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Chapter Text

The inn's rooms are clean and comfortable, and surprisingly quiet despite how many travelers are staying at the moment. Lan Wangji pays for their meals along with the rooms, handing over extra to ensure they will be brought to them. It gives him the privacy he's craving for tonight - the need to retreat from the noise and take comfort in silence aside from the muffled sounds of the boys, who are in the room next to his. Rather than dining with them, he leaves them to their nightly routines; they know where he is if they wish to seek him out.

Settling at the low table in the center of his room, he uncovers the dishes on the tray and hums in quiet satisfaction when he sees the rice and lightly-seasoned vegetables. The meal has been paired with a pale soup that's still steaming, filling the air with a fragrance that soothes something behind his ribs.

Wow, the Lan Clan truly does strive for restraint in all things.

Húlí is sprawled out on the other side of the table from him, its slender muzzle resting barely a cun from the corner of Lan Wangji's dinner tray.

“Mn,” he replies, noncommittal. “Meals are to be taken in silence. Will you partake as well?”

Spirits do not require sustenance, not in the same way people do. He knows of some that will consume weaker spiritual beings in order to sustain their power and grow stronger, but everything about the húlí jing in front of him is unknown. Perhaps he will write to Brother and ask for information; surely a library as vast and eclectic as theirs will have records somewhere.

I enjoy a meal, but it's not a necessity. Those luminous eyes are half-open, watching him with the lazy interest of a predator more powerful than any mortal creature. Lan Wangji knows he should be suspicious, and yet something in him is far too settled in this spirit's presence. There's a familiarity between them that should not belong, one that both aches and blooms sweetly in remembrance.

It reminds him of what he's lost. Of ten years of mourning and roaming every inch of the country like a restless, half-living thing, his soul crying out in search of what had been so cruelly torn away from him without ever finding the answering thrum it desperately sought.

Húlí's eyes blink open fully when a roasted vegetable is offered, and for the first time since Lan Wangji saw it standing atop Yiling's barrier, the húlí jing looks caught off-guard. Fragile in a way a seven-tailed creature of legend never should.

Yin-black teeth pluck the stem from his fingers without ever scraping skin, and that restless, aching something in Lan Wangji's chest settles at the sight of Húlí eating what he has shared. It compels him to offer more, to split his meal between them - coaxing the fox spirit closer and closer until it sprawls across his lap like it's never belonged anywhere else. He has to shift to sitting lotus-style for it to be comfortable, but he cannot bring himself to mind bending this particular rule. It's not as if they're in the Cloud Recesses, and Húlí is certainly not a pet.

In a way, it's not unlike befriending one of the adolescent rabbits and conditioning them to his touch, though this particular creature is admittedly in possession of far more intelligence than a common wild rabbit. And much sharper teeth.

Despite its size, Húlí curls up with surprising ease on his lap, its tails swaying contentedly and passing through the table rather than knocking it away. Lan Wangji finds himself drawn to scratching behind its - admittedly adorable - oversized ears, settling into a state that's relatively close to meditative as he loses himself in the swirling ripples of yin and yang energies that sneakily curl around his stroking fingers.

Aiyah, the venerable Hanguang-Jun is truly a soft heart for animals. This one is so lucky, the húlí jing croons, teasing and affectionate in the quiet safety of the room. Lan Wangji pinches one of its ears in silent retort, the corners of his eyes softening at the way it flicks and trembles in his grip.

“The men you have seen,” he says, and Húlí tilts its head enough to capture him with one marbled eye. Silver and gold hold unblinkingly, so much that passes between them remaining unspoken. Lan Wangji is aware that the state of his soul is becoming troubling; it's mistaking this spirit for someone else - for the mate it lost and has grieved for. There are so many little things about Húlí that remind him of Wei Ying. He must keep himself in check; what they face is too important to allow himself to become distracted by wishes and what ifs.

There will be plenty of time afterward to uncover this truth and follow its leads, to figure out what, or who, Húlí is, and how it came to be in this place. Gods and mythical beings cannot be so easily raised by the desperate prayers of a town, or else the country would be overrun by minor deities and creatures of legend. Someone orchestrated this. Lan Wangji must figure out who, and why.

What is it my Hanguang-Jun wishes to know? the spirit teases, crawling off his lap after a guiding nudge and watching from its limp sprawl as Lan Wangji neatly gathers the empty dishes and carries the tray away, leaving it outside his room to ensure he will not be disturbed. With that done, he sends a silencing talisman toward each wall to ensure absolute privacy, his pale blue energy shimmering along the plaster before it settles in and vanishes.

