Chapter Text
Fire cleanses—or so they say.
But would it burn away her hatred? Her fury at the world and, most of all, at herself—for being naïve, for being foolish, for acting out of guilt instead of cold reason, that defining trait she had once wielded with pride since the days she served under Wen Ruohan’s rule. Only her brother and her kin could make her act from feeling rather than thought, and once again, that weakness had undone her.
In her delusion, she had believed others would honour their word. But life did not work that way, and she knew it. She had lived by that truth before the war—embraced it, even—because it had kept her alive amidst the deadly games of Wen Ruohan’s court.
Her surrender to the Jin clan would not save her family in Yiling. Her misplaced guilt would not shield Wei Wuxian from further suffering. On the contrary, it had only deepened his torment—all because of her foolish, desperate hope that Jin Guangshan would keep his promise and spare her loved ones. His smirk as they bound her to the pyre—the insufferable smugness—sealed her conviction: this man was worse than Wen Ruohan. At least Wen Ruohan had honour and always kept his word.
What sickened her most was that they would let A-Ning watch her burn. From the fragments of conversation she had overheard, she understood the Jin’s true intent: they would keep him, study him, twist him into a weapon. She wanted to scream at Zewu-jun, standing beside his sworn brother, to demand justice, to expose the rot beneath the Jin’s polished courtesy, to warn him of the fate his sworn brother’s sect had prepared for her brother—a fate far crueler than death. But she did not speak—because what stood before her, witnessing her execution, were not people who would listen, nor souls capable of hearing her truth. One was cloaked in righteousness, the other draped in justice, yet neither was what they claimed to be. She saw them now for what they were: Zewu-jun, the sanctimonious fool who hid hypocrisy behind virtue, and Jin Guangyao, the snivelling snake who once grovelled at Wen Ruohan’s feet before sinking a blade into his back.
Her gaze shifted to the man in purple, master of entitlement, and the weight of her greatest regret crashed down upon her. She should never have performed the transfer. She should have held to her convictions and refused that self-sacrificing fool, because his sacrifice had been in vain. He had helped an undeserving man seize more power than he ever merited. In that moment, she hated Jiang Wanyin more than she had ever hated Wen Ruohan. She understood what hid behind that cold, contemptuous glare: envy, bitterness and entitlement, not so different from the rest of them.
A bitter laugh escaped her lips as her eyes found A-Ning, chained to another pyre—one that, if the fragments of conversation she had overheard were true, would never be lit. She tried to smile for him but could only manage a grimace of regret, praying he would see the intent behind it. He looked back at her, his innocence plain in the quiet conviction that he too would die, written across his face. She bit down on her screams of frustration; they would serve no purpose now. She had to be strong for A-Ning.
Jin Guangshan started to deliver some kind of speech, his mouth moving in hollow grandeur, but she heard none of it. Her focus was on her brother. Nothing they could say would bring her anything but rage, so she shut it all out. She was about to die with a heart full of regrets. How unfortunate. And yet, she could have avoided this.
The pyre was lit, the flames rose, and she braced herself to welcome their searing touch—but the pain never came.
All at once, the sky darkened—not with clouds, but with wings. A torrent of crows descended, their cawing filling the air as they swarmed around the pyre. The fire sputtered, then died, smothered beneath the weight of their wings and the surge of something darker that came with them: resentment. A tide of it, thick and choking, followed the birds, snuffing out the flames.
She searched frantically, because only one person could command such a torrent of resentment. But instead, she heard the shrill sound of a flute. It pierced the air, sending the crowd into chaos. Swords were drawn, bows readied, shouts for reinforcements echoing as more cultivators rushed in. The crows dove upon those nearest the pyre, black wings blocking their view, sharp talons and strong beaks slashing at faces and eyes. Amid the frenzy, she saw her brother struggle against his chains, his eyes wide and terrified—not clouded, but afraid for her.
From the corner of her vision, she saw something climbing toward her through the haze of smoke: a ghoul, draped in tattered crimson robes. Its skin was pale and sunken, its hair whipping through the air as though it had a will of its own. The creature crawled closer, and when their eyes met, it smiled—a grotesque stretch of lips revealing too many teeth. With an eerie grace, it revealed several very sharp and long nails and sliced through the ropes binding her to the pyre. Then it bowed low, a low hiss escaping its mouth, distorting the words, but clear enough to make out:
“My lady.”
