Chapter Text
Chapter three
The Forest Beckons
The silence after Nie Mingjue’s words was vast.
It rippled outward from the pavilions like a stone dropped into still water. For a heartbeat, even the banners above stilled in the spring breeze, the flutter of silks held captive by the weight of a single declaration.
Then came the whispers.
“Sect Leader Nie?”
“I thought he had sworn off from ever seeking a mate.”
“Wasn’t he in seclusion?”
“Yes, yes—I heard his condition worsened, that the saber spirit nearly broke him. The elders must be restless.”
“That must be it… but what if something happens to him here? If the clan is left with no heirs?”
“Didn’t he declare his younger brother’s children as heirs?”
“Tch. How could that ever be proper for the great Qinghe Nie?”
Speculation rose like smoke, curling through the rows of spectators. Alphas at the forest edge shifted, some stiff with unease, others narrowing their eyes at the unexpected rival now entering the Run. A ripple of nervous energy swept the gathered cultivators, because this was not just any rival. This was the Red Blade of the North—a man whose saber alone could cow wandering cultivators into dropping their weapons.
But Nie Mingjue stood unmoved. His frame was a wall of steel, his expression carved in stone. The hilt of Baxia jutted over his shoulder, its dormant presence more commanding than a hundred whispered rumors. He ignored them all. His gaze fixed solely upon the hosts of this Run, upon Jiang Fengmian and Yu Ziyuan, who sat grim-faced beneath their sect’s banners.
It would have been easy for him to simply walk to the line of Alphas, to take his place without pause. But he did not. He waited. He bowed. He gave the Jiangs their due as hosts, as though his participation was not a right he could seize, but a request—one that only their word could permit.
It startled the air itself into stillness.
Yu Ziyuan’s sharp eyes narrowed, her knuckles whitening where they gripped the carved armrest. She had always regarded Nie Mingjue as too brash, too untempered, his blade as volatile as his temper. Yet in this moment, with his head bent, his bearing steady, she found her disdain tempered with an edge of respect.
Beside her, Jiang Fengmian’s brow furrowed, then smoothed. He exchanged a glance with his wife, and for once, they shared the same unease. And the same reluctant acknowledgment: Nie Mingjue’s conduct carried weight.
At last, Jiang Fengmian rose, his voice carrying over the hush.
“Nie Zongzhu,” he said, inclining his head, “it will be an honor for us Jiangs to have your blade among those who guard the sanctity of this Run.”
The approval fell like a seal in the air.
The whispers did not cease, but they shifted—less scorn, more curiosity, edged with wariness. And Nie Mingjue, as though their mutterings had never existed, straightened to his full height and turned toward the waiting Alphas.
Disciples of the Nie shifted as their Sect Leader approached, the ripple of movement as sharp and disciplined as the draw of blades. One by one, they bowed deep, foreheads nearly brushing the ground. Nie Mingjue’s nod was curt but not unkind, his gaze sweeping over them before he took his place at the forefront of their ranks.
And there he stood—an unyielding wall of steel and will. His presence towered, heavy as Mount Tai, casting a shadow that seemed to settle across the forest edge itself.
Around them, the other groups shifted uneasily.
Most of all—the Jins.
They had come in glittering numbers, arrogance draped over their golden robes as surely as the silk itself. Sixty-seven Alphas stood at the forest’s mouth, and nearly a third bore the Lanling Jin crest. It was a show of dominance, a declaration that the Jins could overwhelm not through skill but through sheer, crushing weight of numbers. Their laughter had been loud, their confidence absolute.
Until now.
Nie Mingjue’s joining cut through that bravado like Baxia through paper.
For he was no ordinary Alpha. No coddled heir polishing jade fans or flashing inherited swords. He was a Sect Leader of more than a decade, battle-forged, blooded time and time again. His saber was infamous, yes—but his name was sharper still, carved into the cultivation world as a man who bent for no injustice, who raised his voice where others bowed their heads.
And so the air shifted. The arrogance that clung to the Jins faltered, unease flickering behind their gilded pride. Because while the Run was an archaic ritual, cruel and demeaning, it still bore rules. Conditions. Laws etched into its sacred frame.
And if any dared break them here, under the shadow of the Red Blade of the North—Nie Mingjue would not stay his hand.
Not for power.
Not for face.
Not even for heaven itself.
“Gongzi, are you sure you’re alright?”
Wei Wuxian’s eyes flicked to Jinzhu, and the easy curve of his mouth appeared as if summoned by habit. The lie slid smooth as silk.
“Why, of course I am.”
As if the heat wasn’t already blooming low in his abdomen.
As if sweat didn’t trickle in uneasy lines down his spine, clinging damp to his underrobes.
As if he hadn’t sealed his scent glands twice over and swallowed the hidden pill he had, evading Jinzhu's eyes—silent, desperate, praying it might hold until… until what?
He did not know.
Gravel crunched beneath their boots as they walked. Above, the sky stretched a blinding, flawless blue, the spring breeze heavy with the perfume of lotus and lake. The narrow path bent between shaded groves, hidden from the view of the waiting crowd, and at its end lay the open ground before the forest.
Before the banners and pavilions.
Before the spectators waiting with baited breath.
Before the Alphas—sixty-seven strong—hungry to see if Wei Wuxian could be caught, tamed, bound.
He tilted his face to the sky, letting the breeze brush cool fingers across his fevered skin, lifting the strands of hair that had slipped loose from his ribbon.
No plan formed itself in his mind.
No careful stratagem, no clever trap.
Only that dream—heavy and choking.
Only the knowledge that someone had poisoned him.
Only the warning, stark and sharp in brushstrokes, proof that someone else knew. Someone Wei Wuxian isn't sure friend or foe.
And as his footsteps carried him closer to the clearing, closer to the eyes and the jaws of the world, Wei Wuxian smiled again—bright and careless.
Because that was the only shield he had left.
The path ended in light.
Wei Wuxian paused at the threshold, drawing in a deep breath that burned sharper than the air should. Jinzhu glanced back, eyes searching his face. Only when he gave a small nod did she incline her head and step forward into the clearing.
Wei Wuxian followed.
The world shifted.
Hundreds of eyes turned to him at once—the weight of their stares sharp and suffocating. Interest flickered there. Calculation. The gleam of predators sighting prey.
But he did not walk like prey.
The spring breeze tugged at his ribbon, crimson strands snapping in the air. Sunlight caught on the silver embroidery of his robes, glinting like frost at dawn. Suibian rested in his hand, and his stride carried him with the unshaken grace of a swordsman. His head was high, spine straight, silver eyes fixed on the pavilion where his family waited.
And then—
“Da-shixiong!”
The shout cut through the crowd, raw and bright, followed by a swell of voices.
Across the rows of spectators, Jiang disciples rose to their feet, waving, hollering his name. Their cries carried over the hush, unashamed, breaking the fragile formality of the moment.
Wei Wuxian paused, turning toward them.
And he smiled.
Not the sharp curve of mischief he wielded like a blade, not the mask of brightness he wore as armor. But something genuine. Warm. Silver eyes brightened, his grin soft and brilliant in a way that scattered the weight of hunger and calculation pressing down on him.
For that heartbeat, it was not the hunted Omega who stood in the clearing.
It was their da-shixiong—their teacher, their protector, the heart of Yunmeng Jiang.
And the air itself seemed to catch on that light.