“Tell me about those who set the arrays,” he says, returning to the table and pulling the supplies he'll need from his sleeves. Parchment, brushes, ink cake and inkstone - he lays it all out neatly while amused eyes watch him arrange everything to his satisfaction.

Good little Lan cultivators should be preparing for bed, Húlí points out playfully, giving a significant glance at the dark night beyond the window of the room. Hài shí approaches. Should you not be setting the example for your kits and tucking away to sleep?

In answer, Lan Wangji stares evenly back at the teasing spirit, arching an eyebrow until the fox lets out a bark of laughter and rolls onto its back to wriggle and kick its hind legs in delight.

Oho! What a mighty paragon of virtue Lan Zhan is, willingly breaking his own Clan's rules for this Húlí!

The familiarity of his birth name hits him as effectively as a strike, and his breath hitches from the shock of it. His eyes widen, fingers gripping the brush he's holding hard enough to split it down the side with an audible crack. Húlí grins at him unrepentantly from across the table, dropping its head to rest on a blank stack of parchment as its tails wag.

Húlí can call you Lan Zhan if such a venerated Lord can call this one by its own name, no? Hanguang-Jun must be fair!

“As you wish,” Lan Wangji murmurs, looking down and frowning at the broken brush. He sets it to the side to repair later and chooses another one before focusing his attention back on the spirit still watching him. “Describe the men who are responsible for the arrays around the Burial Mounds.”

So forward! the húlí jing crows, batting at the ink cake until Lan Wangji rescues it from the mischievous paw and goes about grinding enough ink on the wetted stone to get him started. Húlí watches the process with interest, squirming closer bit by bit until its black nose is a whisker-width shy of nudging the inkstone and both front paws rest on the edge of the table.

If they are affiliated with any Sect, they do not advertise it, the spirit says once his brush has been dipped into the prepared ink, and Lan Wangji dutifully begins taking notes. They come well into the night, typically around choushi. Their robes are common colors and unadorned, and they spell their swords to hide their appearance.

Lan Wangji frowns at that. “Faces?”

Also spelled. Húlí's lips pull back in a sharp grin, its eyes crinkling in what is a surprisingly human expression for a being so animalistic in nature. Not that their little tricks work on this one, of course. Their power is a seedling compared to mine.

Realization dawns and Lan Wangji's gaze turns sharp. “You see through their illusions?”

Of course. Húlí lifts its head haughtily, looking disgruntled at the insinuation that such tricks could fool a spirit like itself. Lan Wangji feels the corner of his lips twitch and represses the smile, though he cannot help the quiet huff of amusement.

“Can you describe their swords?” Cultivators are often recognized by their weapons - even those of lower ranks will be memorable to someone. If the men Húlí saw were that determined to disguise themselves along with their swords, then it's because they're more well-known in the cultivation world. It will give them a better idea of where to look and who to watch.

Boring, the húlí jing complains, sitting upright and tapping a paw against the stack of unused paper. Leaving its own pawprint behind on the otherwise pristine parchment seems to please it to no end. Very well then. This one will tell you what you want to know, and then we shall sleep. Shame on you, Hanguang-Jun, for keeping little foxes like me awake past our bedtime.

That is more than acceptable, even with the pointed teasing. Lan Wangji waits, watching Húlí without a flicker of an expression, and the spirit gives a whine of frustration at failing to get a reaction before it begins describing the group who had originally created the arrays.

The account it gives is a grim one. No less than forty cultivators were responsible for setting up the arrays around the Burial Mounds, but only eight have consistently come by to check and repair them as necessary. Lan Wangji writes every detail down, pleased that Húlí does not skip a single bit of description of their swords. One in particular catches his eye more so than the rest, and he frowns at what he's written, trying to place the sense of familiarity.

The tip of a tail tickles his brow, and he looks back up into silver eyes that are dancing with amusement as they watch him. You're too pretty to frown, Lan Zhan, Húlí complains, its voice a playful whine - it ripples across his thoughts like stones skipping across water and fallen leaves tangling in vines. Come now, be a good boy and go to bed. You can interrogate this one more once the sun has risen.

Lan Wangji accepts the compromise and quietly cleans everything off the desk, tucking things into their separate qiankun pouches to ensure nothing is damaged or misplaced. He leaves Húlí stretched out on the floor while he goes through his pre-bedtime routine, dispelling the silencing talismans before washing his face and letting down his hair. He braids it neatly, aware of glowing eyes watching the way his fingers comb and separate sections, and finally waves a hand to extinguish the lamps before sliding into bed. And yet, he does not immediately drift into slumber as he normally would.

