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Chapter Text

Two years had passed since the Guanyin Temple incident.
The world kept moving like nothing had changed.

But for Jiang Cheng, everything had ended two years ago.

Since the day he found out the truth about his golden core—that it wasn’t his, that it was Wei Wuxian’s—Jiang Cheng had tried to keep living like normal.
Morning training. Sect duties. Teaching disciples. Night hunts.
Same face. Same steps. Like nothing had ever happened.

But of course, the world had other plans.
Sometimes, he thought maybe he deserved it.

Most nights, he found himself staring at his stomach.

The golden core pulsing quietly inside him.

A gift.

A loan.

A lie.

“A loan,” he muttered, bitter. “Even this body isn’t really mine.”

He remembered it clearly. The truth that cracked him from the inside.
The truth Wei Wuxian hid with that stupid smile. A sacrifice no one asked for.

The golden core—what should’ve been a cultivator’s pride—felt like a stain on him.
He used it in battle. He used it to kill, to lead, to protect.
But the more he depended on it, the more it felt like he was stabbing himself over and over again.

Sometimes he wondered—
What if he just ripped it out?
What if he shoved his hand into his own body, grabbed that golden core—shaking, probably—and tore it out?

Would it feel like pulling out a thorn?
Or would it feel like losing the last thing holding him up?

He didn’t know.

What he did know was that every time he used his spiritual energy, disgust rose in his throat.
Every breath powered by that core felt like a debt he could never pay back.

“If I could… I’d give it back,” he whispered one night, staring at his shadow on the cold floor of Lotus Pier.

But now, it didn’t matter. Karma, fate, call it whatever the hell you want—it finally caught up to him.

His golden core was falling apart.
Cracking. Breaking. Disappearing—
Like it refused to stay in his body any longer.

His chance to survive?
Close to zero.

Jiang Cheng laughed—a sharp, bitter sound that didn’t even feel like a laugh.
He shrugged at the empty sky, daring whoever was up there.

“So this is how I get paid back.”

Fair enough, wasn’t it?
For all the anger. The hatred. The mistakes. The stubborn pride.

Maybe—he thought—it wasn’t just the world that hated him.
Maybe, from the start, the one who hated him the most… was himself.

Chapter Text

It all started on an ordinary morning.

Jiang Cheng stood tall in the Lotus Pier training yard, leading the senior disciples’ drills with his usual stone-cold expression.
The crack of Zidian's whip echoed through the air, setting the rhythm of their movements.

“Your steps are slow! Did your legs just grow in this morning?!” he barked, his sharp gaze sweeping over the lines of disciples.

They quickly corrected their stances, no one daring to talk back.

But then—
Something was off.

A sudden heat surged from his dantian, rushing through his veins like wildfire.
His breath caught in his throat. His vision swam for a moment.

Jiang Cheng frowned, his stomach tightening as a sharp, burning pain stabbed through him.
Almost without thinking, his hand pressed against the spot above his golden core.

“Jiang-zongzhu!” one of the senior disciples called out, eyes wide in alarm at the sight of their leader’s pale face. “Are you alright?”

Jiang Cheng glared at him, his body trembling slightly from the pain.
“Are you deaf?! Keep going!”

“But—”

“No buts! Did I tell you to stop?!” His voice rose, rough with strain. Sweat rolled down his temple, soaking the collar of his purple robes. His hand gripping Zidian trembled faintly, but he refused to let go.

The disciples exchanged uneasy glances. Some of them hesitated, clearly wanting to step forward. But Jiang Cheng slammed Zidian’s tip to the ground with a sharp crack.

“If you’ve got time to stand around like statues, use it to fix your pathetic techniques!”

They quickly scrambled back into formation, continuing their training nervously.

Jiang Cheng took a deep breath, trying to force his spiritual energy into balance, but the pain only worsened.
He knew. This wasn’t some random ache.

He’d been feeling it for a while now—something was wrong with his golden core.

Qi deviation?

‘Not now,’ he gritted in his mind. ‘At least… not in front of them.’

He straightened his back, covering the weakness with his usual cold stare.
As if nothing had happened.

But his body swayed slightly, and the sweat dripping from his chin formed tiny puddles on the floor.

It felt like his golden core was melting—slowly, steadily—
And he could feel every second of it.

Since that morning, the strange episodes had only worsened.

Sometimes his body burned from the inside, as if fire was eating away at his dantian.
Sometimes he’d freeze up, cold stabbing deep into his bones.
His qi spiraled out of control, rising and crashing wildly with no warning.

At first, he brushed it off.
Just overwork, he told himself.
Old injuries flaring up.

But over time, he knew. This wasn’t something he could push through alone.

The memory of Nie Mingjue’s fall crept into his mind more often.
If he lost control—and no one knew—it would put Lotus Pier in serious danger.

He couldn’t let that happen.

So, Jiang Cheng summoned two of his most trusted people to his office: Jiang Su, Lotus Pier’s healer, and Jiang Xue, his first disciple, now the most reliable senior disciple in the sect.

They stood before him, stiff with respect and a hint of worry in their eyes.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” Jiang Cheng began, his voice flat, his sharp gaze locking onto theirs.

“Jiang-zongzhu…” Jiang Su spoke first, cautious. “Is this about… your condition yesterday? The disciples reported—”

“I didn’t call you here to talk about those nosy brats!” Jiang Cheng cut him off sharply. “Listen carefully.”

Jiang Xue squared his shoulders. “We’re ready for your orders, Zongzhu.”

Jiang Cheng exhaled through his nose, hating every word he was about to say.
“I’ve been experiencing qi disruption. It’s… unstable. Sometimes burning hot, sometimes freezing. Sometimes it spikes out of nowhere.”

Jiang Su frowned instantly. “Are you having trouble controlling your spiritual energy?”

“Of course not!” Jiang Cheng snapped back, but his jaw tightened. “I just—need more time to steady it.”

Jiang Su’s worry deepened. “Symptoms like these… it could be the onset of—”

“I know,” Jiang Cheng cut him off again, his voice cold. “I know what you’re thinking. Qi deviation.”

The air in the room grew heavy.

Jiang Xue clenched his fists. “Zongzhu… is this… like what happened to Sect Leader Nie?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Jiang Cheng looked between them, his expression hard. “That’s why I called you. If I… if I start to lose control, I don’t want Lotus Pier to become a leaderless sect waiting to be crushed.”

“Don’t say that, Zongzhu!” Jiang Xue burst out, his voice shaking.

“I’m talking about reality, not some cheap tragedy,” Jiang Cheng shot back, but his gaze softened slightly toward his first disciple. “You need to be ready. If I… can’t continue, you’ll take over training. You’ll manage the disciples.”

“Zongzhu, don’t speak as if—”

“This is an order.”

Jiang Su lowered his head, forcing himself to stay professional despite the tension in his jaw.
“I’ll start preparing a stabilizing medicine and monitor your condition daily. If this really is qi deviation, at least we can slow it down.”

Jiang Cheng narrowed his eyes. “What if I refuse to drink it?”

Jiang Su raised an eyebrow. “If you die, who’s going to lead Lotus Pier? Who’s going to scold me every morning?”

Jiang Cheng crossed his arms, unimpressed. “Getting bold, aren’t you?”

“If I don’t push you, you won’t take the medicine,” Jiang Su shrugged, unbothered.

Jiang Cheng huffed, clearly done arguing. “Fine. But don’t tell anyone else. If I hear even one rumor, you’ll be the first to suffer the consequences.”

“Understood, Zongzhu,” they answered in unison.

Jiang Cheng watched them silently for a long moment before finally sighing.

“Go. Don’t bother me.”

They bowed and left the room, leaving Jiang Cheng alone.

Once the door closed, he doubled over slightly, pressing his hand against his burning stomach as the pain flared up again, mercilessly.

Deep down, a single question clawed at him—
‘If this isn’t qi deviation… what the hell is happening to me?’

Chapter Text

Several weeks had passed since that morning.

Jiang Cheng continued to act as if everything was perfectly fine.

He still sat in the sect leader's seat. Still signed documents, still reviewed reports, still scolded disciples who spoke too softly when they reported to him. Everything—on the surface—remained unchanged.

But everyone knew he rarely stepped out of his study now.

Morning training? Handed over to Jiang Xue.

Night hunts? Assigned to other senior disciples.

Tasks he used to insist on doing himself were slowly, almost imperceptibly, being distributed to others—as if he was quietly erasing his own presence from Lotus Pier, piece by piece.

In front of everyone, he remained the Jiang-zongzhu they knew.
Fierce. Stern. Untouchable.

But behind the closed door of his study, there were moments when he sat slumped, clutching his abdomen as the searing pain returned with a vengeance.

"Tch."

He bit his lip, breathing through the waves of heat and cold that roiled through his meridians like a storm. His qi surged wildly, then froze as if petrified in an instant.

' Qi deviation, huh? '
He scoffed inwardly. ' I should be able to handle this. Nie Mingjue endured it for years before he… before it finally consumed him. '

His hand trembled faintly.

' If I’m strong enough, maybe I can last even longer. '

But this burning sensation—this gnawing, relentless heat—didn't match what he had read. It didn’t match what he knew.

No one had ever described it like this. No text. No elder. No healer.

It was easier to call it qi deviation.

Because the alternative? The alternative was a truth he didn’t dare to face.

If it wasn’t qi deviation, then what was it?

And what if… there was no way to survive it?

—--

Across Lotus Pier, Jiang Su buried himself in stacks of medical texts and ancient scrolls, combing through every possible source on qi deviation.

"Qi deviation: chaotic qi flow, unstable spiritual energy, sudden surges, emotional instability…"

He flipped to another scroll.

"Common symptoms: loss of consciousness, temporary madness, sudden seizures…"

Jiang Su paused, brows furrowed.

"But… none of this mentions a burning sensation or sudden freezing like what Jiang-zhongzhu reported."

His fingers dug into the pages. The deeper he read, the more uneasy he became.

"If it really is qi deviation, I should find a stabilizing method immediately. But if it’s something else… something worse… I need to know before it's too late."

He made his decision quickly.

"I have to confront Jiang-zongzhu directly. Even if he yells at me. Even if he kicks me out."

—--

That evening, Jiang Su knocked gently on the door to Jiang Cheng’s study.

"What? Come in," came the sharp voice from inside.

Jiang Su stepped in and bowed deeply. "Forgive me, Zongzhu. I need to ask about your condition."

Jiang Cheng glanced at him briefly before returning to his documents. "Same as before. Qi's a mess, body burns, sometimes freezing. I told you already, it’s not a big deal."

"Zongzhu," Jiang Su pressed carefully, "I’ve reviewed all the qi deviation literature again. Your symptoms… don’t fully match."

Jiang Cheng slowly raised an eyebrow. "What are you saying?"

"Qi deviation causes chaotic qi flow, but it doesn't cause the kind of burning you described. And the freezing sensation… that’s not typical either."

"You think I misdiagnosed myself?"

"Forgive me, Zongzhu, but… I don’t think this is qi deviation."

Silence.

Jiang Cheng stared at him for a long, long moment before huffing quietly. "If it's not qi deviation, then what? Do you have an answer?"

"Not yet."

Jiang Su tightened his grip on the scroll in his hands. "But I will find out. I won’t let us mismanage this."

"Then don’t waste my time. Find out quickly," Jiang Cheng muttered, his gaze falling back to his paperwork. His voice softened just slightly, worn and tired. "If you take too long… I might explode before you get the answer."

"Zongzhu… you don’t have to carry this alone. If you would just—"

"Get out."

"... Yes, Zongzhu."

Jiang Su bowed deeply and withdrew, leaving Jiang Cheng alone in his study.

Alone, Jiang Cheng stared blankly at the document before him.

' If it's not qi deviation… if it’s worse than that… '

A bitter thought crept into his mind.

' Maybe this… is the punishment I deserve. '

He clenched his fist, pressing his palm over the searing ache in his dantian.

' And maybe… I’m not brave enough to face it. '

Chapter Text

On the surface, everything seemed calm.

Lotus Pier carried on as usual. The disciples trained. The elders handled internal affairs. The common folk went about their daily lives.

But that calm was a lie.

That afternoon, a junior disciple came running, panting heavily, his robes soaked in blood—some his own, some not.

“Zongzhu! A report from the southern village, near the Yunmeng Jiang border! Livestock have been found dead with strange wounds. Several villagers are also missing—they’re most likely… already dead.”

Jiang Cheng, seated in the main hall, tossed aside the document in his hands. His gaze sharpened instantly.

“Jiang Xue, sent five senior disciples and eight juniors. Tell them to investigate the situation immediately. If it’s a rogue spirit, exorcise it on the spot. If it’s something beyond their control, pull back and report to me at once. Don’t engage recklessly. Do not waste time.”

“Yes, Zongzhu!”

Jiang Xue bowed deeply and left in haste, determined to carry out his duty without delay.

—--

The group departed that very afternoon, assuming it was just another rogue spirit.
Such spirits usually targeted livestock and were easily dealt with by senior disciples.
No one thought it would become something serious.

But by nightfall, the bad news came faster than anyone expected.

Eight junior disciples returned—bloodied, severely injured, two barely able to stand without help. Their faces were pale, trembling, their eyes empty, as if they had just walked out of hell.

“Zongzhu!” One of them dropped to his knees, shaking violently. “Forgive us. We… we couldn’t do it. The spirit—it’s too strong!”

Jiang Cheng slowly rose from his seat, his gaze cold and unrelenting.
“Where are your senior brothers? The ones who were supposed to lead you?”

The disciple bit his lip hard, holding back tears.
“They… they stayed behind to hold it off. They ordered us to retreat and report. They said… they might not return.”

The hall fell silent.
Jiang Cheng clenched his fists, his jaw tightening.

‘ Idiots ,’ he thought bitterly. ‘ Why throw yourselves away like that? ’

But deep down, he knew.
They were only following the teachings he had drilled into them.

With a flick of his sleeve, Jiang Cheng ordered, “Prepare ten senior disciples. I’m going myself. We’ll end this.”

“Zongzhu!” Jiang Su quickly stepped forward, his voice urgent. “You can’t go! You know your condition isn’t stable. If your qi spirals out of control in the middle of a battle, it won’t just endanger you—it could endanger everyone around you!”

Jiang Cheng turned slowly to face him, his gaze sharp and absolute.
“If I don’t go, who’s going to ensure their survival? Who’s going to make sure that spirit doesn’t tear through our villages?”

“Zongzhu, please reconsider. You—”

“This is my duty.” Jiang Cheng’s voice cut through him like ice. “I am the leader of Yunmeng Jiang. If I can’t protect our land, I may as well not come back at all.”

Jiang Su fell silent, his fists clenched tight.
He knew he couldn’t stop him.

Jiang Cheng turned to Jiang Xue, who was standing tall, his face composed but his eyes trembling just slightly.

“Jiang Xue.”

“Yes, Zongzhu!”

“If I don’t return…” Jiang Cheng spoke as if giving routine instructions, but every word landed like a hammer.
“You will lead Lotus Pier. You will protect this sect.”

“Zongzhu, you—”

“This is an order.”

Jiang Xue bowed deeply, his voice trembling. “Understood, Zongzhu.”

Jiang Cheng walked past them all without a backward glance.

“If you have time to cry over things that haven’t happened yet, you might as well leave Lotus Pier now.”

He didn’t wait for a response.

He didn’t leave room for hesitation.

In his eyes, the decision was final.

He knew the risk.

He was ready.

If this was the path to his own destruction—
Maybe he was always meant to walk it.

As Jiang Cheng walked away, his back was as straight as ever.
But only he knew—his steps had grown heavy. His qi was spiraling again, the heat rising viciously from within.

‘ If this is my end, ’ he thought, ‘ at least I’m not hiding from it. ’

Chapter Text

The journey to the southern village led Jiang Cheng and his disciples along a narrow forest path, shrouded in thickening mist. The cold night air clung to their skin, damp and heavy, carrying the scent of wet leaves and distant blood.

As they reached the village outskirts, the signs of battle immediately surfaced—trees split and broken, sword marks dragging along the mud, panicked footprints scattered in every direction, and dark stains of dried blood splattered across the grass and underbrush.

“Hmph.” Jiang Cheng’s frown deepened, his sharp gaze slicing through the night like a blade.
“This wasn’t a minor skirmish.”

The air was too quiet. Not even the usual chirping of night insects remained.

He turned to the senior disciples flanking him.

“Listen carefully,” he commanded, his voice steady and cold like steel. “Spread out and search the entire area. Find any disciples who might have been left behind. But remember—don’t act recklessly. If you find any trace of that spirit’s movement, do not engage on your own. Return immediately and report to me. I won’t lose any more people tonight.”

“Yes, Zongzhu!” They bowed and swiftly disappeared into the mist, their silhouettes swallowed by the heavy fog.

Jiang Cheng made his way toward the village center alone.

The village was unnervingly silent, the kind of silence that felt like something was waiting just beyond sight. Even the houses, still standing, looked abandoned—windows shut, doors barred, their residents hidden within.

A few brave villagers, pale and trembling, finally gathered when they saw the unmistakable purple robes of Yunmeng Jiang. Relief flickered in their eyes, though their fear hadn’t faded.

“Jiang-Zongzhu, please save us! That evil spirit… it came out of nowhere!” their voices trembled, some already on the verge of tears.

“Start from the beginning,” Jiang Cheng said coldly, wasting no time. His gaze bore into them like sharp needles.
“Where did the attacks begin?”

“It started with the livestock, Zongzhu. They were found dead with terrible wounds… we thought it was just wild beasts. But then… villagers began disappearing. One by one.”

“Did anyone see what it was?”

An elderly man hesitated before stepping forward.
“We… we saw a large shadow, but when we got close, it vanished so quickly we couldn’t follow.”

“Did you see cultivators from my sect? Wearing purple robes like mine?”

“Yes, Zongzhu! They were fighting—we heard the sounds of battle from the hills behind the village. But we were too afraid to go outside… we could only hide in our homes.”

Jiang Cheng inhaled slowly, forcing back the frustration twisting in his chest.
‘They were too afraid. I can’t blame them.’

Suddenly, one of his senior disciples came sprinting toward him, breathless, his face pale.

“Zongzhu! We found them!”

“Them?” Jiang Cheng’s eyes sharpened immediately.
“Where? Are they alive?”

“They’re badly injured, but they’re alive. We didn’t find the spirit—only traces of the battle and their wounds.”

Without another word, Jiang Cheng strode forward, following the disciple deeper into the forest.

—--

The night thickened as they moved through the trees. The damp leaves glistened under the faint moonlight that struggled to pierce through the swirling fog. The scent of iron grew stronger, the silence oppressive.

Near the base of the hill, five disciples lay scattered on the ground—gasping, their bodies battered and bloodied, robes torn and soaked in red.

“Zongzhu…” one of them forced himself to sit up, though his body trembled with pain.
“We… we’re sorry. We failed… the spirit was too strong.”

“Silence,” Jiang Cheng cut him off coldly.
“You’re alive. That’s all that matters. Don’t waste time apologizing.”

He swiftly examined their wounds. Deep gashes, claw marks—like those left by a massive beast. He could still sense the faint remnants of hostile spiritual energy clinging stubbornly to their torn flesh.
That thing wasn’t ordinary.

Jiang Cheng turned to the remaining disciples.
“Take them back to Lotus Pier. Use spirit birds. Get them there as quickly as possible.”

One disciple hesitated.
“Zongzhu, you’re not coming with us?”

Jiang Cheng’s jaw clenched tightly.
“You think I came here to return empty-handed?”

“But… the spirit is still nearby…”

“That’s exactly why I’m staying.” His gaze hardened, sharp and unshakable.
“This is Yunmeng Jiang territory. I won’t let something like that roam freely here.”

He turned away, pressing his palm tightly over the burning pain flaring in his abdomen. His fist clenched the hilt of Sandu, his spiritual saber, grounding himself against the searing pulse of his own unstable qi.
‘Tch. Not now.’

“Don’t waste time.” He flicked his sleeve sharply.
“Five of you—take the wounded back immediately. The rest stay alert. Do not move without my orders.”

“Yes, Zongzhu!”

The disciples quickly gathered their injured brothers and hurried away.

Jiang Cheng remained standing, alone beneath the dark trees, the cold mist brushing against his face. He stared toward the shadowed hill ahead.

‘If I die here… at least I’ll die where I’m meant to. On the battlefield that belongs to me.’

His hand tightened around Sandu’s hilt.

‘If I survive… maybe I can repay even a fraction of the debt I’ll never be able to clear.’

The burning in his abdomen throbbed again, but he walked forward without hesitation.

The leaves beneath his boots were slick and cold, the fog thickening around his shoulders.

‘Come. Show yourself. If you dare set foot in Yunmeng Jiang, you’d better be prepared to face me.’

Chapter Text

Jiang Cheng walked deeper into the night-cloaked forest.

The remaining disciples hurried to catch up, their footsteps soft against the damp leaves. The moonlight barely pierced through the thick fog curling between the trees, and the air had grown so cold that each breath clouded before their faces. Shadows stretched long across the ground, silent and unmoving, as if the forest itself was holding its breath.

The usual sounds of the night—crickets, rustling leaves—had fallen away, leaving only the quiet shuffle of boots and the distant echoes of their breathing.

Jiang Cheng narrowed his eyes, scanning the faint tracks in the muddy path—fresh claw marks, snapped branches, streaks of blood that still glistened wet under the pale moonlight.

“It's close,” Jiang Cheng muttered.

Suddenly, a deafening clash of spiritual energy shattered the silence, followed by a feral roar that rattled the very air.

“That way! Move!” Jiang Cheng shot forward, Zidian already crackling in his hand. The disciples sprinted after him.

They broke through the underbrush and emerged into a clearing.

There—standing alone—was Wen Ning.

The fierce corpse stood with his sword raised, facing a grotesque spirit-beast—a twisted fusion of wolf, serpent, and bird, with a long serpentine body, torn wings, and a pair of branching tails lashing wildly behind it.

“…Wen Ning?!” Jiang Cheng barked, his eyes wide with disbelief. “What are you doing here?!”

Wen Ning grunted as he blocked another strike. His breathing was heavy, but his stance remained steady. “Jiang Wanyin! You made it!”

“Where’s Jin Ling and the others?! You’re always with them—why aren’t they with you?!”

“I sent them back to Yunmeng!” Wen Ning yelled over the clashing blows. “I thought you would’ve met them on the road!”

“You’re not sure they’re safe, and you left them?!” Jiang Cheng’s voice cracked with rage.

Wen Ning faltered for half a heartbeat, blocking another strike with his blade. “Jin Ling and Sizhui were injured—but not badly! I held the spirit back so they could escape!”

‘If anything happens to them… I’ll kill you myself, Wen Ning. I swear it.’

Jiang Cheng shoved down his fury and roared to his disciples, “Don’t engage recklessly! Surround it—block every escape path! Do not move without my command!”

“Yes, Zongzhu!”

Zidian whipped forward in a blinding arc, crackling purple lightning slamming into the beast. Wen Ning quickly adjusted his movements, falling into a seamless rhythm with Jiang Cheng.

The battle was brutal.

The spirit was far stronger than it should’ve been—far faster, far more vicious. Its form twisted unnaturally, a grotesque fusion of wolf, serpent, and bird, its sinewy muscles rippling beneath matted fur and cracked scales. Ragged wings, torn and frayed, beat the air with bursts of dark energy.

Every slash of its claws gouged deep trenches into the earth, ripping apart roots and sending soil flying. Its jaws snapped with bone-crushing force, its forked tongue flickering like a serpent ready to strike. Every roar rattled the leaves, sending shudders through the trees and making the very air tremble with its spiritual pressure.

Jiang Cheng surged forward with Sandu in hand and Zidian cracking through the darkness with arcs of violent purple lightning. Wen Ning moved in tandem, blade glinting as he parried another crushing blow from the beast’s talons.

"Left!" Jiang Cheng barked, and Wen Ning instantly pivoted to the side, leaving an opening.

Zidian lashed out, wrapping around the spirit’s forelimb, lightning searing into the corrupted flesh. The creature howled in fury and whipped its massive body in a wide arc, nearly dragging Jiang Cheng off his feet.

“Tch—stubborn bastard!” Jiang Cheng gritted his teeth, tightening his grip and anchoring himself against the pull.

The disciples moved swiftly, cutting off the spirit’s retreat. A pair of them summoned talismans, pinning the beast’s shadow in place for just a heartbeat.

But that heartbeat was enough.

Wen Ning’s blade pierced into the creature’s side, a sharp, decisive stab that sent a burst of dark mist spiraling out from the wound. The spirit thrashed violently, slamming its wings against the ground, breaking the talismans.

"Don’t let it through!" Jiang Cheng shouted. "Close the formation—tighten the net!"

The disciples leapt into position, swords drawn, spiritual threads weaving through the air to trap the beast in a tightening cage. It lashed out, desperate, its movements growing increasingly erratic.

Jiang Cheng could feel it—the beast was panicking. They were winning.

But then—

‘Tch. No… not now…’

That cursed heat returned, searing through his abdomen like molten iron.

His knees buckled, the burning sensation ripping through his meridians, spreading like wildfire. He dropped to one knee, clutching his abdomen with a choked breath, his vision spinning.

‘Not now—damn it! Not now!’

"Zongzhu?!" His disciples faltered, panic flashing in their eyes.

Wen Ning’s voice cut through the din. "Jiang Wanyin?!"

The spirit sensed the weakness in an instant.

It lunged, ignoring Wen Ning, ignoring the disciples—straight for Jiang Cheng.

"Zongzhu!!"

"Jiang Wanyin!!"

Jiang Cheng forced his body to move, forced his hand to lift Sandu—but his limbs trembled, his qi was in chaos, and the heat only intensified, clouding his vision.

‘Move—move, damn you!’

The beast’s talons gleamed as they swung down toward him.

But then—

A flash of white sliced through the night.

A sharp, clean sword energy tore through the spirit’s energy—splitting its devastating attack, scattering its spiritual force like mist in the wind.

The spirit reeled back, its momentum shattered. In the same breath, the white figure descended, cutting through the beast’s in a single, fluid motion.

The creature screamed—a sound that tore through the forest—and its corrupted form cracked, split, and dissolved into ash.

Silence dropped heavily over the battlefield.

Jiang Cheng panted, his body collapsing to the ground, the burning in his core seething, but his gaze remained fixed on the figure in white.

The man sheathed his sword slowly, his movements precise, unhurried.

He turned, and their eyes met.

There was no emotion in his gaze. Calm, sharp, distant.

Then Jiang Cheng’s vision darkened, his body finally giving out.

The last thing he saw was that man in white, standing still amidst the falling ash.

Chapter Text

Slowly, Jiang Cheng opened his eyes.

The familiar ceiling of his room greeted him—but it brought no comfort. Afternoon sunlight slipped between the window slats, casting pale lines across the cold stone floor. The air smelled faintly of tea, long since gone cold.

His head throbbed. His body felt like it had been dragged across gravel. Every breath hurts. Even moving his hand felt like lifting a stone.

He managed to sit up, back resting against the bedpost, and that was when he saw it.

Someone was sitting by the window.

White robes. Straight-backed posture. Long hair, partially tied. A sword leaned against the wall beside him. The man was calmly pouring himself a cup of tea, as if he belonged there.

"Finally awake," the man said without looking up. His voice was calm, casual—but carried an unmistakable authority.

Jiang Cheng tensed immediately. His dantian ached like a molten fire, but his gaze was sharp.

"Who are you?" he growled.

The man turned his head slowly. His eyes were unreadable, calm as still water. "The one who saved your life."

Jiang Cheng pushed against the bed to stand, pain flaring through every limb. But his pride refused to let him show it. "Get out of my room."

The man didn’t so much as glance his way.

"If you keep moving like that, your golden core will fall apart even faster."

Jiang Cheng froze, glare sharpening. "What did you say?"

“Your body’s rejecting it. It won’t hold much longer.”

Jiang Cheng’s gaze sharpened. His voice dropped, low and cold. “And you think you understand what’s happening inside me?”

“I do.”

The answer came without hesitation.

“Your golden core is dissolving,” he added. 

Jiang Cheng went still. The air around him suddenly felt thin, pressing sharp against his lungs.

“You expect me to trust you?” he scoffed. “I don’t even know your name.”

The man set down his cup with unsettling calm. “Ye Baiyi. And I know you well enough.”

Jiang Cheng let out a bitter laugh. “Am I just supposed to take your word for it?”

“No. I expect you to feel it. You already do, don't you?”

Jiang Cheng clenched his fists over the blanket. His nails dug into the fabric.

That burning in his dantian. The sudden freezing that followed.

He had felt it. Again and again. For weeks.

“That core isn’t yours, is it?” Ye Baiyi asked, quieter now. “Not originally.”

The room felt colder.

Jiang Cheng’s jaw locked. “How do you know that?”

The words came out hoarse, half threat, half demand.

Then, more quietly, like a blade sliding between ribs: “…What exactly do you think you know?”

Ye Baiyi met his gaze without flinching. “I know enough.”

He leaned forward slightly.

“There are only two outcomes to core transplantation. One—immediate rejection. Death in days, maybe hours.”

He paused.

“Two—delayed rejection. The body accepts it, but not forever. And when it turns…”

His voice stayed level.

“…it unravels everything.”

Jiang Cheng’s breath caught. But Ye Baiyi wasn’t done.

“A golden core isn’t just spiritual energy—it carries the soulprint of the one who made it. No matter how deep you bury it, a foreign soul never truly sleeps inside another man’s body.”

A beat. Then—quietly, like delivering truth without cruelty:

“The body resists what the soul cannot accept.”

Silence.

For once, Jiang Cheng didn’t fire back.

He stared ahead, jaw tight, shoulders unmoving. His gaze dropped to the blanket.

He knew.

He had known. In some corner of his mind, he had always known.

The burning. The recoil of his meridians. The way his qi twisted wrong.

He shut his eyes, just once.

“…Then why now?”

“Because your body’s been holding it by force,” Ye Baiyi said. “And force has limits.”

His voice remained calm, but the weight of it pressed harder now. “You’ve reached yours.”

He poured himself another cup of tea, like it was nothing. “It’s unraveling. Bit by bit. The pain will grow worse. Eventually, you’ll feel it tear everything from the inside.”

Jiang Cheng didn’t move. His expression is unreadable now, like a porcelain mask beginning to crack.

“…What do you want?”

“I don’t want anything,” Ye Baiyi replied. “If you want to live a little longer, I might be able to help.”

A bitter scoff left Jiang Cheng’s lips. “Help? From a stranger with too many answers and no explanation?”

Ye Baiyi gave a faint shrug. “Believe me or don’t. I’m not here to beg.”

Jiang Cheng’s voice was low now. Flat. “You’ve made your point. Get out.”

Ye Baiyi didn’t reply. He simply stood, smooth and unhurried, picking up his sword with practiced ease. His expression remained unreadable—as if he’d expected nothing else.

At the doorway, he paused.

 Not looking back, he said,

 “Your meridians will begin to open on their own in two days.”

A beat of silence.

“When they do, your core will continue unraveling—just as it was always meant to.”

And then he left, robes trailing softly behind him, like wind that never intended to stay.

Jiang Cheng remained frozen, his breath ragged, cold sweat clinging to his skin like the memory of a fever long passed.

So it was true.

All the signs—the burning in his dantian, the hollow ache that no cultivation could soothe, the way his meridians recoiled like injured beasts…

He had known.

Somewhere, deep down, he had always known.

But knowing and hearing it said aloud were two very different things.

Your golden core is dissolving.

It wasn't just pain.

It wasn’t just strain.

It was death. Slow, deliberate—waiting like a blade in the dark.

His hands curled into fists atop the blanket, breath shaking once—just once—before he forced it down again.

No wonder the pain grew colder each time it returned.

It wasn't a deviation. It wasn't an injury.

It was his own body turning against the thing that had once saved his life.

A curse wearing the shape of a miracle.

He swallowed, throat dry, eyes unfocused.

How much time did he have?

Days? Weeks?

Would he even know when it began to truly break him apart?

Would it hurt?

Would he be conscious of it—until the very last breath?

He shut his eyes, but the darkness behind his lids offered no peace.

Only questions he had no strength left to ask.

When he opened them again, the world was dimmer.

The light at the window was waning. The air felt heavier than before.

And in the quiet, one truth lingered, bitter and immovable:

He was dying.

Not in some distant, poetic way.

But truly. Slowly. From the inside out.

And no one—not even himself—could stop it now.

Chapter Text

The room remained still, long after Ye Baiyi left.

Jiang Cheng hadn’t moved.

The door had closed, sealing the silence in. The teacup on the table had gone cold. The light at the window had dimmed further, casting faint lines across the floor like the memory of a prison cell.

He was still seated—blankets half-fallen, back pressed against the carved bedpost, body heavy with too many truths.

His hands remained clenched, but his breath had steadied—artificial calm layered over unraveling certainty.

He shut his eyes once more, not in surrender, but in quiet defiance. As if by keeping still, he could will his body into staying intact just a little longer.

But the world outside refused to grant him that stillness.

From outside the room, muffled voices broke the stillness—hurried footsteps, urgent whispers just beyond the door.

Then—

The door burst open.

Light footsteps rushed in, followed by a trembling voice Jiang Cheng knew all too well.

“Jiujiu!!”

Jin Ling darted forward like an arrow loose from its string. His face was flushed, breath hitched, eyes brimming with unshed tears. He stopped beside the bed and flung his arms around Jiang Cheng without hesitation.

“Oi—” Jiang Cheng barely lifted his hand before the boy flung himself forward and clung to him tightly.

“Jiujiu! Jiujiu!! You’re awake! I—I—”

“Enough already,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “What, are you planning to soak my robes with all that crying?”

His tone lacked its usual sharpness—more weary than scolding.

But Jin Ling didn’t let go. His sobs only grew louder.

“You were unconscious for two whole days, Jiujiu! I… I was so scared!”

'Two days?'

Jiang Cheng blinked, brows knitting faintly.

He hadn’t known.

He exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Well, I’m still breathing, aren’t I?”

His voice was dry and clipped, but not forceful.

“Quit crying like a starving chick.”

He reached out to swat Jin Ling’s head—not hard. Just enough to fluster him, as he always did.

Behind them, Jiang Su and Jiang Xue entered quietly. Relief flickered in their expressions.

“You’ve awakened at last, Zongzhu,” Jiang Su said with a low bow, voice calm but sincere.

“Young Master Jin nearly fell ill refusing to sleep the past two nights,” Jiang Xue added gently.

“Is that so?”

Jiang Cheng’s gaze shifted toward Jin Ling. His eyes narrowed just a little.

“You’ve been pacing around like a ghost, haven’t you?”

He clicked his tongue. “No wonder you look like you’ve been dragged through mud.”

“I couldn’t sleep!” Jin Ling snapped. “Not when you were like that! What if you never woke up?!”

Jiang Cheng’s jaw tightened. “What, trying to die from exhaustion? Go to bed. Now."

“Jiujiu!!”

“If you won’t, I’ll drag you there myself and tie you down.” He raised his voice, but there was no real force behind it.

“I can’t just—!”

“Enough.” The word cracked out sharper than the rest.

Jin Ling flinched.

The silence that followed was cold. Heavy.

Jiang Cheng let out a slow breath, like speaking had drained what little strength remained.

He didn’t look at Jin Ling—just stared ahead, distant.

“…You’re too loud.”

Jin Ling bit his lip hard.

“…Then I’ll go. But—you have to get better. You’re not allowed to scare me like that again.”

Jiang Cheng snorted—soft, almost tired.

“Don’t go making rules for your elder,” he muttered, turning his face away. “I’m the adult here.”

His voice tried to sound firm, but it came out dry—stripped of bite.

The hand atop the blanket curled faintly, but his fingers trembled slightly.

A slip.

One he prayed no one had seen it.

Jin Ling said nothing more. He bowed his head, turned, and walked out in silence. 

His shoulders trembled—not from anger this time, but from something more fragile.

Jiang Su and Jiang Xue stood quietly before him, heads lowered. Waiting.

For a long moment, Jiang Cheng didn’t speak.

His gaze remained steady. Distant.

His posture upright, but not effortless—there was weight behind it now, unseen but present.

Then, finally—his voice came. Low. Even. Carved with control.

“What happened these past two days?”

Jiang Xue stepped forward first. “After the battle… Ye Baiyi Qianbei sealed your meridians on the spot. Without it, your own qi would’ve—” He hesitated. “—done irreparable damage.”

A slight furrow appeared between Jiang Cheng’s brows.

But he didn’t interrupt.

Jiang Xue added, “The other disciples said he escorted you back. Set barriers. Cleared the path of rogue spirits. He… took over most of the stabilization work.”

Still, no comment from Jiang Cheng. Just a faint shift in his jaw.

“He insisted on staying until you woke up.” Jiang Xue’s voice dropped lower. “He said… he could help. If you allow it.”

Jiang Cheng finally looked up. The glance was brief—cold, unreadable.

His tone, flat:

“That won’t be necessary.”

A short silence followed.

Jiang Su exchanged a look with Jiang Xue before continuing.

“Zongzhu… he said your golden core is—” He paused. “—rejecting your body. That it’s beginning to dissolve.”

Jiang Cheng’s face remained still.

Too still.

Only his hand moved—closing slowly over the blanket on his lap.

“He said it can’t be reversed,” Jiang Su murmured. “That it will… worsen.”

Nothing but silence.

No curse. No outburst.

Only the low, quiet weight of acceptance sharpening into iron.

Jiang Su tried again. “He may know something. More than we do. Perhaps we should—”

“No.” Jiang Cheng’s voice was soft, but final.

 Not a suggestion. A command.

Jiang Su bowed his head. “Understood.”

Jiang Cheng’s eyes flicked toward the window, watching the fading light crawl across the floor.

Then, quietly:

“Who else knows?”

“Only us,” Jiang Xue answered. “And Ye Baiyi Qianbei.”

“Jin Ling?”

“He doesn’t know,” Jiang Xue said. “But he’s suspicious.”

A pause.

Then:

 “Lie better.”

That was all Jiang Cheng said.

The words struck sharper than any scolding.

“…Yes, Zongzhu.”

Jiang Cheng didn’t move. Just kept his eyes on the far wall.

“At the very least,” he said, barely louder than a breath, “let him see me as I was.”

Neither dared reply.

Jiang Xue shifted slightly. “Zongzhu. There is more.”

Jiang Cheng only gave a glance, but Jiang Xue knew he was listening.

“There have been… increased rogue spirit sightings in South border. We’ve doubled the patrols.”

Jiang Cheng give a faint nod.

“Wen Qianbei assisted,” he added.

A pause.

“Wen Ning remained outside the borders,” Jiang Su said quickly. “He did not attempt to enter.”

Jiang Cheng didn’t comment. Just exhaled—short, soundless. “Good. Keep it that way.”

“What of internal affairs?” he asked after a moment.

“No unrest,” Jiang Xue reported. “Young Master Jin helped us keep the household running.”

Something flickered behind Jiang Cheng’s gaze when he heard his nephew’s name.

But it passed too quickly to catch.

"Did another sect send words?”

“Yes. We placed it with your scrolls,” Jiang Xue replied. “Master Lan Qiren inquired if Young Master Jin would return soon.”

A faint “Tch” escaped Jiang Cheng’s lips.

“He returns when I say so.”

Jiang Xue hesitated, then added, “Lan Sizhui, Lan Jingyi, and Ouyang Zizhen are still staying in the guest quarters. They’ve refused to return to their sects. They said they wish to accompany Young Master Jin.”

Jiang Cheng didn’t respond immediately. His fingers drummed once against the armrest. Soft. Deliberate.

Then his voice came, low and cool.

“They’re guests. As long as they don’t interfere, let them stay.”

He paused, eyes narrowing faintly.

“But if they ask questions—answer nothing.”

“…Yes, Zongzhu.”

A beat of silence.

“And that man—Ye Baiyi?”

“We’ve begun discreet inquiries. No known affiliations. He’s… been hunting rogue spirits.”

“Let him,” Jiang Cheng said simply.

Then, with a colder edge:

“But I want eyes on him.”

“Yes, Zongzhu.”

“His location?”

“South Pavilion.”

“Double the guard.”

“Understood.”

Jiang Cheng sat straighter than before—as if summoning what strength remained to keep his back from touching the bedpost.

But the effort showed.

His shoulders held too much tension, his breath too shallow. And for a heartbeat, his grip on the blanket faltered.

His right hand trembled as he adjusted the blanket—barely, just a flicker of movement—but both Jiang Su and Jiang Xue noticed.

Jiang Su’s brows furrowed. Subtly, his gaze dropped to Jiang Cheng’s hand, then quickly looked away—silent, but visibly concerned.

Jiang Xue hesitated for a heartbeat longer than necessary before bowing again, his eyes lingering on his zongzhu’s face, as if hoping to read through the cracks.

But Jiang Cheng did not acknowledge it.

His face was still composed, cold, immovable.

He closed his eyes, a breath slow and measured.

Composing.

Rearming.

“That’s all. You may leave.”

Jiang Su and Jiang Xue bowed deeply, but even as they turned to leave, they each cast one last glance back.

Not at their sect leader.

But at the man they had followed through storms—

whose stillness now felt too quiet, too careful, like a blade held just before it breaks.

The door closed behind them with a soft click.

———

Jiang Cheng stared at the closed door, unmoving.

The room fell quiet again—only the sound of his breathing, steady but thin.

Only when their footsteps had faded entirely did he let the tension ease from his shoulders—barely.

He leaned back against the carved bedpost, one hand resting lightly over his abdomen—where his golden core once thrummed like a steady flame.

Now, there was only silence.

A hollowness spreading deeper each day.

He could still play the part.

Still give orders. Still hold a brush without trembling. Still answer Jin Ling’s worried glances with curt commands and unshaken tone.

But he knew.

It would get harder.

It would get worse.

And when it did—

He wouldn’t let them see.

Not Jiang Su. Not Jiang Xue.

Not Jin Ling.

Not anyone.

Not even himself.

Whatever time he had left, he would use it standing.

And when he fell—he would make sure no one was watching.

Chapter Text

The candle had long since burned out.

But Jiang Cheng had not slept.

Not truly.

He had closed his eyes—perhaps to rest, perhaps to forget—but the hours passed without dreams, without relief.

The air in his chamber felt thick. Still.

As though even the night dared not move too loudly.

The seal on his meridians remained intact, yet the pain beneath it was relentless—dull at times, sharp at others.

A slow-burning pressure curled in his core, like something collapsing inward, fragment by fragment.

He could not touch his spiritual energy.

Could not even sense its flow.

But the ache it left behind—the strain of something unraveling inside him—refused to fade.

By dawn, the pain had dulled—but not disappeared.

Jiang Cheng forced himself out of bed, every joint aching like rusted hinges. 

The pressure in his core remained—a silent reminder of what was failing within.

But duty did not wait for healing.

He dressed without assistance, ignoring how his fingers trembled while tying his belt. 

When he stepped into the main hall of Lotus Pier, his expression was unreadable—carved from stone, as if nothing could touch him.

Jiang Su and Jiang Xue were already waiting, scrolls and documents stacked high. They bowed at once, relief evident in their eyes, though tempered by anxiety.

“Zongzhu,” Jiang Su greeted. “Are you certain—”

“I’m standing,” Jiang Cheng said flatly. “Report.”

They obeyed without delay.

“Two days worth of internal affairs,” Jiang Xue began, setting the first scroll before him. “Most are routine. However... disturbances near the southern border have continued.”

Jiang Cheng’s brow shifted slightly, “Fengyuan?”

“Yes, Zongzhu. And villages along the southern ridge. Sightings remain isolated, mostly low-level rogue spirits. No major harm reported, but the frequency is increasing.”

Jiang Cheng glanced at the scroll. “You’ve sent additional patrols?”

“This morning,” Jiang Xue confirmed. “A double rotation—three teams dispatched to the border points. They're under orders to report every six hours.”

“Good.” Jiang Cheng leaned back slightly, jaw set. “Any activity outside the southern region?”

“None so far. The rest of Yunmeng remains quiet.”

Jiang Xue added calmly, “It may be nothing. Or it may be the start of something more.”

Jiang Cheng’s eyes sharpened. “We’ll act when it’s more than speculation. Until then—stay alert.”

“Yes, Zongzhu.”

A pause.

“We’ve also gathered information on the man called Ye Baiyi.”

Jiang Cheng didn’t look up, but his attention focused.

“No affiliation,” Jiang Xue reported. “Not from any major sect. No ribbons, no emblems. But he’s been seen along rogue spirit territories, acting alone.”

Jiang Cheng’s gaze flicked toward the window. Outside, the morning sunlight was getting hotter, a sign of the approaching day.

“There’s more,” Jiang Xue added. “A merchant passing through Yunmeng spoke of a tale from the southern martial lands. A white-robed cultivator who never ages. Appears only in times of unrest.”

A breath passed.

Jiang Cheng scoffed softly through his nose. The sound held no amusement.

“A ghost story,” he muttered.

“We’re still investigating discreetly,” Jiang Xue said. “But his movements match the accounts.”

“Keep him under watch,” Jiang Cheng said, finally lifting his eyes.

“Don’t let him near the inner grounds.”

“Yes, Zongzhu.”

Jiang Cheng reached for another scroll—but his hand faltered mid-motion. The tremor was slight, but not missed.

“Zongzhu…”Jiang Su began, tentative.

“I’m fine.” 

The words were quiet. Too quiet.

But Jiang Cheng knew.

With his meridians locked and his golden core decaying, he was walking into battle with no armor left beneath his robes.

Still—he would not flinch.

Jiang Su glanced once at Jiang Xue, then stepped forward.

“Zongzhu. Regarding your golden core…”

Jiang Cheng didn’t look up, but the brush in his hand stilled. His fingers curled slightly around it, knuckles paling.

“Speak.”

