Chapter Text
Sunshine did not belong in a war camp. War ought to be conducted under shadowed skies or pouring rain, leaving every survivor coated in layers of grime. Sun let in hope, and the Sunshot Campaign had none left.
The cloudless sky was greeted with suspicion on the day the Yiling Laozu appeared in the center of camp. Suspicion, and then fear, as roiling darkness gathered in the clearing before the command tent. Despite their weariness, disciples from every sect raced to confront the threat at their heart, only to halt in confusion. For this darkness was unlike any they had ever seen.
Ever changing in size and shape, cresting and falling like a stormy sea, the darkness was so absolute it convinced the eyes of a bluish glow. No monster or imp, ghost or demon produced an energy quite like this, and none among them could guess how to combat it.
Zewu-jun emerged from the tent, and raised Liebing to his lips. Yet even as the first few notes left his xiao, the darkness began to disperse as though it had never been. Chifeng-zun, at his shoulder, hefted Baxia into a ready position.
Five figures were left standing in its place. Zewu-jun took note of only one before he was running, paying no heed to propriety as he rushed for his brother, long missing and thought dead.
A man in black and red robes, patterned with swirling silver and designed to emphasize his height and the breadth of his shoulders stepped into his path, twirling a dizi between his fingers, a sword nowhere in sight. This could be only one man.
The Yiling Laozu did not flinch when the point of Zewu-jun’s sword came to rest in the hollow of his throat.
After all, why should he? If the rumors were true, no mortal weapon could kill him. The rumors varied — he was immortal, he was already dead, he was a king of demons. He was a savior, a villain, a conqueror. But on that one thing, they all agreed.
A disturbance in the Burial Mounds had been reported ten years earlier. Disturbances were common in the Burial Mounds. Fierce corpses were the most common — ordinary, aimless without a demonic cultivator to control them, and avoidable in small numbers. The people of Yiling were well versed in trapping them for cultivators to deal with.
Yet every so often, perhaps once in a 12-year zodiac cycle, a monster more grotesque than the worst imagination could conjure emerged. Mindless things that rampaged directionless across the countryside until cultivators tracked them down.
Since the disappearance of his closest friends while night hunting in Yiling, the then-leader of Yunmeng Jiang had taken a personal interest in the dreary and downtrodden town. He took a group of disciples to investigate, and found nothing. Nothing, save a strange force that turned him away at the base of the Burial Mounds, well beyond the usual point of no return. He returned to Lotus Pier, perplexed and empty handed.
Bright lights were seen emanating from the Burial Mounds day and night, a constellation of brilliant colors that made even the weary citizens of Yiling put down their baskets and stare. Sect Leader Jiang returned, and left again.
The colors vanished, and returned, and stopped altogether.
Life went on.
Until the magistrate of Yiling refused to pay tribute to Yunmeng five years later.
Sect Leader Jiang arrived to find the town painted red — literally. Every house and shop had a fresh coat of paint, and a shrine had been constructed at the base of the mounds to a being the magistrate insisted Yiling now owed its allegiance.
A being, for the people of Yiling could or would not say if their Laozu was human, god, or demon — and they did not care.
They also did not care that fierce corpses wandered the streets of Yiling under their own power, and when Sect Leader Jiang attempted to persuade them, he found himself ushered unceremoniously out of town.
There was no longer poison in the air. The soil regained its spring, and crop yield increased. Streams contained entire schools of fish, cows produced more milk, chickens more eggs. The town carpenter was suddenly inspired to carve detailed patterns into every piece of furniture he constructed. The pall that had hung over Yiling since before the eldest grandmother’s grandmother was conceived was finally lifted.
The Yiling Laozu had tamed the Burial Mounds, and it did not matter to the ordinary people of Yiling what demonic powers he called on to accomplish it.
If Yiling had a demon to thank for its good fortune, the people would deal with the dead walking among them.
Cultivators knew better. The Yiling Laozu’s power would turn on him eventually, as it had on Xue Chonghai before him. The sects sent out disciples in the hopes of learning his weaknesses.
Yet no matter how many disciples were dispatched to Yiling for answers, none were forthcoming. Every rumor brought back to the sects was more outrageous than the last.
Three details were consistent: the Yiling Laozu carried a dizi like a sword, wore a red ribbon in his hair, and conversed with the dead.
Under ordinary circumstances, the sects would have marched on him immediately. But the Yiling Laozu seemed to have no interest in expansion, and he was not the only demonic cultivator messing with forces beyond mortal control.