“Three years,” he murmurs, his mind fighting the draw of sleep until this one final question is answered. “You said they came almost three years ago.”

Three years, and not a single whisper of this reached any of them. No rumors, no gossip - just silence. The only thing those in Gusu Lan heard about was the húlí jing that had appeared as Yiling's mysterious guardian, and that was only very recently.

Yes, Húlí murmurs. It has come closer in the darkness; has shamelessly snuck Lan Wangji's folded robes from their place and nested in them beside his bed. He says nothing about it. If anything, the sight fills him with a fond possessiveness he will have to carefully examine in the morning.

“Why did you not leave the Burial Mounds before then?”

Húlí blinks at him, eyes wide and moon-bright in the shadows its wrapped itself in. He's caught it off-guard with this question, he can tell; it turns its head away from him, and Lan Wangji is once again drawn to the amber patch of yang energy on the side of its throat.

Someone needed to keep the peace, it says, which is both an answer and not. The balance had been skewed by the loss of something, though I do not know what. I stayed to correct it, until I was needed elsewhere more.

He can tell that that's all he will get for right now, and so he accepts it with a quiet “Mn,” and closes his eyes.

Go to sleep now, improper little Lan, the húlí jing scolds, playing at sternness that doesn't quite land. He hears it curl up again, hears the rustle of his robes where they bunch beneath the spirit's movements as it settles.

“Goodnight, Húlí,” he murmurs, and just before he surrenders fully to sleep, he feels sun-warm affection creep across his mind, bringing with it the impression of earth and moss-covered stone.

Goodnight, Lan Zhan.

**

He rises promptly at măo shí, as he always has, and realizes without needing to light the lanterns that Húlí is no longer in the room. His robes have been returned to their previous spot, the messy fold of them the only proof that they'd ever been touched at all.

The room smells faintly of the crackle before a lightning strike - like damp soil mixed with charred ash, as though a heavy storm is rolling overhead. Lan Wangji frowns as he breathes it in, the sting in his nose bringing the threat of unknown danger. It has him dressing quickly in fresh robes and sliding Bichen into place at his hip before he leaves the room. She's thrumming louder than usual, almost rattling in her scabbard, and Lan Wangji is down the stairs and out the doors of the sleep-quiet inn before any of the newly-woken servants can think to call out to him.

The night air is cool, settling heavily against him as Lan Wangji turns toward the Burial Mounds. The sun hasn't crept over the horizon yet, the world still washed in that quiet gray light that precedes dawn. It clings to him as he walks, leaving his exposed throat feeling clammy. Above him, Yiling's barrier ripples and twists, pulsing like a heartbeat; every few throbs, it lights up brighter, an off-beat flare that flashes out like forks of lightning. They're coming from the direction of the mountain.

Lan Wangji crosses Yiling in a flash. Silent and wrapped in pure white robes, he shines like a beacon of purity amidst muted gray streets as he takes to the rooftops for ease of travel. The closer he gets to the disturbance, the more insistent Bichen's humming becomes. He grips her hilt to settle her, golden eyes intent on where the barrier ripples with another blast of light - as though something is throwing itself against it, trying to force its way into Yiling through power alone.

Quick on the heels of that attack, a series of flashes light up the fading gray of night in rapidfire flares, and amidst them, he spots a familiar figure perched on a rooftop near the edge of the barrier, ears up and tails lashing behind it. He changes direction with a graceful pivot and crosses the distance with ease to land beside Húlí, dropping into a ready stance as he takes in the situation with glinting eyes.

Below them, masked cultivators hurl talismans at the barrier in sweeping arcs. There's five of them attacking, staggering their blows in an effort to wear down on the protections and break through. Sigils glow and spin across the barrier's surface, twining together in ever-changing patterns that center around where the talismans land.

“You knew they would come,” he says - a statement, not an accusation.

Every three days, Húlí answers without looking at him. They'll try until they're nearly spent, or until I tire of their attempts.

Lan Wangji tilts his head in thought. “It is not chou shí. When did they arrive?”

Just before măo shí. They must know someone has come to snoop. They're more determined than usual.

“What do they want with Yiling?” To come every three days suggests there's something here they're desperate to get their hands on. Desperate enough to face failure again and again just for the slimmest of chances that they will succeed.