Before she could react, another ghoul appeared, larger this time, its frame still vaguely human. Strong arms lifted her gently, almost reverently, and then she was moving—borne away from the flames, carried through the air until she found herself on the highest rooftop, the world below engulfed in chaos.
“A-Ning!” she cried, her voice frantic, as she searched for her brother. His pyre was shrouded in a thick haze of resentment, the air rippling with dark energy. She cared little for the fate of the others—none of them deserved her concern.
Her eyes darted across the rooftops, desperate to catch a glimpse of Wei Wuxian, but she couldn’t find him; too many crows blocked her view. It was late afternoon, the sun still hung in the sky, yet everything here was drenched in unnatural darkness. Below, chaos reigned. Ghouls, ghosts, and—were those yaos? She narrowed her eyes, and yes, she could see them clearly now: actual yaos, tearing through the ranks of cultivators, their monstrous forms fuelling the carnage.
And then she saw him—A-Ning. He was fighting amid the storm of creatures, and for the first time, he truly embodied his title: the Ghost General. Every ghoul, every spirit moved in sync with him. When he struck to the left, they mirrored him, shielding his flank. When he turned right, they followed like an army under his command. They weren’t simply attacking—they were following his lead. A-Ning tore through the cultivators in his path, cutting a straight line toward Wei Wuxian, who stood on the opposite side of the vast courtyard.
She saw him now, perched upon a rooftop like an avenging god, shrouded in a storm of resentment. She couldn’t make out the details of his face, but one thing was clear: he had become the Yiling Patriarch that everyone feared and reviled. The air around him seemed to tremble with power, his presence both magnificent and terrifying.
Zewu-jun fought on one side, surrounded by a handful of Lan cultivators. The ghosts didn’t seem intent on harming them, only on keeping them contained. Not far off, Jin Guangyao was battling several spirits that clawed and lunged at him with single-minded hunger. He was losing—badly. One hand was already gone, his pristine robes drenched in blood, his expression a mask of desperation.
But the most satisfying sight of all was Jin Guangshan. He was surrounded, besieged by a horde of ghouls and yaos, tearing into him with savage fury. The Jin cultivators around him died one after another, trying in vain to protect their master as he screamed and fought, his once-grand composure shattered under the weight of his own sins.
She watched it all unfold, and yet she could not summon even a trace of compassion or regret. Such emotions were to be kept for those who deserved them. Only worry—for Wei Wuxian, for the toll this display of power would take on his already battered body and spirit.
Guilt twisted faintly in her chest for leaving him immobilized in that cave, for acting without speaking to him first, for surrendering when she should have trusted him to find another way.
More cultivators flooded into the courtyard, throwing themselves into the chaos, their arrival only feeding the slaughter.
She found Jiang Wanyin on the far side of the courtyard, with a few Jiang cultivators, boxed in by a swarm of ghouls. They weren’t tearing them apart; like with Zewu-jun, they were keeping them away from the slaughter, from reaching the main battlefield. Such control over the battlefield left her breathless. To command so many resentful creatures, each driven by fury and pain, with that level of precision—it was terrifying and awe-inspiring in equal measure.
Because she was so focused on everything happening below, she did not miss the blur of white moving swiftly in their direction: Jiang Yanli. Dressed in mourning robes, running straight toward the heart of the pandemonium. Panic surged in Wen Qing’s chest at the sight, at the terrible implications of it. Her gaze darted to Wei Wuxian, still standing on the distant rooftop, but she dared not break his focus. Instead, she turned to the ghouls standing guard beside her.
“One of you,” she ordered sharply, “go and protect her. She must not be harmed.”
The creatures merely stared, their expressions blank, almost confused. Frustration flared hot in her chest.
“I said, go and fetch her—now!” she barked, her voice ringing with the same authority she once wielded in Wen Ruohan’s halls.
After a moment’s hesitation, the smaller ghoul glanced toward Wei Wuxian, as if seeking permission, then leapt from the rooftop. Moments later, it returned, Jiang Yanli struggling weakly in its grasp. The ghoul deposited her none too gently. Wen Qing immediately reached out, pulling her close, steadying her before she could slip on the roof tiles.
The creature’s smile lingered, too wide, expectant, and for a moment Wen Qing found herself unsure which was more unsettling: the blood-soaked chaos below, or this strange parody of obedience beside her. She blinked, trying to steady herself.
