Jiāng Chéng endured. Was forced to endure, made to endure. To push through loss, through pain. To make peace with it or not, but keep going regardless. To live, either out of necessity or spite. 

Suffering was his most intimate friend, his constant companion. It was a sibling, a parent, a lover, a partner. It held his hands as it took from him, as it cut into his skin and scarred him with love and violence alike. 

But it was never enough to stop him. 

He went through much in life, far more than most, far worse than most. But he always made it through: never unscathed, but always with his head held high. 

This, however, felt different. More harrowing, more uncertain than anything so far. 

There was something uniquely horrifying about feeling as if your sanity is slipping away from you. 

It’s something he hadn’t experienced until now, at least not in the same way. The pain, the misery, the sorrow—none of those ever clouded his mind to the point where he could no longer trust his own judgement. Because as much as it might not seem like it, as much as his reputation suggested otherwise, Jiāng Chéng has always been a deeply rational person. 

It was his mother’s lesson, possibly her most valuable and personal one: no matter what you’re feeling, force yourself to think your way through. Only animals act on instinct alone. 

They were similarly cursed, equally capable of great emotion, of crushing feeling. It would have been easy to get overwhelmed, to let themselves get lost in the pain, the anger, the rejection, the melancholy. His mother knew that was her own greatest flaw, a battle she kept losing time and time again, and made sure to force a way to circumvent that into the child that was most like her. 

Never allow raw emotion to overtake his decision-making. He’d be of no use to anyone clouded by hysteria. 

The anger, she had told him once, when he was young enough for the hurt to still feel like a festering open wound. Her voice had been uncharacteristically soft. The bitterness, the sorrow… Those feelings are not going anywhere. It’s all in you as it is in me, etched into our bones. My legacy lives in you, Chéng'er, as rotten as it might seem. Ignoring it, smothering it… It might work for a while, but it will only harm you and those around you in the long run, Yú Zǐyuān continued as he stared, wide-eyed and flushed with unshed tears. His mother had seemed tired, then, in a way he’d never seen before. Anger doesn’t come from nowhere. It’s not evil or unnatural. It’s there to tell you something. Let it. Let it speak, let the world hear it, hear you. But succeed where I failed: don’t let it take you. 

It was a rare moment of honesty, of vulnerability from a woman that often seemed carved out of steel. It both damned and comforted him in the end, and in the years to follow. 

On one hand, he was cursed to carry his mother’s hurt as his own. On the other hand, he now lived with the knowledge that at least one of his parents loved him so thoroughly that they had left a piece of themselves behind within him, something that they would share forever, that would stay with him for life. 

He was his mother’s son, and it gave him as much pride and sorrow as it did her. 

Regardless, that was the one thing she taught him that he knew he had learned well, even flawlessly. At times he might have failed, but the lesson stuck in a way nothing else ever did—be angry, be loud, but never be stupid. Let others underestimate you, but never let their estimation of you affect your own judgement. 

Jiāng Chéng’s discipline was immaculate, his self-control nearly as good. Rare were the moments he allowed anger to truly blind him. 

So the idea that he was losing that, his mother’s most valuable lesson, a piece of her and of himself, became, therefore, all the more jarring. 

A whisper echoes across rooms that were supposed to be empty, taunting. It startles him from his thoughts but he makes a point of not looking around, keeping his gaze fixed on his lap before laying back down, a hand over his eyes. 

A ripple in the air warns him as the shadow out of sight inches closer to his bed. 

He turns away from it, fighting the urge to hide under his sheets like a child. 

“The room is empty,” He lies, and pretends he doesn’t hear the mocking laughter that follows it. 

ii. 

Jiāng Chéng stands in the middle of pitch-darkness, deep within the forest that borders Gūsū Lán on the far east of Yúnmèng. The night is quiet and impenetrable around him, and the only light within a few lǐ is the occasional spark zǐdiàn lets out as he cuts through the trees. 

He’s completely alone, or so he’s been telling himself for the past hour. 

There’s a heavy feeling in the bottom of his stomach that lets him know there's something hiding in the shadows around him, but he’s been ignoring it to the best of his ability so far because it's been happening too frequently to be relevant in his current situation. There’s a night-hunt to finish and a demonic cultivator to rid the world of—he can’t afford to waste time on his dwindling sanity. His ever growing exhaustion is already making it hard to focus as is. 

And he is exhausted. In a way he doesn't think he's been since the war, since the aftermath of the siege. Maybe he's never stopped feeling this way at all, but it seems that the events at Guānyīn Temple have managed to drain him further, wear him out in ways he didn't know to be possible. He's bone-tired, emotionally and physically, and no amount of rest has been able to rectify it. Rationally, he knows he shouldn't even be here, on this night-hunt. Least of all by himself; he's a disaster waiting to happen, unfocused and running on fumes.

Alas, the need to get away became unbearable and, along with the pull he felt on his golden core, it overpowered reason. 

So great is his fatigue that even his skin feels odd, as if stretched too thin, like his soul has been pulled from his body and thrust back too harshly and carelessly. He feels unsettled, haunted and hunted, heavy but untethered. It hits him that he truly should not be out by himself but the desperate need to vent the violence and frustration inside of him is a necessity too urgent to ignore, and this was the only way to accomplish it without harming those around him. 

At the very least, he can count on years of experience to guide him through the motions and help him skirt around the fatigue. The floor beneath his feet is filled with large roots and small animals caught unawares by his feather-light steps but he's too well-trained to let it bother him. His steps are steady even if the weight of his body feels overwhelming, and his eyes still find trails in the dark even if his vision blurs at times. 

The only real danger his exhaustion poses is the distraction it brings along with it. His mind wanders away from the moment with too much ease, focusing on all the wrong things as he tries to find his way to where his golden core seems to be guiding him towards. His well-earned paranoia is as present as it ever is, but he's not being as vigilant as usual, and the past has been clouding his thoughts to the point of listlessness lately. 

Beyond the trees, he feels a pulse of energy. It's foreign and familiar at once, like the shadows have gained a heartbeat of their own, and it resonates with his own spiritual energy in a way that makes him hold back a gasp. 

Jiāng Chéng runs his tongue over too-dry lips, tasting the now ever-present metallic sharpness in the air. 

Its taste has almost become a comfort at this point. 

He reaches his destination just as he feels the energy around him pulsate again, and his focus immediately narrows to the scene below. 

As sect leader of a previously war-torn and spiritually scarred region, Jiāng Chéng is more attuned than most others in his position to the disruptions in the flow of energy in areas within his jurisdiction. Smaller incidents are easy to miss when there's so much happening at all times, but the calling had been too urgent for him to ignore in this case. It was the sharp feeling of something tearing into the energy in the area and corrupting it wholly, and it was severe enough to guide him this deep into the forest in the dead of night in an attempt to stop the rot from spreading. 

The reason why becomes obvious the moment the clearing below him comes into sight.  

He counts thirty-two bodies from his vantage point above the ground, all laid out face-down in two careful circles on the floor. All adults, as far as he could tell. Some much older, white-haired and paper-skinned, while others seemed to be somewhere around his age or younger. There's no pattern he can discern from sight alone—he sees men and women, young and old, thick and thin. Some are dressed humbly, some are covered in rags and others are wrapped in fine silk and ornate jewelry. 

Blood pools beneath each and every one of them in small pools that seem as thick as tar in the moonless night. 

At the center of the luópán, the demonic cultivator sits facing south. His eyes are wide open, and he’s mumbling to himself and nodding as if in conversation, spiritual energy flailing wildly around him. His ears and eyes are bleeding, though he doesn’t seem to notice, and when he smiles up at Jiāng Chéng in sudden awareness, there’s blood on his teeth. 

“He’s here,” He says, and the earth beneath his feet seems to hum in assent. “The final piece.” 

Jiāng Chéng doesn’t bother responding—there’s never any point when they’re this far gone. He should have seen the trap for what it was before he even stepped foot in this wretched forest, but it’s too late to do anything about his own past stupidity now. The damage to the spiritual energy in this area was too great to ignore regardless; he doubts anything will grow in this clearing for the next decade, and whatever this man doing right now needs to be stopped. 

“He promised me revenge if I could bring you to us! And I did! You’re here!” The demonic cultivator’s voice grows louder and louder, his eyes fever-bright with manic glee. “Sāndú Shèngshǒu is here, shīfu! I brought him to you!” He's increasingly frantic as he speaks as well, body vibrating in its struggle to keep still. 