No one remembers Yiling, outside of its connection to the Burial Mounds. Silver eyes bright with anger, Húlí licks its lips and stands, padding to the edge of the roof. Its paws make no sound against the tiles. No one in power cares for its people, except for those who need bodies. Test subjects. Lives no one will search for. People no one will mourn.

Lan Wangji frowns heavily at that. “Something to test the resentful energy on,” he surmises. Rather than answering, Húlí lets loose a noise he can only describe as a scream-bark - the sound is almost overwhelmingly loud when it's coming from right next to him. It pierces through the growing dawn, and the cultivators shudder, the one in front raising a pair of talismans in preparation to throw them.

He never gets the chance.

The barrier lights up in a blinding swirl of green and bronze, discharging a surge of power that would no-doubt kill a weaker cultivator. All five men are blasted back at least a dozen zhang, their broken bodies slamming to the ground like lifeless dolls.

Yiling is a unique place, Húlí says, the pressure of its bitten-out words almost hot enough to sear, like the lash of crackling fire. Those raised here are more susceptible to yin and resentful energies. That makes them ideal targets to men who hold no value for human lives.

Lan Wangji nods, his eyes never leaving the crumpled forms of the masked cultivators. If he is to learn anything fast, he cannot let this chance go. He needs to see who's dead, and glean what he can from whatever they have on them.

Before he can leap forward, he feels a pull on his sleeve. Looking down, he blinks at Húlí, who has caught a fold of silk between its front teeth and is tugging in a way that reminds him of a man who once liked to do the same. Who enjoyed catching him by his sleeves, or by his decorative shoulder ribbons, tugging and pulling and demanding Lan Wangji's attention, lips pouting and eyes beseeching in wholly childish ways unbefitting of such a skilled cultivator.

Don't, the húlí jing warns, and a flash of pale green energy bursts into existence beside the unconscious cultivators almost immediately after it speaks. Three more men appear from thin air and are quick to secure their injured members, a second wave of energy spiraling around the group moments later. When it vanishes, so do they, and Lan Wangji's lips tighten in displeasure.

“A-Die!”

Jingyi lands next to him half a beat before Sizhui, their hair still sleep-mussed despite the neatness of their robes. “A-Die,” Jingyi says, barely scraping out a bow as his eyes jump between Lan Wangji and Húlí, who's grinning around the sleeve still caught between its teeth.

“Hey! Don't do that, you'll ruin it!”

Sizhui covers his mouth to hide his smile before offering a proper bow to them both. “We apologize for our lateness. Is everyone alright?”

“Mn. Nothing to forgive. No harm was done,” Lan Wangji says, catching him under an arm to urge him out of his bow. “Did not breach the barrier.”

“What did they want?” Sizhui wonders, moving to the edge of the roof. He seems fascinated by the way the yin and yang energies of the barrier are still swirling, sigils flickering in and out of sight as they settle back into a calmer flow.

Lan Wangji glances at Húlí, who finally lets go to trot across the roof and leap over to the next house. It vanishes over the side, likely down onto the street below. “People.”

“What?” Jingyi yelps, his face flushing with anger. “Like, kidnapping people? Those bastards!”

“Language.”

Jingyi ducks his head at the chastisement, but his jaw remains set in a stubborn clench, his expression mutinous.

“Will they come back, do you think?” Sizhui wonders, and this, at least, Lan Wangji can answer.

“Three days.” He gestures at the boys, and they follow him to the ground, the three of them landing without a sound. “Come every three days. We will find out what we can before their next attempt.”

“Yes, A-Die!” they chorus, and he doesn't reprimand them for the slip into familiarity. It warms him, every time they allow themselves this closeness; he is their father first, and Hanguang-Jun second. Their teacher last. That is how he has always raised them, building affection deeply into decorum and never punishing them the way he once was for blurring the lines.

“Where are we going?” Jingyi chirps, butting up against his side before quickly flitting away, his attention easily caught by the bright splash of flowers growing along the slope that leads to the base of the Burial Mounds.

“Are we looking at the arrays this morning?” Sizhui asks, walking calmly at his side. He's smiling as he watches Jingyi explore, always amused by his brother's antics.

“Mn. After breakfast.” Lan Wangji stops several chi from the closest array and produces a qiankun pouch. Jingyi returns to them without prompting, his fingertips stained green and a blue poppy tucked behind one ear.