“Good job,” she murmured at last, the words leaving her tongue awkwardly. “You did well. Thank you.” The ghoul’s grin stretched even further, as though the phrase itself was a rare treasure. Weird, she thought, pushing away the unease rippling through her. There was no time for this. Her focus snapped back to the woman trembling in her arms.
Jiang Yanli struggled weakly, trying to free herself, but Wen Qing tightened her hold.
“Stop struggling,” she barked. The command stopped her movements. Wide, startled eyes met hers, rimmed in red, ringed by shadows of sleepless nights. Yanli looked hollow, fragile, a grief-stricken widow wrapped in despair. For an instant, Wen Qing’s anger faltered; she understood pain and grief. Then the frustration flooded back, hotter than before.
“What were you thinking,” she hissed, “charging into a battlefield like that? No guards, no weapon… are you that foolish?” The question hung between them, carrying the bitter edge of fear disguised as fury.
“A-Xian,” Yanli whispered, voice trembling, “I have to stop him.”
“And then what?” Wen Qing snapped. “Just turn himself in for execution? Are you hoping they’ll forgive him after this?” Her voice dropped, bleak and heavy. “There’s no turning back from what’s been done, Jiang Yanli. None.”
Yanli’s gaze fell toward the courtyard, where resentment churned like a living storm cloaking the macabre scene. Tears slid silently down her cheeks, catching the faint light as they fell helpless, utterly futile against the darkness swallowing everything below.
“This isn’t right,” Yanli whispered, shaking her head as if she could deny the sight before her. “A-Xian isn’t a killer.”
Wen Qing let out a sharp, humourless laugh. “Really? Then take a good look around you. What do you see?” She lifted her gaze toward the distant rooftop, where Wei Wuxian still stood, a silhouette framed by swirling darkness. “He was pushed into a corner,” she said low and bitter. “These are the consequences.”
Her tone hardened as she continued.
“My brother and I surrendered after Qiongqi Path, traded our freedom, our lives, for his and the rest of my family’s. But the Jins never intended to honour that deal. I heard them plotting the siege of the Burial Mounds with my own ears.” She turned back to Jiang Yanli, her stare cold and unflinching.
“Whatever happened at Qiongqi Path was an accident. Your husband was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Yanli’s face crumpled; grief became a living thing, raw and visible.
“I don’t blame him,” she whispered, voice trembling. “I’m just… tired of death, of destruction.”
“Then you married into the wrong family!” Wen Qing said mercilessly. “In the snake pit that is the Jin sect, death and destruction are the only things you’ll ever find.”
“The death of Jin Zixuan nearly destroyed him,” Wen Qing continued quietly, her tone stripped of anger, leaving only exhaustion. “He knew what that loss meant to you, the pain it caused.” Her eyes drifted toward Wei Wuxian, deep sorrow etched on her face. “I am truly sorry for your loss,” she continued softly, “but the circumstances are far too suspicious to dismiss as chance, especially after what I learned during my imprisonment.”
She sighed, bitter and weary.
“I’m not trying to justify what happened, only to point out some inconsistencies. You don’t send three hundred cultivators to ‘escort’ an invited guest, but to attack him, and expect him not to defend himself?” A bitter scoff escaped her lips as she shook her head. “Three hundred against two. Yes, such honourable intentions.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm, each tone heavy with disbelief.
Jiang Yanli’s trembling grew worse, disbelief etched deep into every line of her face. “Are you suggesting they wanted to kill him and…” She couldn’t finish. She didn’t need to—Wen Qing saw it in her eyes the moment realization struck. The dawning horror, the understanding that the Jin sect might have had a hand in her husband’s death.
“Does that truly surprise you?” Wen Qing snapped, her patience breaking. “Wake up before they swallow you whole. If not for yourself, then for your son.” Her voice rose, sharp with urgency and anger. “Jin Guangshan is dead, and so is that snivelling snake, Guangyao. Your boy is the heir. You have to be strong for him, enough to hold what’s left together until he’s old enough to lead.”
Her gaze drifted downward toward the courtyard. There wasn’t much left of Jin Guangshan; the ghouls had torn him apart completely. As for Jin Guangyao, what remained of him was scarcely recognizable.