It’s strange—throughout the night, Jiāng Chéng had been off-kilter and unsettled, his mind fogged and borderline panicked. 

Here, in front of this madman, however, he feels almost at ease. The oppressive presence that has been driving him mad seems contained, somehow, and the anger that fills him at the sight before him is familiar and welcomed. Demonic cultivators are easy, in a way: he knows what they want and he knows how to deal with them. He knows the theater they all seem to enjoy, and he knows his part in the play—he was part of the main act on the debut stage, after all. 

Even his exhaustion is diminished by the prospect of a half-decent fight, his spine straightening and eyes sharpening. On his finger, zǐdiàn flickers twice before shifting into contained lightning, and he enjoys the shadow of fear that crosses the demonic cultivator’s face as he watches its movements. 

“You can’t win! shīfu is on my side, he chose me! You’ll never win!” The man says, and his body is tense even as he remains seated and unmoved. “He’s better than you’ll ever be, more powerful than you’ll ever be and he chose me!” 

The wind picks up at the words, and Jiāng Chéng has the strangest thought that it whistled in denial. Oddly enough, such an idea also seems to have occurred to the man on the floor, and his entire body tenses, face paling. 

“No,” The man says, so low Jiāng Chéng could only barely hear it. “No, no, no, no. It’s me. I’m chosen, he chose me. I’m meant to kill Sāndú Shèngshǒu, to finally avenge… No.” 

Any other time, Jiāng Chéng would have already jumped into action. He rarely has the time or patience to indulge in the theatrics of madmen and their mindless rants are quick to spur him into action, erasing any pity and empathy he could have for them. 

This time is different, though he can’t quite fathom why. 

Something stills his hand, keeps him in place. He watches in intrigue as the man on the ground rambles and pleads to no one, terrified and outraged. The words wash over him, fueling his anger and bitterness, but still he doesn’t move. His time to act, he thinks inexplicably, hasn’t come yet. 

The man is frantic now, trying to move but seemingly incapable of doing so. He struggles in place, frozen with his back ramrod straight, expression growing impossibly wilder by the moment. 

“Why!” He shouts, desperate. “I’ve done all you asked! I’ve killed them all for you! I brought him here for you! You said you’d help me kill him, you said you’d make him suffer!” 

Wrong, the wind whispers, and Jiāng Chéng feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise in unease. He watches the man raise his hand in the air, twitch and with difficulty. It’s forcing him to, he realizes.

Do it. 

“No,” Jiāng Chéng breathes out, and his mind finally catches up with him. 

Zǐdiàn lashes out at the demonic cultivator at the same time as Jiāng Chéng jumps into the circle, heart thundering inside his chest. He knows he’ll be too late before he even moves, but he moves regardless. 

By the time zǐdiàn has wrapped itself around the man’s middle, it’s too late. All Jiāng Chéng can do is watch as he tears his own throat out with his bare hands, rupturing his carotid artery and pulling out his own trachea in a swift, grotesquely violent motion. Blood sprays the ground before him as he lands, and the figure in front of him slumps though it does not crumble, almost as if held up by strings. The man’s eyes are tearful and glassy as he chokes on his own blood before going silent and still once more. 

Jiāng Chéng doesn’t have time to digest what happened—as soon as the cultivator draws his last, he feels a sharp wave of movement all around him. A quick look to the side confirms what he already knew: the corpses have awakened. 

They surround him from all sides, standing as if frozen in place, backs unnaturally straight and eyes rolled back, devoid of pupils. It’s an uncanny sight; some of those bodies shouldn’t be able to keep themselves upright, shouldn’t have been able to rise at all given their state of decomposition. The air is thick with the putrid stench of death and decay, and Jiāng Chéng might be used to it by now but it never ceases to bring up terrible memories. 

For a moment, nothing happens. Nothing moves, neither he or the bodies around him. He fights down a twitch of his fingers and the urge to wrap his hand around sāndú’s hilt, unwilling to break the stillness that fell upon them.  

And then the cultivator’s body finally slumps to the ground, strings cut. 

The corpses attack, faster than he could have predicted. 

His reaction, however, is even faster. 

For all his faults and flaws, Jiāng Chéng has always been an exceedingly skilled fighter. It’s a reality that took him some time to accept: as a teenager, he’d always been surrounded by brilliance and geniuses, it was easy to diminish his own accomplishments. He never learned as fast, never hit as hard or fought as creatively. 

But he was fast on his feet, certain with his strikes and aggressive. A smart fighter, a hard-worker and a perfectionist—the title Sāndú Shèngshǒu might have been used to slight him but it was not given in vain. Few cultivators alive today are a match for him. 

Jiāng Chéng strikes, calm and confident. 

Zǐdiàn is a prideful weapon, haughty and demanding of attention. It cuts through the air so violently it whistles as it strikes down the vanguard of opponents that have leapt at him, pushing them back into the ground. Sāndú is more subtle, less theatrical, but the imperious pride of a spiritual sword is ever-present as it fells corpse after corpse, blood dripping from its sharp edges. 

The corpses are violent and unrestrained, but Jiāng Chéng is more so. 

He pulls out a talisman and kneels to the floor, dodging a blow while he pins it to the earth right next to the demonic cultivator’s lifeless body. 

Fire erupts by the tree line, circling the clearing with a wall of flame. The corpses closest to it shriek as they burn—his intention was only to lock them both in, but if a few want to get charred, he’s not opposed to letting it happen—, but he doesn’t look. The smell of burning flesh is too familiar, but he hasn’t let it bother him in a long time. 

It’s not a difficult fight, but it’s hectic. There are corpses everywhere he turns, crowding in too heavily for zǐdiàn to be effective. He pulls it back into its ring form and snatches sāndú from the air, twisting as he does it and severing the head of a body behind him in the same movement.  

There’s little blood as he cuts through the corpses. They’ve been almost fully exsanguinated, drained into the ground beneath them, clearly part of the ritual. Briefly, he wonders if this is an offering and to whom—the demonic cultivator, though clearly delusional, had been speaking to something real. Jiāng Chéng has no idea if the ritual had been completed, and what could be missing from it; the man seemed to think he was the last piece, and while it seems correct, it apparently hadn’t been in the exact way he imagined. 

He shouldn’t have jumped into the circle, Jiāng Chéng thinks, chagrined. It was an obvious trap from the start and he’d known it from the moment he stepped into the forest. 

But something had been calling him, pulling him in. It spoke without words in a familiar, well-loved voice that he didn’t recognize, and he was helpless before it. Unable to deny it, even longing to follow it. 

Even now, as he fights, it calls to him, asks him to call it. 

Deep within his entrails, Jiāng Chéng longs, and in response, it begs. 

“Call for me.”

“Come,” Jiāng Chéng speaks before he can even think of fighting the urge to do so. The very same moment the word falls from his lips, a corpse manages to cut him in the cheek with one of its razor-sharp nail guards. In his haste to pull back, a drop of blood falls to the ground instead of falling harmlessly down his face. 

He doesn’t see it touch the earth. 

What he does see is the blinding light that follows it, lighting up the pools of blood soaked into the dirt. He sees the remaining corpses crumble into piles of ash, and the shape of a dark figure steps away from him. He sees the glow of bright red eyes staring down at him, and it’s the last thing he sees. 

And the last thing he hears before everything goes dark, before the crippling pain in this lower dāntián crescendos into the realm of unbearable is a familiar voice whispering into his ear: 

“Found you.” 

iii.

A different night finds Jiāng Chéng sitting at the pier that gives way to the private lakes of the long-empty family quarters of his home. 

The scenery is just as breathtaking—Jiāng Chéng can see it in his mind’s eye, the concept of a painting: a full moon shining once again over calm lakes, casting the world in its cool silver light. Lotuses lying scattered across still waters, filling the space with bright greens and pinks, and the stronghold of Yúnmèng’s most notable sect stands proud, circled by its lakes and rivers, protected by the strength of its master and its people. 

It almost makes him wish he had taken up painting in his youth instead of calligraphy and music, and a laugh startles its way out of him at the sudden maudlin thought. On any other day, he would have scoffed at such a feeling, but tonight is different. 

Tonight, he indulges. 

Tonight his hair is loose, swaying with the cool late-summer wind that stirs up the foliage on the shore beyond the lake. Alone in this little corner of the sect, he’s out of the heavy sect-leader silks he wears daily, dressed down to his soft violet inner robe. His feet are bare, submerged into the cold waters below him, and while zǐdiàn still sits on his finger, he’s left sāndú behind for the night, feeling safe in his own home for once. 