While it's far from the breakfast they would have been given had they returned to the inn, neither of the boys complain about the travel rations they're handed, sitting in proper Lan silence while they eat. Jingyi fidgets, but that's nothing unusual - he rarely stays still even in his sleep. Lan Wangji has never punished his twitching and shuffling, knowing it’s simply who he is; his mind is rarely quiet, his thoughts always splitting in multiple directions, and meditation can only go so far for those who think like him.

Wei Ying was the same way.

They've made something of a game out of finding ways to quiet his mind, and Lan Wangji watches from the corner of his eye as Jingyi subconsciously rubs the jade pendant hanging from his belt in slow, firm circles, his squirming relaxing into stillness as his overactive mind zeroes in on the action.

Húlí hasn't returned by the time their meal is done, and Lan Wangji doesn't wait to see if it will. The húlí jing knows where they'll be; it will join them if it chooses. It has an entire town to protect, after all. There is no need for it to personally babysit three cultivators, especially when one of them is the renowned Hanguang-Jun.

The lack of its presence at his side already feels strange, as though in such a short amount of time, the spirit has figured out how to take up the space around Lan Wangji that no one, not even his sons, have learned to navigate. That in itself is dangerous, so Lan Wangji sets that particular puzzle aside for the moment and focuses on what's most important right now.

They begin at the southwestern intercardinal point. He motions for Sizhui and Jingyi to stay back while he approaches the slowly-turning array alone. There's a body slumped just outside its centermost anchor across from where he's standing - all that's left of a fierce corpse, something more skeleton than monster from the looks of how decayed it is. He can't sense an ounce of resentful energy in what's left of it - it’s all been sucked away by the array.

He takes his time to investigate the spellwork, frowning as its purpose takes shape. This array is both a net and a drain. It lures in anything steeped in resentful energy and traps it once it crosses the outer spell, then drains it to a husk. The array absorbs the energy and channels it away - but to where? Nothing in the array marks a second location. He recognizes the familiar sigils for transportation at the center of the spell, but there's nothing to even hint at where the energy goes. Even the color of the array itself doesn't tell him anything about its creator.

All he can tell is that whoever came up with such a complex array as this is far from incompetent. Blending spells to this degree takes an enormous level of skill - something that can only be done by a master-level cultivator, or close to it.

That alone narrows down the list significantly, but it's still not enough. “Come,” he calls quietly, and the boys appear on either side of him with a rustle of shifting silks. “Jingyi, draw what you see,” he says, meeting Jingyi's determined stare and resting a hand on his shoulder. “Do not rush,” he cautions, and the boy blinks before nodding. “Every detail is important; leave nothing out.”

“Yes, A-Die.” Jingyi pulls his sketchbook from his sleeve, the thick cover marked by inkstains and carved designs he had watched his son work carefully into the leather himself. He can tell from a glance that the book is almost filled, with extra pages stuck between others that are covered in everything from distracted, round-cheeked doodles to illustrations of landscapes that would make Nie Huaisang himself covet them.

Once Jingyi has folded himself into a lotus pose and wet his brush with his tongue, a tiny pot of prepared ink already open and waiting, Lan Wangji motions for Sizhui to follow him along the edge of the dead forest that stands as crooked, twisting sentinel to this stretch of the Burial Mounds.

They pass a gap in the trees, a path that has long since been reclaimed by wild grasses and limbs, and Lan Wangji takes note of an old, half-rotted shrine; there's a tiny stone altar beneath the dilapidated roof that hasn't seen an offering or stick of incense in years. It's been mostly reclaimed by nature, but he remembers it, remembers how it used to look piled with apples and steamed buns and skewers of sweet, sticky tanghulu. Offerings to the man locals used to whisper of as a god, though a calamitous one.

Something flutters in the sour breeze, drawing his attention to the corner of the shrine, and he reaches out to snag the tail of what's left of the ribbon someone tied to the support post there. Time has turned the once-crimson silk dark and filthy, has tattered the neat stitching and left the ribbon torn and fraying. He holds it with care all the same, looking down at the sprawl of it over his broad palm and allowing himself the sweet ache of remembering of another red ribbon, its tails flying behind the man whose hair it adorned as he ran ahead of Lan Wangji up this very path; returning to the prison he chose for himself to keep others safe while a talisman burned with danger between his fingers, Lan Wangji following him and cradling A-Yuan against his chest.

“Oh,” Sizhui says, soft and painfully fragile, and Lan Wangji closes his eyes in a slow blink before looking at him, watching to see what memories bloom in wide, gray eyes.

“I… I know this place,” his son whispers, brow furrowing with his uncertain frown. “It feels so familiar, A-Die. But I've never been here before.”