Qishan Wen cast its fires eastward, and the loss of a single town could no longer concern Yunmeng Jiang.
Even as cultivators clashed with corpses on the battlefield, only to find themselves forced to cut down fallen friends, the Yiling Laozu had not stirred himself to join either side.
Until now.
The Yiling Laozu stared at Zewu-jun down the length of his sword, a threat and a dare in his lack of reaction. The only sound was the rustling of the tents in the breeze.
Until finally, Hanguang-jun said something short and succinct to the Yiling Laozu. He stepped aside with a feline grace, casually flicking the sword with his dizi when he was already out of range.
Zewu-jun blinked, dazed as though waking from a long sleep, as his brother stepped forward to bow. He reached out with a shaking hand until his fingers brushed his brother’s cheek. He gave a ragged sob and clutched his brother close.
The flap of the command tent opened a second time, and out stepped the nominal leader of the Sunshot Campaign, though Chifeng-zun was the defacto executor of all practical matters. Jin Guangshan stopped in the entryway so suddenly his nephew did not have time to stop before he crashed into his back, yet Jin Guangshan did not so much as snap at him, too busy staring at one of the new arrivals.
The nephew — Jin Zixun, though one might be forgiven for forgetting that — ducked under his uncle’s arm, and froze too. Hunched over, a sneer of displeasure and disappointment imprinting itself on his face. He recovered first. “Tang’ge! You’re alive! After we dispatched an entire army to rescue or avenge you.”
Jin Zixuan stepped forward, favoring his right leg, and bowed to his father. “Fuqin, your son has returned. My apologies for worrying you. I was unfit for travel until recently.”
Jin Guangshan sputtered, turning red in the face.
If his legitimate son was alive, and not in Wen custody, then he had given up a truce and his advantage for nothing.
Only the disappearance of the heir to Lanling Jin could have forced Jin Guangshan to throw the entirety of his forces behind the Sunshot Campaign.
Disciples of the Nie, the Ouyang, the limping remnants of Jiang and Yao whispered among themselves that the sacrifice of Jin Zixuan would save them. If only Hanguang-jun and the innocent girl he tried to save had not been sacrificed along with him.
They sent their regrets to the Lan.
Yet the entry of the Lanling Jin to the field had only led Wen Ruohan to push his plans forward with greater intensity. The Sunshot Campaign crumbled under waves of the dead, and the coffers of Lanling drained along with it.
That Jin Zixuan had returned with the one man whose power might rival Wen Ruohan’s might save them all, if Jin Guangshan could turn the situation to his advantage. The Yiling Laozu could be dealt with later.
He hoped his son had not made too many rash promises.
“I am greatly relieved to see you safe, my boy. We must welcome the one who brought about your return. Please come in.” Jin Guangshan’s smile was more slippery with oil. “Perhaps the servants might wait outside.”
“Wen Qing is my first disciple.” The Yiling Laozu’s smile cut like an obsidian blade, so sharp and delicate it sliced the most vulnerable parts of its target before they noticed and left shards of itself behind. “She left Qishan Wen years ago, don’t look so alarmed! But she stays with me.”
Jin Zixuan abruptly needed the second woman, his friend Luo Qingyang’s assistance to stand, so she entered the tent as well.
But wait!
This must be the woman Hanguang-jun risked everything to protect. The crowd was left in a flurry of excitement and chatter as the tent flap swung closed behind the Yiling Laozu.
Inside, the Yiling Laozu made his demands. “You want my assistance in the Sunshot Campaign? I want two things in return.”
“Name them. I’m certain we can reach an agreement.” Jin Guangshan smiled, certain this was a man he could understand.
The Yiling Laozu’s first demand appeared to contradict his belief.
“Wen Ruohan’s Yin Iron will have to be destroyed. You must allow me to purify it, rather than attempting any other method.”
“Why would we believe you would destroy it rather than —” Sect Leader Yao was suddenly cut off by his good friend Sect Leader Ouyang slapping a hand over his mouth. Some among the sect leaders understood their danger, at least.
His interruption earned Sect Leader Yao a single glance, and he abruptly let all of his weight fall on his friend.
“I believe I’ve proven I can purify the Yin Iron by accomplishing what many generations of cultivators passing it back and forth has not. You’ve all sent people to check the Burial Mounds by now.” They had, before the threat of Qishan Wen grew too great to ignore. “As for why you should believe me, I intend to build a sect in Yiling.”