It’s a truly beautiful night. Not even the heft of his sorrows has been able to find him so far, much less the perpetual fear and paranoia that seem to constantly plague him ever since that night. Instead, all he feels is the pleasant cloudiness of the herbs he just smoked and the sweet sourness of the plum wine he drank against his lips. 

He closes his eyes against the moonlight, free of the burdens that weigh him down for the night, and breathes the evening in. The air smells like fragrant smoke, like alcohol, like the lotuses and clean lake water that surrounds him, like nostalgia. Jiāng Chéng allows his lips to curve into a smile so soft it would have been nearly impossible to notice if not for the way his features soften alongside it. 

Around him, the spots untouched by light felt just as deep and menacing as they had on the previous nights, weeks, months. Tonight, however, nothing can bother him—sitting at the edge of the pier, letting his feet soak, with a pipe and a couple bottles of wine at his side and their contents on his system, he doesn’t feel threatened by the possibility of losing his mind or whatever dangers might be lurking around him as of late. 

He can’t tell if it’s because of his significantly lowered inhibition or if it’s because it’s the anniversary of that night, but he doesn’t care. Not right now. 

Jiāng Chéng takes another sip of his wine, letting it warm its way down his throat and into his empty stomach. He’s hungry, but the thought of getting up, leaving the safe solitude of the family quarters and having to face people along the way is enough to put him off from seeking to sate it. The servants know to leave little bags of candy around his rooms for when he feels like snacking, so he’ll likely hunt down one of those later and be done with it. 

Tonight, nothing can touch him. Not the stress, not concern, not loneliness—tonight is his. Even the darkness closing in around him seems to acknowledge it; instead of oppressive, it feels almost gentle as it approaches. Like a friend, a lover. 

A couple bottles later, and the entire night starts feeling like a dream. 

No, not a dream—a memory. Or maybe a fantasy, a wish he once had. Jiāng Chéng can’t be sure anymore. The last few months have been difficult on his sanity. Fortunately, not even thoughts of that temple, that moment, that back being turned on him can reach him this evening. Right now he feels invincible, immortal, untouchable in a way only a youth or a god usually can. 

“I’m drunker than I thought,” He says to himself, huffing in amusement. Still calm, still unbothered even as he hears the phantom whisper of a memory laughing along with him, spitting back a my A-Chéng has always been a lightweight, hasn’t he?  

The herbs in his pipe are gone, and he feels lightheaded, lighthearted. He’s never actually been a lightweight, but he feels like one tonight. A couple bottles and some herbs aren’t normally enough to make him feel so loose, so relaxed, but he assumes it must be a combination of those and the date. 

Another sip of wine, and the memories that come to him are vivid as they play back on his mind, before his closed eyes. An evening just like this, a moon just like this, him dressed down just like this. But next to him, a warm body. Crowding into him, laughing into his skin, into his hair. 

Phantom feelings spark to accompany the scene in his thoughts and, if he wanted, he could pretend to be back there, back then once more as the sensations intensify with each passing moment. 

He feels the taste of plum wine against his tongue once more, but this time it’s mixed with something smokey, something spicy. It comes with a pressure against his mouth, and his memory conjures up the feeling of chapped lips, of a hand on the side of his neck, tilting his head up. It’s so sudden, so real that he nearly startles in the same way he did back then, and he can’t help but giggle to himself—just like he did back then, as well. 

The wind turns warmer all around him, and brings another phantom sensation with it: fingers running through his hair this time, terribly gentle, like he was something precious, something to be treasured. More wine, and he feels those same fingers massaging his headaches away, working through knots on the length of his hair, running over his brow to smother away any tension settling in. They press against his wine-red lips, against the pulse point on his neck, calloused and careful. 

Jiāng Chéng gasps as he remembers—feels?—, and lets out a near inaudible sigh of contentment. His shoulders are free of the tension they usually carry, and he lets his head fall back against the warmth of the night’s embrace, hands against the rough wood of the pier, holding his weight. 

He drinks some more, and he feels dizzy in a way he hasn’t in well over a decade, when he first let alcohol touch his tongue. He feels untainted for once, welcomed by the night around him, and unrestrained. It’s odd. Even as a youth, he rarely felt this unburdened, this free. 

Everything feels warm, almost hot. His eyes are still closed as he enjoys the contrast of the cool water against his feet and the sudden heatwave. He lets himself fall back entirely, giving up on making any effort to hold himself up and lying down on the pier. His loose robes and loose hair pool around him, both undone, and he stretches before letting his arms fall to the side, hands next to his head. 

More memories, so very clear when he focuses. Midnight hair falling around him from above, a wide, easy smile hovering inches away from his face. Strong arms caging him in, pressing his hands to the floor and keeping him in place even though he never intended on going anywhere. There was no place he’d rather be. In the memory, bright eyes stare down at him with affection so evident, so intense that he could feel it burn against his skin. 

Subconsciously, Jiāng Chéng feels himself letting his legs spread open to allow for a familiar body to settle between them, and his mind managed to conjure up the same warmth of a broken gasp against his cheek that he got as a response back then. 

He’s so very, very drunk but that knowledge is distant as he drowns in the past, in the dreams, in that could-have-beens and never-weres. The sensations are so vivid, so real, he’s so warm. If only for tonight, he’s allowing himself this. He knows the sight of him must be unbecoming and shameful to anyone who might come across it—a debauched, delusional image of a man hanging onto sanity, to the past, to impossible fantasies. Anyone who might come in search of him would be mortified by what they find. 

Tonight, however, that’s of no concern. He’s made sure no one would look for him, that no one would intrude. Tonight was for him, and him alone—to grieve someone he thought he knew, that he thought could love him, to enjoy himself as he would, to let go of it all, if only for an evening. 

Another sip of wine brings yet another memory, another wave of sensations: lips, now, hot against his collarbones. Teeth, sinking possessively into his throat. The ache of calloused fingers painting bruises on his waist, his hips as they held him down too tightly, afraid he’d run, afraid he’d come to his senses. 

What a foolish notion. Jiāng Chéng never had any sense in the first place, not when it came to him, to this. He could never run, caught in the sun’s orbit as he was. He’d never been strong enough to pull away, to fight it. 

Most damning, he never wanted to, either. 

A sigh pushes past his lips, a moan. 

He tries to take another sip of wine but it spills down his chin, his neck, his naked shoulders—when did his robes end up so far down his arms?—, and on any other day he’d feel pathetic for it, unclean. 

But today is his, free of decorum, free of guilt. 

Another memory or another fantasy: something scorching hot against the skin of his throat, his chest, his sternum. Lips again? No. A tongue, chasing down every spilled drop of wine and sweat. Jiāng Chéng moans again, either in memory or in real life. 

Everything is hazy and hot, like he’s in a sauna instead of sitting outside on a previously chilly summer evening. The touches against his skin are so real, they feel so true now. A little different from what he remembers—the nails are too sharp as are the teeth, and he doesn’t remember this metallic smell nor this heat —but in this mix of dream and reality, it doesn’t matter. 

His eyelashes flutter against the thin skin under his eyes, and he’s floating. 

He doesn’t remember alcohol making him feel like this before. Doesn’t remember his herbs making him feel this way before, either. It should definitely be cause for concern, and in the back of his mind he knows to be alarmed, but it’s so far away. He left reason and wisdom back in his office in the mid-afternoon and has no intention of getting them back until the next morning. 

Whatever is happening to him is inconsequential in the face of how good he feels, how much he missed feeling like this, experiencing these things with him, even if only in memory. The touches against his skin feel like brands, marks of possession and Jiāng Chéng has missed feeling wanted in this way so, so terribly. None of his bed partners ever compared to this, and even the fantasy, the illusion of him far surpasses the few lovers he’s had in between. 

He blinks his eyes open for a moment. 

Around him, there’s nothing but a deep, deep darkness. The silver light of the full moon is nowhere to be seen, as is everything that was lit up by it. There are no stars in the sky, no faint glow of fireflies at a distance, no reflection on the lake. Only darkness, tangible and dense, heavy like a body pressing against his own. Fear doesn’t register in his mind, and even the apprehension he should definitely be feeling doesn’t cut through the haze of warmth, comfort, and pleasure that he’s trapped within. 

He blinks again, and color returns. 