Jiang Su bowed and drew a thin scroll from his sleeve.

"We've reviewed the sect archives thoroughly, but there isn't a single entry that supports what Ye Baiyi said. However…”

He offered the scroll carefully.

“I submitted inquiries through archival channels. Gusu Lan, Qinghe Nie, Lanling Jin. No names, no specifics. Framed as academic queries regarding meridian instability.”

Jiang Cheng’s gaze flicked up—sharp, unreadable.

“You went beyond Yunmeng.”

“A necessity,” Jiang Su said quietly. “No one here has encountered a case like this.”

Jiang Xue added, “Even if the other sects suspect, the most they’ll assume is internal injury from overexertion. The inquiries were disguised.”

Jiang Cheng said nothing. Only the tension in his shoulders betrayed how closely he was listening.

Jiang Su unrolled the scroll. The script was fine, exacting—Lan style. Each stroke balanced with clinical precision.

“Most cultivation texts assume an original golden core,” he began, voice even. “But one manuscript from the Gusu Lan archives theorizes a different case—cores that are not one’s own. Transplanted.”

He paused, but Jiang Cheng did not interrupt.

“It stated—based on earlier sect writings—that a golden core carries more than just spiritual energy. It holds a sliver of the owner’s soul.”

Still no reaction. But Jiang Cheng’s jaw had tightened, ever so slightly.

Jiang Su continued, slower now, as if weighing the next words.

“If the recipient’s soul rejects that foreign trace… the body follows. There are no confirmed records. No precedent. Because no one has survived long enough with a core that wasn’t truly theirs.”

He shifted the scroll gently, letting the light catch a line of faded ink.

“They called it Spiritual Erotion,” Jiang Su said quietly.

Jiang Cheng’s gaze fell to the parchment before him. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

Only his thumb twitched—once—against the edge of the scroll.

Jiang Su watched him carefully before going on.

“Lanling Jin’s records mention possible stalling methods. They remain theoretical—experimental at best. Not a cure. But with enough medicines, enough rest, and proper spiritual restructuring… it might buy time.”

The silence stretched.

Then Jiang Su bowed his head slightly, his voice cautious, almost reverent.

“…Should we attempt them?”

A pause.

Long.

Then, barely above a whisper—

“…Do it.”

Both disciples bowed, their heads low with quiet resolve.

Jiang Cheng signed two more scrolls, each stroke deliberate. The brush moved with practiced precision, but the motion was slower than usual. Measured to the point of rigidity.

When he set the second scroll aside, his fingers lingered—just a fraction too long—before releasing the edge.

He reached for the third scroll.

This time, his grip faltered.

His fingers closed, then loosened.

The brush shifted slightly in his palm before he steadied it. He dipped it into the ink once more, but didn’t lift it immediately.

For a brief second, his other hand pressed lightly—too lightly—against the side of his abdomen. A fleeting touch, as if testing something only he could feel.

Then it was gone.

Jiang Su saw it. So did Jiang Xue.

Neither spoke.

The next character came out slightly skewed. Barely noticeable to an outsider.

He exhaled quietly through his nose and finished the last stroke.

When he finally placed the brush down, his fingers didn’t pull away immediately. They held, just slightly trembling. A subtle tremor—small enough that one might call it fatigue. Jiang Cheng let go with care, as if even the motion of setting it down might give something away.

Jiang Su stepped forward, tone level but edged with concern.

“That’s enough for today.”

Jiang Cheng’s shoulders stiffened. “I can still—”

“You’re pale,” Jiang Su said evenly. “And your hand is shaking.”

“I’m fine.”

But the words were too flat. Too tightly held.

His voice had no weight behind it. No edge.

“If you collapse again,” Jiang Su added calmly, “I’ll call Jin Ling myself. I’m certain he won’t enjoy seeing you in that state.”

A flicker of irritation crossed Jiang Cheng’s face—not from the threat, but from its accuracy.

He rose. Slowly. Without help.

But there was a tension to his movement—something tight around his middle. His right hand remained slightly lower than the left, brushing near his side in what might’ve looked like habit.

He didn’t limp. He didn’t falter.

But his footsteps were too exact. Too careful.

The kind of care that came not from composure—but from concealment.

Neither disciple said a word.

When the door closed softly behind him, the silence that remained was heavier than before.

Jiang Su’s brow furrowed, deeply.

Beside him, Jiang Xue turned to the brush their Zongzhu had set aside.

The ink on its tip had dried.

Not because time had passed—

—but because Jiang Cheng had held it too long, trying not to show that his hand could no longer hold steady.

Chapter Text

After Jiang Cheng returned to his chamber, the rain began to fall.

The morning had taken more from him than it should have—just listening to reports, reading, signing scrolls. Nothing strenuous, and yet his body felt the weight of it like a blow, each breath tugging at something already worn thin.

He sat on the edge of the bed, one arm on his abdomen, eyes fixed on the rain sliding down the window.

Lotus Pier beyond was gray and empty. The sky hung heavy, like it hadn’t decided whether to break or not.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Just watched. Still.

Pain curled low in his core, too familiar now to flinch from. A constant presence—tight, hollow, refusing to be soothed.

By afternoon, the rain stopped, but the chill stayed.

He stirred only when the smell of bitter herbs reached him.

Beyond the screen, soft footsteps came and went—never near, but always there. Jiang Xue was keeping watch. He always did, without needing to be told.

Soon after, Jiang Su stepped in with a tray. Steam rose gently from the bowl of porridge.

He placed it down quietly, but his gaze lingered a moment longer than it needed to—speaking more than words could.

"You’ve barely eaten," Jiang Su said, tone low.

"Ginger porridge."

Jiang Cheng didn’t move.

His gaze remained on the window, unfocused.

"Leave it."

Jiang Su hesitated, hands lingering near the tray.

“…Zongzhu.”

His voice was softer than usual, lacking his usual measured composure.

“The medicine—”

“Later,” Jiang Cheng said, clipped.

There was a pause. Jiang Su didn’t argue. But he lingered for a moment longer—eyes flicking briefly toward Jiang Cheng’s posture, the pallor of his face, the stillness too deliberate to be restful.

His brows furrowed—not in disapproval, but quiet worry.

He bowed low.

Then turned.

And left, the door sliding closed behind him with a muted sound.

Outside, another figure waited in silence.

Jiang Xue.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t glance toward the room.

But his stance was tense—shoulders set, spine straight.

Like a blade sheathed too long.

Duty without demand.

Loyalty without question.

Inside, silence returned like mist—soft, thick, settling in every corner.

Jiang Cheng remained still.

Even that brief exchange had taken more from him than he’d admit.

He sat with his back straight, posture composed. But his breath was shallow, and his hand—hidden beneath the sleeve—pressed faintly to his side, where a slow-burning ache had begun to pulse again.

There was no hum of energy within him now.

No warmth in the meridians.

Just stillness.

And silence.

His golden core—once the furnace that lit every breath, every strike—was now a ghost.

A dying ember buried in cold ash.

Leaving behind an agony, 

Sometimes sharp. Sometimes dull.

And yet…

He did not frown.

Did not wince.

Only sat, and endured.

---

Time passed unnoticed.

The porridge on the table had cooled, untouched. The incense had long since burned out.

Jiang Cheng hadn’t moved.

He sat propped against the headboard, eyes closed, his breathing steady—but not asleep.

He had learned long ago that silence left fewer traces than struggle.

That endurance, done quietly, gave others less to grieve.

And so he sat. Still breathing. Still present. But only just.

Jin Ling arrived not long after.

He didn’t knock. He simply walked in, a tray of medicine in hand and an awkward scowl clinging to his face.

“Jiang Su forgot to bring your medicine,” he said stiffly, setting the tray on the nearby table.

It was a poor excuse, and they both knew it. Still, Jin Ling lingered—hesitating by the table, unwilling to leave.

Jiang Cheng didn’t acknowledge him at first, 

But Jin Ling didn’t give up.

“Jiujiu?” he called, quieter now.

Jiang Cheng’s brows drew faintly, but he didn’t move.

“You’re back again,” he said at last, voice low.

Jin Ling frowned.

“Of course I am.”

Jiang Cheng opened his eyes and looked at him—sharp, heavy-lidded, a quiet warning behind the fatigue.

“I told you to rest.”

“So did everyone, when you collapsed for two days. Did you listen?”

Something flickered across Jiang Cheng’s face—quick, unreadable—but he said nothing.

Jin Ling stepped closer, voice tightening.

“When I found out you'd fainted—no one could tell me anything. Just that you wouldn’t wake up.” 

He exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Do you know what that felt like?” 

His fists curled by his sides.

“I thought—” Jin Ling’s voice cracked, then steadied. “I thought maybe you'd finally gone somewhere I couldn’t follow.”

That struck deeper than he meant it to.

Jiang Cheng turned away, gaze sliding toward the rain-blurred window. Still no response.

“Everyone kept telling me you’d wake up. But no one knew anything. And when I saw you like that... you looked—”

He stopped himself. Swallowed.

“But I did wake up.” Jiang Cheng’s voice was quieter now.

“And how long until you collapse again?” Jin Ling shot back.

The silence that followed was heavy.

Jiang Cheng didn’t respond. His face remained composed, but one hand curled subtly into a fist.

Jin Ling noticed.

“You’re still in pain.”

“That doesn’t concern you.”

“Of course it does!” Jin Ling stepped forward, eyes wide. “You raised me. You’re all I have left.”

A breath passed.

“If you—if something happens again, and I’m not there—”

He broke off. Then said, quietly, “Don’t just pretend it’s nothing.”

Jiang Cheng exhaled once, slowly. Then:

“That’s enough,” his voice was low but firm. “Go back to your room.”

Jin Ling didn’t budge.

“So you can collapse again while no one’s watching?”

“It was exhaustion.”

“You’ve been exhausted before. You never—”

“I said it’s nothing.”

The steel in his voice cut clean.

Jin Ling flinched—but didn’t retreat.

“You always say that,” he muttered. “Even when it’s clearly worse than that.”

Silence stretched.

“You’re not hiding it well anymore, Jiujiu.”

Jiang Cheng’s expression didn’t shift, but the silence stretched too long to be natural.

Then, at last, he spoke—tone clipped and distant.

“Lan Qiren sent a letter.”

Jin Ling blinked.

“What?”

“You’re overdue to return to Gusu for your studies.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’ve already fallen behind.”

“So what if I have?”

The answer was too quick, too raw.

“You think I care about memorizing books while you’re—like this?”

“Then start caring,” Jiang Cheng snapped. “You’re the next sect leader. Your responsibilities won’t wait for me to recover.”

Jin Ling’s voice rose before he could stop himself.

“Stop pretending this is about duty!”

His voice cracked. He sucked in a sharp breath, trying to steady it.

“You’re just trying to send me away.”

Jiang Cheng’s gaze was firm.

“I’m doing what’s right.”

“No,” Jin Ling said, more quietly now—but with no less force. “You’re just making me look the other way.”

Jiang Cheng didn’t answer.

Jin Ling looked at him—jaw tight, chest heaving with the effort of staying composed.

“I’m not leaving,” he said, quieter now. “So stop trying to push me out.”

He stood there a moment longer, eyes lingering on the figure seated before him—hoping for a change, or at least a flicker of something more than stillness.

But Jiang Cheng did not move.

So Jin Ling turned.

The door slid open with a soft creak.

Outside, the sky above Lotus Pier remained overcast—gray and heavy, as though the storm had ended, but hadn’t quite let go.

Jin Ling stepped out without looking back.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Inside, Jiang Cheng remained on the edge of the bed, posture composed, unmoving.

His gaze stayed fixed on the window, where droplets still clung to the frame like ghosts of rain long passed.

He said nothing. Made no sound.

Only his hand moved—barely—a faint brush against the cool coil of Zidian resting beside him.

Still-warm skin.

Cold silver.

And nothing in between.

---

Dusk had fallen completely now.

And in the growing dark, memory crept in—uninvited, but impossible to silence.

Jiang Cheng remembered it clearly—

The truth that cracked him open from the inside.

The truth Wei Wuxian had hidden behind that foolish, infuriating smile.

A sacrifice no one asked for.

The golden core—

What should’ve been a cultivator’s pride—

Felt like a stain.

A mark that never belonged to him.

He used it in battle.

He used it to kill, to lead, to protect.

And every time he did,

It felt like cutting himself open from the inside.

Sometimes, in the quiet, he wondered—

What if he could tear it out?

Dig into his own flesh, grab that trembling core—

And rip it free?

Would it be like pulling out a thorn?

Or would it be like tearing down the last beam holding him upright?

He didn’t know.

But he knew this:

Every time his spiritual energy surged, disgust rose with it.

Every breath powered by that core

Felt like a debt he could never repay.

“If I could…”

He had whispered once, in the dead of night,

Staring at his shadow cast on cold Lotus Pier floor—

“I’d give it back.”

But now?

Now, it didn’t matter.

Call it fate. Karma. Retribution.

Whatever name people gave it—

It had come for him at last.

His golden core was dying.

Cracking. Fracturing.

Falling apart from the inside out.

Like it was never meant to stay.

His chance of survival?

Close to none.

Jiang Cheng laughed.

A sharp, hollow thing that scraped out of his throat.

It didn’t even sound like laughter.

He looked up at the empty ceiling,

Like daring someone—anyone—to answer.

“So this is how it ends, huh?”

Fair, wasn’t it?

After everything—

The anger.

The hatred.

The choices.

The pride too heavy to carry and too sharp to drop.

Maybe—just maybe—

It wasn’t the world that hated him most.

Maybe it was always him.

From the beginning.

Chapter Text

Next morning, the mist over Lotus Pier had thinned, but the sky above remained a dull, iron-gray. No sunlight broke through—only a colorless light that made everything look colder than it was.

Inside the sect leader’s study, incense burned low in a corner brazier, the sandalwood scent gentle but persistent. It did nothing to soothe the silence.

Jiang Cheng sat behind his desk.

His posture was as perfect as ever. Robes straight. Hair tied back with familiar precision. On the surface, he looked exactly as he always had.

But even from the hallway, one could tell—

He was not the same.

He hadn’t been, for some time.

There was no light in his eyes, only the weight of something endlessly circling his ribs. His breath came too slowly. His skin held no warmth.

No golden core.

No anchor.

No center.

He held a brush in one hand, fingers curled just tight enough not to drop it. His other hand lay flat on the desk, unmoving. The veins beneath the skin had grown more visible these past weeks—faint blue lines threading up toward the elbow.

Before him, three scrolls.

Requests from outer disciples, land updates from a border village, a neutral message from Gusu Lan.

Trivial matters.

Matters he once processed in less than a cup of tea.

Now, the first scroll had taken him nearly a full hour to complete.

The second required pauses—twice—to steady his grip.

The third remained untouched.

His eyes skimmed the text again and again, but nothing stayed in his mind. The words blurred. His thoughts refused to gather.

As if his mind were leaking spiritual energy the same way his body did: slow, quiet, invisible—but constant.

A knock had come earlier. Jiang Xue.

He entered without speaking, placed medicine and warm tea on the side table. Jiang Cheng hadn’t looked at him. Just nodded once and turned back to the scrolls.

They all understood now—what this silence meant.

Jiang Su had advised no strain today.

But what was “strain,” when even breathing felt like walking upstream?

Still—he endured.

He finished reading the third scroll. Adjusted the brush. Lowered it.

His hand shook slightly.

The brush touched the paper—and slipped.

It fell, striking the desk with a soft, dry click before rolling off the edge and landing on the floor. A thin streak of ink bled across the wood.

Jiang Cheng didn’t move.

He stared at the brush.

Not in surprise. Not in anger.

Just… stared.

As if some part of him had fallen with it.

Then slowly, his eyes drifted to the window, where the pale wind stirred the edge of a hanging scroll, gentle as a breath against skin.

His gaze was distant.

Unseeing.

Inside his dantian, something pulled taut—then snapped in silence.

His hand curled loosely atop the desk. Not into a fist. Not into anything useful.

Just there.

Still.

He sat like that for a long time.

Then, with a kind of mechanical care, he leaned forward and closed the scrolls—one by one—without finishing the last.

He placed them in the outbox.

Precise. Measured.

Then leaned back again, exhaling soundlessly.

There was no one left in the room.

No one to witness what came next.

Only cold.

Only stillness.

And then—

A quiet breath that hitched halfway through.

A flicker of rage—useless, unfocused—flicked behind his eyes before he squeezed them shut.

Not rage at others.

At himself.

Because this—this surrender, this stillness—was the one thing he had sworn never to do.

And yet here he was.

The brush still lay on the floor, untouched.

And he could not bring himself to reach for it.

Then—

The soft sound of footsteps echoed faintly beyond the partition.

Neither hurried nor hesitant—but measured, respectful.

A shadow passed the screen.

Then Jiang Xue stepped inside first, followed a few paces behind by Jiang Su. Both men paused just past the threshold.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t announce themselves.

There was no need.

Jiang Xue’s eyes flicked toward the dropped brush, then up to his Sect Leader. His throat moved, but no sound came. His hands, usually at rest behind his back, had curled slightly at his sides.

Jiang Su, who had remained in the shadow of the door, took one silent step forward—then stopped.

The incense had burned low.

The room smelled like sandalwood and ink and something faintly metallic—something wrong.

They looked at Jiang Zongzhu, who sat like a sculpture carved from old stone: unyielding, silent, with breath just steady enough to seem alive.

But his shoulders were rigid. Too rigid.

And his fingers still rested on the desk like they didn’t know what else to hold.

For a moment, Jiang Xue almost moved. Almost stepped closer, as if to offer something.

But what?

A hand? A word?

There was nothing they could offer that wouldn’t be rejected.

So he stayed where he was, his mouth pressed into a thin line, eyes fixed not on his sect leader’s face—but on the space between his hand and the empty desk.

Jiang Su glanced at the brush on the floor.

Then to the papers—half-signed, half-done.

Then to the man who had led them for years without faltering—

And now sat like something hollowed out from the inside.

Neither disciple spoke.

Because what words could you offer a man who had already given everything?

What could you possibly say to someone who had run out of fight, but still refused to fall?

The silence stretched.

Not oppressive—but sacred.

And painful.

Finally, Jiang Xue stepped back, barely a whisper of sound. His eyes never left the desk.

Jiang Su gave the faintest incline of his head—almost a bow, but not quite. It was not formality. Not ritual.

It was respect.

And sorrow.

Then, without a word, they turned and left the room—footsteps light, careful not to disturb the quiet that now felt heavier than any storm.

Behind them, Jiang Cheng remained.

Alone.

Still seated.

Still unmoving.

The brush on the floor.

The papers are half-signed.

And the space between them filled with all the things he could no longer carry.

---

That night, inside Jiang Cheng’s chamber.

The incense had long since burned out.

The candle was nothing but a stub.

Outside, mist thickened over Lotus Pier, still and heavy.

And in that silence,

Jiang Cheng dreamed.

He dreamed of fire—

Lotus Pier in flames, pillars crumbling, smoke curling like lotuses that bloomed and died in seconds.

His parents stood in the courtyard. Silent. Watching.

Not angry. Just… disappointed.

He tried to move. He couldn’t. He tried to speak. His voice wouldn’t come.

Then they vanished—again.

The Burial Mounds.

Broken earth. Cut winds.

Wei Wuxian at the cliff’s edge, smiling faintly.

Jiang Yanli beside him, blood on her robes, sorrow in her eyes.

He ran. The ground fell away. They faded.

Again.

Golden strings now.

A child caught in their snare.

Jin Ling. Bleeding. Reaching.

Calling for help.

Calling for him.

But his hands were empty.

Zidian did not come. Sandu did not respond.

His dantian was hollow.

Jin Ling vanished.

And then, nothing.

Only gray.

No faces. No names.

Just silence.

Weight.

Loss.

A-Die.

A-Niang.

Jiejie.

Wei Wuxian.

Jin Ling.

Gone.

And at the center of it all—

Cold.

He woke up with a start.

Breath shallow.

Fingers pressed to his abdomen.

Where once there was light—now only emptiness and pain.

He pressed harder, as if will alone could bring it back.

But it didn’t. It never did.

The cold had settled long ago—

the kind that lives in the bones,

that turns survival into something bitter.

His shoulders shook.

Not from fear, but from the rage of loss too vast to name.

Still breathing.

Still alive.

But only barely.

What use was survival, when everything that made him whole had already gone?

His hand curled tighter against his stomach. The pressure made his breath catch, but he didn’t loosen his grip. As if pain was the only thing left to hold on to.

A bell tolled faintly outside.

Morning was coming.

But inside, Jiang Cheng sat unmoving—

one hand over the hollow that used to be his core,

as if sheer fury could keep him from breaking.

A faint tremble ran down his spine. He closed his eyes tightly, forcing his breath steady. Again. And again.

And then—

a tremor.

A flicker deep under his ribs.

Not broken—

but close.

His eyes snapped open.

The seal was slipping.

It shivered like a thread pulled too tight.

Like a door about to swing open in the wind.

His qi stirred—uneasy, off-beat.

Like it no longer knew where to go.

Jiang Cheng froze.

Jaw clenched. Muscles locked.

Another flicker. This one sharp—then gone. His throat burned with the effort of staying still.

It was starting again.

And the day had just barely begun.

Chapter Text

Morning had barely arrived.

There was still empty—no one in sight along the inner halls, though the distant voices of early-rising disciples echoed faintly from elsewhere.

In the stillness of the meditation chamber,

Jiang Cheng sat—

Back straight.

Eyes closed.

Hands calm.

As if his body remembered what it meant to be whole. 

Even if his core did not.

And behind his stillness, the seal that had steadied his core—carved with quiet precision by Ye Baiyi—

Had frayed. Faded. Broken down without warning.

And now, his meridians were open again.

Too soon. Too violent.

The moment he tried to guide his breath, qi surged—sharp and unstable.

Like flood water through a cracked dam, it slammed into weakened channels.

Too fast. Too wild.

A sharp jolt lanced through his middle. His muscles seized.

Pain coiled in his abdomen like a snake striking from within.

He bit down on his tongue—hard.

The metallic taste of blood flooded his mouth, but he made no sound.

Not even a breath.

Sweat beaded at his brow, despite the cold.

His robes clung to his back.

Still, he endured.

Again, he tried to redirect the current. Again, it twisted—

Slamming into the wrong channel, snapping through the line like ice through glass.

His breath hitched.

A faint tremor passed through his limbs, then stilled.

Then everything went dark.

When Jiang Su found him, the incense in the corner had burned halfway through.

Jiang Cheng lay slumped to the side, one arm propped weakly against the wall.

His lips were pale. His skin was colder than it should have been.

For a moment, Jiang Su froze.

“Zongzhu—!”

He moved forward swiftly, but just as his hand reached out, Jiang Cheng stirred.

A single, trembling motion.

He lifted his hand—barely—enough to signal: Don’t.

“Don’t,” he rasped.

The word was faint. Hoarse.

But it was already too late.

A thin trickle of dark, black-red blood slipped past his lips.

It trailed down his chin, fell to the wooden floor—

A sound too soft to echo, but heavy enough to still the room.

Jiang Xue stood at the threshold.

He hadn’t moved since arriving, scrolls still clutched in both hands.

His face held its usual calm—but his shoulders had stiffened, tension pulling tight across his back.

He said nothing.

Jiang Su dropped to his knees beside his sect leader, reaching for his wrist.

The pulse was there—but wrong. Qi churned like water trapped in a vessel cracking under pressure.

“…Zongzhu,” he whispered. “Your qi… it’s folding in on itself.”

No reply.

Jiang Cheng’s eyes were half-lidded now. His breath came in shallow pulls, slow and jagged.

There was no confusion in his expression. Only resignation.

Jiang Su’s brows furrowed deeper. He looked to the spiritual pathways, traced the energy flow again.

He stilled.

“…This isn’t just rejection anymore.”

He swallowed hard.

“It’s deterioration.”

The words hung in the air like frost.

Still, Jiang Cheng didn’t speak.

Not denial.

Not protest.

Only silence.

A long moment passed.

Then he shifted.

Slowly, he pushed himself upright—legs unsteady, shoulders drawn tight with the effort.

His knees nearly buckled.

But he did not fall.

He refused to fall.

One breath. Then another.

He righted his stance.

Jiang Su did not reach out to steady him again.

Jiang Cheng’s pride would not allow it.

But behind him, Jiang Xue took a step forward, as if by instinct—

Then stopped.

Their Zongzhu stood.

Pale. Trembling. Bleeding.

But upright.

In the silence, the sound of rain resumed—dripping down the eaves like a quiet warning.

---

Later that day—

Jin Ling didn’t barge in this time.

He stood just outside his Jiujiu's chamber, fists clenched at his sides, rainwater dripping from the edge of his sleeves. His jaw was tight. His breathing is uneven.

“He collapsed again, didn’t he?” he said—not quite asking.

Jiang Xue stood beside him in silence, scrolls still tucked under one arm. A moment passed.

“…Only briefly.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Jin Ling’s voice cracked, low and sharp. It wasn’t just anger—it was fear, stretched thin.

Jiang Xue said nothing. He didn’t need to.

Behind them, footsteps padded softly across the wet corridor stones.

Lan Sizhui approached first, umbrella half-lowered, his robes already soaked near the hem. He stopped beside Jin Ling without a word, eyes flicking toward the closed door with quiet dread.

Lan Jingyi followed, muttering under his breath, “You ran off again…”—but trailed off when he saw Jin Ling’s face.

Ouyang Zizhen came last, hair damp, expression uncertain. He stood a little behind the others, arms folded, as though unsure if he should be here at all.

They weren’t supposed to come here.

But Jiang Xue hadn’t stopped them.

Not this time.

His thoughts were still tangled in his Sect Leader’s condition—

and right now, rules mattered far less than answers.

Jin Ling kept staring at the door. Barely acknowledging Sizhui and the others.

“He said he was fine,” he muttered.

Lan Sizhui didn’t respond right away. His gaze stayed on Jin Ling, calm but careful.

“He didn’t want you to worry,” he said softly.

Jin Ling’s shoulders stiffened.

“Well, that worked out great.”

Lan Jingyi shifted beside him. “Why doesn’t he tell anyone what’s wrong?” he muttered, more to himself. “Even his own nephew…”

“Because it’s Jiang-zongzhu,” Zizhen said quietly. “He’d rather die standing than admit he can’t.”

Jin Ling inhaled sharply through his nose.

“I’m not a child,” he snapped. “I can handle it.”

But the tremble in his hand betrayed him.

Lan Sizhui didn’t press. He only stepped slightly closer, offering his umbrella over Jin Ling’s head even though they were already under the eaves.

They all stood there, the five of them, cloaked in rain-damp silence. The air hung heavy, thick with mist and unspoken things.

Inside the chamber, Jiang Cheng had not moved for a long while. Blood still marked his chin. His breath had steadied—but only just.

And outside, his nephew stood frozen—

Too old to cry.

Too proud to beg.

But still waiting. Still hoping.

But he is not alone.

###

Later —Inside Jiang Cheng’s chamber.

“Zongzhu, Jin Ling is still waiting outside. Should I let him in?” Jiang Su asked quietly, holding the now-empty medicine bowl in both hands.

Jiang Cheng didn’t respond right away. For a moment, silence stretched between them.

Then he exhaled, barely audibly. “Let him in.”

“Yes, Zongzhu.”

Jiang Su turned and left the room, though the worry in his eyes lingered.

The door creaked open softly. The sound of Jiang Su’s retreating steps faded down the corridor, soon replaced by lighter, hesitant footsteps entering the chamber.

Jiang Cheng didn’t lift his head.

Jin Ling stepped inside slowly, arms folded across his chest, his expression carefully unreadable—as if trying too hard not to feel anything at all.

“You’re awake,” he said, arms still crossed, voice just this side of accusing—like it was Jiang Cheng’s fault for collapsing in the first place.

Jiang Cheng’s lips quirked—just barely. “So it seems.”

Silence settled. Only the soft hiss of wind outside filled the space.

Then, finally:

“You collapsed today.”

It wasn’t a question.

Jiang Cheng didn’t reply. Just let the silence stretch between them like a barrier.

Jin Ling moved closer. His steps were light—uncertain—but steady.

When he reached the side of the bed, he hesitated again.

Then:

“…You said it was just exhaustion.”

“It was.”

“You coughed blood.”

Jiang Cheng finally looked at him—expression unreadable, voice low.

“And you were eavesdropping?”

“I was waiting.”

The words came out sharp—too fast, too bitter.

“I waited the whole morning. And no one told me anything.”

His fists clenched. “So I asked.”

Jiang Cheng turned his face away, exhaling through his nose.

“You’re still a child. You don’t need to know everything.”

Jin Ling took another step closer. He didn’t shout this time.

Didn’t whine.

His voice dropped to a near-whisper.

“I’m not a child anymore.”

That gave Jiang Cheng pause.

“I’m the heir of Lanling Jin,” Jin Ling continued. “Everyone keeps reminding me of that. Every day.

But when it comes to you—suddenly I’m too young to understand.”

Jiang Cheng’s gaze darkened, but he didn’t interrupt.

Jin Ling stared at him—eyes burning.

“You’re the only one I have left. And you think I wouldn’t notice when you’re… breaking?”

The word landed hard. He saw the flicker in Jiang Cheng’s expression—but it vanished just as quickly.

“You should go back to Gusu,” Jiang Cheng said quietly.

“I told you yesterday. I don't want to, Jiujiu.”

“You’ve already fallen behind in your lessons.”

“I don’t care.”

“That’s not a choice you get to make—”

“It is–if the person who raised me won’t live long enough to see me graduate!”

The words rang out into the chamber—too loud.

Too raw.

Too late to take back.

Silence fell again. This time heavier.

Jiang Cheng looked down.

For a moment, neither moved.

Then, softly, Jin Ling said, “If I’m old enough to lead, then I’m old enough to stay. I’m not going anywhere.”

Jiang Cheng didn’t answer.

His hand, resting on the edge of the blanket, curled slightly.

Then loosened again.

As if even that was too much.

Jin Ling didn’t push further.

He simply sat down—quietly—on the floor mat beside the bed. Close, but not too close.

And there they stayed.

The silence lingered—not hostile, just heavy.

Jin Ling said nothing. He only sat curled beside the bed, arms around his knees, gaze unfocused.

Eventually, his head dipped. His breathing softened.

Asleep.

Jiang Cheng glanced over. Reached out. Then stopped.

He let the boy sleep.

Outside, the wind shifted.

A familiar presence stirred beyond the door. The ward trembled once, then stilled.

Jiang Cheng didn’t move.

He closed his eyes.

And waited.

---

The room had long since quieted.

Outside, the wind pressed faintly against the paper screens, like a breath held too long.

Jiang Cheng sat propped against the headboard, eyes half-lidded. Jin Ling was curled up on the floor mat, one arm slung over his eyes, his breathing slow and even now.

It should have been peaceful.

Until the door opened.

No knock. No sound of footsteps.

Just the shift of air, the press of unfamiliar presence—and a flicker from the ward outside that stilled only once it recognized him.

White robes stepped into the dim light.

Jiang Cheng’s eyes snapped open.

“You saved me without asking for anything, yet you show up again, without warning, like a ghost in someone else’s home.”

A beat. Jiang Cheng fingers curled slightly over the edge of the blanket.

“Is this some elaborate favor-debt scheme? Or do you just enjoy showing up whenever I’m not dead enough to ignore you?”

The weight behind his words wasn’t just suspicion—it was exhaustion, pride battered thin.

Ye Baiyi said nothing at first. His gaze flicked down to Jin Ling’s sleeping form. Then, to the faint red staining Jiang Cheng’s sleeve—darker now, not quite dry.

“You’re reckless.”

Jiang Cheng scoffed under his breath, fingers twitching as he tugged the fabric tighter. “And you’re still meddling. And evasive.”

“I don’t meddle. Nor evasive,” Ye Baiyi replied evenly. “I watch men carve themselves hollow and call it duty.”

Jiang Cheng’s jaw clenched, the silence between them growing heavier.

Ye Baiyi stepped further in, uninvited, as if ownership of the room were a technicality.

Jiang Cheng didn’t stop him. But his hand, resting near the blanket’s edge, twitched faintly—Zidian humming just beneath the skin.

“Say whatever you came to say, and go.”

Ye Baiyi stopped a few paces from the bed. “Still clinging to control. Even when your body is failing.”

“Better than clinging to strangers who lecture unasked.”

“I didn’t come to lecture.” His tone was cool. Unmoved. “I came to observe.”

Jiang Cheng’s eyes narrowed. “What, exactly, are you observing?”

Ye Baiyi looked at him—not with pity, but calculation.

“The moment when pride outweighs survival.”

Jiang Cheng’s eyes narrowed, the muscles in his neck pulled taut.

“I’ve seen stronger men fall for lesser wounds.” Ye Baiyi continued, voice still level, “You, on the other hand, seem determined to outlast your own collapse.”

“If that’s your attempt at concern, spare me.”

“I’m not concerned for you,” Ye Baiyi said bluntly. “But the boy asleep at your feet? He’ll be the one left to gather the pieces.”

A sharp current passed through Jiang Cheng’s expression. “Leave him out of this.”

“You had left him out of it,” Ye Baiyi said, gaze unwavering. “He had to beg to be told anything.”

“I’m protecting him.”

“You’re isolating him.”

The air thickened.

Jiang Cheng looked away.

“I didn’t ask for your interference.”

“No. But you needed it.”

His voice wasn’t harsh—but it was final, like a sword driven quietly into the ground.

Ye Baiyi’s eyes dropped once more to Jin Ling.

“He thinks you’re unbreakable,” he said, softer this time. “You’re the only foundation he’s ever had. And he’s already watching it crack.”

Jiang Cheng didn’t answer. His throat moved once. But no sound came out.

Ye Baiyi didn’t push.

He simply stepped closer, pulling something from his sleeve—a folded talisman, sealed in golden thread. He placed it wordlessly on the table beside the bed.

Then, without waiting for thanks or dismissal, he turned to leave.

Just before crossing the threshold, he paused.

“He doesn’t need you to be flawless,” he said. “He just needs you breathing.”

And then he was gone.

The door closed with barely a sound.

Jiang Cheng stared at the talisman for a long time, his hand unmoving.

Jin Ling shifted faintly in his sleep. As if even unconscious, he could feel the gravity of the silence.

Zidian, still coiled within Jiang Cheng’s sleeve, pulsed once.

Not in warning.

But in recognition.

###

Jiang Cheng’s POV

It was still late at night.

Ye Baiyi had long since gone, but sleep never came.

His words lingered—unwelcome, but impossible to ignore. They had struck deeper than he cared to admit.

Silence settled once more, broken only by the sound of soft, even breaths.

Below, on a floor mat tucked just beside the bed, Jin Ling lay curled on his side, one arm folded across his chest. A boy asleep beside the only person who had ever stood between him and the world.

He let his gaze settle there. And stayed.

Moonlight filtered through the slats of the window—just enough to draw that face in pale relief. Young. Proud. Too familiar.

Too much like him.

He closed his eyes.

The core within him—

A gift wrapped in silence.

A burden stitched beneath his ribs.

He had despised it.

Despised himself for needing it. For surviving by it.

And still, he had not let it go.

And when it began to break—

Slowly, insidiously, like frost blooming inside bone—he said nothing.

No physician.

No talisman.

No cry for help.

Perhaps it was punishment.

Perhaps it was what the heavens had long withheld.

So he endured.

Not out of strength,

but because surrender, drawn out slowly, looked no different from duty.

He thought he could bear it until the end.

But then—he looked at Jin Ling.

Still reckless. Still learning how to wield more than just a sword. Still angry at the world in ways that echoed his own youth.

Not ready. Not yet.

He exhaled slowly. The pain flared again, sharper, deeper.

He would not reach for life on his own behalf.

But for Jin Ling... he would hold on. Just long enough.

Long enough for the boy to stand without him.

He glanced once more at Jin Ling, whose brow furrowed slightly in sleep, as though wrestling with some unspoken worry.

He didn’t move. Didn’t reach out.

But he watched.

And beneath the ache that laced his chest with every breath, something in him held.

He was still breaking.

But for now, at least, there was a reason to hold together.

Then—his gaze landed on it.

Resting on the table beside his bed, still untouched.

A talisman.

Gold thread gleamed faintly in the dim light, sealing unfamiliar scripts—precise, elegant, and cold.

Ye Baiyi’s gift.

No note. No explanation.

Only his cold words and the silent weight of expectation.

He hadn’t touched it.

He didn’t trust men like Ye Baiyi.

Too quiet. Too strong. Too knowing.

The kind who said things that sounded like nonsense—until you realized they were right.

The kind who looked straight through you.

As though nothing about you could surprise them.

He hated that.

Even if Ye Baiyi meant to help—he couldn’t accept it.

Help was a blade with no sheath.

And from someone like him—it could only cut deeper.

He clenched his jaw.

He would use the Lanling method.

The modified script Jiang Su crafted.

He would work through every talisman until his body failed him.

But that one—

He would not take it.

Not yet.

His gaze lingered on the sealed parchment.

It did nothing. Didn’t hum, didn’t glow.

It simply waited.

As if it already knew it would be used.

He looked away.

He had already made his choice.

He would stay.

For Jin Ling.

Even if that meant dragging every breath from a body that no longer listened.

He would stay, just a little longer.

End of Jiang Cheng’s POV

Chapter Text

Ye Baiyi’s POV

The courtyard had gone quiet hours ago. Now, under the watchful eye of the moon, even the wind moved softly.

He stood beneath the eaves of one of the outer walkways, watching shadows move behind paper screens.

The boy was still inside.

Still seated at the edge of the mat, arms folded tight, head drooped in sleep.

Jiang Wanyin hadn’t moved.

Not much, at least.

His's gaze lingered.

Stubborn to the end. Even in unconsciousness.

He turned slightly, eyes scanning the compound.

Clean courtyards. Measured steps. Familiar routines.

All too vulnerable.

They didn’t know it. Not yet.

But something old was stirring.

---

It started weeks ago.

A crack—barely a breath—through the seals at the base of the Burial Mounds.

He had felt it like one might feel a thorn pierce the edge of a dream.

He had descended without ceremony.

No one stopped him. The mountain owed him no allegiance.

And the world below had forgotten who he was.

The Burial Mounds had not.

The seals were breaking.

Not shattered in one blow, but weakened from within, like walls left to rot behind paint and silence.

He had stood among the remnants of spiritual scripts drawn by long-dead hands. Felt the air turning wrong—thick with old resentment and unfulfilled vengeance.

He had known then:

The real threat had not returned. Not yet.

But its children had.

Lesser spirits. Hungry. Directionless.

Pieces of something that once had a name.

He had followed them across provinces. Through fields and rivers and forgotten battle sites.

Until, one day, the scent of blood and chaos led him to Yunmeng.

The cultivators had fought bravely. Inefficiently.

He had watched without comment as the spirit cut through their formation.

Watched longer as the man with purple lightning whip—fought harder than all the rest.

Too hard.

Until the fight drained the last strength from him, and his body folded without sound.

He had moved then.

Fast. Precise. Without flourish.

The spirit had no time to scream.

Later, when they brought Jiang Wanyin back to the sect and scrambled for aid, he had simply followed.

No one had dared to stop him.

They treated him as one might a summoned weapon—useful, but dangerous.

A blade unsheathed, glowing faintly with something too old to name.

He did not explain himself. He did not offer comfort.

He only watched.

The first disciple, Jiang Xue, wore composure like armor, though his knuckles were bloodless where they gripped his sleeve.

The healers whispered of spiritual backlash. Of core fractures. Of cultivators who had survived worse but never walked again.

The boy—Jin Rulan—was not allowed inside.

A boundary talisman sealed the threshold.

He paced outside the ward with too much fire in his limbs, demanding answers no one gave, not even his own guards.

He did not know what had happened. Only that his Jiujiu had not moved since they brought him back.

He read them all like water-stained scrolls.

The quiet despair under every practiced breath.

The kind of loyalty that bled itself dry.

And the ache of those too proud to beg the world to be kinder.

And Jiang Wanyin—

 —Jiang Wanyin looked like a man already halfway buried, still clenching the soil of his pride with both hands.

Jiang Wanyin breath came shallow.

Spiritual energy flickered, dimmed.

The talismans began to fail.

They were losing him. Slowly, then all at once.

His spiritual veins flared, surged—then collapsed inward like burnt silk.

One healer wept. Another tried to stabilize the talismans.

Even the first disciple faltered then— just a breath, just a blink—but in that moment, the silence cracked.

It was not mercy that moved him.

It was precision.

It was knowledge.

It was the instinct of someone who had seen too many fall.

He stepped forward and the room shifted.

Without words, he brushed past the others, fingers steady as he pressed them to the dying man’s chest.

Not harshly—no—only with the certainty of someone who had no doubt.

In the space between one heartbeat and the next, the fracture in the golden core was held—not healed, not reversed, but steadied.

A thread of light extended from his fingers, almost invisible, almost unbearable.

Like binding something already broken with breath and oath alone.

The talismans flared. Then steadied.

The breath returned. Thin. Fragile. But returned.

No one spoke.

The first disciple swallowed a cry he didn’t let out.

The healers blinked, stunned.

Beyond the door, the boy still waited—still unaware.

But he didn’t look at any of them.

His eyes never left Jiang Wanyin.

He had bought time.

Nothing more.

And yet—everything.

---

Now, under moonlight, he looked in once more.

They were both asleep.

One born too early for such burdens.

The other was too proud to share the weight.

He didn’t step inside again.

There was nothing to say.

Nothing that would be heard.

Instead, he turned back toward the night, robes silent against the wind.

The talisman he left behind was still untouched.

But some choices were slow to take root.

And he had always been patient.

By the time the first light touched the clouds above Lotus Pier, he was gone.

No footsteps. No sound of parting.

Only the breath of night, slipping out with him.

What remained was quieter than silence—

A weight in the air, faint but unmistakable.

A presence that had pressed too close,

and now was gone too soon.

End of Ye Baiyi’s POV 

###

Main Courtyard. Early morning.

The sky outside was cloudy, with light rain falling over the lake.

Inside, the room was quiet and dim, the morning stillness hanging in the air before anyone else had woken up.

Jiang Cheng sat against the wooden pillar of the bed, posture relaxed in form only.

One hand gripped the blanket loosely, the other curled over his knee.

His breath had steadied since dawn—but his limbs still ached, dull and deep, like iron overworked and left too long in fire.

He hadn’t truly slept.

And though the room was empty, it did not feel so.

As if something once fierce had passed through—

leaving behind no fire,

only the memory of its warmth.

The door slid open quietly.

Jin Ling stepped in, gaze sweeping the room out of habit before landing on the table.

The medicine was still there, untouched again.

He had reheated it twice already.

This time, he didn’t wait.

Wordless, he lifted the bowl, crossed the floor, and stood before Jiang Cheng with the steady defiance only family could offer.

“Drink,” he said.

No pleading. No temper.

Just a boy tired of being afraid.

Jiang Cheng didn’t take it. His gaze, though not unkind, lingered on Jin Ling’s face.

“…You didn’t sleep well.”

Jin Ling scoffed under his breath. “Neither did you.”

Jiang Cheng exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes turning briefly toward the shuttered window before returning to Jin Ling.

“Starting tonight, you’ll sleep in your own room again.”

Jin Ling didn’t respond at once—his grip on the bowl tightened, just a little.

“It’s fine,” Jiang Cheng added, tone flat. “I’m not going to die in my sleep.”

Jin Ling said nothing for a beat, then lifted the bowl slightly. “Doesn’t matter. You need to drink this before it gets cold.”

“I don’t remember agreeing to that.”

“You didn’t say you wouldn’t.” Jin Ling squared his shoulders. “But I know you’ll ignore it unless someone makes you.”

Jiang Cheng’s mouth curved—not quite into a smile. Closer to a scoff. “So you’re making me?”

“I’m reminding you.” Jin Ling’s tone was firmer now, but low. “You’re not the only one who gets a say in this.”

Silence stretched. Jiang Cheng looked at him a moment longer, eyes dark but unreadable.

Then he reached up. Took the bowl.

Drank.

The bitterness didn’t bother him. He barely tasted it anymore.

When he handed the bowl back, his gaze lingered a moment on Jin Ling’s face.

“You’ve gotten mouthier.”

“I learned from the best,” Jin Ling muttered.

A pause. Jiang Cheng exhaled, a faint sound of tired amusement escaping through his nose.

“Don’t follow that example too closely,” he said. “I’m a terrible patient.”

Jin Ling rolled his eyes. “You’re terrible at everything that involves being taken care of.”

Jiang Cheng didn’t argue. Just closed his eyes for a moment, then said, quieter,

“…You can go now.”

Jin Ling hesitated.

“I’ll come back later.”

Jiang Cheng didn’t look up. “Hn.”

Jin Ling took that as permission.

But just as he reached the door, Jiang Cheng spoke:

“Jin Ling.”

He turned.

Jiang Cheng’s eyes were open, steady.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “Not until I see you can walk on your own.”

Jin Ling said nothing—he didn’t trust himself to speak.

He only nodded, sharp and silent, and slipped out the door.

Behind him, the quiet held—but Jiang Cheng’s hand loosened slightly on the blanket.

The silence returned, slow and steady like mist rising from the ground.

Soon after, soft footsteps approached the partition curtain.

Jiang Su and Jiang Xue stepped forward from the inner chamber, where they had been waiting quietly, giving space.

They bowed deeply in unison.

“Zongzhu.”

Jiang Cheng didn’t answer right away. He stayed seated at the edge of the bed, one arm loosely propping up the other. His breathing was steady, but far from calm.

Jiang Su was the first to step closer. He pulled up the stool beside him without saying a word, then lightly set two fingers on Jiang Cheng’s wrist, checking the flow of qi with quiet focus.

A small shift in his expression gave him away—not alarm, but clear concern.