“Mn.” Neither confirming nor denying the question in Sizhui's voice, Lan Wangji brushes a speck of nonexistent dirt from his son's sleeve before guiding him past the overgrown path with light fingers. “Come. Tell me what else you see.”

He looks back over his shoulder to check on Jingyi, his heart stuttering in a rabbit-quick leap of fear when he realizes the boy isn't sitting where they left him. Sweeping the terrain, Lan Wangji relaxes when he catches sight of white robes up a nearby tree. Apparently, Jingyi has decided to climb to a higher vantage point in order to better draw the array. His sight has always been the sharpest of his growing skills - aside from his mouth, Lan Wangji admits with amused fondness.

“Jingyi, do not wander without warning,” he says firmly, and Jingyi chirps back an affirmative noise without looking away from his task. Lan Wangji shares a look of amused resignation with Sizhui before he gestures for the boy to continue.

Their morning passes much like this, with Sizhui and Lan Wangji checking every inch of the Burial Mounds’ crumbling edges and tattered wards while Jingyi draws the arrays at each vital point. They don't travel too far from Yiling, not today; Lan Wangji would prefer more than just himself and two fresh-faced junior disciples for that monumental task.

Even so, their time is hardly wasted. Jingyi has drawn the southern array, as well as the southwestern and southeastern anchors, his fingers and tongue stained black by the time he's finished. Even his lips are tinged gray, darker in the corners, and he sputters complaints when Lan Wangji cleans his face with a handkerchief but tilts his face up regardless, his arms loose at his sides.

“Impressive,” Sizhui comments, lightly teasing as he traces a finger over the constellations of ink stains spattered up Jingyi's sleeves to his elbows. “Maybe we should come up with a talisman that repels ink from fabric, to save the washers more undue stress from you.

“Ha ha,” Jingyi grumbles, stained lips pouting like they're no older than five again and squabbling over one of Sizhui's grass butterflies. “You're just jealous that all you can draw is splotches and stick portraits.”

“A-Die likes my art,” Sizhui says blithely, and his boys quickly devolve into giggles beneath his stern but benevolent stare.

“We will return to the inn for lunch,” he decides as Jingyi packs away the last of his supplies, his sketches nearly dry where he's spread them out in the sunlight. “Will look at Jingyi's arrays and decide on a course of action.”

“We'll need more people, won't we?” Sizhui guesses, kneeling to help collect the already-dry drawings; carefully stacking them at Jingyi's direction so they're in order. “This is too big for just us.”

“Mn,” Lan Wangji agrees, watching the edge of the dead forest for any trouble that might try to slip out between the arrays, drawn by their yang energy. Thankfully, they remain unaccosted, and soon enough they're making their way back to Yiling on foot. No need to travel by sword when they're already so close. It gives the boys more time to think, rolling what they've learned so far around in their minds and coming up with theories and ideas to present. For his part, Lan Wangji leaves them to their musings, his eyes reflexively sweeping the fields and forests around Yiling in search of a conspicuous flash of black and amber energies.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Húlí meets them just outside the barrier, its tails wagging fast enough to blur as they approach the húlí jing.

Informational morning? it chirps, falling in at Lan Wangji's side like it's already second nature. Jingyi immediately starts complaining, which is nothing unusual.

“How can anyone live near that place?” he whines, all theatrics and sweeping hand gestures that mean nothing to anyone but him. “It smells so bad! I bet Jin Guangshan's trousers never got that wretched!”

“Jingyi!” Sizhui tries to scold, but he can't quite manage to sound properly scandalized with how hard he's trying not to laugh. “Do not speak ill of the dead!”

“I didn't!” Jingyi insists, rolling his eyes. “I spoke ill of his trousers. You know they had to smell positively awful, with how many different floors they wound up on. Hey, do you think Jin Guangyao's hat smells on the inside, too? He never takes it off. I bet it reeks of sweat and politeness. Do you think politeness has a scent? I bet it smells like cotton. All bland and boring, just like him.”

“Jingyi!”

“You know it's true!”

Sizhui covers his mouth with his sleeve, struggling to hold onto his composed expression. Lan Wangji admires his efforts. “You can't speak of the Chief Cultivator that way!”

“It's not like he's here to smile all creepy-polite at me about it!” Jingyi argues, his eyes sparkling with the victory of getting a visible reaction out of his brother.

Beside Lan Wangji, Húlí is making some kind of stattaco, yelp-like sound, its sides heaving as it fills his mind with laughter that ripples like sunlight through leaves, dappling him with a joy he cannot help but be affected by.