Yiling was among the territory taken from Yunmeng Jiang, but it had belonged to Qishan Wen as often as not. Jiang Wanyin, exhausted, young, and weary, did not protest. If he regained all of his territory but Yiling, it would be a worthy trade.
The foundation of a sect was an ambition Jin Guangshan knew how to handle. “I presume your second condition is related?”
“It is, in fact! I want a marriage alliance.” It could have been a trick of light, but the Yiling Laozu’s eyes appeared to flash red.
That was a demand that would have been less than ideal before the war. But with the fall of Lotus Pier, Jin Guangshan considered breaking his son’s engagement. His wife remained in Lanling to defend their home, and could not gainsay him now. “The only daughter of the Great Sects is…”
Here, Jiang Wanyin spoke up. “Absolutely not.”
“I did not say I was looking for a daughter of the Great Sects.” The Yiling Laozu spun his dizi lazily.
“We have a daughter of marriageable age,” Sect Leader Ouyang offered, gesturing between himself and his wife.
“I will only accept an alliance with the Lan. I’ll trust their word.” The dizi stopped its spinning to point at the man standing beside the Yiling Laozu. “I want Hanguang-jun.”
No one present had ever seen Zewu-jun angry before, not even his brother. So, it was a shock to everyone when he turned red with rage.
“How dare you -” Zewu-jun collected himself, but his usual placid smile did not return. “Under no circumstances will I sell my brother.”
“Surely you must see the advantages.” Even the other sect leaders knew Jin Guangshan had only joined the campaign because his old friend, Wen Ruohan, denied all knowledge of his son’s whereabouts. Now that his son and heir had returned, and it was clear the Wens were not the ones who had kidnapped him, he regretted his decision.
If the Yiling Laozu promised a quick, decisive end to the war, well. Other people’s sons could be sacrificed. His own would not have been so great a trade, at this point. He could always pretend one of the dead mothers of his illegitimate children had been a secret concubine all along. Not the whore’s son of course, seated at Chifeng-zun’s side like he belonged there. The Mo boy, perhaps.
Fortunately, Hanguang-jun understood the importance of this alliance, even if his elder brother was sentimental.
“Xiongzhang, you are mistaken. The Yiling Laozu’s condition of a marriage is not unreasonable. It would not be a sacrifice to trade my hand for the survival of all our sects.” Hanguang-jun’s ears were flushed, perhaps with humiliation, as he bowed low to his brother. “This one requests the Sect Leader’s permission to accept the Yiling Laozu’s suit.”
As Hanguang-jun’s position had been made clear in public, with the Yiling Laozu himself in attendance, there was no reasonable course of action for Zewu-jun but to accept.
And, before all those assembled, the Yiling Laozu grabbed Hanguang-jun by the hand, and dragged him out of the tent.
“Ah,” Jin Zixuan said, shuffling awkwardly when all gazes focused intently on him. “He does that.”
The tent devolved into shouting and guesswork of all the things Yiling Laozu might do to poor, virtuous Hanguang-jun, if he dared to so infringe upon his dignity in from of the assembled sects.
“How noble! They say Lans only love once, and now Hanguang-jun can never be with that poor girl.” Madame Ouyang, who could often be found leader her sect’s forces in her husband’s place, but who played at matchmaking in times of peace, wailed.
Luo Qingyang, the poor girl in question, looked perplexed by the sudden wave of sympathy cast in her direction.
“A tragedy for the modern age!” Sect Leader Yao lamented.
Zewu-jun’s face had taken on a greenish tinge.
No one noticed when the newly returned Jin Zixuan wiped a tired hand over his face, mumbled something that would have sounded suspiciously like, “That could have gone worse,” had anyone been listening.
Three Months Earlier
When Wen Chao attempted to use an innocent woman as bait for a legendary monster, Lan Wangji did not think before he reacted.
Many of those present would later assume he acted out of love for her, as though there were no possible reason to do the right thing without an ulterior motive. These rumors would add fuel to the unfounded belief that Lan Wangji did not desire to be married to his husband.
In the moment, he simply grabbed Wen Chao’s sword out of startled hands and used it to cut down the men holding Luo Qingyang hostage.
This would have ended very badly for him, had Lan Wangji not been mistaken in his belief that no one else would act.