“The central meridian is still obstructed. But stable,” he said quietly. “You must refrain from strenuous exertions today.”

Jiang Cheng gave a single nod. Neither in protest, nor in acceptance.

From behind him, Jiang Xue’s voice broke the silence.

“I have brought this morning’s reports, Zongzhu.”

He unrolled a slender scroll—its contents written in fine script, stamped with the small seals of minor sects.

“Three sects in southern Yunmeng have reported heightened ghost activity. Two have noted missing persons—unclear whether casualties or disappearances.”

He paused for a moment, then continued.

“Our envoys have been dispatched to verify the claims. Senior Wen has also been sighted in the western hills since yesterday. For now, the situation appears to remain under control.”

At this, Jiang Cheng opened his eyes.

“Ye Baiyi?”

Jiang Xue inclined his head.

“He returned late last night from the northern banks of the Jing River. He successfully cleared a wraith nest beneath the ruined shrine.”  

A pause. Then, with quiet certainty:

“But he left again before dawn.”

Jiang Cheng said nothing.

His expression did not change.

Not a flicker of surprise, nor relief—

Only stillness, sharp and unreadable.

Jiang Xue hesitated, then lowered his voice—not out of secrecy, but respect.

“As of this morning... the disturbances are no longer limited to the southern border.”

Jiang Cheng let his eyes fall shut for a moment. His shoulders barely shifted, but the tightness in his body was hard to miss.

After a beat, he spoke—quiet, steady, not opening his eyes.

“Keep the border scouts moving. Don’t just sit around waiting for reports.”

“Yes, Zongzhu.”

“And send my letter to the Council Elder of Lanling Jin. It’s time Jin Ling took the seat that’s rightfully his.”

“…Yes, Zongzhu.”

Jiang Xue hesitated, as if wanting to speak—but one look at his sect leader’s expression made it clear: the decision had already been made. He lowered his gaze and said nothing more.

The room held stillness for a breath longer, as if everyone waited for the next stone to fall.

Then, with quiet purpose, Jiang Su stepped forward and opened the wooden case he had brought. Inside lay a pale silk scroll, hand-stitched with spirit-thread from Gusu, inked with Lanling’s balancing compounds. He unrolled part of it, revealing an intricate pattern that pulsed faintly like breath.

“Zongzhu,” he said evenly, “this formation is a blend of Gusu’s rhythm-weaving and Lanling Jin’s meridian-channeling. I’ve tailored it to your unique spiritual structure.”

Jiang Cheng didn’t reply. His eyes shifted slightly—just enough to assess the scroll.

Jiang Su continued, voice steady.

“This is not to heal your golden core. That’s no longer possible. This is to stabilize what’s collapsing.”

Jiang Xue, standing a step behind him, spoke up.

“Stabilize? You mean… it’s not a cure?”

Jiang Su turned slightly. “Correct. This isn’t recovery. It’s postponement.”

He looked back to Jiang Cheng. “The method will re-thread damaged meridian paths, to prevent further leakage. Like sealing cracks in a wall—even if the foundation is failing.”

Jiang Xue stared at the scroll, then muttered, “…Is that enough?”

“Qi flow can be normalized again,” Jiang Su said. “At least outwardly. Symptoms like sudden pain, muscle convulsions, or backlash can be managed.”

“And the golden core?” Jiang Xue’s voice faltered.

“It’s already fractured,” Jiang Su answered, quiet but honest. “No method can restore the center. But if we can keep the outer channels intact, its collapse can be delayed.”

He bowed his head slightly. “We can slow it down… long enough for—”

He didn’t finish.

But all three of them understood what he meant.

Jiang Cheng still gave no reaction. One hand moved slightly beneath his sleeve—Zidian, perhaps—but he remained silent.

Jiang Su didn’t press for approval.

“I’ll begin today. But you must rest after the first session.”

Jiang Cheng’s gaze shifted, just briefly, toward the door. Not obvious—but to those who had served him long, it was enough.

His tone was flat, almost a whispered command.

“…Make sure he doesn’t see it.”

Jiang Su bowed deeply. “Of course, Zongzhu.”

Jiang Xue added quietly, “We’ll ensure Young Master Jin is kept away during the treatment.”

Silence returned.

But this time—not from fear.

This time, it came because they all knew:

The decision had been made.

And there would be no turning back.

Chapter Text

Inner meditation chamber, late morning.

That morning, Jiang Cheng had begun the first method.

He hadn’t been alone.

Jiang Su sat at the edge of the array, weaving the sequence with practiced focus. Jiang Xue kept silent watch nearby, stationed just beyond the warded boundary—present, but not intrusive. The chamber was still, shrouded in low morning light and the quiet thrum of protective seals.

The pain, when it came, was expected. Contained.

He had long since learned to carry it in silence.

The spiral array had been precise. Spiritual nodes aligned, the scroll unfurled behind him—a hybrid design refined from Gusu and Lanling sects, intended not to push but to guide. It threaded gentle pulses through the Ren and Chong meridians, stabilizing through Qihai and Guanyuan, drawing strength from the outer flanks.

For a moment, it seemed to hold.

Blue-violet light flickered across the silk beneath Jiang Cheng, mapping fractured spiritual lines. His breathing stayed even, though sweat beaded at his temples.

But as the current reached deeper—toward the hollowed center where his golden core used to rest—something shifted.

The light thinned.

Then faded.

Not violently.

But like breath exhaled into nothing.

No resistance. No burst of wild qi.

Just... silence.

Jiang Su’s fingertips curled as the last pulse died across the scroll.

He had hoped the array might bypass internal rejection. That external guidance alone could coax the system to remember its shape.

But there had been no answer.

Not even pain.

Only stillness.

As though Jiang Cheng’s body no longer recognized the pathways as its own.

Jiang Cheng didn’t move. He sat rigid, every line of his posture composed. Controlled. His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed ahead. He hadn’t made a sound through the entire attempt.

Jiang Xue stepped closer, voice low. “Zongzhu…”

“Don’t,” Jiang Cheng said hoarsely.

Just one word.

Jiang Su exhaled, quiet but firm. “We’ll try the second method this evening. The auxiliary array from Meishan Yu—it channels externally, through stabilizer points along the spine. It won’t rely on the core.”

No response.

But he knew Jiang Cheng had heard.

They left the chamber without further words.

Behind them, their Zongzhu remained seated—unmoving, unbending—gritting his pride between his teeth as the last traces of spiritual light faded beneath him.

—---

Outside meditation chamber.

The door closed with a soft click.

Only then did Jiang Xue murmur, “It rejected completely?”

Jiang Su gave a tight nod. “The Guanyuan and Chong channels resisted the harmonics. Even with external routing, the flow couldn’t pass through the Shenque gate.”

“The gate is sealed?”

“No. Worse. It... doesn’t recognize itself anymore.”

Jiang Xue stiffened. “Is that possible?”

“It is, when the soul holding the meridians is—” Jiang Su paused, looking at the door behind him, voice lower, “—splintered. When even the body no longer believes in the core it used to serve.”

Jiang Su sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He should’ve used the talisman.”

“The one left by senior Ye Baiyi?” asked Jiang Xue.

“Yes. But you know he won’t.”

Jiang Xue nodded bitterly. “Not if it means accepting help from someone he doesn't trust.”

Jiang Su looked up at the pale sky. “Then we make something better.”

—--

Inside, once more.

Jiang Cheng remained still.

The cold beneath him had seeped through the layers of silk. His limbs ached—not from effort, but from stillness.

He finally allowed himself to release a breath—long and harsh through clenched teeth.

Failure.

Not even violent. Just... rejection. Quiet, familiar rejection.

As if his own body had joined the rest of the world in believing he was no longer worth the effort.

His fingers twitched. Not from pain. From memory.

From rage.

He reached into his sleeve.

The talisman Ye Baiyi had left him still laying there, warm despite never being touched.

A single rune burned faintly in the middle, the shape of a protective seal twisted in unfamiliar, ancient structure. Cold-silver ink with golden thread. Script that wasn’t from any current cultivation sect.

He stared at it.

It would be easy to use. One press against the solar plexus. One breath drawn with the ink aligned to the Qihai. Let the seal sink into the bone and allow whatever trace of ancient cultivation that man carried to intertwine with his own.

Easy.

But easy was dangerous.

Easy made you forget how fragile trust could be.

He stared at the talisman a moment longer.

His hand closed around it.

Tighter. Until the paper crinkled under his palm.

Then—

He set it aside again. Not ripped. Not used.

Just… set aside.

And once more, the room fell into stillness.

Tonight, they will try again.

Even if it failed again.

He would rise again.

Because he was Jiang Wanyin.

And failure was not an option.

—---

Midday, Outer Pavilion – Lotus Pier.

The rain had left the courtyard damp and quiet.

In the pavilion, Jin Ling sat with his back against a pillar, Fairy curled at his feet. Lan Sizhui sorted talismans nearby, while Ouyang Zizhen paced, occasionally muttering under his breath. Lan Jingyi read a scroll aloud with increasing irritation.

“‘Ghost in red robes laughing into the wind’? Either someone’s lying or drinking.”

“No worse than half the reports we’ve seen,” Ouyang said. “Still nothing solid.”

Jin Ling stayed silent, eyes fixed on the empty training yard.

Lan Sizhui glanced at him. “You should eat something.”

“I’m fine.”

“You keep saying that.”

Before Jin Ling could reply, Lan Jingyi dropped his scroll and stretched. “Anyway, our uncles want us to leave.”

Jin Ling looked over. “What?”

“Gusu sent word this morning,” Sizhui explained. “Shufu says we’ve overstayed.”

“My father did too,” Zizhen added. “Wants me back in Baling.”

Jin Ling’s brow furrowed. “And?”

“We’re not going,” Sizhui said simply. “Not while your uncle’s like this.”

Lan Jingyi nodded. “And not while you’re like this either.”

Jin Ling blinked, surprised. He looked down. “Thanks.”

No one said more. They didn’t need to.

Later, they stood outside the inner corridor, where no one was allowed.

Jin Ling’s arms were crossed, shoulders tense. “He didn’t open the door all morning.”

“Maybe he’s resting,” Zizhen offered.

Jin Ling didn’t look convinced.

Just then, Jiang Xue emerged, scroll case in hand. He paused at the sight of them but bowed politely.

“Young Masters.”

Lan Sizhui bowed politely.

“Jiang Xue-xiong.”

“You were with Jiujiu?” Jin Ling asked quickly.

“Yes. The healing session took place earlier. He’s currently resting.”

“Did it go well?”

Jiang Xue’s gaze shifted slightly. “There’s no cause for concern. Jiang Su-shixiong asked that Zongzhu rest for the time being.”

Jin Ling’s fists clenched. “Why didn’t Jiujiu tell me?”

“Because you’re his nephew,” Jiang Xue said gently. “And that’s why he didn’t want you to worry.”

Jin Ling looked away, jaw tight. “I’m not a child. I could’ve—”

“He knows,” Jiang Xue interrupted, voice soft. “That’s exactly why he didn’t say anything.”

No one spoke.

Jingyi trying to lighten the air with a half-smile.

“If it helps, Jin-gongzi… Uncle Lan Qiren wouldn’t have told us either. He doesn’t even let us stand near his door when he’s coughing.”

Ouyang Zizhen added more gently, “Jiang Zongzhu probably thinks he’s protecting you.”

“I don’t want his protection,” Jin Ling muttered. “I just don’t want to be shut out.”

Jiang Xue didn’t argue. His silence was not dismissive—but respectful, even solemn.

After a pause, he adjusted the scroll in his hand.

Jiang Xue bowed again. “I’ll inform you if visitors are allowed.”

Then he left.

After he left, the silence returned.

Lan Sizhui stepped closer. “He’ll talk to you when he’s ready.”

“He shouldn’t have waited this long,” Jin Ling muttered.

But deep down, they all knew—

He wasn’t angry because he didn’t understand.

He was angry because he did.

Chapter Text

Inner Meditation Chamber, Nightfall

Mist drifted low as the second method began.

Jiang Cheng stood within the array—no longer meditating, but moving. Twelve steps clockwise, twelve counter. Around him, five Meishan Yu banners pulsed with faint light, channeling qi along a false path that imitated a golden core’s flow without touching it.

A borrowed breath. A mimicry of life.

Jiang Su watched from the edge, talisman in hand. Jiang Xue monitored the boundary.

“Begin,” Jiang Su said.

Jiang Cheng moved—slow, steady steps. The script beneath his feet lit up. Energy trailed him, shallow but responsive. It felt foreign. Hollow.

But it moved.

Jiang Su murmured the secondary incantation, guiding the current through the surface meridians—Yangming, Shaoyin, Taiyin. Not deep rivers, but enough to hold a thread of balance.

By the sixth rotation, qi began pressing in—testing the dantian. The third banner flickered.

“Current shift,” Jiang Xue warned.

“I see it,” Jiang Su answered, redirecting the flow to avoid collapse.

Jiang Cheng stumbled, then recovered.

By the eighth cycle, his breathing steadied. Some color returned to his face.

Then the fifth banner surged violet—unstable. He staggered.

A thin line of blood slipped from his lips.

The current had tried to push inward—to a place that no longer existed.

“I can hold it,” he said, voice raw.

And he did.

Step by step. Breath by breath.

Until the current stopped resisting.

Not acceptance. But imitation.

Enough to trick the body—for now.

When it ended—

Jiang Cheng fell to one knee, soaked in sweat but conscious.

Jiang Su approached. “Zongzhu?”

“I’m fine,” Jiang Cheng rasped.

Jiang Xue stepped forward, relief flickering behind his controlled expression. “The current has stabilized. For now.”

“Good,” Jiang Cheng murmured. His voice was hoarse. “Then tomorrow… we begin again.”

Jiang Su’s eyes tightened. “This isn’t sustainable long-term. It’s an imitation at best.”

“I don’t need long-term,” Jiang Cheng said.

“I need enough.”

—

Main Courtyard, outside.

The courtyard was quiet.

Only the faint hiss of wind off the water, the creak of damp wood beneath his boots.

Jiang Cheng stood at the edge of the walkway, one hand braced on the railing. His breath was shallow, his shoulders stiff. The ritual had ended hours ago, but the ache hadn’t.

Ye Baiyi approached from the side. He didn’t announce himself.

He simply said, “You’re pushing a body that’s already breaking. That method was never meant to be used on someone with a shattered core.”

Jiang Cheng’s gaze sharpened. “You’ve said enough.”

“I haven’t said anything at all,” Ye Baiyi replied calmly.

Another beat of silence.

The wind shifted. The scent of damp stone and old lotus root hung between them.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” Jiang Cheng said, voice low, tense. “And I don’t need it.”

Ye Baiyi studied him, face neutral.

“You don’t need help. You need something to prove.”

Jiang Cheng’s jaw tightened.

Ye Baiyi didn’t move. Didn’t press.

He just let the next words fall, flat and final:

“You’re not angry. You’re grieving—and you don’t know how to stop.”

Jiang Cheng’s breath hitched—barely noticeable.

But he said nothing.

Didn’t argue.

Didn’t accept it either.

He looked away, toward the hall behind him. The doors had closed again. No one else had seen this conversation.

Just as he preferred.

Then, after a long moment:

“What is it that you want from me, exactly?” he asked, voice low but edged. “You’re not here out of kindness. So what is it? Why are you still here?”

Ye Baiyi didn’t flinch. “Because the dead don’t stay buried.”

Jiang Cheng turned his head slightly.

“…You’re talking about the rogue spirits.”

“I’m talking about the seals beneath the Burial Mounds,” Ye Baiyi said. “They’re fracturing. Slowly. Quietly. But enough.”

Jiang Cheng narrowed his eyes. “And you knew this. From the start.”

“I felt the shift weeks ago.”

“You felt it,” Jiang Cheng repeated, bitter. “You mean to tell me all this time, you’ve been following ghost across the provinces and decided to park yourself in Yunmeng—without explanation, without warning?”

“I’m not in the habit of giving warnings,” Ye Baiyi said. “And Yunmeng is close to Yiling. If something rises from there, it’ll rise here first.”

Jiang Cheng’s hands curled tighter against the railing. “You think I can’t protect my own sect?”

“No,” Ye Baiyi said plainly. “I think you won’t be able to—if you keep pretending your body isn’t already falling apart.”

Jiang Cheng stared at him, jaw clenched. “If you’re here for a fight, draw your sword. If not, then speak clearly or stay out of my courtyard.”

But Ye Baiyi only looked at him—expression unreadable, eyes like the edge of a blade dulled only by time.

“I’m not here for you,” he said. “I’m here for whatever comes next.”

Jiang Cheng didn’t reply right away.

His shoulders were still, his eyes sharp under the pale sheen of moonlight.

Then, in a voice cold and quiet:

“Then stay out of my way.”

Ye Baiyi inclined his head—neither in submission nor in challenge.

“Just don’t make it my problem next time.”

He turned and left without another word.

Jiang Cheng stood where he was, long after the sound of footsteps faded.

His fingers didn’t loosen from the wood.

And the night around him remained heavy—quiet, but not still.

Something had shifted.

And he could feel it moving, just beneath the surface.

—--

Unbeknownst to them, someone saw it.

From the shadowed edge of the side corridor, Jin Ling stood still—barely breathing.

He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. Not really.

He’d only gone to check whether his uncle had returned to his room, not expecting to find him outside… let alone speaking with that man again.

He couldn't hear what they were saying—not clearly. The wind carried only fragments, too faint to piece together.

But he didn’t need words to feel it.

The tension between them was sharp—like drawn blades. Not angry, not loud, but taut in a way that made his chest tighten just from watching.

His jiujiu stood as if every breath cost him, as if staying upright was a choice he refused to surrender.

Ye Baiyi, in contrast, was motionless as stone—unmoving, unimpressed.

And yet, they stayed there.

Neither walking away, 

neither backing down.

Jin Ling’s fingers curled loosely at his side.

He didn’t know what this was.

He didn’t understand it.

But something in him said—whatever passed between them tonight, it mattered.

He exhaled quietly, stepping back before they could notice him.

Tomorrow, he will ask jiujiu again.

Even if he refused to answer.

—--

Morning, Main Courtyard — Lotus Pier

The clouds had lifted overnight, leaving the air crisp with sunlight and the scent of drying lotus leaves. Morning dew still clung to the steps as the disciples moved about the grounds, returning to routine like a wound trying to remember how to close.

Jin Ling hadn’t meant to wake early, but habit had pulled him up before the drums. He hadn't expected to see him. 

His jiujiu stood at the far side of the main courtyard, speaking quietly to Jiang Xue. His posture was firm, shoulders squared beneath a clean robe of deep violet. Not the thin, pale figure from the previous days—this man looked steady. Controlled.

Like nothing had touched him.

Jin Ling blinked once, then again—just to be sure.

He wasn’t imagining it.

His uncle looked… fine.

No, more than fine. He looked normal.

As if the past days hadn’t happened.

As if nothing had cracked or trembled or buckled beneath the surface.

Jin Ling exhaled slowly, not realizing until then how tight his chest had felt.

He took a step back, lips pressing into something like a smile.

“Everything’s okay,” he murmured.

Behind him, Lan Sizhui and Lan Jingyi approached, having followed the same invisible thread of tension.

Jin Ling turned to them, the relief on his face unmistakable.

“He’s up,” he said. “And walking. Looks like he even yelled at someone.”

Lan Jingyi’s brows lifted. “That does sound like him.”

Ouyang Zizhen joined them, glancing toward the figure across the courtyard.

“His color’s better,” he said, half to himself. “That mean the treatment worked?”

Jin Ling nodded, quickly. Too quickly. “Must’ve. Whatever it was.”

He didn’t ask what method they had used.

Didn’t mention the blood-stained corner of his uncle’s sleeve from the night before. Didn’t bring up the cold wind, or the white-robed man who had stood beside him in the dark.

He let it all rest, tucked somewhere behind his ribs.

Because at this moment—seeing Jiujiu on his feet again, composed and commanding—the worry didn’t feel urgent.

His friends smiled, watching him relax for the first time in days.

And Jin Ling smiled back.

For now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

A few more days had passed.

The courtyard of Yunmeng Jiang was alive with movement.

Disciples sparred. Messengers came and went.

At the center of it all stood Jiang Cheng, issuing orders with crisp precision.

Sword at his hip. Robes sharp. Voice clear.

No hesitation. No sign of pain.

As if the night before had never happened.

As if nothing inside him was breaking.

As if everything had returned to order.

Training had resumed in the courtyard. Morning drills echoed with sharp shouts and crisp footwork. Ferry boats glided in and out of the docks. Even the water in the inner lake looked clearer these days, reflecting sunlight as though Yunmeng had never known decay.

But at night, the sect was never truly at rest.

Night hunts had become routine—almost nightly now, as the appearance of rogue spirits grew too frequent to ignore. Yunmeng Jiang dispatched patrols far beyond their usual routes, and the disciples whispered among themselves, wondering what the sudden surge might mean.

Wen Ning was still seen along the outer lines, his silent presence a grim reassurance.

Ye Baiyi patrolled the roads between Yiling and Yunmeng—rarely seen for long, but never fully gone.

Even Jin Ling and his friends had been sent into the field, riding with Jiang Xue’s unit through wetlands and border forests. The youngest disciples watched him closely—half in awe, half in worry.

Everyone was busy.

Too busy.

“The Sect Leader has recovered,” someone whispered near the armory.

“Back to his old self,” said another. “Did you see how he reprimanded those two juniors? His voice alone made the sparring halt—just like before.”

Jiang Su heard them.

He said nothing.

From the covered corridor, he stood with hands folded behind his back, watching the same scene.

Jiang Zongzhu was no longer pale. His steps no longer faltered. The robes he wore today were violet with silver trim—sharp, authoritative.

If one didn’t know better, it would be easy to believe the worst had passed.

But Jiang Su knew better.

He knew the pattern etched on the second scroll had begun to degrade from internal strain.

He had seen the tremor in Jiang Cheng’s hand when no one else was looking.

Had replaced the inner lining of the Sect Leader’s robes to hide the bloodstains that appeared near the waist after the last ritual.

Stability was a performance.

And he had been ordered to let it continue.

“As long as the others don’t suspect, it’s enough,” Zongzhu had said, quiet but final.

“You’ll say nothing. Jiang Xue will say nothing. That’s an order.”

Jiang Xue arrived beside him now, footsteps silent.

A folded report was in his hand, but he didn’t move to deliver it just yet.

Instead, after a moment’s pause, he said quietly, “He’s pushing too hard again, Shixiong. If this keeps up…”

Jiang Su didn’t look away from the courtyard. His voice remained level.

“He knows the limits better than anyone. And he’s already chosen to ignore them.”

Jiang Xue’s fingers tightened slightly on the report, but he said nothing else. His gaze was fixed ahead—on the man standing immovable at the center of it all.

Jiang Zongzhu stood with arms folded behind his back, eyes narrowed slightly as he corrected a disciple’s grip on a sword.

He looked composed. Precise.

Like nothing was broken.

Like everything still followed his command.

Then Jiang Su caught it—just barely.

Not just the pause.

Not just the half-beat delay between correction and command.

But something else. Subtler.

A flicker in the Sect Leader’s eyes—sharp, then unfocused, as if the flow of thought had snagged on something unseen.

A misalignment between breath and voice.

A moment of... dissonance.

Fleeting, but unmistakable to someone trained to read qi flow.

It wasn’t just the toll of the second method.

It felt like instability. Like a thread pulled too tight. A ripple where there should’ve been none.

The kind of flicker that, if it repeated—

—might mark the early signs of deviation.

It passed too quickly to confirm. A breath. A blink. Then it was gone.

Jiang Zongzhu turned, gave a sharp command, and the disciples obeyed without hesitation.

Order reasserted itself.

Still—Jiang Su’s brow furrowed.

It could have been lingering exhaustion. Or another expected aftereffect of the second method.

That was the most likely explanation.

It had to be.

Probably.

Beside him, Jiang Xue remained still, but the tension in his frame betrayed him.

His fingers—disciplined in every gesture—tightened almost imperceptibly at his side.

They both knew the truth:

The Sect Leader was not better.

He was burning through borrowed strength—

—and the price hadn’t yet come due.

###

After the morning drills, Jiang Cheng had returned to his study without pause.

No rest. No delay.

The air inside the study was thick with the scent of ink and medicinal smoke.

Jiang Cheng sat behind the long desk, sleeves rolled slightly past his wrists. A stack of reports lay open before him—some half-read, others already marked with short strokes of vermilion brush. He didn’t look up when Jiang Su and Jiang Xue stepped in.

“Report,” he said.

Jiang Xue bowed first before approaching.

“We received transmission from the scouting party sent toward the Burial Mounds. They’ve crossed into the southern pass two days ago, but progress is slow. Several rogue spirits were encountered near the old battlefield ridge. Two cultivators injured, one lightly, one being stabilized.”

Jiang Cheng’s brow twitched, but his voice remained even.

“And the seal?”

“No confirmation yet. They haven’t reached the core site. Visibility is low. Too much spiritual interference.

They’ll report again within the next day.”

A pause. Then more quietly,

“The barrier specialist you requested is with them. He trained under Gusu’s elder during the last convergence. If the seal exists—he’ll see it.”

Jiang Cheng gave a short nod.

“There is another. Report from Lanling, Zongzhu.”

Jiang Cheng looked up, slower this time.

“The elders?”

Jiang Xue placed the scroll on the desk with both hands. “They’ve given formal approval. The motion to accelerate Young Master Jin Ling’s appointment is passed. The ceremony is to be held within a month.”

A pause followed.

Jiang Cheng’s jaw tensed faintly. “A month…”

“If the final confirmation is sent before sundown, the preparations can begin.”

Jiang Cheng said nothing at first. His gaze drifted toward the window—sunlight slanting golden across the lake, catching on the ripples of wind.

“…Send it,” he said at last.

Jiang Xue nodded. “Understood.”

He bowed and stepped back, eyes lingering only a second longer than necessary—just long enough to see the deep lines of fatigue behind the Sect Leader’s mask of composure.

Silent. Then Jiang Su walked closer.

“Zongzhu,” Jiang Su bowed low. “I’ve completed recalibration on the second cycle method.”

Jiang Cheng set his brush down.

“And?”

“It failed again this morning,” Jiang Su said, stepping closer. “The external current can no longer sustain a closed loop. Your body’s rejecting the false pattern—too violently now. If we attempt another round, it won’t just fail. It may cause permanent collapse along the main conduits.”

Jiang Cheng didn’t flinch. Only his hand curled tighter around the edge of the table.

“So it’s over.”

Jiang Su hesitated. “For that method—yes.”

He reached into his sleeve and produced a fresh scroll, unrolling it carefully on the desk. “I’ve drafted an alternate strategy. The formation is simplified. Instead of mimicking flow, we’ll stabilize what little still circulates. It shifts the focus to containment, not correction. Less resistance, but not a fix.”

“Side effects?”

“You’ll need anchoring talismans to maintain core alignment. And regular physical recovery between each use. No long activity without pause.”

“I don’t have time for pause,” Jiang Cheng said coldly.

“You’ll make time, or there won’t be anything left to anchor,” Jiang Su replied, his voice tight. “This is the last viable option before full system failure.”

Jiang Cheng reached for the scroll. His fingers brushed the edge—then faltered.

Just a flicker of tremor.

But then, something else.

A faint shift in the air.

Barely there—like heat off stone. The kind of ripple one might feel when a cultivator’s qi surged unevenly beneath the skin, unstable for a fraction of a second before it settled again.

It passed almost too fast to register.

Jiang Cheng stilled the motion quickly, hand flattening against the parchment as though it had never happened. He didn’t speak, didn’t flinch.

Neither Jiang Su nor Jiang Xue said anything.

But this time, both had seen it.

The tremor.

The faint pallor under his skin.

The breath that didn’t quite fill his lungs.

Jiang Su’s brows knit faintly. Jiang Xue glanced sideways, just once, before dropping his gaze again.

A sensation hung in the room—unease, unspoken.

But there had been no order to speak.

And so, they remained silent.

Only after a long silence did Jiang Cheng murmur, “Proceed. But keep the talismans discreet.”

“Yes, Zongzhu.”

Jiang Su bowed once more, then stepped back into the shadowed corridor without another word.

And as Jiang Cheng returned to his work, not one word was spoken of the pallor creeping beneath his skin, or the tightness in his breathing.

Because the order had been clear:

No one was to speak of what was breaking.

###

Main Training Hall, Lotus Pier.

The floorboards creaked faintly as Jin Ling landed from another jump, sword steady in his grip. Sweat clung to his temples. His movements were precise—but not perfect. He knew it.

Across the training hall, Jiang Cheng stood in silence, arms folded behind his back. His robes today were darker than usual, trimmed in indigo, the inner lining barely visible beneath the folds. His gaze was sharp. Detached. But the weight of it pressed harder than any opponent’s blade.

“Again,” Jiang Cheng said.

Jin Ling turned, panting lightly. “I just did it four times.”

“And the third was sloppy. Your footing broke at the pivot.”

His tone didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.

Jin Ling bit back a retort and reset his stance. Sword raised. Breath held.

He moved again—this time faster, tighter, striking through the air in a clean, slicing arc before turning back into guard. His feet hit the floor with solid control.

Jiang Cheng said nothing.

Jin Ling exhaled. “Was that—”

“Not enough.”

A beat of silence.

“Not when you’ll have to stand in front of the Lanling elders in less than a month,” Jiang Cheng added, walking forward now, each step deliberate. “They’ll see everything you do. Every hesitation, every fault.”

“I know that,” Jin Ling said sharply. “I’ve been training—”

“You’ve been practicing,” Jiang Cheng cut in. “Not the same thing.”

Jin Ling’s jaw tensed.

“You think leading a sect is about keeping your blade steady in the air?” Jiang Cheng continued, circling him now. “That it’s about looking impressive during a form?”

He stopped directly in front of him.

“It’s about knowing when not to flinch when you’re standing in a room full of people who want you to fail. It’s about signing your name to an order that could send a disciple to his death. It’s about making decisions even when no one tells you the right one.”

Jin Ling didn’t speak. He just stood there—facing him.

Jiang Cheng’s voice dropped lower. Not quieter. Just heavier.

“I won’t always be able to stand behind you.”

The words hung in the air like ash.

Jin Ling frowned.

“…What’s that supposed to mean?”

But his voice had softened.

Jiang Cheng looked away. Not far. Just enough.

“It means,” he said, “you have a month.”

Jin Ling opened his mouth—then closed it again.

Something about the way his uncle stood, the calmness of it, felt… off.

His posture was as rigid as ever. His tone was unshaken.

But Jin Ling’s eyes caught the faintest irregularity—

The way Jiujiu’s fingers, still tucked behind his back, curled briefly into a fist.

The way he paused just slightly longer between breaths, like it took effort to fill his lungs.

The faint sheen of sweat at his temples—not from heat, but from something deeper.

Jin Ling looked away quickly.

He didn’t ask.

He told himself it was just fatigue. Stress. The kind his uncle never admitted to.

He’d seen it before, hadn’t he? During fights, after night-hunts.

It didn’t mean anything.

Not really.

... Right?

“But why now?” he said, more quietly.

“The elders agreed,” Jiang Cheng replied.

“That’s not what I meant.”

Jiang Cheng turned back, eyes sharp again. Dismissive—but not unfeeling.

“You’re ready.”

Jin Ling didn’t believe it—not entirely. But he didn’t argue further.

Not with that look in Jiujiu’s eyes.

Not with the finality in his voice.

Not with that faint, almost invisible tension around his shoulders, as if standing upright required sheer force of will.

He nodded once, jaw set.

“I’ll be ready.”

Jiang Cheng stepped back. His voice returned to command.

“Then act like it.”

He turned toward the door. But just before exiting, he paused.

“…Tomorrow morning. Hall of Records. You’ll start reviewing the civic ledgers.”

Jin Ling blinked. “What?”

“You don’t have a choice, Jin Ling.” Jiang Cheng said, not turning.

“The seat won’t wait for you to be ready.”

Then he left—robes brushing softly against the floor as the hall returned to silence.

Jin Ling remained where he was, sword lowered at his side, heart beating fast for reasons that had nothing to do with training.

###

Later that night at Rear Pavilion.

The sky was clear now, stars scattered across dark . Crickets chirped lazily from the reeds, and the faint scent of roasted chestnuts still lingered from the kitchen.

Jin Ling sat alone on the veranda, chin resting on clasped hands. His training robes were still slightly damp. He hadn’t changed yet.

He was staring at nothing.

“You okay?”

The voice was soft—Lan Sizhui, as always, approaching without disturbing the night air.

Jin Ling didn’t look up. “Define ‘okay.’”

Lan Sizhui sat down beside him, folding his legs neatly. “You seem preoccupied. Is everything alright?”

Jin Ling didn’t answer immediately. Then:

“Jiujiu said I have a month to prepare.”

“...So you’ll be a sect leader.”

“That’s what the title says.” A beat. “But it doesn’t feel like a promotion. It feels like a deadline.”

Sizhui looked sideways at him. “Do you not want it?”

“It’s not that.” Jin Ling leaned back slightly. “I always knew it would come. But not now. Not like this.”

He pulled his knees closer. For a moment, neither of them said anything. The moonlight shifted on the tiles.

“Everything’s been moving too fast lately,” Jin Ling continued, brows furrowed. “Jiujiu got sick. Then better. Then suddenly I’m getting ready to lead the sect. It’s like he’s trying to tie all the knots at once before—”

He stopped.

Sizhui didn’t press.

“…Before what?” another voice cut in, casual but not unkind. Lan Jingyi flopped down onto the step behind them, a peach bun half-eaten in his hand. “You think he’s going to disappear?”

“I don’t know,” Jin Ling muttered. “That’s the problem.”

“I mean, I don’t think he’ll just leave. He’s not the type.” Jingyi chewed thoughtfully. “But something’s definitely off.”

“Jingyi—” Sizhui said warningly.

“What? He knows it. We all know it. Even Zizhen said—”

“What did Zizhen say?” Jin Ling turned sharply.

“Nothing, nothing,” Jingyi said quickly, waving the bun. “Just that Jiang Xue-xiong has been acting… weird. Guarded.”

“And senior Jiang Su,” Sizhui added quietly. “He doesn’t look at you the same way anymore. Like he’s bracing for something.”

Jin Ling went silent.

He remembered the way both of them had stood too straight at the last debrief. The way their answers had grown more precise—more carefully chosen.

They were hiding something.

Not maliciously. Not even out of distrust.

Just… deliberately.

“And I hate it,” he muttered.

“You’re not the only one,” said a fourth voice as Ouyang Zizhen slid down beside Sizhui, arms draped over his knees. “I’ve been thinking about what happened yesterday. That mission with Jiang Xue-xiong—by the old ruins in the reed marsh.”

“Too many spirits,” Sizhui murmured. “They shouldn’t have gathered in that kind of terrain.”

“And the formation—remember? It shifted,” Zizhen said. “I thought it was just wind at first, but the talismans frayed inward. That doesn’t happen unless something stronger is pulling from below.”

“That strange cultivator was there again,” Jingyi said suddenly.

The others looked at him.

“You know who I mean. The one with white robes. Sword like something out of a history scroll. Looks like he doesn’t blink.”

Ye Baiyi.

“He’s been seen patrolling near Yunmeng’s borders,” Zizhen said carefully. “A few disciples say he comes and goes at will. Doesn’t ask permission. Doesn’t knock.”

“I heard someone saw he walked straight into the main compound once,” Jingyi added, voice lowered with mischief. “Didn’t even take his boots off.”

“That’s not—” Sizhui sighed.

“I also heard,” Jingyi pressed on, “that someone saw him leaving Jiang Zongzhu’s chamber. At night.”

Silence fell.

Zizhen looked at Jin Ling, cautious. “Have you asked your jiujiu about him?”

“No,” Jin Ling said, too quickly. Then, softer, “He wouldn’t answer anyway.”

He looked down at his hands—calloused, steady, not ready to carry everything.

“Jiang Zongzhu wouldn’t let someone like that into his personal quarters unless—” Sizhui hesitated.

“Unless it’s serious,” Zizhen finished.

The words settled into the space between them, heavier than they’d expected.

Jin Ling didn’t answer at first. His gaze dropped, shoulders tight as if holding back something brittle.

Then, quietly—

“Yes, it's like—," he paused—

"It’s not that he wants to leave me behind. It’s that he thinks he has to—before I’m ready.”

No one asked who he was. They all knew.

Zizhen exhaled, voice quiet. “Whatever Jiang Zongzhu is preparing you for—he’s not doing it because he doubts you.”

“I know,” Jin Ling replied.

“That’s what makes it worse.”

He leaned back against the veranda pillar, head tilted toward the sky—but his expression didn’t ease.

Chapter Text

Lotus Pier —Sect Leader’s Study, Early Morning.

The scent of scorched talisman ink still lingered faintly in the corners of the room.

The night before had been long. The third method—less aggressive than the last, but more invasive in its subtlety—had been deployed under closed warding, deep in the Inner Cultivation Hall. It didn’t try to restore what was lost. It simply reinforced the broken walls from within, like bones braced with splints that wouldn’t hold under strain for long.

It had worked.

Barely.

Jiang Cheng had remained conscious throughout. Refused assistance even when his breath turned shallow, when his right hand trembled hard enough to smudge the sealing lines. The ritual had ended close to midnight. There was no collapse. But there was no recovery, either.

Now, in the dim quiet of the study, that line between holding on and falling apart grew thinner by the hour.

The incense had burned halfway down its stem.

Jiang Cheng sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled with quiet discipline, posture straight. To anyone else, he looked composed. Steady. Even healthy.

But Jiang Su and Jiang Xue could see the difference.

The stiffness wasn’t will alone—it was a necessity. Every motion rationed.

Jiang Su stood before him, scroll in hand, unread.

“The formation stabilized overnight,” he said. “No regression.”

Jiang Cheng did not look up from the report he was annotating. “But no improvement.”

“…No.”

A silence passed between them.

Then Jiang Cheng dipped the brush once more and marked another character. His voice was quiet, even.

“Then it’s enough. At least until Jin Ling takes the seat.”

Jiang Su opened his mouth—then closed it again.

He wanted to say something. Wanted to argue. But he didn’t.

Instead, he bowed low, letting the scroll unroll on the floor like a ribbon of quiet restraint.

Still, as he straightened, his jaw set with quiet resolve.

If there were still a path left—any path at all—he would find it.

Even if it meant seeking out that cold-blooded sword spirit at the edge of the estate.

Even if he had to do it behind the Sect Leader’s back.

“Jiang Xue,” Jiang Cheng said, shifting his focus as Jiang Su stepped aside.

Jiang Xue stepped forward, a new dispatch in hand.

“Report from the scouting team arrived early this morning. They’ve reached the inner region of the Burial Mounds.”

He placed a folded scroll on the desk. Jiang Cheng took it, skimming as Jiang Xue continued.

“There’s confirmation of a seal at the site.”

Jiang Cheng’s eyes stilled over the markings. “The one Ye Baiyi mentioned?”

Jiang Xue nodded. “According to their accounts, the seal formation is… unorthodox. The lead talisman master could identify elements from three sect systems. Ancient Lan. Obscure Wen script. But most of it is unfamiliar. Their exact words were: ‘It feels like two different seals layered into one. Woven, not stacked.’”

Jiang Cheng narrowed his eyes slightly.

“A merger.”

“Yes, Zongzhu.”

“And they couldn’t read it?”

“Not without destroying it. They’ve requested additional guidance. Perhaps—” Jiang Xue hesitated—“from someone with firsthand knowledge of ancient sect defenses.”

Jiang Cheng didn’t answer immediately.

He looked down at the seal diagram now unrolled across his desk. The lines were faded in some places, sharp in others—like the bones of something long buried but still watching.

His voice came low.

“Have them hold position. No disruption.”

Jiang Xue bowed. “Yes, Zongzhu.”

Jiang Cheng leaned back slightly. The pain in his ribs was constant now—no longer sharp, just weight.

He didn’t wince. Didn’t show it.

Not even when his fingers tightened beneath the desk.

Jiang Su watched him in silence, gaze unreadable. Then, without a word, he turned toward the door.

Jiang Xue gave a bow—deep and formal—before stepping aside to follow.

But just before they could cross the threshold, Jiang Cheng’s voice cut through the stillness behind them.

“Starting tomorrow, resume morning drills. You’ll lead them,” he said evenly. “Don’t wait for me.”

A beat.

Then—

“Tell Jin Ling that starting this morning, he’s expected at the Hall of Records,” he added, tone calm but immovable.

Jiang Xue paused, his expression unreadable. “Understood.”

Then inclined his head slightly before turning away.

The doors closed behind them with a muted thud.

Outside, the morning bells rang softly.

Routine continued.

But behind the closed door, none of them said what they knew:

That time was thinning.

And the seal wasn’t the only thing waiting to break.

###

Later, near the Gusu border.

The wind reeked of burnt silk and blood.

A smear of red evaporated in the fading light—curling like smoke as the last of the rogue spirit shrieked and dissolved beneath Lan Wangji’s sword. The forest stilled, trees holding their breath. Not even a breeze dared to pass.

Wei Wuxian lowered his flute slowly.

“That’s the third one this week,” he muttered. “Maybe fourth if we count the thing in Wuyuan.”

Lan Wangji stepped forward, sheathing Bichen with a crisp, metallic note. “Fifth.”

“Right,” Wei Wuxian exhaled, scanning the clearing. “Fifth. Definitely not normal.”

They had left their last inn with no intention of cutting the journey short, but by the time the fourth rogue spirit lunged from the mist with fangs and claws that did not belong to any known ghost—Wei Wuxian had started to frown more often than grin. Even Lan Wangji had quickened his pace.

Something was wrong.

Now, with the last one vanishing into the evening haze, Wei Wuxian turned to him. “Back to Gusu, then?”

Lan Wangji nodded once. “Immediately.”

---

Gusu Lan

Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji returned before dawn.

The Cloud Recesses were quiet as ever, bathed in the silver sheen of mountain mist. But something felt... off. A little too quiet. The kind of silence that sits heavy on the shoulders.

Lan Wangji parted from him at the steps of the main hall. “Rest. I will report to Shufu.”

Wei Wuxian gave a lazy two-fingered salute, but the worry hadn’t left his eyes. He didn’t go to rest. Not yet.

When Lan Wangji finally returned nearly an hour later, his expression was unreadable—but his steps were just a shade too fast.

Wei Wuxian stood. “What is it? And don’t say ‘nothing’. You’ve got your concerned husband face on.”

Lan Wangji gave him a sidelong look. “Sit.”

“Ok, I'm sitting. Talk.”

A pause. Then:

“Rogue spirits,” Lan Wangji said. “Several reports. Yiling. Yunmeng. Wuyuan. Qinghe.”

Wei Wuxian straightened. “That’s… a wide range.”

Lan Wangji gave a small nod. “Evenly spaced. Days apart.”

Wei Wuxian frowned. “Coordinated?”

“Perhaps.”

“Lan Qiren thinks something is stirring?”

Lan Wangji didn’t answer immediately. Then: “He believes it is not random.”

Wei Wuxian exhaled. “Wonderful.”

Another pause. Then Lan Wangji added, almost as an afterthought—except it wasn’t:

“Sizhui and Jingyi remain at Lotus Pier.”

Wei Wuxian blinked. “Still? I thought they went night-hunting with Wen Ning weeks ago. They should’ve returned.”

“They are... occupied,” Lan Wangji said. 

Wei Wuxian narrowed his eyes. “Occupied how?”

A beat of silence. Then Lan Wangji spoke.

“Jiang Wanyin collapsed.”

The words landed with the quiet weight of stone.

Wei Wuxian stared. “Collapsed?”

“Spirit-related incident,” Lan Wangji said. “He has reportedly recovered.”

A thousand things raced through Wei Wuxian’s mind at once—and none of them settled well.

“Reportedly.” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “That’s not exactly reassuring.”

Which meant either Jiang Cheng had genuinely recovered—or someone was covering the truth.

For all his travels and noisy nights in the past few weeks, Wei Wuxian hadn’t heard a single whisper about the Jiang Sect. No passing gossip, no concerned letters, not even a slip of idle talk from a traveling cultivator. The silence was too complete to be natural.

“…They’re keeping it quiet,” he muttered. “If it really was serious, they’re burying it fast.”

Lan Wangji watched him quietly.

Wei Wuxian rubbed a hand over his face. “Or maybe he really is fine. You know Jiang Cheng. If he can stand, he’ll pretend he can fight off a siege.”

Lan Wangji said nothing. He didn’t have to.

Wei Wuxian let out a slow breath. “He wouldn’t tell me anyway. Even if he was dying. He’d rather bite through his tongue than admit weakness in front of me.”

He looked toward the open courtyard beyond the windows.

The early light was beginning to rise over the Cloud Recesses, painting the white stone in faint blue.

“…Still. If something was really wrong, we’d have heard more, right?”

Lan Wangji sit unmoving, gaze steady.

He said nothing. But Wei Wuxian can read him.

Wei Wuxian looked at him, eyes sharp.

“You believe he’s not fine.”

Lan Wangji didn’t nod. The shift in his posture said enough. 

Wei Wuxian sighed, quieter this time.

“No rumors,” he muttered. “Not one whisper from travelers. That’s not normal.”

“Deliberate,” Lan Wangji said.

Wei Wuxian exhaled slowly. “Yeah.”

The silence between them filled in the gaps.

Wei Wuxian straightened slowly, eyes sharpening. “We’re going.”

Lan Wangji looked at him. “Lotus Pier?”

“To wherever this mess leads.” Wei Wuxian’s voice was calm, but there was iron in it now. “Lotus Pier, Qinghe, wherever—if these spirits are spreading, we’re not waiting around for the next body to show up.”

A pause. Then: “And if Jiang Cheng really is fine, he won’t mind me poking around.”

He tried a crooked smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s not like he can throw me out. Again.”