Aiyah, Hanguang-Jun, how opinionated your kit is! This one has never met such a free-spirited Lan!

“And how many Lans have you met?” he retorts dryly, which just makes Húlí laugh even harder.

None before you!

And so they enter the inn, rowdy enough to draw the amusement of the patrons already seated. Lan Wangji gives the boys a pointed look, which succeeds in getting Jingyi to swallow whatever insults were brewing in his throat despite his unrepentant grin. He scampers up the steps with Húlí, Sizhui following them with far more grace and restraint while Lan Wangji approaches the counter. The innkeeper's wife is already grinning at him, her expression matronly and commiserative.

“Those're some good boys you've raised, Hanguang-Jun,” she says with warmth. He nods his thanks, placing several pieces of silver between them.

“Four meals, delivered to my room, and a pot of tea,” he requests.

“Of course, sir, I'll prepare our most popular blend. Plain dishes again?”

“Yes.” He turns away, but pauses in thought and looks at her again. She stares back, patient and curious. “Three plain,” he decides. “One with spice.”

Unfazed, she nods her understanding and sweeps up the silver before disappearing toward the kitchen. Lan Wangji heads up his room, his head held high and a hand tucked behind him while Bichen sings, soft and sweet, at his side.

He hears Jingyi before he's even at the top of the stairs and sighs in fond exasperation at the boy's loud, jubilant nature. He has no doubt Húlí hears his approach, and the húlí jing must keep it to itself, because Jingyi yelps in surprise when Lan Wangji swings the door open and fixes him with an expectant look.

“Do not yell,” he reminds his son, and Jingyi looks properly chastised for all of three seconds before he's grinning widely again.

“A-Die, come look!” he insists, and only Lan Wangji stepping into the room and closing the door is what saves him from being dragged toward the table, where Jingyi has already spread out several of his drawings.

“We will discuss after the meal,” Lan Wangji says, and Jingyi groans but obediently gathers everything back into a mostly-neat pile before shoving it into a qiankun pouch.

“So, who do you think is behind it?” his rambunctious boy forges on, never one to be subdued for long.

“Do not condemn without evidence,” he reminds Jingyi as he joins the boys at the table. Húlí is sprawled across his bed, taking up the space like it belongs exclusively to the fox spirit and watching on with clear amusement.

So moral, Lan Zhan, it teases, letting its head hang over the edge of the mattress to watch them upside down, its paws relaxed against its chest. This one cannot believe such a noble and upright member of the gentry could sire such a delightfully feral kit.

“I'm not a kit!” Jingyi protests, which only makes Húlí laugh again in that sharp, cackling way.

Forgive this one, esteemed cultivator! How shall this lowly spirit address such a venerable lord, then?

Sizhui covers his mouth, trying to cover his laughter with a cough despite the mirth dancing in his eyes. Lan Wangji says nothing, leaving Jingyi to climb out of the hole he's dug with his own hands until a knock on the door interrupts them.

Servants carry their lunch in, setting down the trays and tea on the table before bowing and leaving just as quickly. Once they're gone, Lan Wangji places another round of silencing talismans while Sizhui prepares the tea. Jingyi unloads the covered dishes onto the table; his sudden noise of confusion reminds Lan Wangji that one of the meals is significantly more red than the others, which has Jingyi staring in horror. Even Sizhui looks mildly unnerved, as if he's remembering something he'd much rather forget.

Húlí looks downright ecstatic. Oh! Is that for me? Lan Zhan, you're too kind!

“Mn.” Lan Wangji carefully arranges the spirit's dishes at the end of the table for it while Sizhui and Jingyi try and fail to be subtle about moving their own meals farther away, as if afraid the rich, burning scent of the spices will somehow transfer to their own food.

Jingyi eats quickly - he always has, wolfing down his food like it will be snatched away from him if he doesn't get it into his mouth as fast as possible. It is the one habit that Lan Wangji has never managed to coax him out of, no matter how much he's expressed that Jingyi's food was his own and no one would dare take it from him. It has made him wonder what could have happened before he adopted the boy, to make him so frantic.

Once, when they were six, Lan Qiren had tried to discipline Jingyi by taking the food away until he could moderate himself and act properly, as befitting of a Lan. Jingyi had bitten him so hard he'd drawn blood, and Lan Wangji never wants to see that haunted, desperate look on his son's face again. He'd made it abundantly clear that no one was to ever punish the boy in such a way again. Lan Qiren, shocked silent by Jingyi's obviously traumatized reaction, had not argued.