Before Wen Zhuliu could react, crushing Lan Wangji’s core as easily as a paper bird, Jin Zixuan pulled a knife, and held it to Wen Chao’s throat.
And Luo Qingyang pushed a dead man into the water.
Lan Wangji wished he was surprised when the Xuanwu of Slaughter rose from the water, its head striking for Wen Chao’s body, tossing it high in the air and swallowing it down whole. However, it was typical for the course of his life recently, ever since an ordinary meditation in the cold springs sent him on a doomed quest.
Wen Zhuliu decided to cut his losses, too valuable a servant to sacrifice even having failed in his mission. He ordered the Wen disciples and Wen Chao’s whining mistress up the slope, closed in the entrance, and left them to die.
That, too, was typical.
With his assistance, Jiang Wanyin was able to locate an underwater exit once the Xuanwu of Slaughter calmed.
There was a need, however, for a distraction.
Lan Wangji was already injured. He would not swim well with a broken leg, and he would only slow down their escape on the other side. It made sense for him to be the one to stay and distract the monster.
Still, the confirmation that his sacrifice was taken for granted stung.
As the disciples waded into the water, Lan Wangji forced his spiritual energy through Wen Chao’s unwilling sword, managing lackluster beams from which the turtle-snake recoiled. Not in pain, but as though it tickled. Wen Chao’s sword was poor substitute for his own, but at least it was something.
The disciples of varied sects vanished one by one into the water, but as usual, there was one who felt the need to stir up trouble.
A sour-faced Jin disciple shoved Luo Qingyang into the monster’s path. “That’s for getting us into this mess, you gold-digging bitch!” He yelled, before diving for the bottom of the pool.
Jin Zixuan changed direction without hesitation.
He pulled her aside just in time for the tortoise-snake’s teeth to sink into his own leg. Jin Zixuan screamed, and Luo Qingyang scrambled for a weapon, any weapon. She grabbed a wooden bow, rotting and long separated from its string, and wedged it into the monster’s left nostril.
It let go of Jin Zixuan’s leg to rear back, shrieking, and Luo Qingyang grabbed him under the armpits and dragged him towards the empty back cavern, out of reach of the Xuanwu of Slaughter.
Limping, Lan Wangji followed before the Xuanwu of Slaughter could recover.
He was not to be left to die alone in the cave after all.
Joy.
Lan Wangji collapsed in a dignified manner, putting enough space between himself and the other two so as not to invite discussion. Tragically, as Luo Qingyang extracted a bundle of herbs from her sleeve to treat Jin Zixuan’s leg, he seemed to feel the need to feel the need to fill the air with chatter.
“What the hell did Wen Chao think he was doing, dragging us here without swords?” Jin Zixuan grumbled. “It’s not like we could have done anything, and if Wen Zhuliu was busy being — ow! Mianmian— his bodyguard no one else could either.”
“Stop squirming and this will be over faster.” Luo Qingyang said. Lan Wangji had never paid her much attention — he took little notice of anyone who had not actively caused trouble, during the lectures at the Cloud Recesses — but he decided then that he liked her.
Practicality was a quality in short supply among cultivators.
Jin Zixuan looked like he would continue his ranting anyway, so Lan Wangji decided there was no harm in solving that mystery for him. Perhaps it would shut him up, so Lan Wangji could endure the last few days of his life in blissful silence.
“Wen Ruohan has been collecting tools that grant him control of resentful energy for a cost. Wen Chao was gathering them. I believe he thought the final piece was here.”
“Just how I always wanted to die.” Luo Qingyang tightened off the bandage around the poultice forcefully, making Jin Zixuan yelp. “Turtle bait.”
Lan Wangji pointed out that it was in fact a tortoise-snake.
“It annoys me, so it’s a turtle.” Luo Qingyang insisted.
Fair enough. Most people did not care about accuracy as much as Lan Wangji, and he could not fault her reasoning.
He settled in to meditate, but was soon interrupted.
“I would have come back for you, you know.” Jin Zixuan said. “As soon as I could grab the disciples for it. I don’t suppose Jiang Wanyin will do the same.”
Lan Wangji cracked an eye open, and wondered if he could pretend to have been asleep.
“He does hate both of you.” Luo Qingyang laughed without humor.
Lan Wangji was not certain he agreed. Jiang Wanyin seemed like a man who paid his debts, when it was convenient for him to do so. Even if Lan Wangji had turned him in for punishment once, during the lectures, when he found Jiang Wanyin and Nie Huaisang experiencing the effects of alcohol in the bushes.