Instead of the greens and pinks of the flowers around him and the not quite black of the night sky, however, he sees red. Bright, vivid red. The same shade as before, the one that dyed his ribbon, his tongue, his cheeks at times. The same as the fresh blood that soaked his clothes whenever they went to battle together, on the day he got revenge for Jiāng Chéng, for their sect and family. The very same shade as his eyes, at the very end, when all there was left was pain. 

A sob echoes in the darkness, and he thinks it might have come from him, but something tells him it didn’t. It’s too desperate, too raw for the old, old grief in his bones. 

Jiāng Chéng closes his eyes, and now he can see the memory of tanned skin overlapped with pale sallowness. The two versions of him that he remembers best, that were wholly Jiāng Chéng’s until they weren’t—though now he knows better. Knows that they were never his at all, neither at the beginning nor at the end. 

His mind seems to reject that line of thought entirely the moment it pops into his mind. The sensations against his skin intensify, trying to wash away the misery that attempted to plague his otherwise perfect evening, and he gasps, whimpers as it’s replaced by pleasure. He’s being swallowed whole, devoured by the past, by dreams, by the darkness he feels embracing him. 

"Ask."

“Please,” He responds. His voice echoes into the night, into the nothingness he knows awaits him when he finally deigns to open his eyes for good once again. “Don’t leave,” He begs, like he’s begged so many times before all those years ago, all those months ago, if not out loud then to himself. It’s an old prayer, at this point, a useless, unanswered one that he could never quite let go of, even as it failed him over and over again. Maybe now that it has failed one final time, he’ll be free. 

A fool's hope. 

He doesn’t know what he hears in response, if he even hears anything at all. He can’t trust his memory here, at least not regarding events like this anymore. Not now that he knows it was all in his head, that the bright moments of spring were nothing more than the fantasies of a lonely teen during a harsh, everlasting winter. There’s no telling what was real and what was imagined, if any part of it was real at all. There might have been laughter, but he can no longer tell if it was ever genuine, faked or merely mocking. There might have been whimpers mirroring his own, matching groans deeper than his own, but there might have been silence as well, one thаt he was deaf to as he enjoyed it all by himself. 

There might have been nothing there at all, only the pretend games of a pathetic child being indulged as an obligation. 

Jiāng Chéng no longer knows. He can’t trust his mind these days, and it seems like he can’t trust his memories either. He let his thoughts run wild for the evening, and it blurred the lines even further, worsening what the events up to that night at the temple had brought to light. 

Still, right now, deep in remembrance—as fabricated as that past might have been—, deep in fantasies, dreams and wishes, he finally hears all he’s ever wanted to hear, all he’s ever longed for, all he’s bled to hear: 

“Never.”

And for tonight, that’s enough. 

He lets himself go. 

—and startles awake, a gasp falling from his lips. 

The light of the late morning sun shines unforgiving through the open doors of his veranda, bringing an uncomfortable heat and a pounding headache along with it. A look around tells him his rooms are just as he left them yesterday afternoon, save for the clothes sitting carefully folded on the bed right next to him. 

Jiāng Chéng is lying on his own bed, above the sheets, naked and completely spent. There’s a bone-deep exhaustion weighing him down but it’s the good kind, for once. The type that follows a hard workout, a well-won fight or a pleasurable encounter, that comes with the satisfying burn of accomplishment or leftover shivers of overstimulation. 

He has no memory of leaving his place at the pier last night, much less of making his way back to his chambers, undressing or folding his clothes. Anything past the second jar of wine is buried behind a wall of fog that, for some reason, he has no urge to break through. 

There’s a vague impression of letting go, of being lost in his dreams, memories and fantasies but it’s not solid enough for him to discern what type of dreams, memories and fantasies they might have been. He’d rather not know, either. Whatever state he was in last night belonged to that night and that night alone—he can’t bear the mortification of imagining what kinds of things his mind might have conjured up or his own reactions towards it. 

For now, what matters is that he feels good. Not just content, not just fine. Good. Pleased, even. Nothing as drastic as happy but nevertheless better than the neutral contentment of his better days. 

The tension headache that had become a constant companion over the years is gone, and his body feels more relaxed than it has been in decades. Maybe he should wear his hair down more often, he thinks a little madly. Maybe he should have more nights off, as well. Indulge a bit more, enjoy his life a little more. 

Liánhuā Wù is far from the crumbling structure teetering at the edge of relevance that it once was; it’s well established and thriving, now more than ever. Of better status than any other the major sects, with the arguable exception of Qīnghé Niè. Surely he can afford to let loose every now and then. 

Surely he’s earned this, at least. 

With a sigh and a weight off his shoulders, Jiāng Chéng sinks back into his bed, determined to enjoy the rest of his morning away from the world. 

By the time he gets up, the bruises on his hips, the swollen redness of his lips, and the marks on his neck would have vanished entirely, unseen and unnoticed. 

iv.

Jiāng Chéng barely noticed it at first. 

It was negligible, so very small. Insignificant in the great scheme of things, really, though in retrospect, he reckons anyone else might have found this development to be somewhat alarming. 

But Jiāng Chéng had survived inadequacy, a massacre, torture, a war and disillusionment. Compared to everything else he’d been through, it seemed so small. Maybe if he’d been concerned, he could have stopped it from escalating as it did. Maybe he could have done better, kept this evil at bay. 

He somehow doubts that, however. 

There was a great deal to worry about in the fallout of… his return and the revelations that followed it, so much turmoil. It had been decades since the jiānghú experienced such levels of unrest and, in sharp contrast to years past, Liánhuā Wù stood alone as the center of stability and prosperity of the cultivation world. 

If only his father could have seen this, he thinks with bitter amusement. Even now, he can’t imagine him reacting with anything but his usual mild indifference—Jiāng Chéng’s achievements never had much effect on him, even the achievement in question was becoming the most influential cultivation sect in the entire country. 

Still, the fact remains that Jiāng Chéng was suddenly much busier than he’d been since the restoration of Liánhuā Wù. Lánlíng Jīn’s reputation had been shattered following Liǎnfāng-zūn’s fall from grace, and while money and his own influence had kept the sect from crumbling before his nephew could even ascend the dais, it couldn’t fix everything. The sect still stood, but only as a shadow of what it had been not a year ago. He had faith in Jīn Líng’s ability to elevate it to its former glory, but it would take time and effort. 

Qīnghé Niè weathered the storm as well as it had weathered every storm before it: with unseen strength and unshakable pride, even if such a fact was now invisible to the world at large. Niè Huáisāng’s rise to Chief Cultivator had been a clever move on his part—and a huge relief to Jiāng Chéng, if he was honest—, but it could not offset the reputation he had built over the years. He’s not sure it was intended to, either. Niè Huáisāng was someone he considered a friend, but he never claimed to understand his mind or his schemes. All he knew is that, for now, most still didn’t consider Yīwèn Sānbùzhī a reliable figure, even with his new status. 

In sharp contrast, Gūsū Lán’s reputation had suffered severely. Unlike Lánlíng Jīn, whose reputation had always been somewhat dubious and whose riches allowed them to withstand even the harshest of blows, righteousness and morality had been the coin Gūsū dealt in. Zéwú-jūn’s closeness to Liǎnfāng-zūn and Hánguāng-jūn’s… elopement had all but blackened the sect’s pristine image among the lower sects and the common people. Coupled with the loss of Lánlíng Jīn’s unwavering support and Qīnghé Niè’s stonewalling during trade negotiations, Gūsū Lán’s standing within the cultivation world was more fragile than ever. Only Liánhuā Wù remained somewhat impartial, mostly due to the respect Jiāng Chéng held for Lán-dàren. Zéwú-jūn’s seclusion had done nothing to help the sect’s situation: the rumour mill had deemed it unfilial and irresponsible, an abandonment of his duties at best and an admission of guilt at worst. 

Liánhuā Wù alone stood unharmed. The only major sect to still hold stable diplomatic relations with all others, and the only one left relatively untouched by Liǎnfāng-zūn’s poisonous touch. Even Jiāng Chéng’s questionable reputation had come to play—in his favor, for once. His famed unapproachable posture and borderline rude straightforwardness were now warped into unwavering honesty and unwillingness to bend towards the whims of corrupt men. 

It was so absurd, he would have laughed if he didn’t feel like crying. 