Lan Wangji gave a quiet hum.

Not amusement. Agreement.

And beneath it, the faintest trace of concern for Wei Ying he didn’t voice.

They didn’t need to say more.

The decision had already settled between them like a drawn sword.

By nightfall, they would be on the road again.

Chapter Text

Lotus Pier – Morning

The morning began as it always did.

Scrolls delivered, reports signed, disciples already on their second round of drills by the time Jiang Cheng crossed the training courtyard. His robes sharp, his expression sharper—nothing out of place.

Except one thing.

Jin Ling.

He had been following Jiang Xue all morning, pretending—poorly—that he was interested in the endless work of paperwork and ledgers. “Jiujiu said I should learn sect management,” he’d said, eyes too quick, voice too smooth.

But Jiang Cheng had known that look since Jin Ling was a child.

It wasn't a curiosity.

It was suspicion.

Or worse—concern.

And that could not be allowed.

So Jiang Cheng kept moving.

Even as the signs returned:

That familiar sting behind the ribs. The subtle drag in his left leg. The weight in his hand when he held a brush too long.

And something else now.

Something new.

A faint pressure behind his eyes. A flicker at the edge of hearing—his name, maybe, spoken from behind. Or perhaps just the wind. Or memory. Or the cost of too many sleepless nights.

Once, he caught himself gripping the ledger too hard. The edge bit into his palm. A sharp breath followed—brief, but strange, like his meridians had clenched inward without cause.

He told himself it was nothing.

Just strain.

Just remnants of the seal.

Just backlash from forcing a broken golden core to do what it no longer could.

It wasn’t serious.

It couldn’t be.

So he kept going.

Kept speaking.

Kept instructing.

Kept leading.

Because anything less—any pause, any flinch—might invite questions.

Might force him to name what he feared:

That this wasn’t mere pain or fatigue,

but the beginning of something far worse.

A deviation. A rupture.

After a core dissolving—

Now this?

No.

He wasn’t that fragile.

Not yet.

Not while the sect watched. Not while Jin Ling was watching.

He held the line.

He wore the pain like armor.

He did not allow it to show.

No one must see.

No one must ask.

Except—

He felt the eyes.

Not from his disciples.

Not from his guards.

But from Jin Ling.

The boy didn’t stare outright—he was better trained than that. But even from across the hall, even while pretending to sort documents beside Jiang Xue, Jiang Cheng could feel it.

A constant watch.

He adjusted accordingly. Sat straighter. Took smaller steps when the pain flared. Refused the tea Jiang Su had quietly left on his desk, knowing the scent masked the bitter root in the dose.

But the body was a treacherous thing.

There was a moment—just after the second meeting ended—when the ground tipped slightly beneath him as he stood.

He caught the edge of the doorframe, just for a breath. Enough to steady.

He thought no one had noticed.

But across from him, Jin Ling had frozen mid-movement, the stack of reports in his hands forgotten.

Their eyes met—only for an instant.

Then Jiang Cheng looked away, as if nothing had happened. As if Jin Ling hadn’t seen anything at all.

---

The rest of the day passed without interruption.

But the silence between them grew heavier.

And Jiang Cheng—though he said nothing—moved just a little more carefully.

Later that noon, just as he was about to step out of the Hall, a disciple entered, holding a sealed letter.

He bowed slightly and extended it forward. 

“From Gusu,” he said.

Jiang Cheng paused. Only a heartbeat. But something shifted in his stance—too still, too sharp.

He took the letter without a word. His thumb hovered over the seal for a moment too long. Then pressed down—harder than necessary—as if to crush it rather than simply break it.

The wax cracked with a dry snap.

He read in silence.

But the hand holding the letter had gone taut. Fingers curled faintly, knuckles whitening as his eyes flicked from line to line.

Across the room, Jiang Xue had stepped closer, concern evident in his eyes.

Even Jin Ling, who had been pretending to read through a stack of records, had gone still.

He turned to look—quiet, tense.

He didn’t speak. But the way his posture shifted, the way his breath caught—said enough.

Jiang Cheng folded the letter shut, movements taut and precise. His jaw locked, breath held—like something bitter he refused to swallow.

“Zongzhu…” Jiang Xue said carefully.

Jiang Cheng didn’t respond at first. His fingers remained loosely curled at the letter.

Then, at last—his voice steady, too even to be natural—

“They’ll arrive in a few days to retrieve the juniors.”

A pause.

“Lan Wangji himself.”

No one moved.

Without glancing over, Jiang Cheng extended the letter. Jiang Xue stepped forward to take it with both hands.

“Inform the Lan juniors,” Jiang Cheng said, still too composed. “Let them know Hanguang-jun will arrive in a few days.”

Another pause.

“If the guests plans to stay…” —his tone didn’t change, but the weight behind it did—

“Arrange guest quarters near theirs. Begin preparations now.”

Jiang Xue bowed his head. But his feet didn’t move. He lingered, gaze lowered—not out of defiance, but out of worry.

Jiang Cheng didn’t look at him, but he saw it anyway.

“…Go,” he said, more quiet than stern. “That’s an order.”

Only then did Jiang Xue give a short, tight nod and step back—his retreat reluctant, every motion careful, as if afraid turning away might let something break.

Jiang Cheng turned.

Took one step forward.

And faltered.

Not a stumble—just a hesitation. A faint shift of weight, a breath held too long.

But Jin Ling saw it.

He saw everything.

The way Jiang Cheng’s left hand briefly, almost instinctively, hovered near his side—as if bracing against pain he refused to name.

And the way he straightened after, as if to pretend nothing had happened.

Jin Ling’s breath hitched.

It wasn’t loud. But Jiang Cheng heard it anyway.

He didn’t turn around.

“Jiujiu,” Jin Ling said, low and rough.

No response. Only the faint rustle of robes as Jiang Cheng resumed walking, slower this time, as if nothing had happened.

But Jin Ling wasn’t a child anymore. He knew what to look for. He knew what that hesitation meant.

He stepped forward, quick but not loud. Close enough to catch him, if he fell.

“You’re not well,” he said, voice strained.

Jiang Cheng’s steps didn’t stop—but his jaw tightened.

“I said I’m fine.”

“No, you didn’t.”

That made Jiang Cheng pause again. Not physically, but something in his silence shifted. As if the words had landed somewhere they shouldn’t have.

Jin Ling hesitated. Then:

“If Hanguang-jun is coming, let Sizhui and Jingyi deal with him themselves. You don’t have to—”

“I do.”

It came sharp. Not loud, but sharp.

Jin Ling flinched.

Jiang Cheng let the silence stretch for a beat too long, then added—quieter, but no softer:

“Don’t speak of things you don’t understand.”

But Jin Ling didn’t step back. Not this time.

“I understand you’re in pain.”

Another pause.

Then Jiang Cheng moved. Not away—but past him. One slow step at a time, as if every inch of ground had to be claimed by force.

And as he passed, he said—too quiet for anyone else to hear—

“You don’t get to worry about me.”

Jin Ling stood frozen. The words hit harder than they should have—because they weren’t cold.

They were barely holding together.

“I do, though,” he said, turning to follow. His voice cracked, just a little. “I do worry.”

Jiang Cheng didn’t answer.

But he stopped.

Just there, at the edge of the courtyard, shoulders drawn so tight it looked like the weight of the world was cinched across his back.

The silence dragged again.

Jin Ling stepped closer, slowly, his hands clenched at his sides. “You said once that I shouldn’t hide behind other people. That if I wanted to protect something, I had to stand up for it.”

Still no answer.

“I’m not hiding now,” Jin Ling said, low. “So don’t shut me out.”

For a moment, the wind moved louder than either of them. It tugged at the edge of Jiang Cheng’s robes, brushed Jin Ling’s cheek like a breath too cold.

Then Jiang Cheng exhaled. Just once.

He didn’t turn. Didn’t look at him.

But he said, voice rough around the edges—

“Go rest. This isn’t your burden to carry.”

And Jin Ling knew that was all he’d get.

Not an explanation. Not an apology.

Just this—Jiang Cheng choosing to stay standing a little longer. For him.

So he nodded, even if the man wouldn’t see it.

“…Okay.”

He stayed there until Jiang Cheng was gone from view. Only then did he let out the frustration breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

###

Jiang Cheng didn’t remember walking back to his study.

One moment he stood beneath the open sky—

The next, he was inside, the doors shutting behind him with a quiet finality.

Wei Wuxian would come.

His throat tightened—so suddenly it startled him.

Not because of the name.

But because, just for a breath, his legs nearly gave out.

He caught the edge of the desk.

Knuckles white. Shoulders shaking.

Not from fear. Not even from anger.

Just exhaustion—vicious, bone-deep exhaustion that clawed at him from the inside.

The golden core pulsed weakly, flickering like a dying lantern within his dantian.

No.

No, not yet.

He forced himself to breathe, slowly.

Again. Again.

But the qi didn’t settle.

It surged and sank, sharp and wild, veering too high then dropping too low like a kite in a storm.

His dantian convulsed. A spike of cold burst down his spine.

He pressed a hand over his abdomen.

It burned under his palm—like something was trying to claw out.

A sound slipped past his lips. Not a groan, not a gasp.

Just a whisper of breath that shouldn’t have shaken.

But it did.

He dropped to his knees before the screen. The floorboards swayed beneath him, or maybe that was just the blood draining from his face.

He gritted his teeth. Shut his eyes.

He would not let it take him.

Not now. Not yet.

“You,” he whispered, voice raw, throat scraped thin.

“You will hold. Not today. Not this week.”

A pause. His hand clenched tighter.

“Not until I see Jin Ling stand there—”

His voice caught.

“—as sect leader. On his own. Without needing me to hold him up.”

Another breath, slow and brittle.

“I won’t fall before then.”

The golden core trembled again.

No reply came. No promise.

Only the faint hum of rebellion—like something sacred unraveling under pressure.

So this was it.

The edge he’d known would come eventually.

The moment before everything gave out—his body, his strength, all that he’d held together with the last threads of pride.

And out of all the times this could happen...

Out of all the people who might have to caused him like this—

Why did it have to be him.

Wei Wuxian.

It hit.

Not a ripple.

Not a warning.

Just—rupture.

His vision blurred. Qi exploded outward, raw and jagged, tearing through his meridians like splinters.

The taste of metal flooded his mouth. He bit down until his teeth ached.

The deviation came on like a storm: his spiritual energy surging out of control, clawing up his throat, twisting his thoughts into shadows.

Pain. Fury. Despair—sharp and senseless.

Someone was screaming.

It took him a full breath to realize the voice was his own.

He couldn’t stop it.

Couldn’t rein it back.

The bell at his waist was silent. His talismans were burning from within.

His control was gone.

No, no—he’d sworn—

###

The doors slammed open.

“Jiujiu!”

Jiang Cheng didn’t hear it.

Not fully. The haze had swallowed sound, sight, sense.

He only felt a hand grip his shoulders—

 —and then a cry, choked with fear.

“Jiang Xue—he’s—!”

Jin Ling had dropped to his knees beside Jiang Cheng, both hands trying to steady him.

Jiang Xue was right behind him, sinking low without hesitation, bracing Jiang Cheng from the other side.

“Clear the way!” Jiang Su barked.

Boots pounded across the floor. More hands tried to steady him.

Jiang Cheng fought them all—muscles seizing, qi crackling like fire under his skin.

“Jiujiu, please—!” Jin Ling’s voice broke. “I’m here, I’m right here—look at me!”

But Jiang Cheng couldn’t hear. Couldn’t see.

The clarity bell on his belt still hadn’t rung.

Jin Ling’s gaze fell to it. Wide, panicked.

And then, he fumbled with his own sash.

Another bell. Smaller. Silver. It had once belonged to Jiang Yanli.

He held it up, trembling, and let it ring—clear and piercing through the choking qi.

The bell chimed once.

Twice.

No change.

His uncle didn’t even flinch.

“Why isn’t it working?” Jin Ling’s voice cracked. “Why isn’t it working? This bell always—”

“He’s too far gone,” Jiang Su said tightly. He was checking Jiang Cheng’s pulse now, face pale. “The deviation’s rooted. He can’t hear anything. Jin Ling, search his robes—!”

“What?!”

“The talisman,” Jiang Xue said, already moving. “The one senior Ye left—he never used it. It’s sealed inside his inner lining.”

Jin Ling didn’t hesitate.

His hands shook as he reached beneath Jiang Cheng’s outer robe, fumbling with the folds.

His uncle’s body was burning cold.

He found it.

A square of folded gold-dyed paper—thick with layered seals, humming faintly.

“Here—what do I do—”

“Press it to his chest!” Jiang Su snapped. “Don’t wait!”

Jin Ling obeyed.

He tore open the inner robe and slammed the talisman directly over his uncle’s heart.

For one breath, nothing.

Then—

A searing flare.

The talisman burned gold.

A seal unfurled across Jiang Cheng’s chest like a brand—sharp, ancient, exact.

The qi burst stopped.

Jiang Cheng's body jerked once, then collapsed forward—dead weight into Jin Ling’s arms.

Silence crashed down.

The room, so thick with chaos, had gone still.

Only Jiang Cheng’s labored breathing remained.

He was unconscious.

But alive.

Jin Ling couldn’t speak.

He clutched his uncle tighter, the scent of scorched silk and blood thick in his nose.

“...I’ll get another healers,” Jiang Xue said quietly. “We’ll need more than one.”

But Jin Ling didn’t move.

His uncle’s head was against his shoulder now, hair disheveled, face pale with strain.

He didn’t look like the man who had stood on the training field with him just days ago.

Didn’t look like the protector who had always stood tall, always fought for him, always endured.

He looked like someone who had been bleeding in silence for far too long.

And Jin Ling—

—had sensed it all along.

But he hadn’t wanted to believe it.

Not until it was too late.

Chapter Text

Outside Jiang Cheng’s study, Lotus Pier 

The hallway outside was empty. Still.

Moonlight filtered through the lattice windows. Everything smelled faintly of smoke and burnt silk.

Jiang Xue stood with his back to the wall, one hand resting on his belt. His posture was perfectly upright—precise, composed,

—but his other hand wouldn’t stop clenching.

Jin Ling stared at it.

Then up at Jiang Xue’s face.

“...What’s wrong with him?” he asked quietly.

No answer came at first.

Jiang Xue didn’t look at him. His eyes were distant, fixed somewhere past the paper screens.

“Is it just qi deviation?” Jin Ling pressed. “He’ll wake up soon, right?”

A pause.

Then, finally—

“No,” Jiang Xue said.

Quiet. Crisp.

“Not just that.”

Jin Ling’s breath caught.

“Then what is it?”

Jiang Xue inhaled, like someone about to steady a blade before plunging it in.

“His core is failing.”

He said it plainly.

But the words hit like a fist.

“What—” Jin Ling took a step back. “His core? You mean—his golden core—”

Jiang Xue nodded. Just once.

“He’s been hiding it,” he said. “But it’s dissolving. Breaking apart from the inside.”

Jin Ling stared at him.

His mouth opened—then shut again.

He shook his head once, disbelieving.

“No,” he whispered. “No—he was just—he was fine yesterday—he was scolding me—he was—”

“That’s why no one noticed,” Jiang Xue said.

His voice was low. A thread pulled taut.

“He never let anyone see.”

Jin Ling’s breath stuttered.

“I—if I hadn’t gone in just now—he could’ve—”

“Yes.”

Silence.

The corridor was so still it hurt.

Jin Ling gripped the edge of the window frame like he needed to hold himself up.

“He’s dying,” he said, as if the words tasted wrong in his mouth.

“Isn’t he.”

Jiang Xue didn’t answer.

But he didn’t deny it, either.

Then Jin Ling turned, eyes sharp with something near panic.

“Then how do we stop it?”

His voice cracked. “There has to be a way. He’s the sect leader. He’s—he can’t—”

Jiang Xue’s mouth tightened.

“I don’t know.”

Jin Ling stared at him.

“What do you mean you don’t—”

“We’ve searched,” Jiang Xue said quietly.

“We’ve asked. We—I’ve begged him to tell me what could be done. He refused.”

“Why?”

“Because he doesn’t believe there is a way.”

Footsteps approached.

Jin Ling turned sharply.

The doors behind them slid open.

Jiang Su stepped out first, his expression grim and drawn.

Behind him, two senior healers emerged, their robes marked with the Yunmeng Jiang crest.

Their faces were pale, exhausted.

Jin Ling stepped forward.

“What happened?” he asked.

“How’s his condition now?”

Jiang Su met his gaze.

“He’s stable. For now.”

“For now?” Jin Ling repeated, breath catching.

“That doesn’t mean anything—just tell me the truth!”

One of the healers, a middle-aged cultivator with calloused hands and faint spiritual bruising on his temple, lowered his eyes.

“There’s damage to several key meridians,” he said. “The talisman managed to seal the worst tears, but the flow of qi is unstable. His core is not replenishing—it’s… leaking. Slowly. But constantly.”

Jin Ling’s voice dropped.

“So he’s—”

“If the core dissolves entirely,” Jiang Su said, “there will be nothing left to stabilize. No method to restore him.”

The second healer, younger but equally grim, added,

“We’ve tried every method we know… none of them worked.”

He hesitated.

“...We can’t do anything.”

Jin Ling was silent for a long time.

He looked between them all. His face paled. His hands clenched at his sides.

A storm behind his eyes.

Then, Jiang Su spoke again.

Carefully.

“...Maybe not us.”

Jin Ling turned sharply.

“What do you mean?”

“There is one person,” Jiang Su said.

“Someone who might know a way. If there’s still any hope left.”

Jin Ling didn’t breathe.

Jiang Su’s voice was quiet. Measured.

“The one who made that talisman.”

###

Ye Baiyi sat alone beneath the eaves of the lake pavilion.

The lotus pond lay still under a darkened sky. Moonlight scattered in fractured silver across the surface, catching on leaves already frayed by the turning season.

The air was cold now—no longer a breeze, but a chill that seeped through the sleeves. The lake no longer steamed. Its warmth had long bled away.

It was late. Deeper than midnight. The kind of hour where even the wind had grown too tired to move.

He didn’t move.

His spine remained straight, silhouetted against the dim light. Hands folded neatly on one knee. The white of his robe unblemished—untouched by dew, untouched by time.

Still as stone.

As always.

Except—his eyes.

They were half-lidded, unfocused. Fixed somewhere far beyond the mist-laced ripples of the lake.

He’d only just returned.

Three nights. Thirty miles. Eight outposts. All shattered.

He’d seen it himself: half-trained cultivators torn open by rogue spirits they couldn’t even touch. Sects scrambling to send backup that never arrived in time. Families burning talismans into corpses that wouldn’t settle.

And worse—he’d felt it: a sliver of something vast. Something that hadn’t stirred in centuries. Not once in his lifetime. Not until now.

The thing still sealed beneath Burial Mound’s heart.

The seal hadn’t broken yet. But it was close. Too close.

He had planned to give it one more year. Maybe less.

He no longer had that luxury.

The cultivators of this age were soft. Fragmented. Without proper training, without discipline. The great sects were fractured. Their unity long lost. No one left who could carry the weight of what was coming.

No one—

—or perhaps, once, he had thought of one.

Jiang Wanyin.

Sharp.

Relentless.

Trained not just by sword and sect, but by loss.

He had the strength.

He had the mind.

And for a time, Ye Baiyi had considered it.

Briefly.

But strength alone wasn’t enough.

Not for this.

Because Jiang Wanyin also carried a wound too deep to name.

One that never healed.

He had buried it—beneath pride, command, duty—

—but Ye Baiyi had seen it, plain as day.

The same fire that made him stand,

was also the very thing that might consume him.

He had the makings of someone who could survive what was coming—

but not the will to live through what came after.

And so Ye Baiyi had crossed his name off the list.

Unspoken. Unshared.

Just a thought that passed quietly into dust.

He had told himself:

"Not this one. Not with that kind of grief. He would break before the end."

And so, he chose to wait.

For someone else.

Or for no one.

But now…

A ripple stirred across the water. Footsteps touched wood. Soft. Hesitant.

He didn’t turn.

He didn’t need to.

He already knew who it was.

The boy’s presence was bright. Too raw to be subtle. Too wild to be hidden.

“Ye Baiyi,” Jin Rulan called, voice tight.

A pause.

Ye Baiyi said nothing.

Just closed his eyes for a breath. Then opened them again.

Cool. Detached. Like glass.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said.

Jin Rulan didn’t answer right away.

Behind him, the wind moved through the reeds. The lotus petals barely stirred.

And yet, in his chest—Ye Baiyi felt it:

A quiet pull. Like a thread beginning to fray.

The kind that only came before a choice.

Or a breaking.

###

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

Jin Ling’s throat was tight.

He ignored the words.

He had run through nearly every corner of Lotus Pier to find Ye Baiyi. Now that he stood before him, his breath caught in his chest. His throat was dry—because deep down, he was afraid of what he’d hear.

“Tell me,” he said at last.

“Can you save him?”

Ye Baiyi said nothing at first.

His gaze stayed on the lake. His expression didn’t flicker.

“I know you were the one who gave the talisman,” Jin Ling said. His voice shook. “It worked. You kept him alive. So don’t tell me you don’t know what’s happening.”

Still, Ye Baiyi didn’t look at him.

“I know,” he said.

“I was the one who warned him it would happen. It's was only a matter of time.”

That stopped Jin Ling cold. His voice caught on his throat.

“How much time?”

Ye Baiyi didn’t hesitate.

“A month. If he’s lucky. Tomorrow, if he’s not.”

His voice was low. Absolute.

The words landed hard. Jin Ling felt the air leave his lungs.

“And you just let him—”

“He chose it,” Ye Baiyi said flatly.

“He would rather die standing than live broken.”

Silence settled between them.

Then Jin Ling said, low—

“That’s not a choice.”

Ye Baiyi turned, studying him.

“For some men, it is.”

His tone was unreadable. Almost distant.

Jin Ling looked away. His fists clenched at his sides.

He swallowed hard.

“There has to be a way.”

Ye Baiyi didn’t answer at first.

He sat still—eyes steady on Jin Ling, like he was weighing whether it was worth saying at all.

Then, slowly, he spoke.

“There is.”

Jin Ling’s breath caught. He stepped closer, almost stumbling over his own hope.

“Then—what is it?”

Ye Baiyi looked away again, back to the lake. The wind had shifted, carrying the faint scent of lotus sap and scorched talisman paper.

“I can isolate the core,” he said. “Seal the flow before it collapses completely. It would stop the damage from spreading further.”

Jin Ling blinked. “So—you can save him?”

“I could,” Ye Baiyi replied.

A pause.

“But he would never cultivate again.”

The words were quiet. Clinical.

“No sword. No talismans. No spiritual field. No sect leader duties. No more night hunts.”

Jin Ling stared at him.

For a moment, it didn’t register.

Then his chest tightened.

“…But he’d live,” Jin Ling said. “He’d still be—”

“He’d live,” Ye Baiyi repeated. “But he would see it as worse than death.”

Jin Ling shook his head. “He’s already dying. How could this be worse?”

Ye Baiyi finally turned to him.

His gaze was sharp—flat, but not cruel.

“You don’t understand what it means to take a cultivator’s core,” he said. “It’s not just power. It’s their foundation. Their identity. Their soul, in part.”

His tone didn’t rise, but there was something heavy in it. Measured. Final.

“Once it’s gone—there is no way back.”

Jin Ling’s mouth opened, but Ye Baiyi spoke before he could ask more.

“And I will not do it without his permission.”

That brought Jin Ling up short.

“What?”

“I won’t act without Jiang Wanyin consent,” Ye Baiyi said. “This isn’t a battlefield triage. It’s a conscious choice. His.”

“But—he won’t say yes,” Jin Ling said hoarsely. “You said it yourself—he’d rather die—”

“Then let him,” Ye Baiyi said bluntly. “If that’s what he wants, I won’t interfere.”

Jin Ling’s breath caught in his throat.

For a moment, the world felt small. Like all the air had folded in on itself.

“But there’s still time,” he said. “You said so. A month—maybe. If I talk to him—”

Ye Baiyi studied him, expression unreadable.

“Normally, a month,” he said flatly. “If he’s very lucky.”

Then, after a pause—

“But looking at Jiang Wanyin now… you’d be lucky to have a week.”

The words landed hard—sharp, unrelenting.

Jin Ling’s breath caught.

Ye Baiyi turned away again, his voice quieter.

“If he says yes—then I will act. Until then, there is nothing more to be done.”

Silence again.

The wind tugged at the corners of Jin Ling’s robes. His fingers trembled.

He looked down at the boards beneath his feet, then up again.

“Will it hurt?” he asked, suddenly.

Ye Baiyi didn’t blink.

“Yes.”

Jin Ling’s throat worked. “But he’d still be himself.”

Ye Baiyi was quiet for a beat too long.

Then he answered—

“He’d still be alive.”

Jin Ling didn’t answer right away.

He stood there—silent, unmoving—as if the weight of the conversation had settled on his shoulders and pressed down, hard.

Behind him, the reeds rustled softly. The water lapped at the edge of the wooden pillars beneath the pavilion. Somewhere across the lake, a night heron let out a low cry.

But none of it touched him.

Because in his mind, he saw it again.

The way his uncle had slumped forward—shoulders curled, breath sharp and ragged.

The way his hand had trembled against the floor, reaching blindly for something to anchor him.

The way his clarity bell had stayed utterly silent.

Jin Ling had never seen him like that before.

Not even when he was younger. Not even when he was grieving.

His uncle had always stood. Always fought. Even when bloodied. Even when it cost him everything.

But this night—

This night, he had collapsed.

He had almost disappeared.

Jin Ling’s hands curled into fists at his sides. Not from fear. Not anymore.

But from the clarity that had started to burn through his chest like iron hammered hot and sharp.

He doesn’t need to be strong for me anymore.

He doesn’t need to pretend.

If the only way forward meant giving up the strength—

Then so be it.

Jin Ling drew a breath, eyes steady.

He looked up at Ye Baiyi. “He won’t say yes,” he said quietly.

Ye Baiyi didn’t react.

“But I’ll make him listen.”

His jaw set. His voice was low—but full of steel.

“Because this time—he doesn’t get to make this choice alone.”

Then he turned and left the pavilion, the night wind following close behind.

###

Ye Baiyi remained where he sat, long after Jin Rulan’s footsteps had faded.

The lake had stilled. The petals no longer drifted—they only floated.

As if waiting.

He had dismissed Jiang Wanyin once.

Too wounded. Too proud.

Too close to breaking.

He had looked, weighed, and turned away.

Because what he saw then was a man who could no longer be built upon.

But now…

Now he wasn’t sure.

Because perhaps a man didn’t need to be whole to stand again.

Perhaps, sometimes, what held a broken thing together—was someone else.

And Jin Rulan had made his choice.

Unshaken. Without leverage. Without guarantee.

He had stood there, trembling, yet certain—

asking nothing for himself.

Only: “He won’t say yes. But I’ll make him listen.”

Ye Baiyi let those words linger.

A child, facing death—not with a sword, but with faith.

And somehow, that was harder to ignore.

He closed his eyes.

He had seen men cling to life for power, for vengeance, for pride.

But rarely—for someone else’s sake.

That mattered.

It meant there was still something left.

A reason. A thread.

And even if Jiang Wanyin himself no longer cared to grasp it—

someone did.

That was more than he had expected.

More than most men ever had.

And maybe… maybe it was enough.

He looked toward the dark water.

The seal beneath the Burial Mounds pulsed—quiet, but growing.

He had felt it days ago.

He felt it now.

There was no time left for pride. No room for detachment.

He had been waiting for someone who could face what was coming.

Someone untouched by the rot of this age.

But perhaps—

Perhaps what he needed…

 …was someone who had already been broken once.

And refused to stay down.

Chapter Text

Early morning on Lotus Pier 

The last shadows of night stretched long across the wooden floor, while pale light seeped through the paper lattice, grazing the drawn lines of Jiang Cheng’s face. The air in the room felt heavy, as if even time itself was holding its breath.

Jin Ling sat in the chair beside the bed—the same place he had occupied all night. Half his body slumped, chin propped on one hand, the other resting lightly against the carved bedframe. His eyes were rimmed red, his back rigid—as if moving even an inch might snap the fragile thread holding everything together.

A thin, uneven breath broke the silence.

Jiang Cheng’s lashes trembled. Slowly, his eyelids lifted, as though dragged from the depths. At first, his gaze met the blurred shape of the ceiling, then shifted to the form seated beside him.

Jin Ling straightened instantly. 

“Jiujiu—” Relief slipped into his voice before he could stop it.

Jiang Cheng blinked, the fog in his eyes clearing just enough for memory to return—the sharp stab of pain in his chest, the chaotic surge of his qi, and Jin Ling pressing Ye Baiyi’s talisman against him.

“You… used the talisman,” Jiang Cheng rasped, his voice raw from sleep.

Jin Ling pressed his lips together. “Did you think I’d just sit there and watch you—” He stopped himself, swallowing the rest.

Jiang Cheng’s gaze flicked to the side as he shifted against the pillow. The motion pulled a low hiss from his throat. He braced one hand against the mattress, as though to push himself upright.

“Don’t,” Jin Ling said quickly, already half-rising from his chair. “Just lie down. You need to rest.”

But Jiang Cheng shook his head once, a small, stubborn movement.

“I’m not staying flat like an invalid.”

“You are—” Jin Ling caught himself before the word “injured” could leave his mouth. “Fine. But slowly.”

Jiang Cheng set his jaw and tried again, his left hand gripping the bedframe while his right braced against the mattress. His breath caught, but his expression didn’t waver. Jin Ling stepped in before he could overstrain, sliding an arm behind his back to steady him. The heat radiating from Jiang Cheng’s body was worrying.

After a brief struggle, Jiang Cheng sat upright, back leaning against the headboard. His hair, still slightly disheveled from sleep, fell over one shoulder; he didn’t bother to fix it. Jin Ling pulled the blanket higher, covering him to the chest.

Only then did Jiang Cheng’s gaze return to him, sharper now though weighed down with fatigue.

“You shouldn’t have to see me like this.”

“I’m your nephew. I should see you like this.”

Silence settled—not peaceful, but taut. Waiting.

“I know now,” Jin Ling said quietly.

Jiang Cheng’s gaze hardened, but before he could deflect with a question, Jin Ling struck straight at the heart:

“You’re dying.”

The words landed like a stone shattering still water.

Jiang Cheng’s shoulders stiffened. He turned toward the window, avoiding the boy’s eyes.

“I want you to get treatment,” Jin Ling pressed, his tone calm but cutting. “Ye Baiyi can help you.”

A faint, bitter curve tugged at Jiang Cheng’s mouth. “Ye Baiyi can’t restore a core.”

“No. But he can keep you alive.”

Jiang Cheng didn’t answer. His fingers moved over the blanket, rolling the edge between them—grip and release, again and again, each time holding on a little longer.

“You’re refusing,” Jin Ling said, “not because there’s no way—but because you don’t want to.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is to me.” Jin Ling leaned forward. “I already lost my parents. Lost the chance to grow up with them. Now I still have you—and you want me to lose you too?”

“It’s not the same—”

“It is the same!” His voice rose, then dropped again, heavy with control. “You taught me to protect what’s important. I’m trying to protect you, and you’re the one refusing.”

“I don’t care if you can fight again or not. I don’t care about the sect’s reputation. I just want you here. Alive. Breathing.”

For the briefest moment, Jiang Cheng’s eyes flicked toward him—then turned away again.

“If staying alive means you can’t be like you were before—so what?” Jin Ling’s voice softened, but the steel remained. “If it means you can’t stand where you stand now—so what?”

Jiang Cheng’s shoulders shifted—barely, but enough to betray the sting of the words. His fingers tightened on the blanket, knuckles whitening.

“You’re afraid,” Jin Ling said quietly. “Not of dying. But of living differently.”

“Jin Ling—” Jiang Cheng’s voice was low, a warning dulled by weariness.

“And you think that’s reason enough to give up?” The boy’s gaze sharpened. “You think I’d see you as less—just because you—” He broke off, eyes narrowing. “—you won’t even say it.”

The blanket bunched sharply under Jiang Cheng’s hand before, at last, the words came—low, rough-edged:

“Without a core…” He swallowed dryly. “…I’m nothing. Weak. Useless.”

The last word seemed to pull the air from the room.

“No,” Jin Ling shot back instantly. “I don’t care about that. What matters to me is that you stay alive."

Jiang Cheng looked at him then, and it was like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, realizing he’d been pushed too close to the drop.

“You want to save me so you won’t have to bury me. Even if it means I’m only half alive. That’s not love, Jin Ling. That’s fear.”

“Maybe,” Jin Ling admitted without retreat. “But I know what it’s like to lose everything. I won’t go through it again.”

He dropped to his knees beside the bed—not in submission, but in defiance.

“You can hate me for the rest of your life. But you have to live first for that to happen.”

His voice cracked, nearly breaking. “If someone has to be selfish this time—let it be me. Let me save you.”

Jiang Cheng didn’t reply. But the taut line at the corner of his eye betrayed the storm gathering beneath.

“Jiujiu…” Jin Ling’s voice trembled. “If you won’t live for yourself, then—at least do it for me.”

The incense smoke curled between them. Jiang Cheng didn’t move.

 Not even to look down.

“Get up.” His tone was flat, unyielding—like a blade left too long in winter.

“I’m not getting up.” Jin Ling’s head shook stubbornly, fists tightening on his thighs. “Not until you—”

“I said get up.”

This time the words cut sharper. Not loud, but steady—too steady. The kind of control that hurt more than anger.

“You—why—” Jin Ling faltered.

“You think I don’t know what I’m doing?” Jiang Cheng’s gaze locked on him, heavy enough to still the air. “You think I’d let someone carve into me, strip away what’s left of my core—just because you can’t bear to watch me fall?”

“If it means you’ll live—”

Live.

What was the point, if it meant waking every morning to the same hollow ache? To live again without a core.

He could still remember that emptiness—the choking void where his strength should be. The quiet humiliation in every step, under the gaze of those who once relied on him.

Lotus Pier rebuilt over the bones of the past. Banners raised again. Disciples trained again—because he could stand. Because he could fight.

And now this boy—his boy—was asking him to return to that helplessness.

It was worse than dying.

His jaw locked so tightly a muscle jumped at his temple.

“I won’t,” he said at last, his voice rough—stone against stone. “I won’t let them see me like that. I won’t let you see me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Broken.”

The word struck bare—short, unguarded, too honest.

“You think it’s pride?” he went on, his voice low and rough, almost a growl. “It’s survival. Without a core, without the strength to fight—I’m nothing. And I refuse to be nothing again. If I have to choose, then dying would be a better fate than living without my core.”

Jin Ling’s chest tightened.

This wasn’t just stubbornness—it was fear. Fear that bound itself to the ribs until breathing hurt. Fear of being powerless, pitied, of living in the shadow of loss every single day.

For the first time that morning, Jin Ling didn’t rush to speak. He simply looked—really looked—at the uncle who had always seemed unshakable, now clinging to a crumbling wall with bleeding hands.

“You’re not nothing to me,” he said at last, voice low but unwavering. “Core or no core. You never were.”

For the barest second, Jiang Cheng’s breath hitched, something flickering—pain, struggle—before the walls slammed back into place.

The silence that followed was heavier than before.

Jin Ling’s fists loosened. His knees ached against the cold floor, but he stayed there a moment longer—waiting for something. It never came.

Finally, he rose, slow and reluctant.

 “I understand,” he murmured. They both knew understanding wasn’t the same as agreeing.

He stepped back, eyes fixed on Jiang Cheng’s profile. “I’ll… let you rest.”

No response. Not even a glance—only the faint twitch in his jaw.

Jin Ling paused at the door, his hand brushing the frame.

The morning light spilling through the paper windows caught the hard lines of Jiang Cheng’s face, and for a moment Jin Ling saw—not the unshakable Sect Leader—but a man holding himself upright through sheer will.

He looked away before his throat could tighten.

Jin Ling had already placed his hand on the door, fingers brushing the cool wood, when the sound of hurried footsteps broke the stillness.

Not an ordinary pace—too fast, almost running.

Before he could speak, the door slid open with a sharp motion.

The morning light, just beginning to strengthen, spilled across the threshold—framing a figure in silhouette: Wei Wuxian, breath uneven as if he had traveled a great distance without stopping. A few loose strands of hair had escaped his hair ribbon, clinging to his temple, damp with sweat.

“Jiujiu—” Jin Ling spoke on reflex, then bit his tongue. He wasn’t even sure who the title was meant for this time.

Wei Wuxian spared him only a glance—a quick, searching look heavy with unspoken questions—before his eyes fixed on the figure in the bed.

“A-Cheng.” His voice was lower than usual, weighted, as though holding back too many words at once.

Jiang Cheng’s eyes widened at the sight. Their gazes met—and for an instant, it felt as though the air had been drawn out of the room.

Wei Wuxian stepped inside without asking permission, his movements swift, almost abrupt—like a man afraid that if he paused, Jiang Cheng might vanish from his sight.

Without thinking, Jin Ling backed away a few paces, making room. His gaze shifted between them, caught in the charged silence.

“Wei Wuxian—” Jiang Cheng began, his tone sharp but roughened by the hoarseness in his voice.

“I heard you nearly—” Wei Wuxian stopped, drawing in a deep breath. His eyes flicked quickly around the room: the pillow slightly askew, the blanket half-tangled, the faint thread of smoke still curling from the medicine burner in the corner. “…I came.”

There was no teasing smile, no easy jest. Only presence—urgent, insistent, undeniable.

Jiang Cheng looked at him like a man suddenly confronted with an old wound he wasn’t ready to open.

 “Who told you to come in?” his voice was low, almost a hiss.

Jiang Cheng’s glare didn’t waver, cold and unyielding as steel. The weight of unspoken pain hung thick between them—too heavy to break, too raw to ignore.

The light outside began to dim. Soft shadows gathered at the edges of the sky, and a faint coolness crept into the air—the subtle first sign of clouds rolling in, as if nature itself sensed the storm brewing within these walls.

Chapter Text

“Who,” Jiang Cheng’s voice was low, almost a hiss, “told you to come in?”

Wei Wuxian froze for the briefest fraction of a heartbeat. His gaze flicked once to Jin Ling standing at the side, then back to Jiang Cheng.

“I was already on my way to pick up the Lan juniors,” he said, keeping his tone light—too light, perhaps. “Then I heard…” His voice dropped, soft enough to make Jin Ling’s eyes dart between them, uncertain. “…about the collapse.”

From the hallway, Lan Wangji, Jiang Su, and Jiang Xue stood just beyond the threshold. None of them moved to enter. The space between the doorframe and the bed felt heavy, brittle—Wei Wuxian could almost sense their silent consensus: Leave them. Or someone’s going to get hurt.

Jiang Cheng’s gaze sharpened, the corner of his mouth tightening as if bracing against a wave.

 “This,” he said, his voice flat but edged, “is not your concern. I’m no one’s shidi anymore. You have no right to involve yourself.”

The words landed sharper than steel. Wei Wuxian didn’t let his smile vanish entirely, but the breath he drew was too thin, held too long before it left him.

“You’ve seen I’m still standing,” Jiang Cheng went on, pausing just long enough for the weight of it to sink in. “Now take the Lan juniors home. Do what you came here to do. And stay out of matters that are none of your concern.”

Wei Wuxian didn’t flinch, but the slight stillness in his shoulders betrayed the sting.

 “A-Cheng,” he said, his voice low, almost careful. “No matter what you say, you’re still my shidi. I care about you—whether you like it or not.”

He paused, the silence between them heavy enough to bow his shoulders. He swallowed, not to wet his throat, but to force down the knot that pressed against it.

 “All of this—” his breath caught for a heartbeat “—happened because of your golden core… my golden core.”

The last words felt like a stone breaking loose inside him. He had given it thinking it would save Jiang Cheng, that it would free him from the helplessness of that night. He had never imagined it would chain him to years of hidden pain. The guilt was an old scar, but now it split open afresh—raw, stinging—because this was never what he had meant to give.

Something flickered in Jiang Cheng’s eyes—gone as quickly as it came. His hand twitched against the blanket, but his voice only grew colder.

 “I’ve had enough for today.” He didn’t raise his tone, but the dismissal in it cut like frost. “All of you—get out.”

The words hit the room like a door slammed shut.

Jin Ling stiffened, eyes widening before he dropped his gaze. His fingers curled in his sleeve until the knuckles whitened, but he said nothing.

 Wei Wuxian’s gaze lingered on him—a flicker between an unspoken promise and an apology—before he jerked his chin toward the door.

 “Go.”

Jin Ling obeyed, slipping past without a word. The door shut firmly, cutting off the quiet presences in the corridor. Silence pressed in, thick as the damp air from the lake.

Jiang Cheng’s eyes snapped back to Wei Wuxian, dark and hard. His breath was tight, as if ready to lash out—

 —but Wei Wuxian spoke first.

“Why?” His voice was low, heavy with years. “Why don’t you want to live anymore?”

The question landed between them like a blade.

Jiang Cheng’s jaw locked; his shoulders tightened. For a moment, neither moved. The lamplight caught in his eyes, reflecting something not quite anger, not quite grief—something older and far more dangerous.

“What makes you think that?” His tone was cold, but a faint roughness edged the words. “Or did you invent some noble reason to meddle again?”

Wei Wuxian didn’t answer immediately. The silence between them felt like pressure against the ribs.

 “I’m not inventing anything,” he said at last, steady but low. “I can see it. You’ve decided—before anyone else gets to—that you won’t fight for your life.”

Jiang Cheng turned toward the window, as if dodging Wei Wuxian’s stare by inches.

 “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know enough,” Wei Wuxian shot back, stepping closer. “I know you. And I know that once you decide something, no one can pull you back—not even when it’s the worst choice you could make.”

A muscle twitched in Jiang Cheng’s cheek. His hand shifted against the blanket, curling as if to grasp Zidian—only to still when it wasn’t there.

“This isn’t about choice,” he said, quieter now, the words dragging like stones in a riverbed. “It’s about reality. Mine isn’t something you can fix.”

Wei Wuxian gave a humorless laugh. “Reality’s never stopped me before.”

Jiang Cheng’s eyes snapped back, sparking with warning. “Don’t you dare—”

“—I will,” Wei Wuxian cut in, voice like drawn steel. “I don’t care what it takes, or if you hate me for it. You’re not dying while I can still do something.”

They stood locked in silence, the air between them a blade’s edge.

Jiang Cheng’s reply came low, almost flat, but heavier than anger.

“I don’t want your sacrifice. Once was enough, and it still burdens me. I’m tired, Wei Wuxian.”

Wei Wuxian could almost hear the shadow of that old silence in Jiang Cheng’s voice—the silence from those days when his golden core was gone. He remembered it too well: the way every breath seemed to cost him more than it gave, the way he moved as if the world had nothing left to offer. His eyes had been empty then, not from anger, but from a quiet surrender, as though he had already decided there was nothing worth returning to.

Back then, Wei Wuxian hadn’t thought of right or wrong. He had only known that if he let that emptiness take root, he would lose him for good. So he gave what he could not replace—his own golden core—because it was the only thing heavy enough to anchor him back to life. He had truly believed it was saving him.

But seeing him now, wearing that same hollow look, Wei Wuxian felt the old fear stir again—sharp, merciless, and far too familiar. He couldn’t stand it.

“You’re not just tired,” he said quietly. “You’re scared. And I get it. But don’t you dare tell me it’s better to give up than to face it.”

Jiang Cheng’s eyes flicked to him for a heartbeat before the shutters fell back in place.

He didn’t answer right away. Whatever words had been on his tongue dissolved before they could form. He’d had enough of this conversation—enough of Wei Wuxian’s persistence, enough of the way it scraped too close to truths he didn’t want touched.

He leaned back slightly, letting the silence settle between them like a wall. In that stillness, his thoughts strayed where he didn’t want them to.

He wanted to see Jin Ling stand on his own. To see that proud, infuriating boy grow into someone who didn’t need anyone’s shadow to shelter him. But the truth lodged in his chest like a splinter: maybe he wouldn’t be there to see it. Maybe… he never would be.

The thought twisted, bitter and unyielding. He forced himself to swallow it down, but something in him knew this might be the last chance to say it.

His voice, when it came, was rougher than he intended.

“I know I can’t last much longer this way. When that time comes… you take care of A-Ling.”

Wei Wuxian’s head snapped up. “No. Don’t you dare talk like that.” The words came fast, almost as if afraid they’d be swallowed by the stillness. “I don’t care what you think is inevitable. I’m not letting you go. Not like this. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you alive—even if you hate me for it.”

Jiang Cheng looked at him then—sharp with warning, dulled by fatigue and resignation.

 “You don’t understand. I’m tired, Wei Wuxian. I—” His voice caught. “I don’t want this fight anymore.”

“Then do it for Jin Ling. Do it for your disciples,” Wei Wuxian pressed. “Even I—someone who’s barely been here—can see they’re exhausted. They care about you. They’re holding this place together for you. If you give up, what happens to Jin Ling? What happens to them?”

The words landed hard.

Jiang Cheng had told himself again and again that Jin Ling must learn to stand alone—that he had prepared the sect for the inevitable. But Wei Wuxian’s voice forced him to see what he had been avoiding.

Jiang Xue, young shoulders drawn tight beneath burdens far too heavy for him to bear.

Jiang Su, eyes shadowed from sleepless nights, searching desperately for a way to save him.

Even Jin Ling—stubborn, reckless A-Ling—standing before him and declaring he would do anything to save him.

Something inside him shifted, and he hated it. 

The fatigue in his bones wasn’t just physical.

Wei Wuxian stepped closer, voice low but unyielding. “Let us help you. Let me help. Please, A-Cheng. If you won’t do it for yourself, then do it for them.”

Jiang Cheng’s lips pressed into a thin line. Letting those words in would mean admitting how close he was to breaking.