He had not considered that. If they could practice inedia for the week or so it would take for Jiang Wanyin to seek help and return… perhaps Lan Wangji might learn of his brothers’ fate after all.
Suddenly, he viewed Jin Zixuan in a more charitable light. He had helped when no one else had, after all.
Days of inactivity suited none of them.
Almost as soon as Luo Qingyang’s poultice began to work, Jin Zixuan brought up a first idea to kill the Xuanwu of Slaughter.
“It is a near-mythical monster. I cannot just stab it.” Lan Wangji informed him.
“Oh.” Jin Zixuan slumped.
“I bet it’s vulnerable under its shell, if we can keep it above water for long enough.” Luo Qingyang suggested.
There was a technique that Lan Wangji could use, if the ropes left behind by the Wen disciples held, and he admitted as much.
Somehow, Lan Wangji was drawn into an attempt to kill the Xuanwu of Slaughter.
If asked, he would not have been able to answer how.
Luo Qingyang and Jin Zixuan would have said it was their burgeoning friendship.
Luo Qingyang played the distraction, this time, as the most mobile of them. She prepared to wave Wen Chao’s sword around, using bolts of spiritual energy as weak as Lan Wangji had managed to produce from it — validation that a sword produced for Wen Chao was the limitation — while he assembled the Chord Assassination Technique.
Jin Zixuan waded into the beast’s shell.
All seemed quiet, at first, but then the screaming began.
The screaming did not sound like Jin Zixuan.
There were too many voices, ringing through every bone in his body at a painful frequency.
The Xuanwu of Slaughter’s head surged forth, swinging wildly towards the bolts of spiritual energy Luo Qingyang produced, but they were not enough to protect her.
A swipe of the snake-like neck sent Luo Qingyang crashing against the wall. She stirred, but did not rise.
Lan Wangji managed to loop the cords around the beast’s neck in its retreat and held tight, though the ropes drew blood almost immediately. The Xuanwu of Slaughter — the turtle — dragged him slowly down the gravel beach. A sudden pain in his leg indicated the healing fracture had worsened, but he ignored it, holding tight.
Despite his efforts and the streams of blood pouring from its neck, the turtle managed to get its head beneath its shell, and dragged Jin Zixuan out, clinging onto the source of the screaming.
Lan Wangji knew instantly that the rusty, blood-encrusted sword in Jin Zixuan’s hands was the most dangerous spiritual tool he had ever seen, more dangerous even than the Yin Iron. It could wreak destruction across the world, transforming every land he had ever heard of into a wasteland, and reaching even beyond those distant borders.
The Xuanwu of Slaughter finally collapsed as his Chords of Assassination severed its neck in multiple places. Yet the sword remained in the air.
Jin Zixuan retained his grip for a single breath before he was thrown into the wall, landing close to Luo Qingyang. She dragged herself closer and shook him, but received no response.
Lan Wangji had just enough time to wonder what the sword had done before a wave of resentful energy crashed into him. The voices of a hundred thousand souls screamed in his head as his body collided with the slope, his head slamming back hard enough to make him see double.
He blinked repeatedly, attempting to clear his head, but nothing worked. There was pain and its absence all at once, a dizziness that grew stronger even as he failed to force his limbs to obey him.
The sword hovered in the center of the cave, releasing and gathering resentful energy in pulsating waves that grew with each cycle. Reaching for the only sources of life within grasp. Distorted faces emerged from the smoke, moaning in a dialect Lan Wangji could not quite understand.
Though perhaps that was the head injury that was slowly sucking the light from the edges of his vision.
Jin Zixuan still had not stirred. Luo Qingyang looked as terrified and helpless as he felt.
As a gaping skull made of smoke reached him, opening its jaw wide around his head, there was a deafening explosion from above.
Ear ringing silence followed. And light. A bright flash that expanded and blinked away, leaving more dancing spots of every and no color. The skull shrunk away, retreating into the sword.
Lan Wangji blinked, and there was a man hovering before the sword, robes made of blood and the night sky billowing behind him. He flipped a dizi between his fingers as he raised it to his lips, and played a song so harsh and lovely it would haunt Lan Wangji to his grave.
He blinked again, and warm eyes full of concern looked back. The eyes were set in a face made for smiling, with a jawline and cheekbones both delicate and strong.
He’s beautiful. He thought.
That was Lan Wangji’s last thought for quite some time.