Sizhui, on the other hand, eats at a far more reasonable pace, his eyes closed as though he's savoring every bite. Lan Wangji cannot help but wonder if this is its own kind of trauma response; Sizhui's own small ritual of enjoying each meal with such aching happiness because he so often went without proper nutrition as a child.

“I didn't even think spirits could eat human food,” Jingyi mutters once his bowls are empty, eyeing Húlí with faint horror as the húlí jing enjoys its meal with exaggerated glee.

When Lan Wangji arches an eyebrow at him, Jingyi points to his neatly-stacked dishes with wide-eyed innocence. “I'm finished with my meal,” he protests.

He's so much like Wei Ying it's as if the man raised Jingyi himself. Lan Wangji wishes he could have. He would give anything for Wei Ying to have raised these boys by his side. For Sizhui to know his Baba, rather than fate cruelly burning the memories from him with the fever that almost took his life. No one would understand Jingyi the way Wei Ying would be able to. Lan Wangji tries his best, but he knows his flaws painfully well.

At least Jingyi is happy. He's happier than he would have been, if someone as rigid and structured as Lan Qiren had been tasked with raising him. And perhaps that is unfair to Uncle, who raised Lan Wangji and Lan Xichen the best way he knew how, but it does not change the fact that Lan Qiren has only ever known how to repress and mold, as tradition demands. He does not know how to nurture such whirlwind minds without caging them like birds and leaving them to yearn for the storms beyond their gilded prisons.

When the meal is done and the trays have been left in the hallway to be cleared away, Sizhui pours tea for everyone - including Húlí, who is delighted at being served in a shallow bowl - while Jingyi spreads his drawings across the table once again.

“The intercardinal arrays are different from the cardinal one,” he says immediately, launching into his explanation with mounting excitement while the rest of them listen and study the sketches. “The intercardinal arrays are the lures. They attract the corpses and beasts, and drain their resentful energy, but the cardinal array is what siphons the energy from the mountain itself.”

The cardinal array is easily twice the size of the intercardinal ones, and Lan Wangji sees immediately where Jingyi says it's different. Unlike the smaller ones, which lure and drain before transporting, this one forcibly draws in the energy; it doesn't give it a choice. Once the resentful energy is caught within the boundaries of the array, it's transported away.

“This has to require a massive amount of power to summon,” Sizhui murmurs, his frown a mirror of Lan Wangji's as he studies the drawing in his hands with intense focus. “That's not even considering what they're doing with the resentful energy on the other side of this. How is it being contained? How has no one noticed such a large gathering of resentful energy where there was never any before?”

“That is what we must uncover,” Lan Wangji says grimly, sparing a glance toward Húlí. The fox spirit is staring down at Jingyi's work, its expression difficult to read.

“Even the Yiling Laozu didn't do this kind of thing, did he?” Jingyi asks. Lan Wangji shakes his head.

“He summoned armies of fierce corpses to fight in the war, but after each battle he laid them to rest with full rites. Never summoned even half as many after the Sunshot Campaign. Only kept Wen Ning close and summoned what was needed to defend himself. Always laid them to rest with respect afterwards. This much resentful energy… it would destroy anyone that tried to command it themselves.”

Would control quite an army, though, Húlí muses, and the temperature of the room almost seems to drop in response to the icy horror the comment brings. Three sharp breaths are drawn, and then Jingyi and Sizhui bend over the table together, speaking in frantic whispers while Sizhui writes out notes and theories to be examined further, his brush flying across the parchment in neat - if rushed - rows of script.

Lan Wangji moves to the window, pushing it open before drawing another messenger talisman from his sleeve. When he activates it, the dragon squirms in response to his need for urgency.

Find Brother, he instructs, cupping the dragon in both hands and bringing it to his face. Their noses touch, human warmth against the buzzing tingle of his own yang energy. “Come to Yiling,” he says, letting his worry bleed into the messenger until the dragon is trembling with the urge to fly. “Bring more disciples. What we have found requires more than us alone. Leave Uncle in charge; you are needed.”

As soon as he finishes, the dragon leaps out the open window and streaks across the sky, heading straight for the Cloud Recesses. Lan Wangji closes the window and returns to the table, where Húlí has slunk over to lean between the boys and add its own thoughts and observations over the last few years to the conversation. It looks up at his approach, and understanding passes between them, heavy with the knowledge that, once Lan Xichen arrives, things will change rapidly.

Whether or not that's a good thing, they will have to wait and see.