Regardless of the fickleness of public opinion, this sudden development meant that Liánhuā Wù—and by default, Jiāng Chéng—had become hot commodities. After thoroughly compartmentalizing his own grief over the events that led to Liǎnfāng-zūn’s death, he spent hours and hours pouring over requests that should have reasonably gone to other sects, and standing by Niè Huáisāng so he could whine incessantly and borrow some of his newfound credibility to solve issues far and near. Exhaustion was a constant companion as they worked on fixing the mess that had become of the entire cultivation world, to the point where a committee had to be formed out of the best disciples of both of their sects so they could get any sort of rest. 

So, given the circumstances—the lack of sleep, the overreliance on inedia, the stress —a darkening on the corner of his vision was nothing Jiāng Chéng could afford to waste time being concerned about. It was expected, even. There was no lack of explanation for it, from fatigue to anemia, dehydration, stress. At worst, a mild qi imbalance that he could work on as soon as he got some more time to himself. 

It barely affected his daily life. Nothing but a slight narrowing of his field of vision on his right side, sometimes there, sometimes not. Never when he needed to fight or hunt. It was a small problem with his vision, temporary and never present enough to endanger him or his disciples. It would go away as soon as things went back to normal, once he caught up on some sleep, took time to rest, to eat. Maybe after he cleansed his meridians, or meditated properly. He could even enter a short seclusion to fully work on his cultivation for a while. Whatever it was, it would go away. He would be fine. 

He shouldn’t have been surprised to find that it didn’t, and he wasn’t. 

Of course it wouldn’t. Of course he wouldn’t. 

Jiāng Chéng had been standing before the Lotus Throne, addressing a room full of wide-eyed disciples when he felt the change. A shift in the air, a darkening of the room—the familiar taste of rust on his tongue, covering his lips as he spoke. It overwhelmed his senses, blurred his vision; it had been a long time since he felt it this heavily in the air. Not since the massacre, not since the war that followed it. Not since that vile cave in… 

The hairs on the back of his neck rose, prickling with the feeling of a new power in the room. 

The previously unobtrusive little dark spot on the corner of his vision flickered, suddenly not as fixed as it had once been. Unmoving still, but no longer static, no longer tethered to his periphery. A brief glance to the side showed what he didn’t want to see, what he had been ignoring until now: a standing figure made of darkness, glitching in and out of existence. 

It stood to his right in the furthest corner of the room, blurry and formless at first, as if its grasp on reality wasn’t quite firm enough to hold shape just yet. For a couple of seconds, it did nothing but stand there, ominous and threatening. 

And then it moved. 

It didn’t walk as a human would, didn’t glide through the air as a spirit might have. Jiāng Chéng merely blinked, and within that fraction of time, it had moved closer. 

Dread worked its way down Jiāng Chéng’s spine as he felt its presence more keenly in the air. The room seemed darker as it neared, and the darkness itself seemed thicker than it had been moments before. He let out a careful, controlled breath, trying to keep his composure. His eyes flickered around, looking through the disciples that stood before him, but none of them seemed aware of it. 

By the time he looked back, it had moved closer still. 

It looked less vague now, less like a humanoid stain in the fabric of reality, and more like someone had attempted to cut a person out of the world. It looked tall and broad, and the void it was made of felt denser where its belly would be, though Jiāng Chéng had no explanation as to why or how he knew that. Its form was contained, but its edges still looked blurred and unstable, as if its power was leaking all around it. 

He tried not to let the sheer horror he felt seep through his expression as he registered how much more real his little qi imbalance felt, how much more tangible it looked every time he blinked or looked away from it. A part of him wasn’t surprised by its appearance, but he could not fathom why, and that feeling was buried under the cold dread that froze him in place. All he could do was try not to hyperventilate, to keep himself in place even as he felt the kind of primal fear only those being hunted would ever feel. 

Acid burned inside his stomach, threatening to push its way up and out every time it moved closer. 

Still, he refused to face it directly, to acknowledge it properly. 

He had a feeling doing so now would be a mistake. Doing so at all would be a mistake, but Jiāng Chéng was never known for his wisdom. 

Around him, everyone remained oblivious to the heavy presence approaching their leader, to the way it seemed to possess its own gravitational force, strong enough to distort reality around it. Every as it stood next to, behind, in front of them—every single person in the room was blind to its existence. Unaware of the sharp pull Jiāng Chéng could feel in his lower dāntián, attempting to either drag him down or pull him towards itself, pulling even as it drew nearer. 

He gasped in a futile attempt to expel the dread he felt from his body, and looked around the room, hoping that someone, anyone would notice what was happening, would react in some sort of way. 

There was nothing. 

Even in this, he was alone. 

He closed his eyes and steadied himself, and imagined himself as oblivious as the others. As long as no one else acknowledged, neither would he. No good would come out of giving that much power to something that clearly sought it. Whatever it was, if it even existed in the first place, it would be his to deal with in his own time. If no one else could feel it, if no one else could see it, then it was his problem and his alone. It affected no one but him, and it seemed uncaring of anyone but him. 

It was his, and he would ignore the fear and the panic until it gave him a reason to react. 

Only seconds had passed from the moment he first glazed at the intruder in his home, though it had felt like an eternity. Miraculously, he managed to maintain his composure despite his inner turmoil and, luckily, even his prolonged silence wasn’t out of character. Before him, his students, disciples, and friends all stared in silence, waiting for his orders, his judgement. 

Ignoring the nightmare standing within striking distance and staring him down with its empty, eyeless face, Jiāng Chéng did not disappoint them. 

v.

“We should run away together,” 

Jiāng Chéng blinks at the words, half in surprise, half because the brightness of the midday sun is making his eyes a little blurry. The voice doesn’t startle him, though he had thought he’d been alone in the forests that surrounded Liánhuā Wù’s eastern border until now. The lilting tone is all too familiar, and feels too natural at his side for him to question its presence, however. 

He stills right as Wèi Wúxiàn walks past him, inky ponytail swaying behind him. His red ribbon cuts a sharp contrast against the vivid greens around them, and his skin glows golden in the light that cuts through the trees around them. He pointedly ignores the sudden fluttering in the pit of his stomach that has become all too common recently. 

“What?” He asks, realizing he’d been too distracted by Wèi Wúxiàn’s both sudden and unexpected appearance to actually understand what he said. 

Wèi Wúxiàn turns to him, a sharp grin cutting through his face as he looks at Jiāng Chéng, clearly finding amusement in his confusion. Jiāng Chéng fights down the urge to look away—there’s an intensity in that gaze that he doesn’t remember seeing before, and it makes him feel a little too exposed and off-balance, but he doesn’t have time to wonder what it means before it’s gone. 

“Chéng'er, you’re so rude. Pay attention when your shixiong is talking to you!” Wèi Wúxiàn says, and there’s a strange hardness under the teasing that Jiāng Chéng doesn’t understand, either. “I said we should run away together!” 

“What in Guānyīn’s name are you talking about?” He asks, looking away as he feels his face redden and his heart burn inside his chest at the words. Wèi Wúxiàn is not serious, of course. He’s never serious. His expression is lax with mischief and delight in a way Jiāng Chéng finds all too charming, and it makes him feel a little breathless but he ignores that, too. 

He starts walking again, just as aimless as he had been before, an excuse not to stare into the sun that shines from Wèi Wúxiàn’s stupid smile. 

“I’m talking about you and me! Running away together!” He’s bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as he rushes to keep up with Jiāng Chéng’s pace, walking backwards so he can face him. “Going on adventures! We could become dashing rogue cultivators, walking through the land in search of immortality! We’d be famous! With your looks and my brains, we’d be unstoppable!” 

“What brains?” Jiāng Chéng scoffs, and ignores the squawk of outrage he gets in response. Unfortunately, he’s never been good at not indulging Wèi Wúxiàn, so he continues:  “And what happens when we reach immortality?” 

“Well, we’d walk some more, I suppose.” 

“Sounds thrilling. Such a lofty ambition is definitely worth leaving Liánhuā Wù for, when do we depart?” 

“Don’t be mean, Jiāng Chéng! Your shīxiōng is spilling his heart out to you!” There’s a pout on Wèi Wúxiàn’s impossible mouth, and a furrowing between his thick brows that doesn’t go away even as he trips over a root and catches himself just as quickly. “Think about it! You and me, on the road, making a name for ourselves. We could get a donkey!” 

“Too humble to even dream of a horse?” He can’t help the amused huff that escapes his lips, and the silly pout immediately washes away from Wèi Wúxiàn’s expression, eyes brightening even further. How can a person be so bright all the time, Jiāng Chéng wonders, half-envious, half-awed. No wonder he’s invisible, always walking in the shadow of a burning star. 

“Well, we’d have to be thrifty, of course.” 