The silence stretched—taut as a bowstring—before he finally spoke, voice grudging.

 “…Let me think about it.”

###

Wei Wuxian walked fast—too fast for someone with nowhere specific to go. His feet knew every turn of Lotus Pier, but his mind was elsewhere, churning with the memory of Jiang Cheng’s strained voice, the sight of his weakened form, and the unbearable truth:

This all started because of my golden core.

And now, he had to convince Jiang Cheng to let himself be saved.

Lan Wangji kept pace at his side, silent, his gaze steady. He didn’t try to slow him down. He knew better than to interrupt that storm of thought.

Behind them, quickening footsteps approached, followed by Jin Ling’s voice. “Wait—!” He caught up, slightly breathless. “How did you and Hanguang-jun even get to Lotus Pier so quickly?”

Wei Wuxian didn’t stop walking. “I… had a bad feeling since yesterday.” His tone was low, almost distracted. “So I asked Lan Zhan to bring me here by flying sword. If we’d come any later…” He swallowed, the words tasting bitter. “I wouldn’t have known anything.”

Jin Ling frowned. “How did you even find out about Jiujiu’s condition?”

Wei Wuxian opened his mouth, but another voice answered from behind them.

“I told him,” Jiang Su said, appearing from a side corridor and falling into step with them. His expression was taut, his eyes glancing between nephew and uncle. “I thought—if anyone might know something about a golden core transfer, it would be him. After all, he’s the one who… suggested it back then.”

The unspoken history hung in the air like a drawn bowstring.

Jin Ling’s gaze darted back to Wei Wuxian. “And? Do you?”

Wei Wuxian’s voice was rough when he finally replied. “No. I didn’t know this could happen.” He shook his head, almost to himself. “Back then… when I gave him my core, I thought I was saving him. I didn’t know it could… hurt him like this.”

Jin Ling stepped in front of him, forcing Wei Wuxian to stop. His young face was pale, but his eyes burned with fierce determination.

“Yesterday, I asked Ye Baiyi. He knows a way to save Jiujiu.”

Wei Wuxian’s head lifted sharply. “What way?”

Jin Ling hesitated only a heartbeat before speaking, each word falling like a blade. “It will save his life—but perhaps he will wake each day to an empty life, hollow without a golden core.”

Wei Wuxian’s breath stilled. The weight of that truth pressed hard against the guilt already crushing him. He didn’t need to imagine how Jiang Cheng would take it—he knew. Wei Wuxian had once walked that same abyss himself, had felt the weight of a body stripped of its golden core. He would not wish to set foot there again… and he would not wish it upon Jiang Cheng.

“No wonder he refused,” Wei Wuxian murmured.

“That’s why I won’t,” Jin Ling said sharply, voice trembling but steady in resolve. “I don’t care if he hates me for it. I’m not just going to stand there and watch him die.”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes lingered on the boy—the stubborn lift of his chin, the grief under his defiance. It was like looking into a mirror of a younger self, standing against the whole world for the sake of one person.

The silence between them was heavy, broken only by the soft steps of Lan Wangji, who stood slightly behind, his presence solid and grounding.

Wei Wuxian let out a slow breath. “Then… Lan Zhan and I will find Ye Baiyi. This time, I’ll hear it from him myself.”

Jin Ling gave a single, sharp nod, as if passing the matter into his hands.

Without another word, Wei Wuxian turned, Lan Wangji matching his pace, the unspoken urgency between them tightening with every step.

###

It didn’t take long to find him.

 Ye Baiyi sat at a small riverside tea house just outside Lotus Pier, a pot steaming in front of him and more empty plates than a single person had any excuse for.

Wei Wuxian slowed as they approached, Lan Wangji steady at his side. He set a privacy talisman on the table before sitting, smiling with an ease that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Not bad, this spot,” Wei Wuxian said lightly. “Good tea, delicious snacks, decent view… and, ah—perfect for someone who doesn’t want to be found. Or am I wrong?”

Ye Baiyi didn’t even blink. “If I didn’t want to be found, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Mm. Sure,” Wei Wuxian said with an easy grin, though it didn’t reach his eyes. He poured himself and Lan Wangji tea without asking. “So—who exactly are you? You turn up at Lotus Pier, talk to Jin Ling like you’ve known him for years, and offer a solution without telling anyone who you are.”

“I told him what he needed to know,” Ye Baiyi said flatly, pouring himself another cup. “The rest is irrelevant.”

Wei Wuxian tilted his head, but before he could press, Ye Baiyi’s gaze sharpened. “You want my history, you’ll be disappointed.”

Wei Wuxian’s gaze deepened, though the smile stayed. “Humor me. If we’re going to talk about Jiang Cheng’s life, I’d like to know the man behind the offer.”

Ye Baiyi met his eyes evenly. “Ye Baiyi. Wandering cultivator. I have lived long enough to see most sects rise and fall. I don’t owe you more than that.”

A faint pause, then Lan Wangji’s voice cut in—quiet but firm.

 “What method did you offer to Jin Rulan?”

Ye Baiyi set his cup down with deliberate care. “Isolation of what remains of Jiang Wanyin’s golden core. Then removal.”

Wei Wuxian’s grin faltered just a fraction. “And that’s… safe?”

“Of course not,” Ye Baiyi said flatly. “But it is the fastest way to keep him alive.”

Wei Wuxian tapped his fingers against the table. “Fastest isn’t always best.”

“It is,” Ye Baiyi countered, “when you have no time left to bargain.”

Lan Wangji glanced at Wei Wuxian, his voice calm but edged. “Ask what you really wish to ask.”

Wei Wuxian exhaled. “Fine. After you remove it—can he get a golden core transfer again?”

At the word transfer, Lan Wangji’s gaze cut toward him—sharp, warning. Wei Wuxian met it for half a beat, then looked back to Ye Baiyi without a flicker.

“No,” Ye Baiyi said, leaning forward slightly. “Once was a miracle. Twice is impossible. You know that.”

Wei Wuxian leaned back, studying him. “What about a technique to regrow a golden core?”

Lan Wangji’s fingers stilled on the table—no more than a breath of movement, but enough to sharpen the air between them.

“Impossible,” Ye Baiyi said without hesitation. “Not even the filthiest forbidden method would be worth attempting.”

Wei Wuxian leaned forward, elbows resting against the wood, gaze locked on Ye Baiyi. “You said that you’ve lived long enough to see all sorts of strange things. Are you telling me you’ve never heard of anything—anything at all—that could let him cultivate a new core?”

“I have heard many things,” Ye Baiyi said, voice like a blade, “and I have also learned which are lies. That is one of them.”

The silence that followed was almost tangible, filled only by the faint rush of wind over the river.

Wei Wuxian’s voice dropped lower, as if speaking into the quiet. “Then what about… a substitute? Something—anything—that could stand where a golden core once was. Or some way—any way—that could let him wield his cultivation again.”

This time, Lan Wangji’s gaze lingered—steady, unreadable, but there was a flicker in his eyes that Wei Wuxian didn’t miss.

Ye Baiyi’s gaze held Wei Wuxian‘s for a long moment before answering, “There is a cultivation method that does not require a golden core. Whether Jiang Wanyin can master it to match—or surpass—his current strength depends entirely on his own effort.”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes lit, though his tone stayed deceptively light. “Now that sounds promising. Why didn’t you start with that?”

“Because,” Ye Baiyi replied without inflection, “you asked about miracles. This is not one. It is work. Relentless, unending work.”

Wei Wuxian lifted his cup, the faintest curve returning to his mouth. “Then it’s perfect for him.”

Lan Wangji’s hand brushed faintly against the rim of his own teacup, but he said nothing.

Chapter Text

Just outside Lotus Pier, at a small riverside teahouse.

Wei Wuxian drummed his fingers against the rim of his cup, eyes glinting with curiosity.

“So this path of yours—walking without a golden core. What does it look like, hm? A cultivator with nothing at the center, still holding their sword steady?”

Ye Baiyi’s reply came without hesitation, almost dismissive.

“Not nothing. The sea is always there. The dantian itself is a sea of qi. What the golden core does is condense that sea into a single point—solid, unyielding, a center of gravity. Without it, the sea does not vanish. It spreads. Vast, but without anchor.”

Wei Wuxian tilted his head, lips quirking.

“A sea without a center… then every tide would run wild. How does it keep from spilling out?”

Ye Baiyi set down his cup, his tone unhurried, each word weighted.

“Through the gates of the body. One hundred and eight acupoints, and the hidden channels beyond them. All must be forced open, every meridian stretched to bear what the core once contained. The qi flows in endless circuit, but without a pivot to hold it steady, storms rise. Meridians collapse. To walk this path, one needs more than resilience. One needs an anchor strong enough to command the tide.”

Wei Wuxian let out a low whistle. “A body turned into an ocean current. But without a shore, it could flood, drown its keeper.”

“Precisely.” Ye Baiyi’s gaze sharpened, cold and precise. “Without a regulator, the sea devours itself.”

Wei Wuxian’s grin flared, sudden and fierce. “Then we find him one.”

For a beat, silence. Only the drip of water outside the window. Wei Wuxian’s fingers stilled against his cup, curling into a fist. His eyes lit—not with mischief, but with that dangerous clarity that always spelled trouble.

“An anchor…” he murmured. “Something already bound to him. Something that answers when he calls, that obeys no one else. Something forged in thunder, made to lash chaos into order.”

He leaned forward, smile sharp as a blade.

“Zidian.”

This time, Ye Baiyi’s composure wavered, a faint crease between his brows—the closest he came to surprise.

“You would make his weapon the regulator of his very qi?”

“Why not?” Wei Wuxian countered, quick and sure. “The world calls it a whip, but that’s only the form it takes when summoned. Its true shape is the silver ring on his hand, carved to hold lightning itself. Madam Yu wielded it before him, and now it answers only Jiang Cheng. I’ve seen it—how it feeds on his fury, how it steadies him even when his core falters. If anything can lash the sea into rhythm, it’s that.”

Ye Baiyi was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he inclined his head—not agreement, but acknowledgment.

“Bonded as it is, Zidian may indeed serve. But once tied to his dantian sea, it will not merely obey his hand. It will draw from his body with every storm, strike with every breath. The price will be constant.”

Wei Wuxian’s brows furrowed, thoughts spinning fast.

“I won’t let him live chained to endless pain. Not again. If Zidian’s nature is too raw, then it needs a filter. An array—woven around the ring itself. The qi that flows in won’t trigger all its lightning at once. Only part of it, just enough to steady the current. The rest can be held in check.”

He lifted his hand, sketching invisible sigils in the air.

Lan Wangji’s voice entered, calm and even.

“The array should follow the meridian paths. So the energy is guided before it reaches Zidian. The release will still occur—but controlled.”

Wei Wuxian blinked at him, then grinned, eyes sparking.

“Yes, exactly. And if overflow builds beyond what his body can endure, there must be a grounding path. Through secondary meridians, venting the excess harmlessly—away from the heart, away from the lungs.”

Ye Baiyi considered, then gave a faint nod.

“If wild energy can be vented instead of hoarded, the danger lessens. Yet the control must be flawless. One lapse, and the lightning will consume him.”

Wei Wuxian let out a slow breath, relief flickering across his face. His voice was steady now, edged with iron.

“This method can be attempted—but only with precision. Any lapse could be fatal.”

Ye Baiyi’s gaze lingered on him, assessing, before he spoke.

“If all of this is executed correctly, the method is far safer than the one I once proposed to Jin Rulan. But in the end, it depends on Jiang Wanyin himself. His core must first be removed—and his consent freely given.”

At that, Wei Wuxian’s eyes hardened, his tone resolute.

“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he gives it.”

Something shifted in Ye Baiyi’s gaze. In Wei Wuxian’s stubborn fire, he caught an echo of that boy—Jin Rulan—both of them carrying the same reckless determination to break walls others could not breach. Perhaps, with such persistence pressing against Jiang Wanyin’s defenses, even those walls of stone and steel might finally crack.

“…Very well.” Ye Baiyi inclined his head at last, voice measured. “Then I will prepare what is needed. When Jiang Wanyin is ready, bring him to me.”

###

Inside Jiang Cheng’s chamber, Lotus Pier.

After Wei Wuxian left the room, silence pressed in again, heavier than before. Outside, the late morning sky hung low with dark clouds, the air thick with the weight of rain that refused to fall. The dim light turned the chamber somber, shadows gathering in the corners like unspoken words. 

Jiang Cheng remained seated against the headboard, his hand rigid at his side. The faint tremor in his breath betrayed what his face refused to show.

Wei Wuxian always knew where to strike. This time, it wasn’t the words themselves that hurt, but the truth they carried.

The truth lingered long after the door closed. He had seen it himself—Jin Ling’s sleepless nights by his bedside, Jiang Su’s drawn face after every failed attempt to steady his qi, even Jiang Xue, newly named as heir, already carrying the weight of the sect on his shoulders.

But Jiang Cheng had prepared. He told himself he had. Jin Ling was destined to inherit Lanling Jin. As for Yunmeng Jiang, the decision had been made yesterday.

The memory rose, unbidden: the ink barely dry when he placed the succession letter in Jiang Xue’s hands. Jiang Xue had bowed with steady voice and controlled expression, yet Jiang Cheng had caught the tightness in his jaw, the flicker in his eyes. He wanted to argue, to plead—but he did not. He accepted the seal and folded parchment with both hands.

“Do your best,” Jiang Cheng had said, his voice clipped, dragged through the heaviness in his throat. “And don’t learn from me.”

Jiang Xue had lowered his head, silent, hiding the fracture beneath his composure. But Jiang Cheng saw it all the same. And because he had no plan to survive—because one moment of softening would undo everything—he hardened his tone and let silence close the matter.

The rest was already in order. The sect’s documents were arranged. Jiang Xue knew where they were kept. Jiang Su would steady the council if the heir faltered. Nothing had been left undone.

Now, in the stillness of morning, Jiang Cheng’s hand tightened against the bedframe, his breath shallow. Everything was prepared. All that remained was to endure the wait.

He clenched his jaw. He told himself he was sparing them—that by preparing for the end, he freed them from uncertainty. Death was clean, sharp, final. Better that than to live stripped of his core again, to crawl once more through that helplessness, that worthlessness. The grave was simpler.

And yet—Wei Wuxian’s words had unsettled the silence he had buried. If dying meant leaving Jin Ling to grieve too soon, leaving his sect to shoulder his absence, was that truly sparing them? Or only sparing himself?

The thought gnawed at him.

Resolve pulled one way, grief the other. Pride whispered there was no life without strength. But something deeper, older—something that had endured every loss, every betrayal—twisted tight in his chest, demanding he remain.

He stayed motionless, the struggle invisible but unrelenting, each breath brittle as glass. No sound left his lips. The only war was the one within, and it left him more weary than any wound.

By the time he surfaced from his thoughts, the storm had not broken after all. The heavy clouds that had threatened rain now only dimmed the light, their weight settling into the muted stillness of late afternoon. At last, he forced himself from the bed, crossing to the table despite the pain gnawing in his dantian—familiar, and therefore bearable.

His eyes caught the things he could not pretend not to see: the coiled gleam of Zidian, the silver ring set with a violet crystal now resting like a cold promise on the table; and the Clarity Bell that had not rung in months. 

Once, he thought the bell had broken. That it no longer answered his storms of qi. He had been half relieved, half fearful—believing it a fault in the instrument, not in himself. But then Ye Baiyi had spoken, cold and unflinching, of a truth he had not expected: his golden core was failing, melting away. The bell had not fallen silent; he had.

His hand closed around Clarity Bell now, the weight brittle against his palm—a useless ornament, like himself soon enough. 

Zidian, too, he had not drawn it in days without feeling the wild recoil of his own unstable qi. One day, it would fall dormant. No disciple of Yunmeng Jiang could wield it, no hand but one of Meishan Yu’s blood. He remembered once telling Jin Ling to try activating it, to see if the boy could feel its pulse, perhaps even wield it in a moment of need. But Zidian had refused—stiff and unyielding, answering only to him. When he was gone, perhaps his aunt would come to reclaim it, waiting for another master.

The thought twisted sharp, but Jiang Cheng only pressed his lips thin, set the bell down, and then curled his fingers around Zidian on the table.

Then… the door creaked.

Jiang Su stepped in. His shoulders were tight, his face a tangle of resolve and guilt. Without hesitation, he dropped to his knees, bowing low.

“Zongzhu,” his voice was rough, almost breaking, “forgive me. It was I who told Wei Wuxian about your condition.”

The words struck like a blade drawn without warning.

Jiang Cheng’s eyes sharpened, but he did not speak. 

“I know,” Jiang Su continued, pressing on with a desperation that stripped away the usual discipline in his tone, “I know you despise interference. I know you do not want the help of outsiders—least of all from a stranger like Senior Ye. And I had no right. But—” his breath caught, “I could not only watch. I did not know what else to do. So I sought someone who once succeeded where no one else could.”

A silence stretched, heavy as the air before a storm.

Jiang Su lifted his head slightly, his eyes bloodshot. “Before that, I also spoke to Senior Ye. I asked him if there was any way left to save you. He offered one—one I knew you would never accept.” His voice lowered, bitter. “To remove your core entirely. To live without cultivation. To live powerless. I saw it in his eyes; he believed it the only path.”

Jiang Cheng’s jaw tightened, the lines around his mouth carved deeper. He looked down at Zidian in his hand, then set it on the table with a quiet click.

Jiang Su’s voice shook. “I could not bear it. I remember—though I was not there, I saw what followed—how Wei Wuxian gave you his core, and how it destroyed him. I cannot wish that upon you again. Not that path. Not that suffering. And so, Zongzhu—so I am helpless.”

The words faltered, but then came in a rush, the dam broken.

“Even Xiao Xue—that young man came to me. The other day, after you gave him the succession letter, he broke down in front of me. He is always calm, disciplined, the model disciple. But he was shaking, crying. He said you had given him everything—home, family, a name to carry. He begged me for answers. I had none.”

As the clouds dispersed, the late sun broke through, casting its light across Jiang Su’s kneeling form.

“And Jin Ling—” Jiang Su’s voice cracked, “that boy may look stubborn, may speak with too much pride, but he is terrified. He came to me as well. He said he could not lose you. That he would not. He asked me why I let this happen.” Jiang Su’s hands clenched hard against the floor. “I could only bow my head.”

Finally, he raised his face fully, tears threatening but his gaze steady.

“Zongzhu. Cousin. You are the last of Jiang blood I can still call kin. I… I cannot let go of you as if you were already gone. For Jin Ling’s sake. For Jiang Xue, for this sect, for the promise of Yunmeng Jiang. Please—” his voice lowered to a whisper, raw, “do not give up.”

The room was silent save for the distant rush of water from the lake.

Jiang Cheng sat unmoving for a long while, eyes shadowed, the lines of his body rigid with all the weight he would never say aloud. Slowly, he let out a breath, sharp but not quite steady. His gaze fixed on Jiang Su—his healer, his cousin, perhaps the last living thread to a family name that once thrived.

He closed his eyes briefly, the old storm tugging at his chest, then opened them again, the flicker of something unreadable crossing his face.

“I still need to think about it,” he said at last, voice low, final.

For a moment, Jiang Su remained kneeling, head still bowed as if the words pinned him there. Only when Jiang Cheng gave the faintest command did he force himself to rise, movements heavy with reluctance. He hesitated, the sorrow plain in his lowered gaze. At last, he bowed deeply—too deeply, as though trying to hide everything he could not say—and withdrew.

The silence lingered only a short while before the door slid open again. Jiang Xue entered, carrying a tray with tea and a simple meal. He set it down carefully on the table, movements precise, almost reverent.

He did not speak. He stood there, still as stone, not daring to meet Jiang Cheng’s gaze.

Jiang Cheng’s eyes followed him, narrowing.

“What is this?” His voice was cool, tired. “Are you also here to persuade me? Did A-Ling send you?”

For a moment, Jiang Xue stood in silence. Then, without a word, he dropped to his knees and bowed his head, hiding the weight of grief that pressed too deep to be shown.

“Zongzhu… I was seven years old when you saved me,” he began, voice trembling but clear. “I had no name, no family. You gave me the Jiang name even though I shared no blood. You made me your disciple, then your first disciple. And now… the sect heir. That was more than I ever deserved.”

Jiang Cheng’s expression hardened, but Jiang Xue pressed on.

“When I was young, I admired you above all. Sandu Sengshou—the war hero, unstoppable, unshakable, unmovable. I thought nothing could touch you. But now…” His voice cracked. “Seeing you like this… I cannot accept it. Because even now, I still want to believe you are not without hope.”

His fists clenched tight at his sides as he bent lower.

“I begged Jiang Su-shixiong for help, but he can do nothing. He told me there is still a way, yet Zongzhu refuses it. You say that without your golden core, life is not worth living. If it were possible for me to give mine, I would do it. Gladly.”

“Jiang Xue—!” Jiang Cheng’s voice cracked sharp as a whip.

But the young man pressed on, desperation spilling over. “I know you would never accept that. But today I spoke with Jin Gongzi. He told me there is another way—from Senior Ye. And still you refuse. So I beg you, Zongzhu. Please… take it. I—I cannot bear to see you fade like this. We still need you. The sect still needs you.”

Jiang Cheng’s breath left him in a long, weary exhale. His eyes, sharp a moment ago, dulled with exhaustion. For a long time, he said nothing.

At last—

 “…I still need to think.”

Disappointment flickered across Jiang Xue’s face, but he bowed again, low and heavy, before leaving in silence.

The door slid once more, and Jin Ling stepped in. He hesitated only a moment before striding across the room.

Jiang Cheng turned his head sharply, eyes narrowing.

 “So it was really you,” he muttered—not a question.

“Yes.” Jin Ling did not flinch. His voice was steady, though his fists clenched at his sides. “I asked Jiang Su and Jiang Xue to come. To make you listen. But you still said you need to think.”

He crossed the room and sat down beside his uncle at the low table, movements stiff but resolute. He leaned closer, refusing to give up.

“Jiujiu, just listen—please, this time—”

But before Jin Ling could finish, the door swung open.

Wei Wuxian stepped inside alone. The door closed behind him with a weight that made the soft thud sound louder than it should. He did not speak at once—only placed a rolled parchment on the table.

It landed with a soft thud, but Jiang Cheng felt the weight anyway.

His voice came out low, cutting. “What now? More persuasion?”

Wei Wuxian’s mouth tilted, a shadow of a smile that held no warmth. “Not persuasion. A possibility.” He tapped the parchment with two fingers. “Read.”

Jiang Cheng’s gaze narrowed, refusing. For a moment he thought Wei Wuxian might try to push it closer—but instead, it was Jin Ling who moved. The boy’s hand reached forward, unrolling the parchment until its diagrams stretched across the table.

Strange meridian circuits, sketched in fine black ink, looped in directions no orthodox manual had ever taught. At the center of the dantian—the sea of qi itself—the lines converged, then spilled outward again, funneling toward the drawn symbol of Zidian.

A bitter laugh pressed against Jiang Cheng’s throat. His fingers curled once against the table, knuckles whitening.

“So now my weapon is to be buried inside me? Is that your brilliant idea?”

Wei Wuxian did not flinch. Instead, he leaned forward, one hand braced against the parchment, the other lifting to trace the inked paths as he spoke.

“Not buried. Anchored. The first thing is the golden core itself—the fragments still clinging inside you. Leave them there, and they’ll poison every current, tear your body apart from within. It has to be removed.”

His finger paused over the center of the diagram, tapping once—decisive, unyielding. His gaze flicked up briefly, gauging Jiang Cheng, before he pressed on.

“But removal doesn’t mean ruin. Without a core, your qi runs wild—like a sea without shores. The array gathers those tides and channels them to Zidian.”

He slid his hand outward, fingertip circling the ring’s drawn symbol. His voice softened only by a fraction, enough to insist without pleading.

“Zidian already answers your hand. It was tempered not only to strike, but to contain, to endure. With it as the anchor, the flood will have walls.”

Wei Wuxian let his palm settle flat against the parchment, covering the heart of the design as if to steady it. His eyes locked with Jiang Cheng’s, unwavering.

“You won’t be empty. You won’t be helpless. Zidian will hold the sea in place—it will keep you standing.”

Jiang Cheng’s jaw locked, the faintest tremor running through his throat.

Empty. Helpless.

The words sank deep, stirring old shadows he had spent years burying. He had already known what it meant to live without strength, without a core—he had tasted that void once, and it had broken him into something he had never forgiven. To choose it again, even cloaked in Zidian’s promise, felt like tearing open scars that had only hardened into armor.

Wei Wuxian’s voice pressed against him, relentless in its calm certainty. The ring in his hand, the inked array beneath his palm—it was a lifeline thrust forward. Yet all Jiang Cheng could hear was the echo of his own silence, the gnawing question of whether a weapon could replace the marrow of who he was.

His breath tightened. His fingers curled at his side, sharp knuckles whitening against his robes. He was about to speak—to cut the air with refusal, with pride sharpened into a blade—

When a voice broke through, thin but unyielding.

“Jiujiu,” the boy whispered, voice trembling but steady enough to pierce. “This isn’t the same as before. It’s not stealing away what you are. It’s… another path. If there’s even one chance—just one—you have to take it. For me.”

Jiang Cheng’s jaw locked so tight it hurt.

For me.

The words pressed like a blade against his chest. He remembered promising himself—promising his sister—that the boy would never be abandoned again.

But hadn’t he already begun to? With his body breaking, his strength fading, his pride refusing to bend—hadn’t he been choosing to leave Jin Ling alone, all over again?

And now here was Wei Wuxian, of all people, holding out yet another lifeline. He hated that it was him. He hated that his choices had narrowed so far that there was no dignity left in refusing. He hated that his own body had betrayed him.

But above all—he hated the look in Jin Ling’s eyes. Fierce, terrified, unyielding.

If he said no, that look would follow him into death.

Silence stretched. Wei Wuxian didn’t push further. He just stood there, watching. The parchment between them is like a battlefield map.

At last, Jiang Cheng’s fingers moved. Slowly, reluctantly, he closed his hand over the parchment. The weight of it pressed into his palm as though it could burn.

His voice was hoarse when he spoke. “…Fine.”

Jin Ling exhaled all at once, as if the breath had been trapped in his chest for hours. His shoulders shook, but his gaze never left his uncle’s face.

Wei Wuxian let his eyes fall shut for the briefest moment, something easing at the corners of his expression before he straightened again.

“Good,” he said quietly. “Then we begin at dawn.”

Chapter Text

Wei Wuxian waited a moment before speaking. His voice was controlled, as if afraid that words spoken too harshly would trigger a storm. “At dawn, you have to go. Ye Baiyi will do it then. The longer we wait, the worse—”

“…Not at dawn.” Jiang Cheng cut in abruptly.

Wei Wuxian turned quickly, frowning. “What do you mean? The sooner—”

“I said not at dawn.” Jiang Cheng interrupted again, this time harder, each word striking down like a hammer. “This isn’t something that can be done in haste. There are matters I need to arrange first.”

Jin Ling flinched. “Jiujiu—”

Jiang Cheng turned his gaze on him, steady and unyielding, until silence fell. When he spoke, his words were edged but not without care.
“You will return to Jinlintai tomorrow. Your succession ceremony is less than half a month away. It cannot be delayed on my account.”

“Tomorrow?” Jin Ling stiffened, the beginnings of protest already rising in his voice.

“Yes.” Jiang Cheng cut him off before he could continue, his tone firm. “Do you think the Lanling Jin Sect can afford to have its heir appear only at the last moment? The council may oversee the outer matters, but you are their sect leader. Your presence cannot be absent.”

Jin Ling ground his teeth, fists clenched. “But—”

“No buts.” Jiang Cheng’s voice cut him off, sharp but not cruel. “You have already done more than enough here. More than enough. Now, finish your part. That is your responsibility.”

A brief silence. Jin Ling lowered his head, his breathing heavy, still brimming with protest. At last, he let out a hard exhale through his nose and muttered shortly, “…Fine. But promise me you’ll do it this time.”

Jiang Cheng’s gaze did not waver. “I said I would. And I will.”

Silence settled again. Wei Wuxian, who had been listening in restraint, finally spoke, his tone low and careful. “If Jin Ling must leave, then let me stay. At least until—”

“No.” Jiang Cheng cut him off immediately. His answer was cold, final. “Not you.”

Wei Wuxian blinked, startled. “Why not? You know I—”

“I know.” Jiang Cheng’s words struck like knives, though his hand, clenched on the table, trembled faintly. “That’s exactly the problem. If anything goes wrong, I know you will interfere. I don’t want to owe you anything ever again, Wei Wuxian.”

The room plunged into silence. Wei Wuxian stood frozen, watching him with an unreadable expression. Jiang Cheng finally looked away, his shoulders rigid.

“If you truly want me to go through with this, then let me do it my way.”

His voice was absolute, leaving no space for objection.

Wei Wuxian closed his eyes briefly, drew in a long breath, then slowly nodded. “…Very well. I understand.”

He turned to Jin Ling. “Let’s leave your Jiujiu to rest. He needs his calm before tomorrow.”

Jin Ling looked at his uncle once more, clearly still wishing to speak. But Jiang Cheng’s gaze silenced him at last. Reluctantly, he followed Wei Wuxian out.

—

After they left, the room sank into silence.

Jiang Cheng remained seated, back straight, fists clenched on the table, his gaze falling blankly on the scattered papers before him.

If anyone thought he had suddenly changed his mind, they would be wrong. He never made a decision of this weight lightly.

In the past, he had refused—because he knew too well what it meant to live without a golden core. Empty. Powerless. That void had almost consumed him once; he would not endure it a second time.

But now, the circumstances were no longer the same.

Yesterday, reports from the Burial Mounds had grown sharper, more troubling. Feral spirit attacks were becoming frequent, disciples were being injured, and the threat was far greater than he had anticipated. If he were to die now, Jiang Xue would be left to carry the burden of Yunmeng Jiang alone. Talented as the boy was—steady, reliable, even a natural leader—it was still too soon for him to face such turmoil unaided.

And Jin Ling—his succession was imminent. That child had grown, his thinking far more mature than before, enough to shoulder the weight of Lanling Jin. Yet Jiang Cheng could not help but worry. The appearance of restless spirits, the lingering danger beneath the Burial Mounds—such things could swallow even the strongest in their wake.

He had once thought the threat beneath the seal would remain contained. Not because he doubted Ye Baiyi’s warnings, but because he believed the man himself could manage it. Yet until now, Ye Baiyi had done nothing except roam the lands, cutting down lesser spirits that posed no real challenge to him.

Jiang Cheng drew a long breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them, his gaze settled on the desk, where scrolls lay scattered. Wei Wuxian’s method remained untouched, deliberately left in plain sight—not as something he rejected, but as a decision he had already accepted. He would do it. He had promised Jin Ling, and he would not break that promise.

But not yet. Not until he had asked Ye Baiyi what he needed to know. And when the time came, neither Jin Ling nor Wei Wuxian could be present. He would not allow them to witness the removal of his golden core.

Instead, his hand reached for another scroll hidden among the rest—a reply from Nie Huaisang.

No one knew that after Ye Baiyi’s sudden visit, after those ominous words about the Burial Mounds, Jiang Cheng had secretly written to the head of Qinghe Nie. He wanted to know who this man truly was, and what lay beneath the seal he had thought long suppressed.

Nie Huaisang’s answer had been disappointing. Even with his vast web of informants, he could uncover nothing certain about the seal. But at least he had managed to find something—something about Ye Baiyi.

As always, Nie Huaisang’s handwriting was cautious, as though every character had been weighed for how it might be read by its recipient.

…

Regarding the man called Ye Baiyi, I have tried to trace him through many channels. Yet the archives of the northern and central sects mention nothing at all. As I have said before, it is as if he appeared out of nowhere, without family or sect to anchor his existence.

However, through my informants in the southern regions—what wandering cultivators call the wulin—I heard rumors that may be of interest. Fifty years ago, there was a great conflict there, over an artifact known as the Glazed Armor. It was said that whoever assembled its fragments could unlock a treasury of relics from the era before the sects existed. Much blood was spilled, yet the outcome remained uncertain.

Within the swirl of those tales, the name Ancient Monk of Mount Changming was sometimes whispered—an outsider who intervened, then vanished again. Some linked this name to Ye Baiyi. If true, it would mean he has been present since at least that event. Who could live more than half a century without aging a day?

And yet, even in the wulin, none claim to know him well. It is as if he has always kept himself apart from the world, appearing only when something forbidden—or ancient—was at stake. If this is indeed the man who now stands beside you, then caution is clearly required.

…

Jiang Cheng folded the letter slowly, his eyes lingering on the delicate strokes once more. Nie Huaisang’s reply confirmed what he already suspected: Ye Baiyi was no ordinary man. Fifty years ago, someone believed to be him had taken part in the battle over the Glazed Armor—yet now, half a century later, he still appeared unchanged, as if untouched by time. That alone marked him as a cultivator of terrifying strength, perhaps even one who had stepped close to immortality.

The thought unsettled him. He hated the idea of such a man appearing unbidden within Yunmeng—bringing with him a shrouded past, an untested method for core removal and cultivation without a golden core, and ill tidings about the seal on the Burial Mounds.

His gaze shifted, drawn back to the other scroll resting on his desk. The very method Ye Baiyi had left behind—cultivation without a golden core. That, more than anything, weighed heavily on his mind. What was it that Ye Baiyi truly sought by placing such a thing in his hands? No cultivator offered a technique of that magnitude without expecting something in return.

If what was asked of him were honorable, perhaps it could be considered. But if it were something vile—then better that Lotus Pier withdraw entirely and preserve its strength, than that he deliver Yunmeng into the designs of a stranger.

The air in the chamber seemed to constrict. He rose abruptly, seized his outer robe, and strode outside.

The night stretched long, sleep an impossibility. Too much pressed upon his mind, too much demanded to be done.

His steps carried him toward the lotus lake. A thin veil of mist hung low over the waters, the fractured moonlight glimmering on its surface. The damp air was deceptively calm, as though the world itself were not on the brink of upheaval.

And there, amidst the shadows of the lotus leaves, Ye Baiyi stood—as if he had been waiting for him all along.

“It’s late for a Sect Leader to be wandering alone,” Ye Baiyi’s voice was flat, his gaze never straying from the still water. “Or perhaps your head is too crowded to allow sleep?”

Jiang Cheng’s jaw tightened. He let the silence stretch, eyes narrowing as he studied the man beside the water—composed, unreadable, as if the night itself bent to leave him untouched. The restraint in his bearing only sharpened the unease pressing in on Jiang Cheng’s chest.

At last he spoke, voice low and controlled.
“Good. Saves me the trouble of hunting you across Yunmeng. The method Wei Wuxian brought—it was yours to begin with, wasn’t it? Then speak plainly. What is it you want from me?”

Ye Baiyi did not avert his gaze, his tone even. “Not mine. That method predates the founding of the sects themselves. Wei Wuxian was the one who recognized how Zidian could serve as an anchor—ingenious, truly. But you are correct in one thing. I would not have brought it forth without reason.”

The words hung sharp in the air, sharper than the wind that stirred the lotus leaves. Jiang Cheng’s hand tightened on Zidian at his wrist, though he did not draw it.

Ye Baiyi’s tone dropped, cold and unyielding as iron. “The seal at the Burial Mounds is unraveling faster than I expected. What sleeps there will not remain contained. You have already seen the fragments that slip free—rogue spirits beyond the sects’ ability to manage. When the seal breaks, they will be slaughtered before they even understand what they face.”

Jiang Cheng’s eyes narrowed. “So that’s it. You hand me this method so Lotus Pier can fight your battle for you.”

At that, Ye Baiyi finally turned, his tone as unyielding as stone, his eyes betraying no shift. “Not my battle. Yours. Your land. Your people. When the seal breaks, Yunmeng will be the first to burn. I do not care for your sect politics, Jiang Wanyin—whether Lan, Jin, or Nie waste their strength on pride means nothing to me. What lies beneath that seal will not wait for their consensus.”

Jiang Cheng’s fingers twitched against Zidian, but his voice was level. “You expect me to believe you brought this here out of goodwill? That you give without weighing what you’ll take in return?”

Ye Baiyi did not flinch. “If I wished to take, I would not bother with parchment and words. I would simply take. What I have given you is a choice. Whether you use it or burn it—that is yours. But Yunmeng will stand at the front lines regardless. I would rather see it prepared than gutted.”

Silence stretched taut between them. Jiang Cheng’s grip on Zidian eased—not in concession, but in calculation. His voice was low, deliberate. “If Yunmeng is to be dragged into this, then I have the right to know exactly what it is we face. Do not speak to me of choice while keeping half the blade hidden.”

Ye Baiyi’s gaze flicked toward him, sharpened by the pale wash of moonlight. “Something ancient. Malevolent. A soul that could not be destroyed, only bound. That is what lies beneath the seal.”

Jiang Cheng’s voice cut clean through the mist. “Then tell me why the seal is failing. Tell me why you watched it weaken instead of reforging it. Tell me what Yunmeng is about to bleed for.”

“Because it cannot be reforged.” Ye Baiyi’s tone was flat, heavy with finality. “The first binding was wrought at a cost that cannot be repeated—bloodlines long dead, methods lost. What remains is delay, never prevention. Each cycle, the thing beneath stirs stronger. And this time—” he paused, the silence tolling like a bell, “—it will wake fully.”

Jiang Cheng exhaled slowly, his breath controlled though the air between them seemed colder. His eyes narrowed. “Then you gave me this method not only to prepare Yunmeng for war—” his jaw tightened, the word scraping raw, “—but to turn me into your weapon.”

Ye Baiyi did not deny it. His tone softened by a fraction, though it held no warmth. “Not mine. Yunmeng’s. Your people will need a leader who can still stand. That method is not a chain, Jiang Wanyin. It is a lifeline. Whether you grasp it or let it sink—” his gaze locked on Jiang Cheng’s, unyielding, “—that choice remains yours.”

Jiang Cheng’s lips pressed thin, his hand curling around Zidian until faint sparks of lightning whispered in the night.

“Choice?” he echoed, low, almost a growl. “You call it a choice, but every word you’ve spoken leaves me no ground. If I refuse, Yunmeng suffers. If I accept, I destroy myself. What kind of choice is that?”

The bitterness in his voice cut sharper than intended, but he did not retract it. His chest tightened under the weight of vows he had carried since the day Lotus Pier burned.

“I am not blind. You knew I would never turn away from Jin Ling and Yunmeng. That’s why you brought me this method—you knew I couldn’t ignore it. Don’t call it mercy, Ye Baiyi. It’s a blade pressed to my throat, and you ask me to thank you for leaving it in my hand.”

The silence that followed was heavy, unyielding. Then Ye Baiyi’s voice cut through, steady and cold.

“I did not put the blade there. It has been at your throat since the day your golden core melted. That is the truth. The seal’s unraveling merely forces the choice sooner. I only set parchment before you. Use it, or burn it—Yunmeng will be dragged into this war regardless.”

Jiang Cheng’s fists clenched, nails biting into his palms until they nearly broke skin.

Ye Baiyi did not wait for an answer. His voice was hard, immovable as stone struck by waves. “Whether you despise me or not, whether you trust me or not—when the seal breaks, Yunmeng and every land surrounding the Burial Mounds will be in peril. And if you face it as you are now, they will fall with you.”

The words cut deeper than Jiang Cheng wished to admit. His shoulders tensed, his face turning away, unwilling to reveal even the smallest crack. Yet in his mind he knew: Ye Baiyi was not weaving sweet lies. His words were nothing but the truth—bare and brutal, without a trace of deception.

Jiang Cheng drew a long breath, steadying the tremor in his chest. His gaze returned to Ye Baiyi, still wary, but no longer purely defensive. “I do not doubt your strength. Nor even your intent—if you wished harm upon Yunmeng, you’ve had a hundred chances already. But I’ve heard too many people speak of inevitability only to mask their own ambitions. Don’t expect me to grant you trust so easily.”

Ye Baiyi inclined his head slightly. “Reasonable.” His voice was even, unoffended.

Then he added, weight pressing each word: “Your body will not endure that fragile golden core forever. Sooner or later, you will be forced to choose—use the method, or collapse with the core that rots inside you.”

Jiang Cheng’s jaw clenched, but this time he did not deny it. "I promised Jin Ling… that I would accept it—the removal, the cultivation he begged me to endure,” he said at last, the words bitter on his tongue. “But not yet. I need time to prepare.”

For the first time, a flicker of acknowledgment passed across Ye Baiyi’s face. “Wise. The method is no easy road. Without a core, the path will weigh heavier than any before you.”

The damp wind off the lake tugged at Jiang Cheng’s purple robes as his voice turned firm. “How long before the seal collapses?”

“Six months, if undisturbed,” Ye Baiyi replied. 

Jiang Cheng’s brows furrowed sharply. “Six months… too short to master the method.”

Ye Baiyi’s eyes met his. “Enough, if you commit everything. Zidian is more than a weapon—it is older than the sects themselves, a relic of the forgotten age. Its thunder will drive your meridians open far swifter than cultivation alone. But the cost is pain.”

A restless coil of lightning writhed at Jiang Cheng’s wrist, answering without his command. He drew a steady breath, muttering, “Pain is nothing new.”

For a moment, silence lingered. Then he lifted his head, voice firm. “But Yunmeng Jiang alone is not enough. If the seal breaks, every sect will be dragged in. I must warn them.”

Ye Baiyi shook his head slowly. “If you speak now without preparation—without wards, guards, and a strengthened seal—you will only invite the wrong kind of attention. Disorder among the sects would not be the worst of it. Rumors will draw the greedy and the reckless, and their meddling could hasten the breaking of the seal itself. What is needed is not alarm, but someone who can steady them. To lead, not merely to warn.”

Jiang Cheng’s eyes sharpened. “And you mean me.”

“Yes,” Ye Baiyi said without hesitation.

Jiang Cheng almost snapped back—why not another sect leader?—but the words stalled. Zewu-jun remained in seclusion, and even should he return, no one knew what scars Guanyin Temple had left upon him. Lan Qiren—unyielding in rules, yet no tactician in war. Nie Huaisang—after his hand in Jin Guangyao’s downfall, no sect would dare place their trust in him again.

And Jin Ling—Jiang Cheng’s teeth ground together—he would not let that boy bear this weight before he could stand firmly on his own.

It left only him. As always.

Ye Baiyi studied him, expression unreadable.

“My advice, Jiang Wanyin: fortify the coastline and the marshes. Drill your disciples with new rotations. I will give you advance sealing patterns—enough to hold back not only wandering spirits, but corpses, malevolent cultivators, and other evil things that stir when balance falters.” He paused, then added with weight. “But more than that, you must be ready to stand before the other sects. If they break apart, we lose before the seal even falls. Only a leader both unyielding and relentless can keep them in line.”

Jiang Cheng exhaled, lowering his gaze so the sharpness of his eyes would not betray the heaviness in his chest. From the beginning, he had rebuilt Yunmeng Jiang with one principle: it must stand on its own. Defenses tight, evacuation routes mapped, supplies secured for the masses. Lotus Pier had burned once. He would never allow it to burn again.

At first, these measures had been meant against the unforeseen—another invasion, as in the days of Qishan Wen. Yet now, against all expectation, they would be called upon once more—this time, to withstand an ancient evil spirit.

It was no longer only his own sect he had to guard. The burden extended further—keeping the other sects from breaking into disorder, forcing them to cooperate when unity was the only hope of survival. The weight of it pressed harder than steel upon his shoulders.

Jiang Cheng’s gaze darkened, his voice low. “I am not certain my name holds any weight any longer—save for the fear it stirs when they hear of Sandu Shengshou.”

“They may fear you, maybe even dislike you,” Ye Baiyi answered without hesitation. “But none will doubt your resolve to defend your land. That is enough.”

Jiang Cheng stilled. The words struck with an unexpected weight, sharp precisely because they were plain, unadorned. He had long grown used to flattery spoken out of calculation, to courtesies that rang hollow. Praise, when it came at all, was laced with condescension. But this—this came from a man with no reason to placate him.

For a moment, suspicion loosened its hold. He did not speak it aloud, yet something in his stance eased, almost imperceptibly.

“Enough,” he said at last, the edge returning to his tone. “We will speak of preparations tomorrow.”

But as he turned away, the faintest trace of thought lingered, unsettling in its rarity: perhaps, just this once, he had not been misjudged.

Chapter Text

Morning — Lotus Pier

The main hall of Lotus Pier was hushed, every elder of the Yunmeng Jiang Sect already seated in their places. Morning sunlight streamed through the carved windows, soft yet solemn, as if heaven itself weighed heavy on the gathering.

Jiang Cheng entered with his usual unyielding poise, his robes flowing in sharp lines of purple. His presence alone commanded silence, though his expression today carried a gravity unlike before.

He stood at the dais, gaze sweeping across the hall, lingering briefly on two familiar figures—Jiang Su and Jiang Xue—before turning toward the gathered elders.

“I have summoned you,” Jiang Cheng’s voice was calm, clipped, each word deliberate, “to make known several matters concerning the future of Yunmeng Jiang.”

The elders bowed slightly, awaiting.

“First,” he continued, “from this day forth, I will enter closed-door cultivation. The period will be brief. During that time, I shall not preside over daily affairs. All matters are to proceed in strict accordance with sect regulations and established precedent.”

He let the words settle over the hall, his gaze unwavering. Yet within, he knew he had no luxury of time. The seal at the core of the Burial Mounds was loosening, and in less than half a month Jin Ling’s succession ceremony would demand his presence. Even if his cultivation remained unfinished, he would have no choice but to emerge.

A ripple of unease spread through the elders. Shouldering years of loyalty and battle-hardened trust, they had seen Lotus Pier fall and rise again under his hand. None among them dared to question him now, but the weight of his decision pressed heavily on their faces.