Yanli let out a strangled sound, twisted away, and retched over the edge of the roof, her body wracked with violent heaves. Wen Qing reached out quickly, steadying her trembling shoulders, pressing her fingers to a few pressure points to ease the spasms.
“Breathe,” she murmured, voice softer now, the anger gone. “Just breathe.”
The flute fell silent. The eerie absence of its call spread like a shroud across the courtyard, the kind that follows only after too much screaming. The air was thick with the copper tang of blood, heavy with resentment that hung like smoke. Below them, the carnage continued: creatures tearing into what few Jin cultivators still stood, their cries fading into nothing.
Wen Qing felt the shift before she saw it. The reason for the silence revealed itself when her eyes found Wei Wuxian standing motionless atop the distant roof, staring directly at them. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move, and then, with fluid, unearthly grace, he leapt from roof to roof until he reached them.
“Shijie,” he breathed, the word fractured, almost a sob.
Jiang Yanli turned to him, her face streaked with tears, her eyes hollow with pain. Wen Qing saw now, up close, what the battle had done to him: the red staining the whites of his eyes, the pallor of his gaunt face. There was something heavy about him, an invisible pressure, a suffocating wave of grief and power pressing down on everything around him.
It didn’t seem to touch her, though. Yanli only looked at him, seeing not the Yiling Patriarch, but her brother. Wei Wuxian dropped to his knees, his forehead pressing against the roof tiles. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, again and again, the words breaking apart between quiet sobs. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”
Yanli broke free from Wen Qing’s hold and fell beside him, gathering him into her arms, clutching him as if she could shield him from the world.
“A-Xian… oh, A-Xian…” she wept, voice trembling with both love and despair.
They stayed like that, two broken souls clinging to one another amid the consequences of others’ greed.
“Wei Wuxian!” an enraged shout cut through the moment, jerking the two apart. The ghouls snapped to defence, hissing as they wedged themselves between Jiang Wanyin and the rest. Apparently, he saw them on the roof and came at them in all his purple glory, Sandu drawn. With a sneer, he loosed Zidian, ready to strike the creature that blocked his path.
But Wen Ning was faster. Seemingly from nowhere, he appeared at his side and caught his wrist, stopping the swing.
“Let go, Wen Dog,” Jiang Wanyin hissed, struggling; but Wen Ning, stronger, held him without difficulty.
“A-Cheng!” his sister cried, the plea raw with pain. “Stop… please.”
Her brother stilled, chest heaving, then glared at Wei Wuxian. “What did you do?” he spat, voice ragged. “Do you think there’s any turning back from this? Are they worth it?” He continued motioning toward her and Wen Ning.
For a breath, his face broke, grief and exhaustion carved into him, then something colder settled behind his eyes.
“Yes,” Wei Wuxian answered quietly. He turned to the battlefield and bellowed, “Enough!” His command rolled like thunder; every resentful creature froze and swung their gaze to him. “Retreat.”
At his order, they all began to pull back. Within minutes, the courtyard lay littered with ruin and the torn bodies of Jin disciples.
“Zewu-jun.” Wei Wuxian’s eyes found the Lan leader, whose robes were spattered with blood as he stood, horrified at the massacre, although none of his disciples had been killed.
“If the cultivation world will leave me alone, you will have peace,” Wei Wuxian continued, his tone empty of warmth. “Come after me, or anyone under my protection, again, and this will be what befalls you.”
Zewu-jun went pale.
“They did not care about justice; they just wanted my power,” Wei Wuxian continued furiously. “They sought to execute innocents in the name of justice…” He shook his head, disbelief and contempt warring in his expression. “There is no such thing among you lot. None.”
Wei Wuxian’s gaze shifted to Jiang Cheng. “Take care of your sister,” he said. “She will need you more than ever. Forget about me.”
With one last glance at his former shijie, Wei Wuxian turned away and vanished across the rooftops, his dark robes melting into the smoke and dwindling light.
Wen Qing was lifted once more onto the back of the larger ghoul, Wen Ning following close behind as they left the courtyard—a graveyard of blood and ruin—behind them. She did not hope for much in the future; she knew this was not the end. The world would not forgive, nor would it forget. But for now, she and Wen Ning were free, out of the greedy clutches of those who claimed righteousness yet reeked of rot.
She had learned her lesson. Better to die atop a cursed mountain than to chase another illusion of justice, or sacrifice herself or her brother in misguided atonement again.