“Of course.” 

“Just you, me, and our little donkey on the road. Saving people and living life. Wouldn’t you like that, A-Chéng?” He would. Heaven knows he would, but Jiāng Chéng is not in the habit of day-dreaming about the impossible or indulging his own fantasies. He’s already enough of a disappointment to his parents without a head in the clouds, without dreaming about a life he could never have with a person he would never have. 

He turns his gaze away from Wèi Wúxiàn again, appreciating the soft warmth of the rising sun and the cool air of the early morning. 

“A-Chéng,” The voice is closer this time, a little deeper and more solemn. Jiāng Chéng blinks, realizing he must have spaced out as he stared at the flowers around them. He looks up to find Wèi Wúxiàn’s face inches away from his own, his wine-red eyes wide and intense, almost desperate. 

It startles him a little—the conversation had seemed light and casual until now. The shift in tone leaves him on edge, and the proximity even more so. Wèi Wúxiàn’s breath is warm on his face, and he almost gasps in response. 

“You’re not listening to me,” He says, and his voice is almost harsh now. Rough, too, like he spent too long shouting or drinking. He seems a little older when Jiāng Chéng finally musters the strength to look at him again, and the sharp retort at the tip of his tongue vanishes before it can leave his lips. 

From the corner of his eye, Jiāng Chéng spots a hand rising up from where it rested next to Wèi Wúxiàn’s body. Something about the situation seems surreal, but he’s not worried. It cups one of his cheeks with unbearable tenderness, and even the oddness of the situation isn’t enough to make him think rationally about what on earth is going on around here. 

“You have to listen, A-Chéng.” Wèi Wúxiàn repeats, and it echoes around the clearing, under the light of the full moon. “Are you listening?” 

“—hear me? Hear me.” 

“Zōngzhǔ? Can you hear me?” 

Jiāng Chéng blinks at the words, half in surprise, half because the midday sun is hurting his eyes. The voice doesn’t startle him—he’s already too disoriented for that, sight blurry and mind lost. He’s standing by the thicket of trees that hugs Liánhuā Wù from the east, sāndú in hand. 

“Zōngzhǔ?” The voice is coming from behind him, and Jiāng Chéng takes a moment to let muscle memory kick in, sheathing his sword and clearing his expression. He doesn’t turn in full, not quite able to trust himself just yet, but he does turn his face so his second in command is within his field of vision. 

“Yes?” He asks, and pretends not to see the frown of concern on Wú Shèngnán’s face. She’s standing a couple steps away from him, straight-postured and sharp-eyed. There’s a missive in her scarred hands, and a strange tension in her broad shoulders that Jiāng Chéng doesn’t like but is too unbalanced to dissect. 

Next to him, unseen, the wind carries an order: 

“Listen to me.” It whispers into his ear. 

The shadows beneath the trees thicken and flicker. 

“...from Gūsū Lán,” Wú Shèngnán finishes, stepping closer to him. “It’s marked as urgent.” 

“Who penned it?” His mind scrambles to ask, and he turns his gaze back to beyond the borders of his home. He closes his eyes, trying to center himself without causing his poor second-in-command any more stress. It's a futile effort when the wind keeps bringing him whispers of demands his very soul aches to obey. 

“Hear me, come to me.” Jiāng Chéng’s body nearly complies, but he manages to stop himself before it can move to comply. Somewhere deep inside his mind, he wonders what is happening to him. Just as distantly, another part of him finds relief in the fact that he still has some survival instinct, even if it’s buried too deep to make a difference. 

Something is reaching out to him, almost touching. His skin prickles with anticipation, and he feels colder than he ought to under the warmth of such a blazing sun. 

“...-jūn himself, it seems,” Wú Shèngnán, at least, seems to have been distracted from Jiāng Chéng’s odd behavior by someone else’s even odder one, it seems. He tries to focus on the raging waves of her spiritual energy in an attempt to reorient himself, to settle back into reality. 

“Read it to me,” He asks, hoping that her voice will help tether him. 

In his mind’s eye, he sees him standing far beyond the first lines of trees. His eyes glow red in the dark of their shared consciousness, and his dark, dark robes billow around him along with his dark, dark hair. It doesn't startle him anymore—this is hardly the first time Jiāng Chéng has saw shadows of him in places they once walked together, heard his voice filling the silence that plagues him. The exhaustion he's been feeling and the stress of everything that happened that night meant something like this was bound to happen eventually. 

“Jiāng Chéng,” He says, and his tone is softer than it ought to be, kinder than it ever was. It's a stark contrast to how he appeared to Jiāng Chéng after his death, furious and accusing. It feels like there's more weight to his presence, like he's less of shade of the past haunting Jiāng Chéng and more of an entity coming to take him away.

“Call for me, come to me.” It's a demand, and Jiāng Chéng struggles not to move once again, trying not to tense up and give himself away to his second-in-command. Wú Shèngnán is speaking, he knows, but the words are distant and faint and their meaning fainter still. 

“...husband is ill, fading…” She says as he struggles to focus on her explanation. He barely remembers what they were discussing in the first place, but ehere’s a hesitation in her voice that seems out of character. She tends to act this way when she's afraid of his reaction, and he's usually torn between appreciating the kindness and objecting the pity but her words barely penetrate the fog of his mind right now. He's hypnotized, his entire soul, entire being focused solely on the shadowy figure hiding among the trees, standing both too far and not far enough. 

“Stop fighting, ” It says, he says. “Ask me, invite me. Accept me. Come to me. A-Chéng, A-Chéng…” 

“...asking for your help…” 

“Accept me, ask me. Come, come, come. A-Chéng, my A-Chéng, my own, only mine—” 

“...asking for you…” 

A hand reaches out from afar, long-fingered and dripping with red, red, red. Its sharp claw-like nails are stained with dirt, chipped and broken, and blood drips from its fingers as if it had dug itself out of the very ground beneath it. It’s too far, not far enough and Jiāng Chéng knows for a fact that should he lift his own hand towards it, he would be able to reach it but never be able to find his way back. 

“Soon, soon, soon. My, my own, only mine.” 

“Wú Shèngnán,” Jiāng Chéng interrupts, forcing his eyes open and his lungs to stop burning. The midday sun still burns, his sight still flickers. Around him, everything is green and blue, almost too bright to hide any secrets. 

There’s nothing beyond the thicket of trees. 

“Yes, zōngzhǔ?” 

“Deal with it for me, however you see fit.” 

“Of course, zōngzhǔ.” 

vi.

It escalates. 

Of course it does. Of course it would. 

The presence at night is tangible and alive now, no longer distant, no longer faint. It’s a living, breathing thing that wanders, hovers around the room, over Jiāng Chéng. Where before it felt ghostly and unstable, it’s now solid and inhuman. 

So far, from what he’s gathered through eyes shut tight and clenched fists, it cannot interact with anything in the room. It doesn’t seem to be able to pick up objects or move them from their location—it’s touch passes right through most of everything. 

Except Jiāng Chéng. 

And its touches, like its presence, escalate. 

It’s a brush of his cheek at first, while Jiāng Chéng tries his best not to flinch or worse, lean in. For reasons unknown, it feels unbearably tender, and beyond the fear and panic, it’s what bothers him most about the situation. 

Because Jiāng Chéng hasn’t known tenderness for a long, long time. Not the kind that’s paired with intimacy in the way this, of all things, is. He tries desperately not to think of the last person who’d shown it to him, to compare its touch to his, but it ends up too impossible a task to embark on. 

It’s more painful than it is frightening. 

The second it notices Jiāng Chéng won’t pull away, won’t fight, will simply pretend not to feel and endure, it grows bold. It takes inaction as consent, in a way that’s so painfully similar to him that Jiāng Chéng has to swallow down a sob, has to dig his nails deep into his palms to try and feel minimally less pathetic, less broken. 

It traces the pad of its burning-hot fingers over his lips, down his neck. Brushes his hair, the shell of his ear. All innocent, all fond. Jiāng Chéng can almost imagine someone else in its place, tries his best not to bask in the sensation, not to let himself fall prey to something that’s so clearly feeding on his pitiful desires. 

As with much in life, he fails. 

After a few nights, it grows bolder still. It takes to tracing his collarbones, the edge of the scar that peaks from under his robes. There’s a weight on the bed next to him where before there was nothing, and Jiāng Chéng tries not to react to it, to the mixture of fear and longing in his chest. It's becoming more and more real, and he wonders if it's his complacency that's giving it power. 