Among them, only Jiang Su and Jiang Xue exchanged a brief glance. In their eyes, something unspoken flickered—relief, and a fragile spark of hope. For the first time in weeks, their sect leader was not merely enduring, waiting for the day of Jin Ling’s ceremony to pass. He was choosing to fight for life again, however perilous the method might be.

Jiang Cheng let the silence settle before his gaze shifted toward Jiang Xue.

“Second. Jiang Xue, whom I have already named as heir within my household, will from this day be formally acknowledged as such before all of Yunmeng Jiang. While I remain in seclusion, he will serve as acting sect leader. All matters—internal, external—shall be handled in his stead.”

Jiang Xue lowered his head, but his hands at his sides tightened imperceptibly. He had known this day would come, yet hearing it before the assembled elders made his chest tighten with both pride and dread.

He bowed deeply, voice resonant though quiet.

 “Disciple obeys.”

The elders exchanged glances. They all knew well: Jiang elders were not like Lanling Jin’s council, who could direct sect affairs in place of a sect leader. Here, elders were no more than advisors—respected, but powerless unless the sect leader listened. And Jiang Zongzhu… rarely listened to anyone. Now, however, the heir was declared, and the sect’s future entrusted.

Jiang Cheng’s expression remained unreadable as he continued.

“Even though I will go to seclusion soon, you must remember this, elders. Your role will be as it has been: advisors, when needed. Nothing more.”

The room fell still again. None objected. No one had the courage to.

Jiang Cheng’s gaze shifted to Jiang Su, his voice firm, edged with finality. “Third. Though of my generation, Jiang Su carries the Jiang bloodline no less than I do. From this day forward, he will take his place among the elders of Yunmeng Jiang.”

He paused, then addressed Jiang Su directly. “Should anyone dare contest Jiang Xue’s right as heir, you will be his shield. He will need your strength until he can stand on his own.”

For a moment, Jiang Su did not answer. His throat tightened, his gaze flickering to Jiang Cheng—his cousin, his sect leader. Finally, he bowed his head.

 “…I receive Sect Leader’s trust.”

His voice was firm, but in his eyes, the weight of emotion burned quietly.

The elders murmured assent. Some nodded; others glanced at Jiang Su with the recognition due to one who, truth be told, had long borne the weight but never claimed it. To all, it was no surprise. To Jiang Su himself, it was both burden and anchor.

Jiang Cheng’s gaze swept the room once more, steady, unyielding.

 “One more matter.” His voice grew quieter, yet colder. “None of you may yet know this, but beneath the Burial Mounds lies an ancient seal. It has begun to weaken—its unrest is the reason rogue spirits have grown more rampant of late. The seal may yet hold for half a year, but the things slipping through already test our defenses. If left unchecked, Yunmeng will be the first to suffer its ruin.”

The silence that followed was taut, disbelief flickering in the elders’ faces. Murmurs rose, quickly stifled, as unease settled like a stone in the hall.

Jiang Cheng did not soften.

“From this day forward, patrols will be expanded, especially near the rivers and outer villages. Barriers are to be strengthened with fresh wards, and more talismans forged for every patrol and disciple. Healers will begin preparing supplies. The younger disciples will undergo daily drills to accustom them to discipline and endurance.”

He paused, letting the words settle. The silence in the hall grew heavy; the elders shifted faintly, digesting the scale of his orders. Only when he was certain the weight had sunk in did Jiang Cheng continue, his tone even colder.

“As for you, the elders—each of you will oversee these measures. You will assign men, ensure wards are inspected, and keep close record of every rogue spirit subdued. Report directly to me each month. When the seal finally breaks, we will be ready—but it is these smaller battles with those rogue spirit that we must not lose.”

The elders exchanged uneasy glances, the weight of his revelation pressing down though the threat still felt distant. Yet when they bowed, it was deliberate, sober—as if they, too, now heard the echo of danger stirring at Yunmeng’s borders.

“We will obey the Sect Leader’s command.”

Jiang Cheng gave a curt nod. “Dismissed.”

The rustle of robes faded as the elders withdrew, their footsteps receding into silence. The great hall grew still, the air heavy with what had just been spoken, until only Jiang Su and Jiang Xue remained.

Jiang Cheng moved toward his seat at the head of the hall and lowered himself into it with measured control. His two subordinates followed, stopping across the table and standing at attention.

He turned his gaze on Jiang Xue. “Report.”

Jiang Xue stepped forward, his composure steady though his voice carried the weight of urgency.

“The team stationed at the Burial Mounds reports no change in the seal—no intrusion, no tampering. But rogue spirits are multiplying. Our patrols have been stretched thin; disciples have already been dispatched to the outer borders of Yunmeng, to nearby villages, and even to allied minor sects when they called for aid. Every hand we can spare has been sent.”

“Good.” Jiang Cheng’s reply was clipped, decisive. “Increase the production of talismans and distribute them widely. Every household, every patrol must be armed against spirits before they reach the people.”

“Yes,” Jiang Xue said, then after a brief pause, added, “This morning, Senior Ye entrusted me with a formation array. He instructed that it be delivered to you, Zongzhu.” He stepped forward, presenting a scroll with both hands.

Jiang Cheng accepted it, unrolling it across the table. His eyes scanned the symbols, sharp and precise. Jiang Su leaned in, reading as well.

“This is...” Jiang Su’s voice broke off, unable to finish.

“An advanced array,” Jiang Cheng said evenly, though the weight of it pressed in his tone. “To aid our disciples in dispersing rogue spirits.”

He rolled the scroll back and handed it to Jiang Xue. “Copy this. Distribute to every disciple. Send one to Jin Ling for him to bring to Lanling Jin, and one for Hanguang-jun. Let them prepare as well.”

“Yes, Zongzhu.” Jiang Xue bowed, clutching the scroll to his chest.

“And send word to the other sects. The announcement of your position as heir to Yunmeng Jiang will be made official. As for my seclusion, it need not be included—answer only if asked, and say that I am in closed-door cultivation for the time being.”

Jiang Xue’s voice was steadier now, though his knuckles whitened around the scroll. “I will see it done.” He bowed once more and withdrew.

The hall was quieter still, leaving only Jiang Cheng and Jiang Su.

For a time, Jiang Su said nothing. His gaze lingered on his cousin—upright, unyielding, hiding everything behind that cold exterior. Beneath the stern mask, he could see the faintest cracks: the stiffness in Jiang Cheng’s shoulders, the pale line of his mouth, the fatigue in his eyes.

Finally, Jiang Su asked, low and deliberate: “When will you undergo the golden core removal?”

Jiang Cheng’s eyes narrowed. “So you already know.”

“Jin Ling told me,” Jiang Su admitted, though his jaw clenched. “He also said you sent him away. He complained, Zongzhu.”

Jiang Cheng’s voice dropped to a bitter edge. “I don’t want that boy to see me afterward.”

His gaze shifted, unfocused—as though drawn back into memories he would rather keep buried. The emptiness of that time returned to him: the weightless shell of a body stripped of strength, stripped of purpose. He remembered Wei Wuxian as well, carrying that same void in silence, bearing it on his behalf. And soon, he would return to that hollowness once more.

The thought burned in his chest, though his face remained controlled. He did not know what he might become when that day arrived—but he knew one thing with certainty: he would not let Jin Ling witness it.

“If he sees me like that,” Jiang Cheng said at last, his voice low, “he will carry it as guilt. That, I will not allow. This is my choice. I will not let him bear it for me.”

Silence pressed between them. Jiang Su’s hands tightened at his sides. “Then at least let me be there when it happens. I will prepare healers to stand by. You should not face it without safeguard.”

Jiang Cheng did not answer at once. His jaw worked, teeth gritting behind closed lips. Finally, he gave a single, brief nod—silent consent.

Jiang Su exhaled, but his eyes remained sharp. “Zongzhu… do not delay it further. The longer you wait, the more dangerous it becomes.”

For a heartbeat, Jiang Cheng’s expression flickered—something close to weariness, quickly shuttered. His reply was clipped, final.

“I know.”

He turned then, his tone clipped. “Is Jin Ling ready to return to Lanling?”

Jiang Su hesitated, then shook his head. “…He still hopes you will change your mind.”

The faintest sigh left Jiang Cheng, heavy, reluctant. His shoulders shifted as if bearing a weight greater than steel. “So it falls to me. I will send him home myself.”

He moved to rise. Jiang Su took a step forward. “Do you want me to accompany you?”

Jiang Cheng’s gaze hardened. “No. I will speak to him alone.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving Jiang Su standing in the vast, hollow hall, watching the weight of a sect—and of one man’s stubborn will—walk away into the morning light.

—

The guest pavilion was filled with the low murmur of voices. Several young cultivators were gathered there, their travel packs already tied and waiting by the pillars. Laughter lingered faintly in the air, though it faded quickly when the sound of footsteps approached.

Jiang Cheng entered with his usual measured stride. His presence was enough to silence the room. The juniors shifted uneasily, recognizing the set of his expression; they quickly busied themselves with adjusting their robes or checking their swords.

At the far side, Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji were seated near the lattice window, speaking in quiet tones. Their words broke off the instant Jiang Cheng appeared.

“Jiujiu?” Jin Ling rose to his feet, face caught between relief and uncertainty at the look on his uncle’s face.

Jiang Cheng’s eyes fixed on him. His voice, though restrained, carried the weight of command.

“How are your preparations for returning to Jinlintai? Do you need me to take care of anything?”

Jin Ling stiffened. He knew that tone. He opened his mouth, ready to argue for one more day, one more reason to stay—but Jiang Cheng cut him off before the words could form.

“Still remember what I said yesterday? I thought you understood.”

The boy faltered, lips pressing tight. “I know, Jiujiu. I have duties in Lanling Jin. My succession ceremony is already near, and I must return. But not right now.” His voice lowered, more plea than protest. “Even if I go back this instant, I won’t be able to focus on my responsibilities until I know for certain that you will be fine.”

Something in Jiang Cheng’s expression softened. The sharpness in his eyes eased, and his tone gentled, though the steel in it did not vanish.

“I promise you I will undergo the method. And I promise you this—when the day of your succession comes, I will be there. I will do as I have said. But you must go back now, A-Ling. Your disciples need their sect leader. Return to Lanling. You will see me again soon.”

The determination in his uncle’s voice was difficult to resist. Jin Ling clenched his fists, wanting to protest, yet deep down he knew—he could not force Jiujiu any further. After a pause, he nodded. “Alright. I will prepare.”

Jiang Cheng gave the faintest incline of his head before turning toward the two figures by the window.

Lan Wangji rose smoothly and bowed with measured respect, the gesture carrying the quiet weight of one sect’s ally to another sect’s leader.

“Sect leader Jiang, Yunmeng Jiang hospitality has been generous,” Lan Wangji said. “You allowed our juniors to remain here far longer than expected. We are grateful. It is time for us to take them back to Gusu.”

Jiang Cheng’s reply was clipped, but not cold. “Please take Jin Ling with you as well. The Lanling Jin disciples will meet him at the border.”

Lan Wangji nod his head in assent.

It was then that Wei Wuxian spoke. “A-Cheng.” His voice carried a rare seriousness. “May I speak with you alone?”

For a moment, Jiang Cheng looked as though he would refuse outright. His jaw tensed, shoulders rigid. Then, with a curt motion, he turned and led the way to an empty chamber.

Inside, silence pressed between them until Wei Wuxian broke it. “Let me stay in Lotus Pier, at least until the golden core removal is done.”

“No.” Jiang Cheng’s answer was immediate.

Wei Wuxian stepped forward, unwilling to yield. “Please. Maybe I can help. After all, it was me who first suggested you use Zidian.”

“Enough.” Jiang Cheng’s face hardened, every line of it sharpening like drawn steel. The more Wei Wuxian insisted, the more unyielding his expression became.

Jiang Cheng’s eyes narrowed, voice cool and cutting. “Don’t put yourself where you don’t belong.”

Wei Wuxian stilled.

“Whatever happens, it is not your concern,” Jiang Cheng continued, each word steady, iron-willed. “I don’t want you interfering. Not with this. Not with anything.”

His gaze hardened, unyielding. “I don’t need you at my side anymore, Wei Wuxian.”

Wei Wuxian stood motionless, words frozen on his tongue. For once, he had no reply.

Jiang Cheng stood rigid, shoulders drawn taut, his voice as cold and immovable as stone.

“Go back. Lotus Pier has enough to handle without you meddling. Don’t come here again.”

The words fell like the cut of a blade—measured, deliberate, leaving no space for gentleness, no opening for refusal.

Wei Wuxian’s gaze lingered on him, steady yet unbearably quiet. The silence that spread between them was so heavy that even the faint stir of wind across the lake seemed deafening.

In Wei Wuxian’s eyes, something flickered—an old wound laid bare, too deep to mask. But instead of rising to anger, instead of throwing back the sharp retort that hovered on his tongue, he only curved his lips into a faint smile. It was thin, bitter, the kind of smile that cut deeper than any words could.

“Fine. If that’s what you want,” he said lightly, as if yielding to some joke that wasn’t funny at all.

The smile faded almost as soon as it appeared. His gaze slipped away, retreating into silence, leaving the air heavier still. He exhaled, shallow, and murmured, “I should pack, then.” Without another glance, he turned swiftly on his heel and walked away.

Jiang Cheng did not stop him. He could only watch the retreating figure, his fists clenched at his sides until the nails bit into his palms, his jaw set tight as though holding back words he would never allow himself to say.

He knew every syllable he had spoken had cut Wei Wuxian deeper than any blade could. And he had spoken them on purpose. Because if Wei Wuxian stayed, if he hovered here the way he always did, he would once again throw himself into the fire for Jiang Cheng’s sake.

Jiang Cheng owed him too much already. More than he could ever repay. Once, he had hated Wei Wuxian for meddling, for recklessly sacrificing himself, for never listening. That hatred had burned so long it had seemed endless. But now… now he was tired. Tired of hating Wei Wuxian. Tired of hating himself. Because hatred had changed nothing.

Wei Wuxian had still given him his golden core. Still sacrificed everything. And Jiang Cheng had still gone on living with the weight of that gift—living while Wei Wuxian carried the scars. And now, that very core, never his to begin with, was unraveling inside him, piece by piece dragging him toward ruin. How much longer could he endure before it consumed him entirely? When the time came for its removal, what would happen? Even he did not know.

But one thing he knew with certainty: Wei Wuxian must not be trapped here with him, chained again to his suffering. Let him go. Let him walk away to the life he deserved. If happiness awaited him at Gusu with Lan Wangji, then so be it. Jiang Cheng would not stand in the way.

Better to let Wei Wuxian go—and for him never to come back.

—

The afternoon sun sank low over Yunmeng, staining the waters of Lotus Pier with a muted glow. The lake’s surface rippled faintly with the passing breeze, cicadas singing their steady chorus in the reeds. At the wooden pier, slender river boats waited, their arched canopies of wood and bamboo casting curved shadows across the decks. Ropes had been loosened, the vessels readied for departure.

Jin Ling stood with his pack slung over one shoulder, posture straight though his eyes betrayed the heaviness of parting. Beside him gathered Lan Sizhui, Lan Jingyi, and Ouyang Zizhen, already clad for travel. Lan Wangji stood a little apart, serene as ever, while Wei Wuxian lingered restlessly at his side, his fingers toying with Chenqing though he did not raise it.

Across from them stood Jiang Cheng, tall and composed, his violet robes catching the faint evening light. Behind him waited Jiang Su and Jiang Xue, silent but steady, their presence marking the solemnity of this farewell.

Jiang Cheng’s voice was calm, even, as he addressed Jin Ling:

“Remember your duties. If there is something you cannot resolve alone, seek counsel from those you trust. Yunmeng Jiang will always be your home. If you need anything, send word to Jiang Su or Jiang Xue. Do not hesitate.”

Jin Ling pressed his lips together, then blurted almost like a scolding nephew rather than a sect heir, “You too, Jiujiu. You mustn’t delay with the treatment anymore. Listen when Jiang Su tells you to rest. Drink the medicine. Don’t… don’t be so quick to anger.”

Jiang Cheng’s mouth twitched faintly at that—something close to amusement, though quickly buried under composure. His eyes, however, softened just enough to betray what lay beneath: a quiet, heavy ache. His nephew was no longer a boy clinging to his sleeve; he had grown into someone capable of admonishing him like an equal. Soon, when they met again, they would both stand as sect leaders, shoulder to shoulder. That thought carried both pride and sorrow.

The juniors then came forward one by one, bowing deeply in gratitude.

“Thank you, Sect Leader Jiang,” Lan Sizhui said with measured grace.

“Thank you for letting us stay this long,” Lan Jingyi added, his voice uncharacteristically subdued.

Ouyang Zizhen stepped forward last, saluting deeply, his expression serious for once. “On behalf of my father and the Ouyang Sect, I thank you for Yunmeng Jiang’s hospitality and the aid your disciples gave us in Baling.”

Jiang Cheng inclined his head in acknowledgment. At his gesture, Jiang Xue stepped forward and handed over a sealed letter.

“This,” Jiang Cheng said, “is for Sect Leader Ouyang.”

Ouyang Zizhen received it carefully, nodding. “I will deliver it to my father without fail.”

When Jiang Cheng turned next, his gaze met Lan Wangji’s. The Lan cultivator offering a formal salute—measured, respectful, the courtesy of one sect’s ally to another’s leader.

Jiang Cheng returned the gesture, brief and cool.

Only then did Lan Wangji speak, his tone even, yet carrying the quiet weight of reproach. “Harsh words need not linger. Wei Ying carries enough already.”

Jiang Cheng’s jaw tightened, but he gave no reply.

Behind Lan Wangji, Wei Wuxian shifted uneasily. He had seemed ready to interject earlier, lips parting, but Jiang Cheng’s cold restraint left him no opening. Now, his expression flickered between gratitude and discomfort at Lan Wangji’s defense. Still, Jiang Cheng’s gaze never softened.

Instead, his voice turned steady, grave, as if to push the moment aside.

“There is a seal beneath the core of Burial Mounds. It is that seal which has caused the surge of rogue spirits these past months. It will not hold forever. The estimate is uncertain, but the danger is real. When you are in Lanling, after the succession ceremony, make this known to the other sects.”

He drew out another letter, offering it to Lan Wangji. “The details are here.”

Lan Wangji accepted with a slight bow of the head, no further comment given.

Wei Wuxian’s brows shot up, disbelief clear. “There’s a seal under the Burial Mounds? That’s what’s behind all this?” Unease threaded his voice. He stepped closer, urgency brightening his gaze. “I want to see it.”

At last, Jiang Cheng’s eyes cut to him—cold, guarded. “Don’t tamper with the seal.”

Wei Wuxian lifted his hands quickly in protest, forcing a smile that faltered at the edges. “I’m not going to tamper with it, I just want to see it.”

But Jiang Cheng’s tone remained hard, leaving no room for trust. The silence that followed pressed heavy, thick with old wounds left unhealed.

In the end, Wei Wuxian’s smile curved crooked, weary. It was not amusement, but resignation. “Fine. I’ll just take a look. No tricks, no meddling.”

Lan Wangji’s gaze lingered on him, steady and quietly supportive. Then his eyes shifted, settling on Jiang Cheng. The faint tightening at his brow, the coolness in his expression, spoke what he did not voice: disapproval at the harshness with which Jiang Cheng pushed Wei Wuxian back, when no enmity was meant.

Jiang Cheng received the look with equal coolness, unbending, as though it had slid off armor he would not lower.

The juniors, glancing between their elders, kept silent. The course was set: before escorting Jin Ling to Lanling and Ouyang Zizhen to Baling, they would first detour to the Burial Mounds. None voiced objection.

The ropes were released, and the boat drifted gently from the pier. Its slender wooden frame rocked with the current, the arched canopy at its center offering a modest shelter of shade. Cicadas hummed in the thick summer air as dusk drew long shadows across the river.

The silence that followed carried the weight of parting—words left unspoken, ties worn thin yet not wholly severed, and beneath it all, the foreboding of danger stirring in the soil of a land once called home.

Jiang Cheng did not move until the boat had slipped past the bend of the river and vanished from sight. He stood rigid at the pier, gaze fixed on the fading ripples as if refusing to blink them away. The cicadas droned on, a restless hum against the stillness of his stance.

Only when the water settled did he hear footsteps behind him—measured, unhurried, echoing across the wooden planks. Jiang Cheng did not turn; he knew without looking who had come.

Ye Baiyi’s voice followed, quiet yet unyielding. “Is it wise, to let those closest to you leave? When what you need most now is their strength by your side?”

Jiang Cheng’s shoulders drew taut, but his reply came cold, clipped. “They have their own homes. Their own duties. I am not theirs to guard. This—I will face alone.”

From a short distance, Jiang Xue spoke, breaking the silence with solemn steadiness. “Zongzhu, you will not face it alone. Lotus Pier still stands. We are here with you.”

At that, Ye Baiyi’s lips curved faintly—an expression too fleeting to be called gentle. His tone, when he spoke again, carried neither urgency nor softness, only inevitability. “Then, if you are ready—why delay? Lets begin now, before the sun sinks entirely. The longer the core remains within you, the deeper its poison roots itself.”

The horizon still burned with a fading amber glow, light slipping lower with every breath. Jiang Cheng’s jaw set, the air around him sharp with renewed resolve. He turned to Jiang Xue, his voice cutting clean through the hush.

“Prepare the place and everything that is required.”

Jiang Su and Jiang Xue exchanged a brief, steady glance. Then Jiang Xue stepped forward, bowing low before striding off with swift purpose.

Jiang Su remained only a moment longer. “I will ready the medicines and have the healers on standby.” He, too, bowed deeply, and then departed with measured urgency.

The atmosphere shifted at once, as though the water itself had stilled, charged now with an unseen gravity.

Jiang Cheng faced Ye Baiyi again, eyes hard as steel. “Very well. Let’s do this.”

Chapter Text

The sun had already slipped beneath the horizon, leaving only the fading scarlet of dusk painted across the sky. Shadows stretched long over Lotus Pier as Ye Baiyi knelt on the polished floor, a brush dipped in cinnabar tracing sharp, intricate lines that glowed faintly once completed. The air smelled faintly of iron and burnt ash, oppressive in its weight.

Jiang Cheng stood a short distance away, arms folded tightly against his chest. His gaze followed the strokes, each symbol curling into another, forming a circle dense with talismans and binding marks. The quiet scrape of brush against wood grew unbearable until he finally spoke, his tone low but edged with suspicion.

“…What are you doing?”

Ye Baiyi didn’t look up. “Drawing the array.”

“I can see that.” Jiang Cheng’s voice sharpened. “But why? Wen Zhuliu melted my core with a touch to the dantian. It didn’t require all… this.”

The brush paused only for an instant before continuing. Ye Baiyi’s tone was cool, almost indifferent. “That is precisely the difference. To destroy a golden core is easy. To remove one without tearing your body apart—especially a transplant that has already eaten at your meridians—that is another matter. Without this formation, your body would collapse together with it. Do you want to live past tonight or not?”

The words struck with clinical bluntness, as if he were discussing the dissection of some corpse. Jiang Cheng’s jaw tightened. He said nothing further, his arms folded tight across his chest.

The last light of dusk faded as Ye Baiyi traced the final line of the circle. The array pulsed faintly against the darkening floor, sigils humming like a low chant. He set aside the brush, opened a small jade vial, and poured out a viscous cinnabar mixture that glimmered darkly.

Jiang Cheng’s eyes narrowed. “…What now?”

“Blood-mixed cinnabar,” Ye Baiyi said, uncorking it. “I’ll paint sigils on your skin. They will bind your meridians to the array. Otherwise, when the golden core is removed, your body will collapse with it.”

Jiang Cheng stiffened. “On my skin?”

“Yes.” Ye Baiyi’s eyes met his, unflinching. “Upper body bare. Lie down in the center. If you move, even slightly, you die.”

The words cut deep. Jiang Cheng’s breath caught, his shoulders rigid. To lie down, exposed, like some helpless patient—it struck him harder than blades.

Pride rebelled instantly; every instinct in him screamed to resist, to keep even the smallest shred of dignity from being stripped away. To bare himself was to yield, to admit fragility where none should be seen. Yet behind that pride coiled another truth, colder and more merciless: if he refused, he would not last long enough to shield Jin Ling, nor stand when the Burial Mounds broke.

For a long moment, silence pressed heavy. Then he exhaled sharply through his nose, anger trembling under his restraint.

“…Fine.”

With stiff movements, he shed his outer robes, baring the skin of his chest and shoulders. His hands were sharp, almost violent in their precision, as though each tug of fabric was a concession he loathed to give.

He stepped into the circle and lowered himself onto the cold floor, every muscle taut, his jaw set hard enough to ache. His eyes fixed on the ceiling, refusing to meet Ye Baiyi’s gaze.

“Do it quickly,” he muttered.

Ye Baiyi knelt beside him, uncorking the vial. The smell of iron and ash spread as the brush touched skin—cold strokes across his chest, sharp lines along the ribs, curving down toward the abdomen. Each mark sank deeper than ink, searing heat pressed into flesh.

Jiang Cheng’s breath tightened in his throat. His shoulders stiffened, muscles taut, but he forced himself still. Nails bit into his palms. Not a sound escaped him.

When the last sigil closed, the array blazed to life. Light surged upward, threads of power stitching into the marks on his body, binding him in a lattice that throbbed with unnatural rhythm. It pressed against his skin like chains, locking every breath in place.

Ye Baiyi’s hand settled firmly over his dantian.

Jiang Cheng stiffened at once. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding against the intrusion. No cultivator welcomed another’s hand upon such a place—least of all him, whose core had once been torn away from that very center. The heat of shame burned beneath the cold array; bare-chested, exposed, it was an indignity he would never have allowed if not forced by necessity.

Then the world convulsed.

Agony tore through him, deep and merciless—claws raking through his core, prying loose something that had long since fused with his being. His chest arched against the floor, veins standing rigid at his temples, sweat coursing down his face. His lips pressed together, bloodless from the force, but no cry passed them.

The golden core writhed like a trapped beast, dragging at every vein and sinew, clawing to stay. Pain blazed through his meridians, a torrent threatening to shred him apart. His entire body trembled, breath broken and shallow, yet his silence held.

Ye Baiyi’s voice cut through, cold and steady. “Do not move. Endure, or you will tear yourself apart.”

Light flared from the sigils, burning white-hot, until finally—something snapped.

A violent pulse shuddered from his dantian. The core that had not been his own, carried in his body for more than sixteen years, tore free in a wrenching surge—along with the last thread of false strength that had bound him all this time.

The circle dimmed. The sigils bled away from his skin, leaving only raw heat and the faint sting of ash.

Ye Baiyi lifted his hand, a cracked sphere of fading gold trembling in his grasp, flickering like a dying ember.

On the floor, Jiang Cheng lay motionless, chest heaving, his body slick with sweat. His face was pale, lips pressed thin, every vein still drawn taut from the strain—but no sound had ever left him.

What remained inside him was emptiness.

A silence vaster and crueler than pain.

—

The glow of the array had already faded, leaving only the dark scent of burnt cinnabar clinging to the air. The fractured sphere of golden light in Ye Baiyi’s hand flickered once, then dimmed into nothing. He closed his fingers around it and let it scatter like ash.

His gaze shifted to Jiang Cheng, sprawled on the cold floor. Sweat soaked through his hair, his chest still rose and fell with ragged effort, but his silence remained unbroken. No cry, no word, not even when the core had been torn from him. Only the hollow stillness of one who had endured to the last edge of his strength.

Ye Baiyi rose, voice clipped, unyielding.

 “It is done. You will live—but without treatment, your body will not last.”

He turned toward the door. “I will call the healer—”

“Don’t.” Jiang Cheng’s voice was hoarse but sharp enough to cut.

Ye Baiyi paused, gaze turning back. “You cannot even sit.”

But Jiang Cheng pressed a trembling hand to the floor, forcing his body upright. His shoulders shook, breath stuttered, yet he did not fall. He dragged his robe to him, tying the knots too tightly, each motion harsh, almost defiant.

At last, seated upright, back straight despite the tremor in his frame, he fixed Ye Baiyi with sharp, burning eyes. “Begin the method.”

Ye Baiyi’s reply was like a blade. “Fool. Your body just survived the removal. If you attempt to reshape your cultivation now, you’ll tear yourself apart before the first gate opens.”

“I don’t have time,” Jiang Cheng snapped, shoulders taut. “Every breath is weaker than the last. If this method fails—”

“Then you die faster tonight instead of later tomorrow,” Ye Baiyi cut him off, voice mercilessly calm. “Your stubbornness can't hold your flesh together. And your meridians are still corroded from that melted core. Until it is cleansed, any cultivation will only shatter what remains.”

Jiang Cheng’s jaw tightened, but he did not look away. “Then what?”

Ye Baiyi swept his sleeve, and from a hidden case produced a roll of dark steel needles, their jade-tipped ends gleaming faintly.

“A medicinal bath. Decoction to steady your channels. While you soak, the needles will force the corrosion out. Only then will your body endure the first gate.”

The words landed heavy, unbending. Jiang Cheng’s expression flickered—wariness, then cold resistance. His grip on his robe cinched tighter.

“…Not you.”

For the first time, Ye Baiyi’s gaze lingered, unreadable. “You would rather bleed from within than allow me to set the needles?”

“I said not you,” Jiang Cheng repeated, voice low, rigid as stone. His pride allowed no compromise: he would not bare his weakness again tonight, not before this man. 

Silence coiled between them. At last, Ye Baiyi turned, sharp flick of his sleeve breaking the air.

“Very well.”

A summoning talisman burned in his palm, pale smoke curling. Moments later, footsteps echoed in the hall. Jiang Su entered, his expression tight with alarm until Ye Baiyi’s presence checked him.

“You will prepare the decoction,” Ye Baiyi instructed, voice curt, precise. He unrolled the case, laying the needles in order. “And you will set them. These points—” He tapped the meridian diagrams sketched in cinnabar. “—one fraction wrong, and his body will seize. Do you understand?”

Jiang Su bowed his head once, steady. “I do.”

Only then did Ye Baiyi’s gaze flick back to Jiang Cheng, sharp as tempered steel. “Defy this, and you will not see another dawn. Endure it, and tomorrow—the method begins.”

Jiang Cheng’s lips pressed into a hard line. He turned his face away, refusing to reply. But he did not rise, nor did he send Jiang Su from the room.

It was answer enough.

—

The corridor outside the chamber was dim, lit only by the faint glow of lanterns. Jiang Xue stood at attention, back straight despite the hours that had already passed. His sword rested against his hip, but his hand never strayed far from the hilt, as though vigilance alone might shield his sect leader from whatever storm raged behind those closed doors.

At last, the door slid open. Jiang Su stepped out, the faint trace of smoke and incense clinging to his sleeves. His expression was grave, his movements brisk but edged with tension. In his hands he carried an empty lacquered tray, its surface already marked for the preparations ahead.

Jiang Xue rose at once from his post by the wall.

“How is Zongzhu?” His voice was low but urgent, the formal address carrying the weight of both duty and kinship.

Jiang Su’s gaze flicked toward him, shadowed by fatigue and something sterner still. He hesitated, as though weighing how much could be spoken.

“He lives.”

The two words struck like stone in the quiet corridor. Jiang Xue’s shoulders eased fractionally, but his eyes stayed sharp, searching Jiang Su's face.

“Only that?”

Jiang Su shook his head once, voice dropping. “The core… is gone. His body bears the cost more heavily than I have ever seen. Even sitting upright drained him.” His grip tightened on the tray before him. “But his will—remains. As sharp as ever.”

Silence held between them, filled only by the dim hiss of a lantern wick. Jiang Xue bowed his head, fists curling at his sides. “…I can do nothing to help him.”

For a moment, Jiang Su’s gaze softened, steadying. “You help by guarding here. That's enough.”

Jiang Xue drew in a slow breath, but the weight in his chest did not ease.

“I must fetch the herbs,” Jiang Su added quietly, shifting the tray in his hands. “Prepare the bath, the needles—everything he will need to endure the night.”

With that, he turned away, steps measured, while Jiang Xue resumed his silent watch before the closed door—his loyalty the only offering left to give.

—

The bathhouse chamber filled quickly with steam, thick with the acrid scent of crushed herbs boiling in the wooden tub. The liquid was dark, tinged green-black, its surface glimmering faintly with threads of spiritual light from the seals Ye Baiyi had pressed onto the rim.

Jiang Cheng stood rigid before it, shoulders drawn taut beneath his robe. His jaw set as if stone, but his hands betrayed him—the faint tremor as he loosened the knots. He did not look at Jiang Su, only turned sharply aside, discarding the robe with movements too harsh to be casual.

The water lapped when he lowered himself into the tub. Heat struck at once, biting deep, searing through muscle and bone. His breath caught, a hiss escaping between his teeth, but he forced his body lower until the dark liquid covered him to the chest.

At his side, Jiang Su knelt, the lacquered case of needles open before him. His eyes lingered once on his sect leader—ashen pale, lips pressed bloodless—but he said nothing. Instead, he recalled every detail of Ye Baiyi’s precise instruction, and took the first needle between steady fingers.

The sharp sting pierced Jiang Cheng’s shoulder. At once, the water shimmered faintly, as though threads of blackness bled out of him into the bath. Jiang Cheng’s hand clenched around the rim of the tub, knuckles white, but he did not cry out.

One by one, the needles found their marks—along his arms, across his chest, down the line of his back. Each insertion brought a surge of pressure, as though the corrupted residue in his meridians resisted, clawed against release. Jiang Cheng’s breath turned ragged, sweat mingling with the steam, but his gaze stayed hard, fixed unyieldingly forward.

Jiang Su worked swiftly, sealing the last point at his lower dantian. At once, the bathwater rippled, dark veins of corruption seeping out into the liquid, dispersing with a faint hiss. The tension in Jiang Cheng’s frame trembled, a shudder tearing through him as if something poisonous had been drawn loose.

For a long moment, silence. Only the sound of his uneven breaths and the faint hiss of herbs working against poison.

Finally, Jiang Su set the last needle straight, his voice low, careful. “It is done. The worst will pass soon.”

Jiang Cheng’s eyes closed, not in surrender but in the grim stillness of one who endured. His grip eased from the rim, though his shoulders remained squared, even submerged in pain.

When the door slid open, Ye Baiyi’s steps were measured, his gaze sweeping the scene with the precision of judgment. His eyes lingered on the alignment of the needles, on the faint black tendrils dissipating in the water. He gave a single, cold nod.

“Good.” His attention shifted to Jiang Cheng. “You will remain until the water clears. No less.”

Jiang Cheng’s eyes snapped open, burning despite exhaustion. He said nothing. But he did not rise.

Ye Baiyi’s voice cut the air once more, final as iron. “Tonight, you rest. Tomorrow—the true work begins.”

—

Back in his chamber, Jiang Cheng dismissed everyone with a clipped gesture and slid the door shut behind him. The quiet pressed heavy, as if the world itself had stopped to watch.

That night, Jiang Cheng couldn't sleep.

The void in his dantian gaped wide, swallowing every breath. He sat rigid on the bed, robe pulled close as though to shield against a chill only he could feel. Zidian lay coiled in his hand, cold and lifeless. Once, it had thrummed with power at his call, a bond that had never failed him. Now—it was only metal, silent as stone.

The silence gnawed. Every time his eyes slipped shut, memories surged—Lotus Pier burning, his body broken, powerless, empty. He forced his eyes open again, nails biting into his palms, refusing to yield even to sleep.

Every time he closed his eyes, the past crashed down: the fall of Lotus Pier, the helpless weight of powerlessness, the battlefield where strength had once defined him. He reached, but nothing answered. His hand closed on air.

His chest constricted. The hollowness pressed harder, darker than any nightmare. His throat ached with the force of silence, but no sound left him.

He sat upright through the hours, refusing to lie down, as though rest itself would break him. His shoulders trembled, eyes bloodshot, sweat dried cold against his skin. Yet still he sat, spine straight, pride alone holding him upright against the pit that yawned within.

By dawn, his body was frayed with exhaustion. But his eyes burned still—hollow, red-rimmed, unyielding.

—

When the chamber door slid open, pale morning light spilled across the floor. Ye Baiyi stepped inside, his gaze settling on the man seated stiffly on the bed. Jiang Cheng’s complexion was ashen, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. The tension in his shoulders, the taut grip on Zidian, told all too clearly he had not closed his eyes through the night.

“You did not rest,” Ye Baiyi observed, voice cool, unhurried.

Jiang Cheng’s fingers tightened around the dormant whip. His reply came hoarse, edged with iron.

“I can’t.” A breath, sharp through his nose. “We begin the cultivation now.”

Ye Baiyi studied him in silence, the weight of his stare unreadable. He had intended to force a delay, to give the body one more day of recovery. But looking at Jiang Wanyin—unyielding even when emptied out—he knew there would be no persuading him. If disaster struck mid-cultivation, better that he remain close enough to contain it.

At last, Ye Baiyi inclined his head, almost imperceptibly.

“Very well. Prepare yourself.”

They moved to the meditation hall, its floor already cleared from the night before. Without ceremony, Ye Baiyi knelt and began tracing an array with powdered ink and cinnabar. Each line curved into the next with ruthless precision, spiraling outward into intricate arcs until they converged at the center.

“This array,” Ye Baiyi said, his tone flat, instructive, “will bind your meridians to Zidian. Your body can no longer summon qi, but Zidian can serve as anchor—drawing resonance into you. With it, we will pry open the first gate.”

He paused, lifting his gaze briefly. “Understand this: it will hurt. And once begun, there is no retreat.”

Jiang Cheng’s lips pressed thin, but he did not falter. He drew Zidian into his hand, the once-living ring now cold and silent.

“I know,” he said, voice low, unwavering. “Just tell me what to do.”

Ye Baiyi finished the final stroke. The cinnabar lines shimmered faintly, humming with resonance. He straightened, stepping back.

“Place Zidian in the center. Sit within the formation.”

Without hesitation, Jiang Cheng obeyed. He settled cross-legged, laying Zidian across his knees.

Ye Baiyi pressed his palm to a sigil at the array’s edge. At once, the formation flared to life—threads of light racing along the curves until they converged upon Jiang Cheng. Zidian shuddered, a low crackle echoing through the chamber.

The surge struck immediately: lightning coursed into him, jagged and merciless. His meridians, hollow and brittle, screamed under the intrusion, forced open by sheer force.

“Focus.” Ye Baiyi’s voice cut through the storm. “Draw it inward. Let Zidian anchor the flow.”

Jiang Cheng’s eyes closed, jaw tight as iron. He drove the torrent of energy down, toward the hollow in his dantian—only for it to scatter into emptiness, dissolving before it reached its mark. Again he forced it, sharper this time, using Zidian as his guide. The ring sparked, but the current slipped from his control, breaking apart like water through his hands.

Once. Twice. A dozen times. Each failure ground deeper into his chest, every collapse gnawed at his resolve. The first step was always the steepest cliff, and it refused to yield.

At last, under the array’s relentless pull, something gave. The first point yielded only near midday. Hours had been spent forcing, failing, forcing again—each attempt scattering into emptiness, threatening to crush his resolve. Then, at last, a single point beneath his ribs shuddered, ignited with searing light—the first gate, pried open at last.

For a fleeting instant, a thread of qi slipped into the void of his dantian. Faint, fragile, but real—it eased the gnawing emptiness by a breath, a cruel reminder of what strength once felt like.

The backlash was blinding. Pain like lightning tore through his flesh; his breath stuttered, ribs locking tight. Violet fire raced jagged lines across his chest, flared once, then dimmed to silence.

“One point,” Ye Baiyi said at last, his tone clinical. “A hundred and seven remain. Can you still endure?”

Jiang Cheng’s grip tightened on Zidian. His breath was ragged, his face pale, but his eyes were sharp, unyielding.

“Continue.”

So they did. 

The second point broke in the afternoon. His chest heaved, every breath a labor, sweat plastering his robes to his skin. Blood rose once more to his throat, and he swallowed it down with iron determination.

The third came at near dusk, but it left him near collapse. His entire body trembled, vision darkened at the edges. Even lifting his hands felt as though he bore chains. His strength frayed to nothing, yet his gaze did not waver, fixed forward as if sheer will alone might drag him further.

He knew there was no time to waste—every day the Burial Mounds’ seal weakened further, and every delay risked failing the promise he had made to Jin Ling.

He drew himself to strike the fourth—

“Enough.” Ye Baiyi cut the array at once, his voice cold as stone. “Three in a day is already more than flesh can bear. One more, and your body will break.”

Jiang Cheng’s shoulders sagged, sweat sliding down his temple. His chest rose and fell unevenly, but his gaze burned with defiance.

“Continue,” he rasped. “I don’t have that much time.”

Ye Baiyi’s eyes narrowed. “If you force it, you will shatter before the work is done.”

Jiang Cheng lifted his chin, jaw set hard as iron. “Then I’ll finish it before it destroys me.”

Ye Baiyi did not move when Jiang Cheng threw down his defiance. His gaze lingered, steady, sharp as a blade testing for weakness. Then, at last, he spoke.

“No.”

The single word fell like ice.

Jiang Cheng’s head snapped toward him. “What do you mean, no?”

“You will not continue today,” Ye Baiyi said flatly. “Three gates is already pushing your body beyond its limit. Force another, and your meridians will collapse. You would not live to see tomorrow morning.”

Jiang Cheng’s breath caught, chest still heaving. The ache in his dantian spread outward, hollowness gnawing at him with every heartbeat. He tightened his grip on Zidian, refusing the helplessness that pressed in.

“I can endure.”

Ye Baiyi’s eyes narrowed. “Your body cannot.” He folded his arms, voice cold but absolute. “This is not a matter of will. The corrosion left by that melted golden core still eats at your channels. If you push against it now, nothing will remain for me to mend.”

His sleeve flicked once, sharp and final. “You will bathe again after this. The decoction is not only to scour what remains of the core’s residue—it will also soothe your meridians after this method’s strain. Without it, every point you open will bleed you hollow.”

Jiang Cheng’s glare did not ease, but his silence admitted no argument.

By the time the scent of herbs began to rise again from the heated tub, the afternoon sun was already leaning westward, its light slanting long through the lattice windows. Ye Baiyi stood outside the chamber with Jiang Su. In clipped tones he marked the channels, indicating where the needles must be set as Jiang Cheng soaked. Jiang Su, healer and kin, bowed in wordless acknowledgment. Only then did Ye Baiyi turn away, leaving the rest to him.

—

Steam still clung faintly to the chamber, carrying the bitter tang of herbs—the lingering trace of the bath just ended.

Jiang Cheng stood within the room, hair bound, robes drawn tightly in their familiar severity. Damp strands clung near his temples, a faint sheen of water still marking the ends. The pallor of his face had not lifted, but the trembling in his hands had eased, his breath no longer as ragged as before.

The door slid open. Ye Baiyi stepped inside, his white robes unruffled, expression as distant as ever. His gaze swept once across the room, lingering on Jiang Cheng before shifting to the discarded basin where needles had been set to rest. He spoke without preamble.

“Your healer followed my instructions perfectly.” A faint inclination of his head—approval, but as cold as stone. “The worst of the strain has been steadied. You will not collapse tonight.”

Jiang Cheng’s jaw tightened, as though even that acknowledgment scraped against his pride. His hands curled within his sleeves. “I did not ask you to check.”

“And yet you would be dead already, had I not,” Ye Baiyi returned, unblinking. “Pride does not rebuild meridians. Tomorrow, we resume. Until then—rest.”

The word hung between them, weight heavier than command.

Jiang Cheng’s eyes flashed, sharp with refusal of constraint, but beneath it his silence held. He turned his face away, the line of his shoulders stiff, betraying nothing more.

Ye Baiyi studied him for one last, still moment. Then, without further word, he turned and slid the door shut behind him.

The room fell into quiet once more, the faint scent of herbs still clinging to Jiang Cheng’s skin—a reminder of how far he had already fallen, and how far he would yet have to climb.

Chapter Text

That same day, as Jiang Cheng shut himself away behind the sealed chamber of Lotus Pier, another path unfolded beyond its gates.

Wei Wuxian and his small company had already taken to the river. The boat slipped from the pier beneath a veiled moon, its curved roof sheltering the quiet figures within. Lantern-light rocked gently with the water’s sway, casting long shadows against the planks. Behind them, Yunmeng grew distant, its silhouette fading into the lake mist, sealed and silent—holding within struggles no one spoke of aloud.

Jin Ling sat near the stern, arms folded tight, his face turned toward the night scenery as though it demanded all his attention. Yet his grip on the scabbard across his knees betrayed the storm beneath. Every part of him screamed to remain behind, but he knew—Jiujiu would never allow it. His Jiujiu would never show weakness before his eyes. If leaving meant his uncle would finally consent to the golden core’s removal, then he had to go. It was the only path left to him.

Wei Wuxian’s gaze lingered on Jin Ling, silent, the easy curve of his expression unable to mask the knot of worry in his chest. Part of him longed to turn back, to argue, to stand guard through every heartbeat of Jiang Cheng’s ordeal—no matter the sharp words thrown his way. But he knew Jiang Cheng’s nature: he had survived the fall of Lotus Pier, borne its ashes, rebuilt it stone by stone. He had never once broken his word. Not to Wei Wuxian. Not to Jin Ling. If he had promised to stand at Jin Ling’s succession ceremony, he would. Whatever the cost. That faith had to be enough.

The night stretched long, the river winding narrow between shadowed banks. Mist hung low, the air heavy with the scent of wet reeds. Then, suddenly—the boat shuddered, struck by an unseen force. A hollow wail rose from the dark waters, chilling marrow and breath alike.

From the marsh ahead, firelight flared—torches wavering, steel clashing, the shriek of rogue spirits breaking the night.

Jin Ling shot upright, hand on his sword. Lan Sizhui leaned forward, eyes sharp, while Lan Jingyi’s knuckles whitened against the railing. Ouyang Zizhen was already standing, blade half-drawn.

Wei Wuxian’s breath stilled, recognizing the press of resentment thick in the air. His eyes met Lan Wangji’s. 

“Lan Zhan.”

Without another word, the two moved. Boots struck the riverbank; Chenqing and Bichen gleamed as they surged toward the chaos.

At the edge of the village, Yunmeng Jiang disciples held their ground in fractured formation, blades glowing against the tide of shrieking wraiths. Wen Ning stood at their center, torn robes whipping in the night wind, pale gaze locked as he wrestled two spirits at once. His stance held, but the strain showed.

The juniors did not hesitate. They leapt to join, swords flashing in the torchlight. Wei Wuxian’s flute cut sharp into the air, each note biting through the cacophony, pinning the largest spirit in place. Lan Wangji’s blade followed, clean and sure, severing it into mist. Still they came—five, six, each strike sharper, feeding on the villagers’ fear.

The battle dragged, longer than it should have. At last, the final wraith dissolved into smoke, and silence fell hard, broken only by the ragged breaths of men and the crackle of dying torches. The disciples staggered back, bloodied but alive. Wen Ning lowered his hands, expression unreadable in the firelight, but the heaviness in his gaze said enough.

There was gratitude then—bows, hurried words of thanks from the Yunmeng Jiang disciples. Wei Wuxian answered lightly, as though brushing aside his own weariness, before turning back toward the riverbank with the others.

Lantern-light swayed over their gathered faces, shadows hollowing the lines of exhaustion. Wei Wuxian’s brows furrowed, voice low. “They’re multiplying. Faster than before. Even trained disciples can barely hold them off.”

Wen Ning nodded once. “I’ve been chasing them for nights. For every one I scatter, two more rise.”

Silence pressed over the group. The juniors looked between one another, the weight of fear and duty mingling in their eyes.

Wei Wuxian turned at last, his gaze resting on them. His voice softened, yet there was no space left for protest. “You’ve done enough. From here, you go no further.”

Jin Ling stiffened, protest sharp on his tongue, but Wei Wuxian’s tone cut it down before it could form. “Your uncle entrusted you to me. I won’t risk you at the Mounds.”

Ouyang Zizhen started to argue, but fell silent at the look in Wei Wuxian’s eyes. Even Lan Jingyi, restless and unwilling, found no ground to stand.

Wei Wuxian inclined his head to Wen Ning. “Take them back. Make sure they reach their sects safely.”

Wen Ning met his gaze, silent understanding passing between them. At length, he bowed his head. “I will.”

The juniors’ protests faltered into silence. They could not refuse. Not here. Not with so much at stake.

When dawn bled silver across the horizon, the company divided: Jin Ling and the others boarded the boat under Wen Ning’s care, bound for Baling. Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji, meanwhile, stepped ashore, turning toward the mist-veiled road that led to Yiling.

Chenqing hung at Wei Wuxian’s side, its dark wood catching a muted gleam of morning light. At Lan Wangji’s waist rested Bichen, its edge glinting with the sun’s first touch, while his guqin lay secured across his back. In silence, they set their course—toward Yiling.

Toward the Burial Mounds, waiting in the day’s cold light.

—

The sun was already climbing when Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji reached the foot of the Burial Mounds. The air pressed heavy, damp with mist that clung even under daylight. Black ridges towered above them, the oppressive aura seeping out stronger than Wei Wuxian remembered.

They walked long into its heart, past the broken ridges and silent slopes, until signs of presence appeared—ashen fire pits, watch posts, and the guarded altar at the center. Yunmeng Jiang disciples stood vigil, robes marked by sleepless hours.

At the sight of the two figures, the disciples straightened and bowed. “Hanguang-jun. Yiling Patriarch.”

Wei Wuxian’s smile was brief, almost rueful. “No need to be so tense. I already told your Sect Leader—we’ve only come to take a look at the seal.”

The lead disciple exchanged a glance with the others, then nodded, voice low with respect. “Zongzhu did inform us. If there is anything you require, please speak.”

Wei Wuxian waved a hand. “Just keep your posts. Don’t mind us.”

Lan Wangji gave a slight nod of acknowledgment, his silence carrying weight enough. The disciples bowed once more before stepping aside, their gazes lingering but disciplined.

Beyond them, the altar came into view. The ground was crowded with layered seals—some old, some freshly drawn, strokes overlapping in proof of endless reinforcement. A few glimmered faintly, marking points where secondary wards had been planted to warn if the main seal failed. Others carried deterrent arrays meant to suppress stray spirits.

Yet the heart of it—the original seal—throbbed with a pale, fractured glow. Its edges bled light in sharp cracks, threads of instability crawling like veins through stone. The secondary seals flared in response, but weakly, unable to contain the growing strain.

Wei Wuxian crouched at once, studying the lines with narrowed eyes. His fingertips hovered above the jagged light, careful not to touch.

“…Hn. They’ve tried strengthening it. Good effort—but useless.” His voice was low, humorless. “This isn’t something you can patch over. The structure’s failing from within.”

Lan Wangji stood silent, gaze steady on the pulsing cracks.

Wei Wuxian’s eyes flicked across the markers—everywhere he saw signs of Jiang Cheng’s meticulous preparation. Not just barriers, but warning talismans and suppression nets, even small anchor seals meant to slow sudden ruptures. Thorough, harsh, exactly like him.

For a moment, Wei Wuxian’s throat tightened. Then he forced a crooked smile. “Still, it buys time. Enough for me to take this back to Gusu and see if I can make sense of it. Who knows—maybe this old head still has a trick or two left.”

One of the Jiang disciples stepped forward, bowing. “Zongzhu said no one is to tamper with the seal itself. Only observe, report, and wait.”

Wei Wuxian rose, brushing off his knees. His dark eyes lingered on the light bleeding through the cracks, then slid toward Lan Wangji.

“Mn. Don’t worry, I’m not here to tamper.” He tapped his forehead lightly. “Only to remember. Every stroke, every layer—I’ll carry it back with me.”

Lan Wangji inclined his head, quiet but firm. “Gusu Lan will assist.”

Wei Wuxian exhaled, the grin fading into something softer, heavier. “Let’s hope we’re not already too late.”

—

By the time they left the Mounds, the morning haze had thinned, and the sun was climbing steadily toward its peak. The air behind them still pulsed faintly with the unstable seal, a rhythm that lodged in Wei Wuxian’s chest no matter how far they walked.

He glanced sideways at Lan Wangji, lips quirking though his eyes stayed dark. “Well, I’ve seen enough. If I can sketch it out later, maybe something will come of it. Let’s head back.”

Lan Wangji gave a quiet nod.

Wei Wuxian let out a breath, turning his gaze toward the river’s path. “The juniors should have gone on ahead with Wen Ning by now. Hopefully we can catch up before they reach the border. They’ve had enough fright for one night—better not to leave them unsettled too long.”

For once, his tone held no trace of teasing. Only the quiet weight of responsibility—sharp as any blade.

—

From the Burial Mounds, Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji mounted Bichen, the sword cutting through the early light with unyielding speed. The ruined hills fell away behind them, replaced by the glimmer of the river winding eastward.

Below, a single boat drifted steadily with the current—the juniors’ boat, already far ahead. Wei Wuxian lifted a hand to shade his eyes, a flicker of mischief softening the line of tension at his shoulders.

“Lan Zhan, look—doesn’t that look like the juniors’ boat? Seems we can still catch up if we're hurry.”

Lan Wangji said nothing, but Bichen dipped smoothly, air screaming past as they closed the distance. Spray lifted from the river’s surface as the sword streaked overhead. The juniors looked up at the flash of light—Lan Sizhui’s relief plain, Lan Jingyi’s jaw nearly dropping as he waved both arms. Even Jin Ling’s scowl softened, if only for a breath.

Wei Wuxian leapt lightly down from Bichen, boots landing solidly on the deck. “What’s this? You all look as though you’ve just escaped disaster. Surely you didn’t think Lan Zhan and I would abandon you?” His grin was quick, teasing, but it eased the tension written across their young faces.

Wen Ning, quiet at the stern, inclined his head slightly, his pale features gentling as if in welcome. The juniors’ relief grew steadier; Jin Ling turned away with a mutter, but the grip he kept on his sword loosened at last.

The river carried them onward, the mist thinning as the banks grew busier. By the time the sun climbed high overhead, tiled roofs and bustling piers stretched across the horizon. Together, they reached Baling.

At the docks, disciples of the Ouyang Sect were already gathered, their banners lifting in the riverside wind. Ouyang Zizhen stepped forward first, joy sparking in his tired eyes. He pressed one fist into the opposite palm before his chest and bowed, the gesture firm and respectful, his smile bright though weariness lined his eyes.

“Don’t worry,” he said, casting one last glance at the Lan disciples and at Jin Ling. “We’ll meet again soon.”

His men gathered quickly around him, guiding him toward their sect’s road.

The remaining group pressed on toward Lanling. By the time dusk colored the sky, the golden banners of the Jin Sect shimmered at the border. There, Lanling Jin disciples stood in formation, bowing as Jin Ling stepped forward. The weight of his new station settled heavily on his shoulders, though he bore it with a pride sharp enough to steady his steps.

He hesitated only a moment, eyes flicking back toward Wei Wuxian. No words passed, but the meaning was clear. Then he turned, following his sect’s men toward Lanling City.

Wei Wuxian stood watching until the gold vanished into the distance. Only then did he let out a long breath and grin faintly at Lan Wangji. “Well. That’s one thing settled. Time for us to head home, hm?”

Lan Wangji inclined his head.

Together with Wen Ning, Lan Sizhui and Lan Jingyi, they turned north again, the long road to Gusu opening before them, shadows lengthening at their backs.

Chapter Text

The journey back to Gusu took more than a day. Their small company pressed upriver, moving beneath the veil of morning mist and the pale hush of night.

At each stop, Wei Wuxian lingered little, spending his hours with Chenqing silent at his side, eyes narrowed as though half his mind was elsewhere. Lan Wangji guided their pace without complaint, the quiet steadiness of his presence a counterweight to Wei Wuxian’s restless silence.

Before the last bend toward the mountains, they parted ways with Wen Ning. At the quiet edge of a riverside town, he stood with his hands folded, expression gentle though shadowed by reluctance.

Wei Wuxian clasped his shoulder firmly, voice light but steady. “Wait for us in Caiyi Town. We’ll meet again soon.”

Wen Ning only bowed, silent as ever, before fading back into the mist that had become his refuge.

By the time the roofs of Cloud Recesses rose against the mountains, lanterns had already been lit, scattering gold across the still courtyards. Returning disciples bowed in greeting, their movements as precise and measured as ever, as if nothing in the outside world could ripple the calm of Gusu.

Wei Wuxian excused himself at once. Though the journey had been long, he made no pause for rest. Instead, he carried brush and ink into the chamber prepared for him—close to Lan Wangji’s, but his own, separate. The room was simple, austere as every guest room in Cloud Recesses, but Wei Wuxian shut the door as though sealing away the weight of the mountains themselves. Lamplight glowed against paper while his brush moved steadily, redrawing the lines of the seal he had carved into memory. No one disturbed him; his silence that night was sharper than his usual laughter.

Meanwhile, Lan Wangji led Lan Sizhui and Lan Jingyi to the main hall. Before Lan Qiren’s stern presence, the juniors gave their report. They spoke of their long stay at Lotus Pier, of how they had accompanied Yunmeng Jiang disciples on night-hunts, and how often rogue spirits rose from the waters and forests nearby. They told of the fights along the road home, where resentment gathered thick enough to choke the air. 

Each report was clear and complete—yet none of them spoke a word of Jiang Cheng’s condition. It was not theirs to reveal, and the rules of Gusu Lan forbade idle speculation about the affairs of others.

Lan Qiren listened in silence, hands folded within his sleeves. His sharp gaze lingered on them a moment longer than usual, but he asked nothing further. 

Finally, they added that in two weeks, the Jin clan would hold a succession ceremony for Jin Ling.

At that, Lan Qiren’s brows shifted slightly. “I have already received the invitation,” he said, his tone cool, though his eyes lingered a moment on Lan Sizhui and Lan Jingyi. “From the elders of Lanling, on behalf of their young sect leader.”

The juniors bowed low. Their report complete, they withdrew in silence.

Only Lan Wangji remained. He sat before his uncle without speaking, the moonlight through the lattice falling across the white of his robes. Lan Qiren regarded him with a long, heavy gaze, his silence carrying more weight than any lecture.

Lan Wangji waited until the last of the juniors’ voices faded beyond the hall. Only then did he speak.

“There is an ancient seal upon the Burial Mounds,” Lan Wangji said, his voice even. “It is weakening. That is why the rogue spirits grow restless.”

Lan Qiren’s fan stilled mid-motion. His eyes narrowed. “An ancient seal? Who knew of this?”

“It was Sect Leader Jiang who first spoke of it,” Lan Wangji replied. “We confirmed it only recently. Wei Ying examined the site. The strength of its binding will not last.”

For a long moment, Lan Qiren said nothing. The candlelight flickered across the deep lines of his face. Then he exhaled slowly, his voice low. “If such a thing unravels, the chaos will not remain confined to Yiling. The other sects must be warned. But whether they will listen…” He shook his head, bitterness in the movement.

Lan Wangji inclined his head slightly. “Sect Leader Jiang intends to raise the matter during the succession ceremony of Sect Leader Jin.” From his sleeve, he produced a folded letter and set it before his uncle. “He entrusted this to me, to be delivered into your hands.”

Lan Qiren broke the seal, his gaze running over the lines in silence. At length, he laid the letter down with a weary sigh. “An ancient seal…” he murmured again. “If it collapses, the balance will shatter. The sects will not be ready.”

The silence that followed seemed to thicken in the hall, heavy as the mountains beyond the walls. At last, Lan Qiren’s voice cut through, edged with weariness. “And still—Xichen refuses to emerge from seclusion.”

Lan Wangji’s gaze lowered, though his composure did not shift. His reply was quiet, carrying neither reproach nor defense. “Xiongzhang carries too many burdens. He believes he must atone through solitude.”

Lan Qiren tapped his fan sharply against the table, the sound echoing against the wooden pillars. “How long will he hide himself away? The world is shifting, and yet Gusu Lan cannot afford its sect leader silent in the shadows.”

No answer came from Lan Wangji. Only the steady stillness of his figure, as though silence itself were the only reply he could give.

###

Wei Wuxian sat hunched over the low desk, ink brush moving swiftly across the paper. Lines of talismanic script spilled from his hand—patterns half-remembered, half-reconstructed. The seal at the Burial Mounds lingered in his mind like a shadowed puzzle, its structure both ancient and fractured. The more he retraced the strokes, the less sense it seemed to make.

The room was quiet save for the scratch of ink, the faint hiss of the lamp flame. He leaned closer, eyes narrowing. ‘This part shouldn’t align with that—unless… no, that can’t be right.’

The door slid open with a muted sound. Lan Wangji stepped inside, the faint scent of night air following him. His presence settled into the chamber, steady as the mountain peaks.

“Wei Ying,” he said softly. “Rest. It is late.”

Wei Wuxian didn’t look up, brush still darting across the page. “Rest? With this thing gnawing at me? I’ve seen seals layered, broken, even twisted—but this one…” He shook his head, strands of hair falling loose. “It’s like it was forged from something older than the Burial Mounds themselves. I can’t leave it alone.”

Lan Wangji approached, gaze falling on the half-finished scripts scattered across the desk. “Tomorrow,” he said. “The library. You will have what you need.”

Wei Wuxian laughed lightly under his breath, though the sound carried no mirth. “Tomorrow, tomorrow. By then, that seal may unravel another thread. What if we’re too late?”

Lan Wangji’s hand pressed gently on the edge of the desk, stilling the papers beneath his fingers. “Wei Ying.” His voice was firm now, though never raised. “Enough for tonight.”

For a moment, Wei Wuxian bristled—habit, defiance, the restless urge to push back. But the calm weight of Lan Wangji’s gaze held him, unyielding yet unjudging.

At last, he set the brush down, shoulders sagging with reluctant surrender. “Fine. Tomorrow, then. But don’t think I’ll sleep easily.”

Lan Wangji inclined his head, as if that were answer enough. In the quiet that followed, the lamplight flickered across the unfinished seals, their lines seeming almost to shift in the glow—as though the puzzle itself refused to sleep.

###

Cloud Recesses—Early Morning 

Morning mist draped the Cloud Recesses in pale veils, the courtyards hushed beneath the steady chime of wind-bells. Wei Wuxian followed Lan Wangji through the polished walkways, his pace restless, his eyes catching on every carved pillar as though the stillness itself itched against his skin.

The main library opened before them, a hall of immaculate order. Scrolls and bound volumes lined the shelves in perfect rows, each title inscribed in neat calligraphy. The faint scent of ink and cedar drifted in the air.

Wei Wuxian wandered between the shelves, fingertips grazing the spines. “Hm. History of cultivation methods. Treatises on music, on arrays, on moral conduct… but nothing on ancient seals.” He leaned closer, squinting at a row of texts. “Not even a whisper. Lan Zhan, I hate to say this, but your library might be too clean.”

Lan Wangji’s expression did not change. “This hall does not hold what you seek.”

Wei Wuxian blinked, half-smiling. “Oh? Then where does Gusu Lan hide its real secrets?”

Lan Wangji turned, leading him past the last shelf toward a plain wooden panel at the rear of the hall. With a quiet push, the panel slid open, revealing a narrow corridor descending into shadow. Cool air spilled out, carrying the faint must of parchment untouched for centuries.

Wei Wuxian’s brows rose, mischief flickering in his gaze despite the gravity of their errand. “Ah… so the venerable Gusu Lan does have skeletons tucked away. Don’t tell me this is the forbidden library—the one only the most solemn Lan elders whisper about?”

Lan Wangji met his eyes, unblinking. “En.”

“Then why bring me?”

“Because you will understand it.”

Wei Wuxian fell silent at that, his grin softening into something quieter. Without another word, he followed as Lan Wangji stepped into the hidden archive.

The air grew heavier as they descended, shelves looming out of the dim, stacked with scrolls whose bindings were frayed by time. These were not the ordered tomes of the upper hall—here, the texts bore age and dust, ink faded, edges brittle. The weight of generations seemed to linger in the silence, a place where even sound dared not intrude.

Wei Wuxian exhaled slowly, eyes bright despite the gloom. “So this is it—the true heart of the Cloud Recess library.”

—

The air in the hidden library was different from the outer halls—thicker, drier, carrying the faint dust of centuries. Wei Wuxian sat cross-legged at a low desk, lamplight throwing restless shadows across stacks of scrolls and bound volumes. Days had passed like this, sifting through fragments of history and half-erased ink.

Most were mundane: accounts of talisman arrays, cultivation techniques long abandoned. But now and then, a line of text caught him like a hook beneath the ribs—mentions of a war so old no sect remembered it clearly, whispers of an enemy stronger than any name still carried in memory.

Beside him, Lan Wangji kept silent vigil, his own hands moving with steady precision as he turned through brittle pages. Where Wei Wuxian’s energy was restless—fingers tapping, brush scratching furiously at notes—Lan Wangji’s presence was a still counterbalance, as constant as the quiet mountain air. The two figures, so different in bearing, shared the same narrow pool of light, their shadows long against the rows of ancient shelves.

On the third night, Wei Wuxian hand stilled over a volume unlike the others. Its binding was rough, the ink uneven, strokes betraying haste. He unrolled it carefully, and his eyes sharpened.

The script was not an impersonal record—it was handwritten notes. The preface named the writer: a descendant of Lan An. Someone who had sat and listened when the founder himself spoke of what he had witnessed.

Wei Wuxian bent closer. The words unfurled like a buried voice.

“…Before the sects, there was war—the righteous against the demonic. Among them, one dark cultivator rose above all, wielding a sword steeped in grievance and iron that could bind the dead. In the end, he was slain, but only after countless lives of the righteous were lost. Yet his spirit did not fade. Restless, it stirred chaos still, so the surviving cultivators bound it within the mounds—sealed by talisman and blood.”

“…The first seal lies upon him. The second, upon the land itself. My ancestor warned: the earth’s seal weakens with time. When I was young, he told me—its bindings were already looser than when he had seen them cast. ‘One day,’ he said, ‘the soil will break. Not by design, not by malice, but because nothing forged by men endures forever.’”

Wei Wuxian’s breath stilled. He sat back slightly, fingers drumming the edge of the desk.

‘So. Two seals, not one. The first to hold the spirit of the man. The second to cage the ground. If the second grows weak, it won’t matter whether the first holds—the resentment will bleed through regardless.’

‘Lan An had already noticed the change. Which means by the time I was thrown into the Mounds… that second seal must have been hanging by a thread.’

He frowned, recalling the suffocating darkness, the heavy stench of death when he had first fallen into that pit.

‘I thought I survived because I was clever, because I could bend resentment to my will. But… what if it was never about me? What if the seal was already collapsing, and I simply walked out through the crack?’

His gaze dropped back to the parchment, scanning further until the next passage caught him:

“…The weapon of that cultivator was cast into the depths. Its fragments will not fade. Beware their forging, for the resentment they carry will not bend to men.”

Wei Wuxian’s pulse quickened. The cavern of the Xuanwu flashed before his eyes, the shattered sword lodged deep in its gut. The iron he had reforged, the resentment he had bound into the Tiger Seal Tally.

‘That sword… it wasn’t nameless debris. It was his. No wonder it carried so much weight, no wonder it fought me every step. I thought I had created something new. In truth, I only reshaped what was already cursed.’

The pieces locked together with a click that reverberated in his chest. His hand tightened around the edge of the scroll until the parchment crinkled.

His lips parted, the words rising soundless at first, then slipping into a whisper meant for no one but himself.

“So it was me…”

Wei Wuxian’s whisper hung in the stillness. He let the scroll fall closed, his fingers trembling faintly against the desk.

‘So it was me… the second seal broke because of me. And the Tiger Tally—born from his blade. Am I nothing but a shadow walking the same path?’

His chest constricted. The thought pressed heavier than any resentment he had ever borne. Slowly, he covered his face with one hand, brittle laughter spilling between his teeth.

“Wei Ying?” Lan Wangji’s voice came low, steady.

Wei Wuxian did not answer. His hand stayed where it was, blocking out the lamplight, the shelves, even Lan Wangji’s steady figure at his side. Without another word, Lan Wangji reached for the scroll Wei Wuxian had abandoned, scanning the lines with calm precision.

At last, Wei Wuxian’s voice escaped him, rough and unguarded. “Lan Zhan… what if it’s all the same? What if I’ve only ever been a repeat of him? That dark cultivator they sealed away—stronger than anyone, drowning in resentment, doomed to fall. Maybe I was never different.”

The words cut through the stillness, uneven, edged with something rawer than grief: fear.

“—No.”

Wei Wuxian lowered his hand, startled by the firmness in that single word. Lan Wangji’s gaze met his without wavering, steady as stone against the storm threatening to consume him.

“You are not him,” Lan Wangji said, each syllable deliberate. “He was consumed. You chose. Every step you walked—every burden you carried—was your own decision, not his shadow.”

Wei Wuxian’s throat tightened. “But the second seal broke because of me. The Tiger Tally came from his sword. Doesn’t that mean—”

Lan Wangji cut him off, voice low but resolute. “The seal was already weakening. Lan An foresaw it. You were thrown into its ruin, but you did not cause its fall. And the sword—resentful, cursed—it would have devoured anyone. Yet you bent it to protect, not to destroy. That is the difference.”

Silence stretched, filled only by the hiss of the lamp flame. Wei Wuxian’s eyes dropped, his lips pressing together.

“Lan Zhan…” His voice cracked—barely audible. “What if one day I can’t hold it back? What if I… become like him?”

Lan Wangji did not hesitate. He reached forward, his hand firm as it clasped Wei Wuxian’s wrist, grounding him. His eyes did not waver.

“Then I will stop you. No matter what. But until that day—Wei Ying, believe this. You are not him. You will never be him.”

The conviction in his tone left no room for doubt, yet it carried no harshness—only the unshakable weight of faith.

For a long moment, Wei Wuxian stared at him, something fragile and aching in his expression. Then, finally, his hand loosened from the scroll, his shoulders sinking as if the fight had drained from him.

The lamp flickered again, and this time, in the fragile quiet, it was not despair that lingered—but the faint trace of relief.

###

Days slipped by in the hush of the Cloud Recesses.

Since uncovering the truth within Lan An’s descendant’s scroll, Wei Wuxian had resolved to dig deeper, determined to find some record—any clue—that might show how to mend what was fraying. Yet the more he searched, the barer the path became.His sleeves grew gray with dust, his eyes shadowed from nights spent poring over forgotten texts.

Scroll after scroll sprawled across the tables, some half-opened, others abandoned where his hands had faltered. He read until the candle stubs guttered out, until dawn’s pale light pressed against the lattice windows.

Yet every page led to the same end: no method to restore the broken, no way to bind what was loosening, no hope of reforging a seal already frayed by centuries.

Wei Wuxian leaned back at last, head resting against the wooden frame of the chair, the silence of the library pressing in like a judgment.

‘Nothing. Not a single trace of how to restore a seal once unraveled… nor how to strengthen what is already fraying.’

He pressed the bridge of his nose, frustration biting deep. The more he read, the clearer the void became—centuries of knowledge, but none that could answer the weight of now.

Finally, with a sigh that sounded almost like defeat, he rolled the last scroll closed. His fingers lingered on the parchment before letting it go.

‘So this is it, then. The second seal is gone beyond recall. The first… already loosening. When it breaks, we’ll be facing not just spirits, but something older, darker—far worse than Wen Ruohan ever was. An evil spirit of the cultivator who commanded the dead, the beasts, the very resentful air itself.’

The thought chilled him more than he cared to admit. Yet at the same time, knowing the enemy at last brought a grim clarity.

He stepped out into the open air. Evening light stretched across Cloud Recesses, quiet and pale. At the foot of the steps, Lan Wangji stood waiting, his figure as still as the mountains behind him.

Wei Wuxian let out a half-laugh, half-sigh. “I searched all day, Lan Zhan, and came away with nothing. Just more proof of how grim this is going to be.”

Lan Wangji regarded him, unshaken. “You found enough. To know what awaits—that is not nothing.”

Wei Wuxian gave a hollow laugh. “To know we’re walking straight into another war? That’s all I’ve gained.” His voice dropped, the humor fading. “And this time… I fear it won’t just be another Sunshot Campaign. This will be worse.”

For a heartbeat, silence lay between them, broken only by the wind stirring through the bamboo.

Then Lan Wangji said, steady as ever: “We will face it. Together.”

Wei Wuxian exhaled slowly, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. 

‘So be it.’ Wei Wuxian tightened his grip on Chenqing at his side, a shadow of resolve steadying his restless heart. ‘If another great war is coming, then at least this time… I won’t face it alone.’

Lan Wangji met his gaze. “Enough for today. Tomorrow—we go to Lanling.”

Wei Wuxian tilted his head, lips quirking though his eyes betrayed his unease. “To Jinlintai, then. To watch A-Ling take the seat of his sect… and to tell the others what waits beneath Yiling.”

The weight of it lingered between them, heavier than words. Then, quietly, Lan Wangji added, “Rest, Wei Ying. You have done what you can.”

Wei Wuxian looked away, hand brushing against Chenqing at his side, and gave a small nod. Tomorrow would come soon enough.

###

Morning of their departure dawned cool and quiet, clouds clinging low over the Gusu peaks. Disciples were already gathered in the courtyard, their travel packs in order, waiting for the signal to set out for Lanling.

Lan Wangji climbed the steps to the quiet pavilion, where a single door remained closed as it had for more than two years. He paused, standing in stillness before it. His hand rose, but he did not knock—only let his knuckles rest against the wood.

“Xiongzhang,” his voice was low, steady despite the ache beneath it, “we depart today for Lanling. I wished to bid you farewell.”

For a long while, silence pressed from within. Then at last, a voice came, muted through the barrier of the door.

“…Take care, Wangji.”

No footsteps approached, no latch stirred. The distance remained.

Lan Wangji lowered his hand slowly. His gaze lingered on the unyielding panel of wood, a quiet sorrow shadowing his otherwise unreadable face. With a faint inclination of his head, he turned and descended the steps.

When he rejoined the waiting disciples, his expression was composed once more, though his silence carried a weight even Wei Wuxian dared not break.

Thus the delegation of Gusu Lan set out toward Lanling, and behind them, the Cloud Recesses fell into quiet once again.

Chapter Text

Hi everyone, Kei here 🌸 

Thank you so much to those of you who have given kudos and sent me messages about this story. I’m really sorry I haven’t replied— not because I don’t want to, but honestly, I never know where to begin. Please forgive me for that 🙇🏻‍♀️.

But I promise, I do read every single message. Every kudos, every comment, every bookmark—you have no idea how much it encourages me to keep posting this story. 💜

Some of you might have come here expecting something different, and maybe felt disappointed when the story didn’t match your expectations. Unlike many fics with fast-moving plots, mine is very slow. Painfully slow—like a tired snail 🐌💦. That’s just the pace I love to write in, so thank you for your patience with me.

And if you’re here waiting for explicit romance… I’m sorry again. That’s not really what I enjoy writing. I prefer exploring emotional bonds rather than physical ones. For me, the slow build of feelings, conflicts, and unspoken words matters more than anything else.

Some of you asked or maybe just wondered (or maybe not😅) why I chose this pairing. Let me explain a little.

First—why Jiang Cheng as the main character? I love him because he’s deeply flawed. At first he can even feel like a villain, but underneath, he’s one of the most complex characters in Modao Zushi and The Untamed. Since childhood, he was unloved by his father, pressured under the guise of “love” by his mother, and jealous of Wei Wuxian—who seemed free yet still received the affection Jiang Cheng longed for. Even Jiang Yanli, his sister, sometimes put Wei Wuxian first. Yunmeng Jiang disciples (before Lotus Pier burned) admired Wei Wuxian more. And on top of that, Wei Wuxian was more talented, while Jiang Cheng carried the burden of being the heir.

So yes, Jiang Cheng grew up with countless wounds. But despite all of that, he still loved Wei Wuxian as a brother. He believed Wei Wuxian would always be by his side to lead Yunmeng Jiang together. And then everything collapsed. They ended up as enemies, and yet—even when Wei Wuxian was accused of killing Jiang Yanli’s husband, even when Jiang Yanli herself died because of him—Jiang Cheng still couldn’t bring himself to land the final blow. Hate? Of course. But their bond as brothers couldn’t be erased.

After Wei Wuxian’s death, Jiang Cheng never stopped searching for his soul. He always believed Wei Wuxian would return one day—and in the end, he was right. 

I just love their complicated bond, full of anger, guilt, and unshakable connection. (Maybe I misunderstood some aspects of canon, but this is how I interpret him 💭.)

Now—why Ye Baiyi as the pairing? Because his character is so unique. In Word of Honor canon, he’s believed to be immortal, though not a cultivator. In my story, I shaped him into a cultivator. As someone who has lived for centuries, isolated on a mountain, he’s blunt, socially awkward, and often speaks without regard for time or place. Sometimes he even comes across as arrogant—well, he is “immortal,” after all. I thought it would be fascinating (and a little funny) to pair someone like Jiang Cheng with someone like Ye Baiyi.

For those waiting for other characters to appear—please be patient. They will come, one by one, in their own time ⏳. Each has their portion in this story.

I try my best to capture the essence of every character, but please forgive me if my interpretation strays far from canon. My hope is simply that they can all find a kind of happy ending here. Not always in romance, but in peace—where regrets fade and healing becomes possible. Because personally, I love happy endings ✨.

Lastly, I should mention—English is not my first language. Not even my second. So please forgive any mistakes 🥲.

I hope you’ll keep enjoying the story as it goes on.❤️

Love,

AK

Chapter Text

Lotus Pier—After Jiang Cheng’s first day closed door cultivation.

The morning after, Lotus Pier was quiet. Mist clung low over the lake, the courtyards hushed as though the sect itself held its breath.

Within the sealed chamber, the array glowed faintly, talisman strokes sharp with fresh ink. Zidian coiled at its center, violet arcs snapping restlessly. Jiang Cheng sat rigid, jaw tight, forcing qi into his meridians with the stubborn precision of a man daring his body to break.

The current faltered, stuttering against the hollow where his core had once been. Pain tore through his chest, sharp enough to choke.

“Enough.”

Ye Baiyi’s voice cut through, steady but blunt. “Push again, and you’ll rupture the channel completely. Then you’ll crawl for the rest of your life.”

Jiang Cheng’s head snapped up, anger flashing. “I don’t need your lectures.”

“You need them more than you think,” Ye Baiyi replied, unmoved. “You’ve survived this long out of sheer obstinacy, not wisdom. Don’t mistake the two.”

The words hit with the weight of fact, not malice. Still, Jiang Cheng’s temper spiked; his qi surged unstable, arcs whipping violently through the array.

In an instant, Ye Baiyi moved. Two fingers pressed hard to the side of Jiang Cheng’s neck, sealing a point. The wild current froze, the backlash collapsing into Ye Baiyi’s own palm as he redirected it out through the talisman lines. His face tightened briefly, but his voice remained steady.

“Breathe. Unless you want to add madness to your list of afflictions.”

Jiang Cheng’s breath came ragged, teeth clenched against the fury clawing in his chest. His eyes burned, but the pressure of Ye Baiyi’s grip left no room for defiance. After a long moment, he exhaled sharply, shoulders trembling.

Only then did Ye Baiyi release him. “Control your anger,” he said, tone flat but precise. “Qi doesn’t care about your pride. It will only break what’s left of you.”

At night, when Jiang Su slipped the needles into scorched meridians, Ye Baiyi stood nearby, arms folded. He gave instructions sparingly, only when necessary—where to angle the silver, which points to steady first. No wasted words, no needless scorn.

The regimen settled: day in the array, night in the pool. Jiang Cheng’s progress was painfully slow, measured in drops where he demanded rivers. His temper grew harsher with each setback, sometimes lashing out at Jiang Su, sometimes seething in silence that weighed heavier than anger.

But every time his qi teetered on collapse, Ye Baiyi was there. Sometimes with blunt words that cut through stubbornness; sometimes with a hand pressed firm to a meridian, grounding him until the storm broke.

The days after the first week of cultivation ran heavier than before. The hollowness never left; it gnawed sharper in quiet hours, turned raw when his efforts faltered. Jiang Cheng found himself biting words back more often than not, the edge of his temper too close to spilling.

That evening, after the herbal bath, Ye Baiyi’s voice cut through the steam.

“Your balance is slipping.” He didn’t bother softening the words. “If you keep pacing like a trapped beast, sooner or later you’ll bare your teeth at the wrong person.”

Jiang Cheng shot him a glare, towel clenched too tight in his hand. “And you think you’ve found the solution?”

“Stop letting your temper run your body. Sit still. Empty your head. Call it meditation, breathing—whatever suits you. Do it after every soak. It’s not only for your sake. It’s so your disciples don’t bleed under your tongue.”

The words stung, but beneath the blunt edge Jiang Cheng caught the truth. He exhaled slowly, shoulders still rigid. “…You’re saying if I can’t rein myself in, I’ll drag everyone else down with me.”

Ye Baiyi inclined his head slightly. “At least you understand.”

Jiang Cheng muttered something under his breath, sharp but not quite refusal. Later that night, against his own pride, he sat cross-legged in the quiet chamber after the bath. The first breaths were jagged, his chest too tight; thoughts refused to quiet. But with time—ten breaths, twenty, thirty—the tightness eased, the hollow no less deep but less consuming. When he rose again, he found the weight in his shoulders lighter, the edge of his anger dulled enough not to cut whoever next stood in his path.

The practice became routine—grudging at first, then habitual. Slowly, the worst of the mood swings smoothed, leaving silence heavy but bearable.

—

The night before departure, the chamber lay dim, the talismans around the array burned down to gray ash. The faint crackle of Zidian’s current was the only sound, violet arcs breathing light into the silence.

Jiang Cheng sat cross-legged before it, arms folded, his gaze sharp yet steady. The storms that had plagued him days before had dulled; not gone, but leashed through hard discipline.

Ye Baiyi’s voice cut through the quiet, blunt as ever. “Are you certain you want to interrupt your cultivation for a nephew’s ceremony?”

Jiang Cheng’s eyes narrowed. “I promised Jin Ling I would be there. And it isn’t merely a ceremony. The sect leaders will gather—there’s no better chance to tell them what lies beneath the Burial Mounds. They need to prepare for what’s coming. If you want unity among the sects, this is the time to start.”

Ye Baiyi inclined his head slightly, as though conceding the point. “A rare moment of foresight. I was beginning to wonder if you’d only chase pride until it killed you.”

Jiang Cheng’s eyes flashed, but he swallowed the retort. “You talk too much.”

“And you brood too much,” Ye Baiyi returned without missing a beat. “Your strength is barely a fraction of what it was. One stray spirit could topple you. Worse, your temper is sharper than your sword. If you lose control, even that little qi you’ve regained will scatter.”

“I know,” Jiang Cheng said, tight-jawed. “But I must go.”

Ye Baiyi withdrew a bundle of talismans and extended them, plain as ever. “Then take these. Unless, of course, you think your reputation is worth more than your disciples’ lives.”

The words landed like a barb. Jiang Cheng stiffened, offense clear, but after a long pause he reached out and took the talismans, sliding them into his sleeve with sharp movements.

His voice came after a beat. “You won’t come with me.”

“No.” Ye Baiyi’s gaze was steady, tone dry. “I am not your shadow. Nor your keeper. You’ve made it this far without collapsing on the floor—try not to undo that in front of half the cultivation world.”

Jiang Cheng’s jaw flexed. He might have snapped another retort, but instead only muttered, “…Do as you will.” The words carried an edge, but lacked the venom they once held.

Ye Baiyi said nothing more. The silence between them was no longer strained, but heavy with a kind of mutual understanding—unspoken, imperfect, yet real.

—

Dawn broke pale over Lotus Pier, mist trailing low across the lake. Disciples moved quietly along the docks, preparing boats for departure. The air carried a faint sharpness of autumn, a reminder that the season had shifted while Jiang Cheng was locked in cultivation.

He emerged from the inner chamber in fresh robes of deep violet, with Zidian at his finger and Sandu at his waist. The hollowness in his chest had not eased, but his steps were steady, his bearing unbent. Behind him trailed a small retinue of Yunmeng Jiang disciples, faces drawn with fatigue but disciplined in silence.

Ye Baiyi was already waiting in the courtyard, posture straight, expression as impassive as stone. His eyes flicked briefly over Jiang Cheng, lingering just long enough to assess.

“You look less like a man about to collapse,” he said, dry as morning frost. “Progress, I suppose.”

Jiang Cheng’s mouth tightened. “I didn’t ask for your approval.”

“Good,” Ye Baiyi replied evenly. “Remember what I told you. Meditate every night. Hold your mind still, or it will unravel faster than your body.”

Jiang Cheng exhaled through his nose, curt but not hostile. “…I know.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The sound of water lapping against the boats filled the silence. Then Jiang Cheng turned toward the docks, his disciples falling into formation behind him.

“Do not let Lotus Pier falter while I’m gone,” he ordered Jiang Su and Jiang Xue, his tone clipped but even. Both bowed low in acknowledgment.

As Jiang Cheng stepped onto the boat, the morning mist folded once more around the pier, veiling the solitary figure that did not follow.

Ye Baiyi stood unmoving, robes stirring faintly in the wind, watching until the vessel faded into the fog. He spoke to no one, but the faintest curl of expression touched his mouth—too sharp to be fondness, too subtle to be disdain.

When the last trace of the boat disappeared into gray, he turned, his steps soundless across the damp wood. He did not head back into Lotus Pier, but instead followed the curve of the outer causeway, where the lake reeds grew tall and no disciples lingered.

There, a figure waited—robes black against the pallor of dawn, long hair bound with simple care. Upon his back, two swords crossed: one dark as obsidian, the other pale as frost. His presence carried no breath, no warmth—only the unyielding silence of one who had crossed death yet lingered still.

Ye Baiyi did not slow. “It’s almost half a year. Finally, you found her?” His voice was even, eyes still cast toward the horizon rather than the man before him.

The man said nothing, only reached into his sleeve and drew out a narrow scroll. He offered it with steady hands.

Ye Baiyi unrolled it, eyes scanning the markings, the faintest curve of his mouth suggesting both satisfaction and impatience. “Far from here,” he muttered. “Of course it would be. Still, it makes no difference. With my sword, we’ll cover the distance faster than any horse or carriage could hope to.”

He refolded the map with care and tucked it away. “Good work,” he added, not looking up. “Let’s not waste more time.”

The man inclined his head, silent as ever.

“Come, Song Zichen,” Ye Baiyi said at last, already stepping deeper into the forest. His white robes cut through the mist like a blade, while the black-clad corpse followed without a sound, their figures swallowed quickly by the veil of trees.

###

Lanling Jin Sect — The Eve of Succession

Morning light spilled across the golden walls of Jinlintai, catching on glazed tiles and painted beams until the entire stronghold seemed to blaze with its own radiance. From the outer gates inward, the compound stirred earlier than usual, for tomorrow the succession ceremony would begin.

Banners of white and yellow were unfurled, embroidered with the Lanling Jin crest: the great white peony, Sparks-Amidst-Snow. Servants strung lanterns across the long walkways, their vermilion tassels swaying in the summer wind. Disciples hurried between courtyards, their robes trimmed with gold, their brows marked with the scarlet seal of their clan’s vow to “illuminate the world with vermilion light.” Some carried scrolls of names for seating arrangements, others bore lacquered trays with offerings, while stewards called orders to ensure no detail was overlooked.

Within the inner residence, the air was quieter, though no less tense. Jin Ling sat rigidly before the mirror while attendants straightened the folds of his ceremonial robes. Sunlight caught on the silver-threaded peonies embroidered across his chest, making them gleam against the heavy gold fabric. The vermilion mark had already been painted between his brows, stark and ceremonial, lending a gravity that belied his youth.

He scowled faintly at their fussing, yet did not push them away. His hand rested against the hilt of his sword at his side, fingers tightening as though seeking steadiness there. It was not fear—at least, he would never allow himself to call it so. But the weight of expectation pressed colder than steel, heavier than the robes across his shoulders, as the day moved steadily toward what awaited him.

By afternoon, the sect leaders began to arrive one by one, each with their retinues. First came the minor sects, their banners bright but their voices subdued beneath the gilded majesty of Lanling. A delegation from Meishan arrived with measured bows, their sect leader murmuring words of courtesy to the young heir. Soon after, Clan Leader Yao and his disciples were led through the golden halls.

Through it all, Jin Ling received them with a composure beyond his years. His voice was steady, his gestures precise. Yet each new arrival, each new set of eyes measuring him as Sect Leader, weighed heavier on his shoulders.

The air of Lanling thickened with power and presence. Whispers rose among the disciples as familiar figures appeared at the gates.

The first of the great sect leaders to arrive was Nie Huaisang. His robes of green and gray swept softly across the stone steps, a painted fan resting in his hand. Behind him followed the Qinghe disciples, their heavy sabers gleaming faintly in the late sun.

Jin Ling stepped forward at once, bowing with all the courtesy due.

“Sect Leader Nie. Welcome to Jinlintai.”

Nie Huaisang’s eyes curved, his fan lifting slightly to hide a smile. “Ah, young Sect Leader Jin himself comes to greet me—how flattering. I had thought Jinlintai’s splendor would be enough welcome on its own, yet here you are.”

Jin Ling straightened, lips pressing faintly though his tone remained courteous. “It is my duty to greet every honored guest. Jinlintai is still mine to uphold.”

Nie Huaisang’s gaze flickered over the sprawling pavilions, the golden banners rippling in the air. He gave a small sigh, half-dramatic. “Indeed, indeed. Such magnificence… only Lanling could shine so brightly. It seems Jinlintai grows grander every time I set foot here. A difficult legacy for one so young to carry, is it not?”

Jin Ling’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but he held his ground. “It is no more than what is expected of me.”

Nie Huaisang chuckled, “Spoken with the true resolve of Lanling Jin. Your Jiujiu must be very proud.”

At the mention of Jiang Cheng, Jin Ling’s expression flickered, too brief for most to notice. But Nie Huaisang, as ever, seemed to notice everything—and say nothing. He merely smiled, offering the young heir a shallow bow of respect before allowing the disciples of Jin to lead him to his prepared quarters.

Later, the procession from Gusu arrived. White robes and pale sashes moved like flowing clouds against the setting sun. At their head walked Lan Wangji, his posture straight, expression carved from jade. Behind him, Wei Wuxian strolled with casual ease, hands tucked into his sleeves, eyes bright and watchful. Lan Sizhui followed with steady calm, while Lan Jingyi looked about with barely restrained awe at the grandeur of Jinlintai.

Jin Ling descended the steps once more to greet them. His bow to Lan Wangji was formal, though his eyes flickered quickly toward Wei Wuxian, betraying the younger heart beneath his new title.

Wei Wuxian’s smile curved, light and easy. “A-Ling—ah, no, I suppose I must call you Sect Leader Jin now. You look far too serious already.”

Lan Jingyi stifled a laugh behind his sleeve, while Sizhui shot him a warning glance. Jin Ling’s ears turned faintly red, though he straightened his back. “This is not the time for jokes.”

Wei Wuxian tilted his head. “Of course, of course. But even sect leaders need to breathe.” His voice softened then, the playful glint fading. “Any word from your Jiujiu?”

The question stilled the air. Jin Ling’s gaze dropped for a moment before he answered. “The last I heard was from Jiang Xue. He said… Jiujiu is still in closed-door cultivation.”

Wei Wuxian exhaled slowly, tension he had not realized he carried slipping from his shoulders. His smile this time was quiet, almost fragile. “So he’s still at it. That stubborn man… good. That’s good.”