The thing that haunts him is careful, almost kind to him, and terribly certain of what he needs. It runs its burning touch down his chest, over his sensitive nipples and the scars that bisect his skin, places he’s never let others touch, that he’s avoided even looking at over the years. An unbearable humid type of warmth manifests over the curve of his neck, over his shoulder, and Jiāng Chéng has the distinct feeling that it’s taking in the scent of him, like something hungry that’s ready to feast. 

Its touch trails over the hem of his pants, but Jiāng Chéng doesn’t have time to freeze in terror before it makes its way back up, following the line of his sternum until it stops over his lips again. It’s scalding as it pushes down the swell of his bottom lip, gentle as it coaxes his mouth open. 

Jiāng Chéng feels raw at the feeling of scorching fingers bullying his way into his mouth, pressing down on his tongue and exploring the shape of his canines. The touch itself burns, and his insides are just as uncomfortably warm with pleasure, shame and fear. 

He feels weak, body limp and pliant as he allows this being to fuck its fingers into his mouth, to run its touch down his body. It’s mortifying, terrifying. He should fight it, but the strength is gone from his spirit because even through the debasement and the horror, what he feels most is wanted. 

Wanted, cherished. In a way he hasn’t felt in so, so long and even those moments are tainted now that he knows they weren’t real. It’s maddening, it’s addictive and it’s exactly what he needs, all he’s ever needed and wanted even if it’s not from the one he wanted it from. 

The fingers pull back from his mouth, and the facsimile of a mouth pulls away from his neck, where it had been breathing him in. Anticipation curls in the bottom of Jiāng Chéng’s stomach for a moment, but it dies down just as swiftly when it finally acts. 

Instead of escalating it further as it had been so far, it pulls back, and a shadow of a hand cups Jiāng Chéng’s cheek. Its thumb grazes over his cheekbones, over the bags under his eyes, and the bruising hold it had on his hip softens, climbing back up to his waist and putting just enough pressure to feel comforting, loving. 

Jiāng Chéng’s heart shatters so violently it feels like a physical blow. 

He wants to cry, suddenly, and shame burns inside his belly as he feels the familiar pressure on his sinuses, the tightening of his throat. The tears build up so fast his vision turns blurry, stubbornly following their path even as he tries to keep them from falling. He’s always been prone to crying, a weakness even years upon years of hardship couldn’t beat out of him. 

Pathetic, he thinks hysterically. His body feels tender, his soul feels tender. He’s a giant aching bruise, heart and pride broken alike. 

The touches come to a sudden stop as soon as the first tear runs down his temple, disappearing under his hairline. 

All at once, the scorching warmth embracing him vanishes. It pulls back from his face, from his body, and a sob wretches its way out of him because this is somehow unbearably worse. He’s so cold now, so alone. How risible that he’s lonely enough to let some fucking haunting feel him up at night just because its touch reminds him of something he’s now not sure he ever even had in the first place. 

Heavens, all he wants is to curl into a ball and disappear. He’s almost through making himself as small as possible when, just as it had vanished, the foreign-familiar heat returns. Masquerading as fingers, as a hand—maybe as the same one from his memories, if the way it makes him feel is any indication, though he’s aware that might just be his own delirious fantasy—, its touch reappears everywhere. It’s on his naked waist, on his neck, over his ribs, following the line of the scars on his chest spreading fire wherever it can reach. 

It cups his cheek again, brushing his tears away, and its touch feels like salvation. He leans into it, finally set on giving in. 

And then Jiāng Chéng hears it. 

“My A-Chéng has always been such a pretty crier,” It says and the voice is familiar. So, so familiar. Older, sharper but just as deep, just as rough as it was when he last heard it. Just as filled with both possessiveness and playfulness, hoarse as if it hasn’t been used in days, weeks just like before when Jiāng Chéng used to sneak away to hear it, to see him and—

He opens his eyes, startled, terrified, hopeful. 

Red, red eyes stare back down at him in the night. 

vii.

It’s him. 

It’s him. It’s him. It’s him. 

“I’m losing my mind,” Jiāng Chéng says hysterically, eyes shut tight in a feeble attempt to shield himself from the image branded into the back of his eyelids, the sight he encountered just now. His hands are clenched into fists, nails digging into his palm painfully as he tries to remove himself from what can only be an unusually vivid nightmare. 

“Don’t run from me, Chéng’er,” The same voice that spoke before manifests again. Jiāng Chéng never even heard it approach, never felt its heavy presence enter the room. It had never concealed itself from him until now, always making sure he was aware of its existence, pulling his attention towards it wherever he was and accompanying his every step for the past few weeks and months. 

“You’re not real,” He answers, more to himself than as a response. Around him, the throne room shudders as if the darkness itself is amused by his meager defiance. 

“You know I am,” It answers in an oh so familiar lilting tone, almost teasing, voice filled with amusement. “I called, you answered. You called, I came.” 

It’s him, Jiāng Chéng thinks, and he knows that there’s no doubt about it. His soul knows it, his spiritual energy knows it and have known from the very start. As much as he tried to deny it, as much as he refused to consciously acknowledge it, something inside him knew this would happen, was waiting for it to happen. 

Of course it’s him, but it can’t be. 

It can’t be, because last he heard, Wèi Wúxiàn had been making his merry way through the jiānghú with his loathsome stone sculpture of a husband, past forgotten in his wake and Jiāng Chéng along with it. It’s been at least a year since he saw either of them, since he heard of them in all but passing. His sect members, the ones old enough to remember him, to remember them, know better than to speak of it in his presence, and are kind enough to never bring it up where he can hear it. He knows that they hold a great deal of resentment on his behalf, that they’ve kept the happy couple away from Yúnmèng without his approval but he never found it in himself to care, too flattered by the attempt to protect him. 

For once, he was delighted to take advantage of his newfound political status and let the situation unfold as his disciples desired. In his position, there was no need to stress about having to come up with apologies towards Gūsū Lán for keeping the esteemed Hánguāng-jūn and his husband away from his lands. 

So even if it is him, it can’t be. 

Because he’s been banished from Yúnmèng in all but name, because he’s far, far away living his happily-ever-after, free of consequence and obligation. Because he’s never spared Jiāng Chéng a single thought since returning, much less since running off into the sunset with someone who’s done nothing but make Jiāng Chéng’s life difficult over the past decade. Because he wouldn’t want to be here, not when there’s nothing but the burden of a relationship he never wanted and a past too painful to confront within these walls. 

“You called, A-Chéng. I came all this way for you,” The words reverberate around the empty chamber, and this time, Jiāng Chéng hears the echo of soft steps as they approach from the right. The presence has never felt more real, more grounded than right now, even as it touched him moments earlier, and it’s as exhilarating as it is terrifying. “I found you, you asked, and I stayed.” 

Deep breaths, he thinks. He needs to center himself, to find a way to deal with whatever this is. It can't be him, so that means something’s haunting him, using familiar features and desires he buried deep down to torment him, and he needs a clear mind to handle it without giving the situation away to anyone. 

He focuses on the sounds around him—it’s the middle of the night, but he can still hear the light steps of disciples patrolling the corridors and servants milling around beyond the throne room. The disciples' steps are lighter, fainter even if they roam closer to Jiāng Chéng's location while the servants' are heavier and louder, echoing through the corridors with intent. He could probably tell them apart by gait alone if he wanted to. 

Liánhuā Wù is alive, even in the dead of night, and with a little more effort, he can hear the crickets chirping and owls hooting outside, along with the faint chatter of disciples posted by the gates. But the loudest sound by far is of his own erratic breathing, shaky and heavy. He focuses on it, slowing it down until he can barely hear it any longer, until he no longer feels that awful burning on his lungs. 

Opening his eyes is out of the question at the moment, so he shifts his attention to what he feels next. It comes with relative ease now that he’s not on the verge of hyperventilating, and the first thing he notices is how cold he is. The inner robes he's wearing are undone, hastily tied in his hurry to get away. It exposes more of his body than he’s comfortable with while in such a public area of the sect and does little to protect him from the chill of the night but he doesn't bother fixing it, reveling in the cold. 

His hair is loose and heavy against his back, brushing against his neck and face with every soft gust of wind that runs through the room, and making him shiver every time it caresses his skin. Below his bare feet, the floor is freezing. It's not cold enough to help him settle his mind but it does help him feel more solid than he felt moments ago. 

He ignores the feeling of the oppressive presence standing to his right. 

What he can’t ignore is its scent. 