Jin Ling’s fingers tightened briefly at his side, but his voice was steady. “It means he is alive. And if he is cultivating again… then he must still have the strength to fight.”

Wei Wuxian’s gaze lingered on him—on the boy who was not a boy anymore, holding too much weight in too young a heart. His voice, when it came, was almost a vow.

 “Your Jiujiu has never broken a promise, A-Ling. If he said he’ll be here, then he will.”

For a heartbeat, silence held them—the golden air of Jinlintai catching at the edges of grief, hope, and unspoken prayers. Yet Jin Ling’s eyes, even as he forced himself to nod, drifted again toward the distant gates. No messenger had come bearing Jiujiu’s personal seal, no word had reached him directly. The thought gnawed quietly beneath his composure: what if closed-door cultivation had cost more than it gave? What if Jiujiu would not appear at all?

He stood in splendor, yet a part of him waited—counting each passing moment, measuring the stillness of the horizon, searching for a silhouette he longed to see.

From the high balconies, golden light spilled down on them, as if the very halls of Jinlintai acknowledged their gathering. Tomorrow, the ceremony would begin in full—the inheritance of Lanling Jin’s young heir, under the watch of every major sect. And though Jin Ling stood surrounded by radiance, his heart remained turned toward the gates, listening for footsteps that had not yet come.

Chapter Text

Jinlintai — The eve of succession ceremony, night

By nightfall, Jinlintai blazed with lantern light. Vermilion tassels swayed in the warm summer air, their glow casting ripples across carved beams and lacquered pillars. In the grand hall, long tables stretched beneath banners of gold and white, the crest of Sparks-Amidst-Snow shining from every silk drape.

The sect leaders and honored guests gathered there, their robes a shifting sea of colors against the gilded hall. Wine cups gleamed, dishes of delicacies were laid in precise order, musicians played softly from the side. Yet beneath the polished surface, the air was taut with calculation. Every laugh was measured, every word weighed.

At the head of the hall, Jin Ling sat upon the raised seat reserved for the young sect leader. The silver peonies on his robe caught the lamplight, making him seem at once radiant and burdened beneath their weight. His posture was straight, his face carefully schooled to composure, though his hand against the armrest tightened once when whispers rose at the far end of the table.

Sect Leader Yao set down his cup with a faint clink, his voice mild—too mild.

“Curious, is it not, that Sandu Shengshou has yet to arrive? Absence, in such gatherings, often speaks louder than presence.”

A murmur stirred down the line of seats, faint but perceptible. Another sect leader gave a small hum, lips curving.

“Perhaps Sect Leader Jiang is delayed in seclusion. Still… a sect’s strength is measured not only by its heir, but by those who stand at his side.” His gaze slid toward Jin Ling, weighing, cool, not pity but judgment.

Lan Wangji remained silent, as though carved of jade, unmoved by the undercurrent. Wei Wuxian’s eyes flickered—quick, sharp, catching every shade of the words. His fingers traced the rim of his untouched cup, mouth twitching as if ready with a retort, only to hold it back.

Jin Ling’s jaw set, but when he spoke, his voice held steady.

“My Jiujiu has always stood by Lanling Jin. He does not need to be present tonight for that truth to remain.”

For a heartbeat, silence pressed, broken only by the faint rustle of robes. Nie Huaisang’s fan opened with a soft snap, his laugh light as paper in the wind.

“Ah, well said,” he murmured, offering Jin Ling a small bow across the table. His words carried no edge, his tone as amiable as ever—but behind his lowered lashes, his gaze lingered, sharp in its quiet watchfulness.

When he straightened, his gaze flicked sideways, meeting Wei Wuxian’s eyes across the table. For the briefest instant, their looks caught—Wei Wuxian’s glimmering with something wry, knowing; Nie Huaisang’s curved in a smile too pleasant, too smooth. A tilt of the fan, a twitch at the corner of Wei Wuxian’s mouth, and then both looked away, the moment gone as quickly as it had sparked.

The musicians played on, the clatter of chopsticks and murmured courtesies resuming. Yet Jin Ling felt the weight of every unspoken thought pressing from the shadows of the hall.

From his seat, Wei Wuxian glanced once at him, meeting his gaze with a faint, almost imperceptible nod—as if to say: Hold fast. He will come.

Jin Ling’s chest tightened. He inclined his head, expression schooled, and turned back to the table.

But even as the wine flowed and the lanterns burned bright above, his eyes drifted—again and again—toward the great doors at the end of the hall, listening for footsteps that had not yet come.

—

The banquet had ended hours ago, yet Jinlintai did not sleep. Lanterns still glowed along the courtyards, guards paced in silence, and servants whispered as they cleared the remnants of the feast.

Within his chamber, Jin Ling sat alone. The ceremonial robes had been set aside, folded neatly by the attendants, but he had dismissed them early. Only his sword remained at his side, resting across the table. The painted candlelight flickered over his face, catching the tension in his jaw, the shadow beneath his eyes.

He had tried to sleep—twice. Each time, his body lay rigid upon the bedding, breath shallow, heart thundering with thoughts he could not quiet. Tomorrow, the weight of Lanling would be placed fully upon his shoulders. And tonight… tonight, he had thought Jiujiu would come.

His gaze kept drifting toward the sealed doors, as though sheer will might summon the one figure who could steady him. But the corridor beyond remained silent.

The hollow ache grew heavier until the door slid open without warning. Jin Ling shot upright, reaching for his sword—then froze as familiar robes of black slipped inside.

Wei Wuxian closed the door behind him with casual ease, as though he had every right to enter unannounced. His smile was faint, gentler than at the banquet.

 “A-Ling. Still awake?”

Jin Ling’s shoulders sank, tension easing into irritation. “You should knock.”

Wei Wuxian chuckled. “And risk you pretending to be asleep? Not a chance. I knew I’d find you awake.”

Jin Ling turned his gaze aside, lips pressed thin. “…What do you want?”

Wei Wuxian’s brows arched slightly. He walked across the chamber, uninvited, and sat opposite the boy at the table. For a moment, neither spoke—the candle guttered between them, casting shadows that seemed too large for the room.

Finally, Wei Wuxian said quietly, “I know you haven’t been able to sleep—waiting, worrying if your Jiujiu will come. So I thought I’d keep you company for a while.”

The words cut through the silence. Jin Ling’s throat tightened, though he forced his expression to remain steady. “It doesn’t matter. He’ll come.”

Wei Wuxian studied him, eyes soft, patient. “You remind me of someone when you speak like that.”

Jin Ling looked up sharply. “Don’t.”

Wei Wuxian’s smile faded, but his gaze did not waver. He leaned forward, resting his arms loosely across his knees. “You’re not alone tonight, A-Ling. Don’t carry all of this by yourself.”

Jin Ling’s fingers curled against the tabletop, nails biting into the wood. His voice was low, almost breaking.

“If he doesn’t come tomorrow…”

Wei Wuxian shook his head at once, firm. “He will. Jiang Cheng has never once broken his word when it comes to you. Not once.”

For a long moment, Jin Ling did not answer. The silence stretched, heavy with everything he would not say. But his hand shifted—loosening, moving fractionally closer to the candlelight, as though seeking warmth.

Wei Wuxian reached across the space, not to take his hand, but to rest his own near it. Close enough that Jin Ling could feel the presence, the steadiness.

The boy did not move away.

Outside, the lanterns flickered in the night wind, their glow wavering yet unbroken. Inside, the silence softened—not gone, not healed, but steadier for being shared.

Tomorrow, the world would weigh upon Jin Ling’s shoulders. But tonight, at least, he was not left to face it alone.

—

The night was thinning into a pale, uncertain gray when hurried footsteps echoed in the outer corridors of Jinlintai. Wei Wuxian and Jin Ling both turned toward the sound. A young Jin disciple, breathless, robes askew from haste, knelt just inside the threshold.

“Sect Leader Jin,” he said, voice trembling with urgency. “The delegation from Yunmeng Jiang has arrived—Sect Leader Jiang himself is with them.”

Jin Ling shot upright, heart leaping before he could school his face. Wei Wuxian’s eyes sharpened at once, catching the undercurrent in the disciple’s tone.

“Show us,” Wei Wuxian said, rising swiftly.

They stepped into the courtyard just as the heavy gates swung open. Torches flared, throwing stark light across the procession that entered.

Jiang Cheng strode at the front, Zidian coiled tight at his wrist, Sandu ready at his hand unsheathed. His expression dark as storm clouds. His disciples followed in weary silence, robes torn, faces pale, some spattered faintly with blood. Their boots dragged against the stones, the weight of battle clinging to every step.

The acrid tang of resentful energy still clung to them. Wei Wuxian’s senses caught it at once—the sharp bite of blood mingled with the chill of spirits newly dispersed.

“Jiujiu!” Jin Ling called, rushing forward before protocol could stop him. He faltered when he saw the state of them up close. “You—what happened?”

Jiang Cheng’s jaw was clenched so tightly it seemed he would crack his own teeth. His eyes, sharp and livid, swept the golden walls of Jinlintai with open displeasure.

“What happened? Your borders happened,” he snapped. “A rogue spirit prowling near the Lanling perimeter. No patrols. No guards. Not one disciple of Jin in sight.”

The gathered servants and guards shifted uneasily under his scathing tone. Wei Wuxian stepped closer, voice calm but edged. “A rogue spirit? Strong?”

“Strong enough to nearly gut half my men before we forced it down.” Jiang Cheng’s voice was rough, low with restrained fury. “And it wasn’t strength that finished it—it was talismans.”

He tossed something across the courtyard. A charred scrap of talisman fluttered to the stone, its ink scorched black. “If not for those, we’d have left bodies behind.”

Wei Wuxian’s gaze flicked over Jiang Cheng, noting the stiffness in his movements, the pallor beneath his anger. The faint tremor in his sleeve betrayed the strain of cultivation that should not have been tested so soon.

Jin Ling’s hand tightened at his side. “Why weren’t there any Jin disciples on patrol?” His voice cracked with outrage, directed more at his own sect than his uncle. “Tomorrow is the succession ceremony—how could the borders be left so unguarded?”

No one answered. The silence was thick, suffocating.

Jiang Cheng gave a sharp, bitter laugh. “Grand halls and golden lanterns, yet you leave your gates open to carrion. Splendid.”

He turned on his heel, voice cutting. “Find someone to see my disciples tended to. They will not stand through another night like this.”

Jin Ling opened his mouth, but Jiang Cheng had already moved forward, stride unyielding despite the heaviness in it. Wei Wuxian caught the brief hitch in his step, the ghost of pain quickly buried beneath fury.

Wei Wuxian’s hand twitched, as if to reach for him, but he let it fall back. Jiang Cheng would not welcome it—not here, not now.

Instead, his eyes lowered to the scorched talisman on the stone floor, faint traces of Ye Baiyi’s distinctive inkwork still visible.

So that’s what kept him standing, Wei Wuxian thought grimly. Not strength. Not yet.

And as dawn broke faintly over Jinlintai, gilding its towers in pale light, the heir of Lanling stood torn between pride and dread. His Jiujiu had come—but he had come bloodied, furious, and carrying the shadow of battles yet to come.

—

Morning broke over Lanling, but the air still hung heavy with the unrest of the night before. Jin Ling had not closed his eyes once. The moment the Yunmeng Jiang disciples arrived bloodied, he had ordered healers to tend to them one by one. His voice cut sharp when questioning the Lanling Jin guards about the missing patrols. Yet no one could give him a clear answer. The weight in his chest only grew heavier.

At last, he made his way to the chamber where his Jiujiu was resting. Outside the door, Wei Wuxian leaned against the wall, his expression dark, as though he had not moved all night.

“The healer is still inside,” Wei Wuxian murmured when Jin Ling approached.

Soon, the healer emerged, face grave, bowing deeply before retreating down the corridor. Wei Wuxian shifted aside to open the way.

Inside, Jiang Cheng sat behind a round table. His robes had been changed, yet faint stains of blood still marked his neck and wrists. He looked exhausted, but his gaze was as sharp as ever.

He should not have raised his voice at Jin Ling earlier. The boy had done nothing wrong—nothing but worry, nothing but stand where he ought to stand. The anger had not been for him. It had been for himself.

Too weak. Too slow. He had faced a rogue spirit hardly worth mention, and yet his blade had faltered, his disciples had bled. A sect leader who could not even shield his own men—what use was such a title? Ye Baiyi’s warnings echoed still, but Jiang Cheng had refused to listen. He had sworn to Jining that he would attend, no matter the cost. And so here he sat, paying for his own stubbornness in blood he could not afford.

Now, when Jin Ling stepped into the room, the sight struck him harder than any wound—Jin Ling’s face was pale, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion. He looked far too young to carry such burdens, and Jiang Cheng’s chest tightened with regret because of his earlier outburst.

“You didn’t sleep either?”Jiang Cheng voice came out rough, almost a growl, though what he meant was concern.

Jin Ling clenched his teeth, anger and relief colliding in his chest. “I thought you wouldn’t make it at all, Jiujiu. And then you arrive—covered in blood? Even the disciples you brought are half-collapsed—”

Jiang Cheng gaze locked on Jin Ling, sharp despite the exhaustion shadowing his features.

“As sect leader, you should know your land as you know your own blade. Every path, every border, every patrol—none of it should escape you. Yet an attack happens on your own territory, and you can’t even say where the lapse began, or who failed to report?”

The words lashed out harder than he meant them to, his voice too sharp, too unforgiving.

Jin Ling stiffened, breath catching. For a heartbeat his composure wavered; the reprimand landed heavier than a lesson, heavier than a warning.

Silence pressed in. Jiang Cheng felt the weight of it coil in his chest. He had meant to guide, to remind—but the fury tangled inside him had twisted it into something harsher. His jaw clenched, his shoulders taut, regret already ghosting at the edges of his eyes—too late to take the words back. His hands curled into fists against his knees, holding tight as if restraint might undo the blow.

From the doorway, Wei Wuxian’s quiet voice broke the tension. “Even so—you’re more injured than you should be. Just one spirit, wasn’t it? That shouldn’t leave you like this.”

Jiang Cheng’s head snapped up, eyes flaring. “I’m still standing, aren’t I? That’s enough.”

The words came too sharp, harsher than he intended. Heat surged in his chest, an all-too-familiar burn where calm should have been. Ever since the core was taken from him, anger came swifter, heavier, like a tide he could no longer hold back. He tried—heavens, he tried—to steady himself, to rein it in. But without meditation, without even a moment’s discipline, the storm inside him broke too easily. His knuckles whitened on the chair, breath caught between restraint and the edge of losing it altogether.

Jin Ling lowered his gaze, shame burning hot beneath his skin. Relief that Jiujiu still lived warred with humiliation at his own sect’s failure. And beneath it all lingered a deeper unease—the sense that his uncle’s anger, once iron-clad and controlled, now flared closer to the surface than ever before.

Wei Wuxian didn’t look away. His sharp eyes caught it—something deeper beneath the irritation and fatigue. A hollowness that wounds alone could not explain. Something ripped away, leaving a void no cultivation method could fully conceal.

And beneath it, the anger. Not the familiar temper he had grown up with, quick to rise yet controlled with pride, but something rawer, unstable. It lashed out without warning, then faltered as though Jiang Cheng himself was startled by it. To Wei Wuxian, it was strange—wrong. This was not the fury of Yunmeng Jiang’s sect leader; it was the anger of someone whose foundation had been broken, whose balance had been wrenched from him.

He drew in a slow breath, holding his tongue from naming it. Jiang Cheng would only slam the door tighter if pressed. Instead, Wei Wuxian shifted.

“Fine,” he said at last, tone steady. “There’s something more important than last night’s spirit.”

Both Jiang Cheng and Jin Ling turned toward him.

Wei Wuxian stepped forward a little, though he kept careful distance, as though not to corner Jiang Cheng. His tone was low, measured.

“In Gusu, I found records. A descendant of Lan An wrote of a war long before the sects—against a demonic cultivator whose spirit could not be destroyed. The survivors bound him beneath the Burial Mounds, layered two seals over him. One to bind the land, one to bind the spirit.”

Jin Ling’s brows knit. “Two seals?”

Wei Wuxian nodded. “The outer seal—the land—was already broken. I believed it shattered because of me. When I was cast into the Mounds and clawed my way out, suddenly I could control resentful energy. No one ever had, not even Wen Ruohan without the Yin Iron. I thought it was my own invention. My genius.” A faint, bitter curve touched his mouth. “But now I know better. The seal had already given way, and the energy leaked through me.”

Silence pressed the room. 

Jiang Cheng’s gaze sharpened, a storm gathering behind his eyes. The anger surged up again, hot and unsteady, clawing at his chest. He forced a breath, jaw tight, willing himself to keep control. “After your death, imitators appeared one after another. Copying the Yiling Patriarch. Before you, not one could wield resentful energy unaided. After you, suddenly they could. The world assumed you left secret methods behind. But you never did.”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes flickered—guilt, but also grim agreement.

Jiang Cheng’s voice was steady, edged. “I was the only one who knew you wouldn’t. You were reckless, yes—but not a fool. You wouldn’t hand such a weapon to anyone who wanted it.”

Wei Wuxian inclined his head, quiet.

Jiang Cheng’s tone deepened. “If the world learns the truth—that the Burial Mounds’ seal broke through you—resentment will return just as it did before. Let them keep their lies about your ‘hidden manuals.’ Better that than the truth.”

Wei Wuxian drew a slow breath, then turned his gaze back. “Which leaves the inner seal. The true one—the spirit itself. It has held for centuries, but it weakens now. That is what matters. Not the Mounds, not the past, but what comes when it breaks.”

A weighted silence followed. Then he inclined his head faintly, voice low but steady. “Everything we’ve faced in these years—rogue spirits, corpses, beasts—they’re nothing beside what lies beneath. The ancient one was said to command every form of resentful being. What we’ve fought so far are only fragments of its shadow.”

Jin Ling’s hands curled into fists at his sides. His voice was tight. “If the seal breaks completely… what happens?”

Wei Wuxian met his gaze, and for a moment did not answer. When he spoke, his words carried the weight of certainty. “Then all you’ve seen—the chaos, the spirits—will be only the beginning. When that spirit awakens, the world as we know it will drown in resentful energy.”

Jin Ling’s face paled, though he forced his shoulders square. Beside him, Jiang Cheng’s jaw tightened, his posture rigid. His grip on the chair whitened, a strain he would not let surface anywhere else.

Wei Wuxian’s tone softened, but his words cut sharper for it. “We should tell the other sects. Yet once they hear, fear will spread faster than fire.”

Jiang Cheng exhaled, the sound sharp as steel. His voice left no room for argument. “All the more reason to tell them. Better panic than ignorance. If war is coming, then let them be ready. Because this one—” his eyes darkened, shadowed with memory and resolve, “—will be greater and bloodier than the Sunshot Campaign.”

For a moment, Wei Wuxian’s eyes softened, as though he might answer—not as a strategist, but as a brother. But the look passed, shuttered away, and silence fell once more between them, dense with everything left unsaid.

###

Wei Wuxian slipped out into the corridor. The air outside was cooler, yet the heaviness in his chest did not ease. Shadows stretched long across the lantern-lit hall, and for a moment he lingered, uncertain of where to set his steps.

At the far end, Lan Wangji stood waiting. His posture was steady, his gaze calm, fixed on him with a quiet patience that needed no words.

Something inside Wei Wuxian faltered. The composure he had held before Jiang Cheng, sharp-edged and controlled, wavered now. The sadness he had pressed down all evening rose to the surface, softening the curve of his smile until it threatened to break.

Without hesitation, he crossed the hall quickly, his footsteps hushed against the floor, as though the pull of Lan Wangji’s presence left no room for delay.

Lan Wangji did not move, but when Wei Wuxian reached him, the stillness became its own welcome. His face was composed, as ever, but in the depths of his eyes Wei Wuxian read what others never could: concern, steady and unwavering, wrapped in silence.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian greeted, voice deliberately light as he fell into step beside him. He began talking at once—about the unrest in the night patrols, the unease in Lotus Pier, even Jiang Cheng’s temper, sharp as Zidian itself. His words tumbled carelessly, half teasing, half deflecting, as though sound alone could keep the silence from swallowing him.

Lan Wangji listened without interruption. He gave no reply, yet the faint crease between his brows spoke for him—an understanding too deep to demand words.

Together they walked back toward their chambers, Wei Wuxian’s voice filling the corridor, restless and bright on the surface. And beside him, Lan Wangji’s quiet presence steadied each step—an anchor in the tide he could not still on his own.

Chapter Text

Jinlintai — The Day of Jin Ling’s Succession Ceremony

Morning sunlight streamed across the high pillars of Jinlintai, gilding the carved beams and the wide flight of steps that rose toward the dais. At the top, beneath the hanging banners of Lanling Jin, the seats for sect leaders and honored guests were arranged with formal precision. The scent of incense drifted steadily through the air, mingling with the low murmur of silk robes as attendants moved in silence.

Below, in the outer hall, rows of Lanling Jin disciples stood in solemn formation. Gold-threaded sashes gleamed faintly in the light, their posture disciplined, their eyes fixed toward the ceremony above.

On the dais, the sect leaders had gathered: Jiang Wanyin of Yunmeng Jiang, stern in violet robes; Lan Wangji of Gusu Lan, his expression calm, Wei Wuxian at his side with quiet watchfulness; Nie Huaisang with his ever-present fan; and other representatives in their places.

When the ceremonial drums struck, Jin Ling entered from the lower hall. He ascended the steps slowly, each measured step echoing across the vast chamber. He was dressed in gold and white, his hair crown set with the crest of Lanling Jin. At the top of the stairs, he stop and bowed to the elders before kneeling at the center of the dais.

An elder of the sect stepped forward to preside, his voice carrying over both inner and outer halls:

“Before the cultivators of all sects, before the names of our ancestors, this day we recognize Jin Ling, courtesy name Rulan, rightful heir of the Jin bloodline. From this day forth, the responsibilities of Sect Leader fall to him.”

From a lacquered tray, the ancestral seal of Lanling Jin was lifted. The jade was heavy, its carved surface glinting with age and authority. With ritual care, it was placed into Jin Ling’s hands.

Lowering his head, Jin Ling spoke, his voice steady though marked by youth:

“I, Jin Rulan, accept the charge of Lanling Jin Sect. I vow to keep faith with my ancestors, defend my sect, and stand with the cultivation world.”

He bowed three times to the heavens. Silence followed—solemn, unbroken, the weight of his vow settling over every corner of the hall.

At a signal, the presiding elder lifted his hand.

The sect leaders and honored guests rose from their seats, fists pressed lightly before their chests in formal salute. Their voices carried together, firm and resonant:

“We greet Sect Leader Jin.”

From the outer hall below, the disciples of Lanling Jin answered the call with one motion. A sea of golden sleeves moved as they bowed in unison, foreheads lowered, their greeting rolling upward like a tide.

The two gestures—solemn salute above, deep bow below—met in the vast space of the hall, binding high and low alike in recognition of the new leader.

Jiang Cheng’s gaze never left his nephew. His hand tightened within his sleeve, his expression as rigid as carved stone, but beneath it pride and grief collided, sharp as unsheathed steel.

Wei Wuxian’s lips curved faintly, warmth glinting in his eyes before he turned them briefly toward Jiang Cheng, silent acknowledgment passing between them.

Lan Wangji inclined his head, solemn and respectful. Nie Huaisang folded his fan, offering a rare, genuine smile.

Among the younger generation, Lan Sizhui and his companions stood straight-backed, their faces bright with encouragement.

Jin Ling returned the salutes of the sect leaders and guests. Then he rose

From the heights of Jinlintai to the furthest rows of disciples below, all bore witness—the weight of leadership had settled upon his shoulders, and the cultivation world accepted it.

—-

The last ritual bows had been given, yet the great hall of Jinlintai did not empty at once. Jin Ling remained upon the high dais, the ancestral seal of Lanling Jin Sect resting firm in his hands. This was the moment when respect must be affirmed—not only to the sect itself, but to the leader who now bore its name.

From among the allied sects seated within the inner hall, one long tied to Lanling Jin stepped forward first. Their leader rose from his seat and bowed, voice smooth with practiced deference.

“Lanling Jin stands as the pillar of our realm. With Sect Leader Jin at its helm, may that strength endure.”

Others followed in turn, some out of loyalty, others out of form. Sect Leader Ouyang offered his greeting afterward, his words acknowledging both Jin Ling and the long-standing ties between Yunmeng Jiang and Baling Ouyang. One by one, courtesy was paid, the chamber humming with ritual phrases that bound alliances in silk rather than steel.

From the outer hall below, disciples of Lanling Jin straightened after their bow, golden ranks settling once more into disciplined lines. Their unity, precise and unshaken, lent the moment a grandeur that no words could match.

Jin Ling returned each greeting with composure beyond his years. His gaze was steady, yet to Jiang Cheng, watching from the tier below, the tight set of his shoulders betrayed the weight already pressing upon him.

When the final courtesy had been offered, silence fell like a drawn curtain. Attendants moved with quiet precision, sliding open the tall side screens of the inner hall. Pale daylight spilled across the carved beams, thinning the haze of incense.

A herald’s voice rang out, clear and formal: “Honored leaders, the council chamber awaits. Please proceed for deliberation.”

The shift was immediate. Ceremony had ended; now came discourse, where words cut sharper than swords. The path to the council chamber led deeper still within Jinlintai, a hall stripped of ornament, built not for spectacle but for judgment.

Juniors and outer disciples bowed away at the threshold. Only sect leaders, their chosen representatives, and a handful of trusted disciples would be permitted beyond.

Jin Ling descended from the dais, flanked by Jin elders whose steps shadowed his. The moment for pleasantries was past; the next words spoken would carry consequence.

Jiang Cheng turned on his heel, his dark violet sleeves snapping with the movement, stride brisk and unyielding as he followed the ushered path. Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji walked behind him in silence, their presence no less weighty.

Nie Huaisang drifted after, fan half-raised, his voice pitched just loud enough for those nearest to hear. “Mm… so much ceremony, only to strip it away for what truly matters. How exhausting.”

And so the assembly wound toward the inner chamber of Jinlintai—solemn, enclosed, and heavy with expectation. Beyond its threshold, courtesy would falter, and necessity would prevail.

—

The council chamber of Jinlintai carried a hushed weight after the ceremony, voices subdued beneath the sweep of sunlight and incense smoke. What had been solemnity before the ancestors now shifted into something heavier—an unspoken awareness that what was decided here would reach beyond ceremony, touching every sect.

From the seat of honor, Jin Ling rose. Though young, his bearing was steady, his voice clear enough to carry across the chamber.

“Honored leaders and seniors, I thank you for remaining after today’s rites. What we celebrated was succession, but what lies outside these walls demands more than ritual. It is my duty, as Sect Leader of Lanling Jin, to open this council. May each sect speak plainly, that we may understand what threatens us and act together.”

He inclined his head, then sat once more.

Silence followed. The weight of his words settled over the chamber, sharpening the stillness until it seemed even the incense smoke hung suspended. Leaders glanced toward one another, waiting—measuring who would be the first to speak.

At last, Jiang Cheng’s voice cut through the quiet, stripped of pleasantries. “In Yunmeng waters, spirits multiply in ways unseen before. Not the usual restless dead—these refuse dispersal even under repeated suppression. Some bear marks as though shackled by a power that predates their deaths.”

Sect Leader Ouyang spoke next, his tone earnest. “We’ve witnessed the same. Coordinated hauntings, entire sect displaced. Even with combined efforts, suppression barely holds. These are not ordinary spirits.”

From the smaller sects came murmurs of agreement. One by one, representatives recounted encounters: patrols overwhelmed, talismans burning useless, ancient marks scorched into walls or corpses.

Nie Huaisang, fanning himself lazily though his eyes were sharp, added, “Qinghe has seen no less. My disciples report spirits moving with intent, gathering as if under command. A troubling change, is it not?”

Lan Wangji gave the smallest nod. “Gusu has encountered them as well. They resist dispersal. The patterns are not random.”

Wei Wuxian’s voice cut in, quieter but edged. “You all know the difference between a wandering ghost and something driven. These are bound by force—older, heavier. Something is stirring.”

Sect Leader Yao gave a sharp laugh. “Spirits that resist, marks on walls, patterns in the dark—yes, troubling. But to weave this into talk of greater forces? More likely demonic cultivators fester in secret. That is at least believable.”

A pause, the silence taut—until Lan Wangji spoke again, calm but firm. “The Burial Mounds’ seal weakens. Hence the unrest.”

Murmurs rose, sharp and unsettled.

Yao scoffed louder this time, his scorn unmasked. “A seal over the Burial Mounds? Absurd. No such thing exists. To claim a seal holds back your phantom troubles—now that is shadow-spinning.”

Wei Wuxian’s gaze flicked sharply toward him, but Jiang Cheng spoke before him, voice taut as bowstring. “Call it what you like. The fact remains—the signs align too closely to dismiss. Yunmeng, Qinghe, Gusu, even Lanling—we’ve all seen it. Ignore this, and it will not vanish.”

Jin Ling, still standing at the head, let his hand press briefly against the table, steadying his voice. “Whether or not you believe in a seal, the threat is real. If our sects stand divided, the first to pay the price will be the common people.”

Sect Leader Yao leaned back, arms folded, disdain sharp in his voice. “Common people suffer every year from hauntings. Exaggerate this enough, and you can call it an omen. But let us not forget—talk of seals benefits certain reputations. Convenient, isn’t it?”

The implication hung heavy. Several glanced toward Wei Wuxian.

Nie Huaisang fluttered his fan with a dry laugh. “Ah, Sect Leader Yao, you do enjoy stirring the pot. But tell me—if all these reports from Yunmeng, Lanling, Qinghe, and even Gusu are fabrications, then perhaps the spirits themselves should be invited here to explain their tricks?” His tone was playful, but his eyes swept the room, daring anyone to ignore the testimonies.

Wei Wuxian smiled faintly, but his words were steel. “You want to blame demonic cultivators hiding in shadows? Fine. Find them. But if while you waste time pointing fingers, the dead multiply, and the seal—or whatever binds them—snaps entirely, what then? Will you stand at the front lines when they spill across the land?”

Yao’s face tightened, but before he could retort, Jiang Cheng’s voice cut in, steady and unyielding.

“Enough. Yunmeng does not bring this before the council to entertain suspicions or court sympathy. The threat is real. Whether caused by demonic hands or a failing seal, the result is the same: war is coming, one we are not prepared for. If the sects will not stand together, then Yunmeng will face it alone.”

The silence after Jiang Cheng’s declaration was sharp, like a blade pressed to the chamber’s throat.

Before the weight could settle too heavily, Jin Ling stepped forward, his voice steady despite the flush of youth in his cheeks.

“Lanling Jin will not turn its back. This threat does not end with Yunmeng. If all of us stand divided, every sect will face it in time. We will face it together.”

Some of the elders stirred, startled that the youngest sect leader would speak with such conviction.

Lan Wangji inclined his head, his tone flat and unyielding.

“Gusu Lan has already witnessed the signs. We will not dismiss them. The danger is not confined to one place; it will spread to every sect if ignored.”

A faint ripple of voices coursed through the chamber—approval from some, unease from others.

Nie Huaisang gave a long, theatrical sigh and flicked open his fan. “Aiyo… dangerous spirits multiplying, sect leaders snapping at each other… hardly the kind of harmony one likes to see. Still—Qinghe Nie cannot sit idle while the land itself grows restless. If Sect Leader Jiang insists on facing it alone, what would that make the rest of us look like? Better to call it solidarity, yes?” He tilted his head, eyes sharp behind the feigned lightness.

Sect Leader Ouyang rose from his seat, bowing slightly toward Jiang Cheng.

“Baling and Yunmeng share more than borders—they share fate. These disturbances do not respect sect boundaries. If the spirits reach our lands unchecked, no sect will remain untouched. Ouyang Sect will answer, not merely for Yunmeng’s sake, but for all of us.”

The chamber shifted. Whispers rippled as sect leaders recalculated their positions, aware now that the threat could touch any sect. The tide of opinion began to lean toward cautious cooperation, even as doubt lingered in a few skeptical eyes.

Sect Leader Yao’s smile thinned, forced. “So eager to summon specters from shadows… but if the mighty sects insist, who am I to object? Very well. May your vigilance prove worthwhile.”

Jin Ling’s jaw tightened at the barb, but Jiang Cheng did not rise to it. His gaze swept the chamber once, cold and unreadable, before he spoke.

“Then it is settled. The sects that are willing will prepare—and we will act together, not in isolation. This is a threat to all, and all must share the burden. When the danger rises, we will stand as one. Those who doubt may hold their positions, but do not mistake hesitation for immunity—every sect will face the consequences.”

The murmurs stilled again, heavy with unspoken things. The discussion had begun with doubt and derision; now it ended with a fragile, uneasy accord, the first step toward coordinated action against the growing threat.

At last, the meeting drew to a close—not with unanimous agreement, but with a form of reluctant alignment. Half the sects still wary and skeptical; yet the four great pillars—Lanling Jin, Yunmeng Jiang, Gusu Lan, and Qinghe Nie—were bound together by the undeniable necessity of facing what was to come.

The council chamber emptied slowly, the echo of footsteps mingling with low whispers, as though the walls themselves were reluctant to release the tension. Outside, sunlight slanted across Jinlintai’s grand steps, sharp and revealing, yet the shadows it cast stretched long and uncertain, a silent reminder of dangers still unseen.

Whatever fragile accord had been struck today, the weight of the coming storm pressed heavier than any ritual or ceremony. The sects had spoken, alliances were tentatively formed, but the true test—the day when rogue spirits would spill beyond control—was yet to arrive.

—

When the heavy doors of the council chamber finally opened, a ripple of movement stirred the corridor outside. The disciples and attendants who had been barred from the inner deliberations had been waiting there all along—rows of younger cultivators, aides, and envoys who now straightened at the sight of their leaders emerging.

The shift in atmosphere was immediate. The council’s solemn weight lingered in the set of shoulders, in the silence between sect leaders, but outside those walls ceremony loosened its grip. Polite words rose at once, attendants bowing as they offered trays of wine and tea, ushering the gathering into a broad side hall that had been prepared.

Here the mood bent toward ease, at least on the surface. Tables gleamed with seasonal fruits and confections; steam curled from cups of fragrant tea. Leaders gathered in small clusters, sleeves brushing as conversation turned lighter—but every glance still weighed, every word chosen with precision.

Sect Leader Yao was among the first to break into laughter, voice pitched too loud as he held a wine cup aloft. “Four sects bound in brotherhood? Hah. Let them tire themselves with vigilance. When nothing comes, they’ll look the fool, not I.” A few lesser leaders nearby joined in his amusement, nodding quickly.

Elsewhere, Sect Leader Ouyang lingered in conversation with an elder of Qinghe Nie. His tone was measured, deliberate: “Sect Leader Jiang has always held the line when others faltered. Better to anchor near Yunmeng, for storms such as these.” His words were crafted to offer support while committing little.

Nie Huaisang moved lightly between groups, his fan flicking open and shut with every step. “Mm, so much grim talk behind closed doors—what a relief to find the air lighter here. Surely one cannot live on solemnity alone.” His smile disarmed, his eyes did not.

Disciples had gathered, their younger voices bright against the murmur of elders. Jin Ling was quickly surrounded by Lan Sizhui, Lan Jingyi, and Ouyang Zizhen, their chatter tumbling with congratulations and youthful excitement. They laughed openly, a contrast to the veiled edges of their senior's words.

At the center, Jiang Cheng held himself with deliberate composure, refusing wine though the cup stood before him. Cultivators approached with courtesy sharpened by calculation, and he answered curtly, iron in his voice. Not far behind, Wei Wuxian leaned idly against a carved pillar, a faint smile hiding sharp eyes, while Lan Wangji’s silence formed a wall no one dared press against.

The side hall filled quickly, humming with layers: disciples laughing, sect leaders politicking, envoys trading glances, attendants weaving through with trays. Though the council had ended, the true negotiations were only beginning—less formal, more dangerous, veiled beneath courtesy and the clink of porcelain cups.

###

Jinlintai — Night After the Farewell Banquet 

The farewell banquet at Jinlintai had been as splendid as expected: lanterns strung high across the golden halls, cups raised in salute, laughter and courtesies exchanged beneath the watchful eyes of elders. Sect leaders offered formal words, disciples mingled in careful ranks, and music drifted through the night until the rituals of parting drew to a close.

Now the hall lay emptied. Candles lined the corridors, their flames flickering against the shadows, disturbed by the soft evening breeze. The clamor of guests had given way to the subtle chirping of insects among the stone gardens, and the distant murmur of night wind through the courtyard pines.

Jiang Cheng stepped out first, the hem of his dark purple robes brushing lightly against the marble. Behind him, Wei Wuxian followed with his usual light-footed swagger, Lan Wangji silent as ever, and on the other side, Jin Ling—still clad in the ceremonial robes that seemed far too heavy for a boy of his age—carried himself with the weight of responsibility pressed onto young shoulders.

For a few moments, no one spoke. The air was thick, each step on the veranda boards echoing in the cool night.

Wei Wuxian finally exhaled, letting the wind carry his words. “Well, that was… something. Half of them more concerned with appearances than survival.”

Jiang Cheng’s gaze snapped to him, sharp and cold. “Shut your mouth. You had no right to speak at the council. Don’t start now.”

Wei Wuxian’s grin remained, but there was a flicker of unease in his eyes—he sensed it clearly now: something in Jiang Cheng was different, heavier. Without the golden core, he could still cultivate, still wield qi, but the emptiness in his dantian made him… unpredictable.

“Do not speak to Wei Ying in that manner. He has done nothing to deserve such words.” Lan Wangji’s voice cut in, calm but firm, carrying a subtle edge that defended Wei Wuxian without confrontation.

Jiang Cheng’s jaw tightened, but he did not argue. Wei Wuxian allowed himself a faint smile, masking the worry clawing at his chest.

Jin Ling, still absorbing the tension, finally found his voice, young and raw: “They dared to doubt Jiujiu. If they won’t listen, then let them choke when the spirits tear through their gates.”

Jiang Cheng’s eyes softened. He watched his nephew, seeing both the fire of youth and the burden now resting on those narrow shoulders.

“Enough,” he said quietly, though firmly. “Anger solves nothing. You are Sect Leader now. Every word is remembered. Every misstep noted.”

Wei Wuxian exhaled softly, tilting his head toward Jin Ling. “He’s still a child,  A-Cheng. Let him vent a little. It isn’t easy to carry a whole sect at his age.”

Jiang Cheng’s expression hardened, a flicker of restrained emotion in his eyes. “I don’t need you to remind me how heavy that weight is.”

Lan Wangji’s gaze lingered on Jiang Cheng, cool and steady, yet tinged with quiet disapproval. He had always found it difficult to watch Jiang Cheng strike out at Wei Wuxian, even when provoked.

Wei Wuxian, for his part, remained outwardly calm, a faint smile masking the unease clawing at his chest. He did not respond, letting the words hang between them like a tensioned cord.

Silence settled over the trio, thick with unease. Jin Ling glanced repeatedly between Jiang Cheng, Lan Wangji, and Wei Wuxian, sensing the weight of unspoken words pressing in the night. 

The wind rustled softly, a distant frog croaked, and the faint scent of night-blooming flowers sharpened the stillness around them.

At last, Jiang Cheng drew a deep breath, letting the tightness in his chest settle just enough to speak. His voice, measured yet urgent, cut through the lingering quiet.

“They think the rogue spirits are the problem. They don’t realize the real danger lies beneath the seals. When one fails, the sects will be caught off-guard—and unprepared.”

The tautness in the air began to ease, if only fractionally. Wei Wuxian’s eyes flickered with renewed focus, Lan Wangji’s stern gaze softened just a touch, and Jin Ling straightened, determination flickering in his young eyes. The weight remained, yes, but now clarity edged through the tension.

Lan Wangji’s calm voice followed, steady and firm. “We cannot wait for belief or trust. The seals weaken with each passing day.”

Jin Ling’s fists clenched at his sides, a quiet resolve settling in. “Then we act. We prepare, before it’s too late.”

Wei Wuxian’s smile disappeared, replaced by rare, sharp seriousness. “Exactly. The rogue spirits are bad enough—but what’s trapped is far worse. If the sects don’t see that, we can’t rely on them. Not yet.”

“Oh my, what a gloomy gathering. If someone saw us like this, they’d think the world was ending tomorrow.”

From the shadowed corridor, a voice intruded, lilting and playful, yet with an undercurrent of sharp awareness.

The four turned as Nie Huaisang emerged, fan half-open, smiling faintly. “But perhaps… it is ending soon, hm? That’s what all this talk about seals and spirits suggests.”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes narrowed, bemused yet cautious. “And here I thought you only came for the food and scenery.”

Nie Huaisang’s smile widened slightly, a knowing glimmer in his eyes. “Ah, Wei-xiong, you still see me clearly. But you see… the world shakes, and it is better to stand near those who will not falter first.”

Jiang Cheng’s tone cut through the night, cold and measured. “If you mean to stand close, do not speak idly. Put your men where your mouth is.”

Nie Huaisang closed his fan with a soft snap, his grin unchanged. “Of course. Sandu Shengshou remains as sharp as ever.”

Wei Wuxian let out a breath, leaning slightly on the railing. “Sharp or not, at least he’s right. If we wait for the rest of the cultivation world to decide, we’ll all be corpses before they agree.”

Jiang Cheng’s posture stiffened, his arms crossing over his chest. “For once… you are not speaking nonsense.”

Lan Wangji’s gaze swept over them, calm but resolute. “This cannot be delayed. If we act, the work must be divided now, without waiting for the other's indecision.”

Jin Ling stepped forward, determination burning in his young eyes. “We will act. Lanling Jin will not stand idle. We will see to it that the threat is met, and the people protected.”

Jiang Cheng’s eyes softened slightly as he looked at his nephew—fear contained, yet tempered by resolve.

“Fine. If you speak, you must be ready to hold your sect to it.”

Jin Ling squared his shoulders. “I will.”

Nie Huaisang’s fan tapped lightly against his palm, voice lilting. “So decisive, Sect Leader Jin. Very well. Qinghe Nie Sect will lend our strength. After all, someone has to swing the saber when the dead rise.”

Jiang Cheng cast a cautious glance, words unspoken, and merely nodded. Lan Wangji’s slow, deliberate nod punctuated the agreement.

“Then it is settled,” he said. “Gusu Lan will oversee barriers and study ancient records. Lanling Jin will handle supplies and communication. Qinghe Nie will serve as vanguard. Yunmeng Jiang will provide fast response and direct assault.”

A quiet settled over the veranda. The lanterns swayed, carrying the scent of night-blooming flowers.

Jin Ling added softly, yet with steel in his tone: “If others wish to sit and doubt, let them. When the seal breaks, we’ll see who is left standing.”

He clutched the belt ornament of his robes, silent, yet his eyes burned with unwavering resolve.

Nie Huaisang’s fan rose again, half-covering his face, his voice airy yet weighted with meaning: “Ah… a pact in the shadows. I wonder—when history is written, will it remember us as wise… or merely desperate?”

Jiang Cheng’s gaze lingered over the night sky, unspoken worries pressing beneath his calm facade. Wei Wuxian, catching the slightest flicker in his brother’s eyes, kept silent, concerned. Jin Ling’s young heart mirrored the unease, though he would not admit it aloud.

Even as four great sects bound themselves by necessity, a few voices lingered in skepticism. Sect Leader Yao’s shadowed laugh had not left the back of the hall. Reluctant cooperation was reached—not trust, not unity—but a shared awareness that the coming threat would not respect doubt.

—

The lanterns of Jinlintai flickered faintly in the evening wind. Jiang Cheng walked with measured steps, shoulders rigid, until the hurried patter of lighter footsteps followed him.

“Jiujiu—wait.”

Jin Ling’s voice was sharp with urgency, but beneath it trembled worry.

Jiang Cheng turned, his brows knit. “What is it now? You should rest.”

Jin Ling shook his head, lips pressed tight before the words broke free.

“You’ve changed. Ever since—” He stopped short, the rest caught in his throat, fear flickering in his eyes at the thought of someone overhearing. His voice dropped, but it carried enough weight. “You keep saying you’re fine, but you’re not. I can see it.”

For a moment Jiang Cheng said nothing, his gaze shadowed. The truth pressed at the edges of his throat, heavy and bitter. He forced it back down, his jaw tightening.

“What nonsense,” he said, voice clipped. “I’m alive and cultivating again. I can still fight. Isn’t that enough?”

“It’s not!” Jin Ling’s voice cracked, louder than he meant. “I thought I was helping you. I pushed you into this. But now—you’re different. It’s my fault, isn’t it?”

The words struck like a blade. Jiang Cheng’s chest tightened, but he did not let it show. He turned slightly away, so the boy wouldn’t see the flicker in his eyes.

“You think too much,” he said curtly. “What’s done is done. There’s no fault to place.”

“But—”

“No buts.” His tone sharpened, though not with anger—rather with desperation to keep the wall intact. “You wanted me to live. I lived. That’s all that matters.”

Jin Ling’s breath hitched. He looked down, shoulders trembling. “I just… I don’t want to lose you, Jiujiu.”

The words carved deeper than Jiang Cheng let on. His hand curled at his side, nails biting into his palm. He steadied his voice, low and restrained.

“You won’t,” he said. “Not while I can still hold a sword.”

For a long moment, silence lingered between them. Jin Ling’s eyes glistened, but Jiang Cheng’s expression remained unyielding, his pain hidden beneath iron restraint.

"It’s late. Go back to rest, A-Ling."

Jiang Cheng turned, his robes slicing through the air with the motion. His back stayed rigid, steps unyielding, until the corridor’s shadows swallowed him from sight.

Jin Ling remained rooted, fists clenched, eyes fixed on his Jiujiu’s retreating figure—alone, as always.