It brings him back to the situation at hand, to the confusion and unease he’d been trying to control. The metallic scent of blood permeates the room, dizzying in its intensity, almost cloying in a way. There’s something spicy mixed along with it, as well as an undertone of wet dirt, of ash and ink. It’s painfully familiar, the fragrance of the very end, and he lets out a dry sob as he tries not to choke on it. 

“You can’t meditate this away,” It says from over his shoulder, and Jiāng Chéng can almost feel its fingers curling over the back of his seat. “You begged for me as I begged for you, A-Chéng.” 

“You’re not real,” It’s futile, but Jiāng Chéng has always been a champion for impossible causes. “I don’t know what you are, but you’re not real.” You’re not him, he doesn’t say. 

“I’m more real than anyone but you, Chéng’er.” Its voice is sweet, patient, pleading. He could sound exactly like this at times, when begging for Jiāng Chéng’s forgiveness. “I’m yours and I’m here.” 

“You’re not!” Even to his own ears, it sounds petulant and childish but Jiāng Chéng can’t help it. He’s angry, exhausted, and he feels tender and bruised all over. Having to confront all these emotions once again was never in his plans, and he resents that some curse, some creature, some haunting is forcing him to do so. “You never were. You can’t be. He’s out there, finally rid of me. Free of obligation, of whatever debt he thought he owed. Living the life he’s always wanted without the burden of being forced to indulge a lonely child. You’re just a shadow made to torment me. A punishment, a well-earned curse. You’re—” 

“Enough.” For once, its tone is harsh and commanding. Cold and angry, enough that Jiāng Chéng freezes mid-sentence, words stuck on his throat. On any other day, a reaction like this would be unthinkable and mortifying to him, but right now he can’t be bothered to concern himself over his own flaws. “That’s enough.” 

The thing sighs, and this time it’s close enough for Jiāng Chéng to feel its burning hot exhale against the side of his neck. He hadn’t noticed how close it had gotten until now, and his body is torn between quivering and flinching at the sudden proximity, at the hot, hot breath against the sensitive skin of his throat. 

“Ah, what has this world done to my A-Chéng, hm? ” It asks, and while it sounds calmer, Jiāng Chéng can hear the anger simmering beneath the surface, the pain. He feels its presence standing behind the lotus throne, hovering over him but he doesn’t feel it move. "What lies has it spewed?" 

A warm hand falls onto his right shoulder, and he tenses in response. Long fingers run over the exposed skin of his collarbones and neck, sending a series of shivers down his spine, and Jiāng Chéng frowns, fighting the urge to indulge in the touch. Another hand falls onto his left shoulder as the first takes gentle hold of his face, fingers sprayed over his chin and cheeks and Jiāng Chéng is caged, trapped and ensnared. 

“Look at me,” It demands, and Jiāng Chéng’s frown deepens as he tries and fails to shake his head in response. The grip on his face tightens to the edge of pain, and he lets out a soft whimper. “I crossed universes for you, Chéng’er.” It whispers into his temple, manic, desperate and loving. “Look at me. It’s me, you called me. I found you. Look at me.” 

Jiāng Chéng attempts to shake his head again, eyes shut tight. He wants to look, wants to get lost in this illusion but he can’t, can’t stand the thought of having and losing once more. 

“My A-Chéng, so lovely, so stubborn.” It sounds fond, proud even. Jiāng Chéng recognizes the warmth of his tone from a lifetime ago, from the life he lived before realizing it had been a lie. “It’s me, Chéng’er. There’s no other. Only me now. I came for you, to fix the wrongs this wretched world has done to you.” A scorching hot kiss to his temple, unbearably gentle. 

“You’re not real,” Jiāng Chéng says once more, though his conviction is a frail thing. The lips against his skin, the hand on his face, the smell, the warmth of a body behind him—it’s all too much. He can’t think straight, can’t think at all. 

He wants, desperately. Hopes, foolishly. 

“Look at me,” It’s an order, delivered with all the tenderness in the world, and Jiāng Chéng is helpless to fight it any longer. 

He opens his eyes and the world shudders around them. 

Wèi Wúxiàn towers above him, eyes bright and redder than they had ever been in life. His midnight hair falls over his shoulder as he looks down, loose and wild, and his tanned skin is flushed in the dim light of the room. It's his Wèi Wúxiàn, Jiāng Chéng thinks madly. He looks older and wilder, but it's him. The one he grew up with, the one who had loved him—he knows the shape of that nose, crooked from being broken one time too many, the thickness of those eyebrows, knows the small scar on his cheekbone from the time he fell from a tree when they were young. He'd been the one to patch it up, to clean up the blood with the sleeve of his robes and kiss it better after being teased into it. It had flustered them both terribly, and he had pushed Wèi Wúxiàn into the lake in embarrassment. 

It's his Wèi Wúxiàn, there's doubt about it, but there's something unnatural about him now. Like he's become greater than he was, sharper than he's ever been. He's more solid than anything else in the room, realer than anything else in sight. Power radiates from him, raw and caustic, nearly tangible in the air, and Jiāng Chéng realizes that's the taste that has been coating his mouth for the past weeks, months: metal, spice and ash. 

He runs his tongue over his lips, and trembles when Wèi Wúxiàn's piercing gaze locks onto the movement. 

"You're here," Jiāng Chéng's voice is barely above a whisper, breathy and filled with wonder. Wèi Wúxiàn shivers in response, and the sharp exhale he lets out is hot enough to burn. His hold on Jiāng Chéng's face slackens before tightening once more, and one of his sharp nails draws a line of blood from the skin of Jiāng Chéng's cheek. 

"I'm here," Wèi Wúxiàn answers, and his voice is no longer just an echo on Jiāng Chéng's mind, no longer otherworldly and distant. His words ring throughout the room, as if Jiāng Chéng's approval was all he needed to finally tether himself to the world around him, and his wide mouth twitches with the hint of a smile. "I've looked everywhere for you." He leans down again, pressing his nose to Jiāng Chéng's temple again and inhaling sharply before turning his head towards him and licking the droplet of blood sliding down his cheek. Jiāng Chéng fights down a whimper, though he can't hide the way his entire body trembles at the feeling. "And I found you. My A-Chéng. Only mine." 

"Yes," Jiāng Chéng breathes out. He feels dizzy with the weight of his emotions, with the way Wèi Wúxiàn's presence fills the room, with the way he touches him, and the drag of his tongue on his skin. Jiāng Chéng hesitates for a moment, unsure, but allows himself to touch, burying a hand into Wèi Wúxiàn's thick hair and tugging it until they're face to face, separated by a breath. "You're..." He doesn't finish, but Wèi Wúxiàn seems to understand. 

"Chéng'er, my Chéng'er..." He starts, bumping his nose into Jiāng Chéng's before bringing their foreheads together. "I've never been anything but yours." 

It's all Jiāng Chéng needed. 

Something inside him unfolds, and he exhales a breath he's been holding for the past decade and a half. 

"Wèi Wúxian," He says, finally and the entire world seems to tremble with the power of that name, this new reality settling into the old one. Wèi Wúxian's spiritual energy explodes around them, and both of them gasp in response. Jiāng Chéng feels overwhelmed in the best way possible, his golden core spinning with more power than he thought possible. Above him, Wèi Wúxiàn's energy grows even denser, almost inhuman with how intense and overpowering it feels.  

"Again," Wèi Wúxiàn demands, eyes dark and wild, and Jiāng Chéng has always been powerless before him. 

"Wèi Wúxiàn." 

"Once more, Chéng'er," He tilts Jiāng Chéng's head up to whisper against his lips. "Once more, and I'm here to stay. Once more and I'll make sure nothing ever hurts you again." 

Jiāng Chéng swallows thickly, violet-grey eyes locked into blood-red ones. Something about those words should give him pause, make him think the situation through, but Jiāng Chéng has never wanted anything more in his life. Those are the words he's always longed to hear, the ones that starred in every single masochistic fantasy he's ever had. Wèi Wúxiàn is looking at him with a ferocity he's familiar with, though it feels heavier than anything he's felt before, and that, too, is all he's ever wanted. That focus, that intensity—all directed at him, and him alone. 

He should be cautious. Should be suspicious, still. He knows something's not right, feels the precipice in which they're standing. 

But Jiāng Chéng is selfish, and he wants. 

"Wèi Wúxiàn," He says, and Wèi Wúxiàn kisses him, hungry and violent. 

Across the country, a last breath is drawn.