Chapter Text
It is said that the Great Dragon was the first to cultivate.
His body formed from two koi fish, one of yin and one of yang, swimming in cosmic harmony. This complete duality transformed their bodies into one being. It arose from the great eastern lakes of Yunmeng in the form of a dragon, known as Qinglong, the god of regeneration, transformation, and of life and death itself. The world he entered was plagued with darkness, preventing any chance for life to flourish. Qinglong used his cultivation to cleanse the great lakes, using the rain and light from the sky above to bring about the first primordial lotus from which all other life began to grow.
After many thousands of years, the immortal Qinglong shared his gift of cultivation with three of the most powerful creatures, the White Tiger of the West, the Black Tortoise of the North, and the Vermilion Bird of the South, and they became known as the Four Guardians of the cultivation world. The Four Guardians worked together to ensure balance between the mortal and spiritual realms. To help safeguard the spiritual realm, the four worked together to cultivate into a human form. It is from this that all cultivation clans were born, when the four of them transformed their bodies into that of men. The White Tiger, the most powerful fighter, becomes the God of War and Justice. The Black Tortoise, the wisest, becomes the God of Fate and Time. The Vermilion Bird, the most compassionate, became the God of Vitality and Music, cleansing bad qi through their use of song. Together the four worked in harmony with the elements to create the world for what it is today.
Over time, it became evident that since the younger of the three Guardians were made from yang cultivation, they would never be able to cultivate yin. And so it was that the burden of mastering resentment fell to Qinglong, whose own primordial body was cultivated from a union of both yin and yang.
After many millennia, the imbalance of yin started to affect Qinglong’s vitality, transforming his qi into demonic resentment that clouded him like tendrils of smoke. It is from this energy that all demons were born into the world. Over time, the resentment became so immense that no one could look directly into the eyes of Qinglong or they would ignite into flames. They set out to find Qinglong a mate, matched in energy to dual cultivate and cleanse the resentment in a complete union of yinyang, just as the primordial koi once did. They searched for many years, inspecting all creatures for compatibility with their leader, but no one was suitable.
Yet, while the three Guardians surveyed the land for the best match, Qinglong was watched over by one of the sisters of the Vermilion Bird. A great healer by the name of Xifeng. Xifeng was deeply in love with Qinglong, just as he was with her, but due to her low cultivation, the other Guardians did not think her a strong enough match for their creator.
As the demonic energy surrounding Qinglong reached its apex, it seemed as if the creator of all life was going to be destroyed. Unable to face the prospect of his death, she refused to look away from him and continued trying to heal him against all odds. In doing so, she was engulfed by flames, destroying her fragile mortal body. It is said that Qinglong’s anguish overwhelmed him and as a result the resentment emanating from him threatened to consume the world, but her sacrifice however was not in vain, as the heavens recognized their love and composed a new body for her, reshaped from the flames as an immortal Phoenix, a true mate for Qinglong.
The two were married, and through dual cultivation they were able to cleanse resentful energy plaguing Qinglong. Their children became a new line of immortal dragons that descended from the heavens to live amongst mortals, becoming the trusted guardians of the mortal world. Their daughter, Houtu, also known as Huangdi, was the first of the dragon emperors of the Yellow Dragon Dynasty. Over the millennia the dynasties have shifted and changed, marking new eras of history and cultural shifts. What remains of the imperial line is carried on by the Red Dragon Dynasty, who are foretold to shepard the world through a great period of turmoil and transformation.
Lan Wangji does not remember the first time he heard the legend of the dragon emperors of old. It was likely recited to him from a poem by his uncle or perhaps a maid that worked in the nursery. By six years old, he knew the story well, it was always his favorite to depict in his drawings and writings he gave to his mother, who was named Xifeng, just like the Phoenix Queen herself.
Lan Wangji does remember the first time he heard the tale of how the Red Dragon Dynasty perished, however. He can remember that moment with absolute clarity.
It was a winter day and snow was blowing fiercely outside Gentian House, yet Lan Wangji was warm and content in his mother’s lap. Lan Wangji was allowed to stay overnight at his A-Niang’s house that evening due to the storm. Shufu did not want him to traverse back to the nursery in the freezing snow.
They sat by the brazier as she combed out the tangles in his hair, she did not tug at his scalp the way some of the gugus in the nursery did. She was gentle, moving the comb through his hair patiently, as if each strand on his head was precious, as she wound his hair back up into his maiden buns.
He clutched a soft rabbit toy that she made for him, woven together from rags of cotton fiber and filled with dried rice. He was not allowed to carry it around with him, it was too unbecoming, the elders said. You must not covet possessions, Shufu warned him. Yet Shufu let him sleep with the rabbit at night and helped him pack it with him in his small satchel, each time he visited his A-Niang.
He was allowed to visit his mother more than his brother was.
Because he was a girl, or so they told him.
There were no other women in their family to look after him, only the nursemaids and gugus from the nursery. And although Shufu tried his best, he often did not know what to do with him, a girl who did not believe he was a girl. At that age, he used to emulate his brother’s every movement, insisting that he wanted to dress and act just like him.
That he was a boy, just like him.
Only his brother and Shufu indulged him, back then. Even his A-Niang just looked sad when he told her he did not want to be a girl.
“Of course, you want to be just like your gege, who is the most wonderful boy in the world and will be the sect leader one day… I know they favor him over you. But you are just as perfect as A-Huan, just the way you are, my darling. I hope that one day you will see that.”
At six years old, Lan Wangji had not known how to reply, so he just laid his head against her shoulder and cried silent tears into her robes.
“I want you to have this,” his A-Niang said, sometime later, pulling a phoenix hairpin out of her own hair and securing it into one of Lan Wangji’s maiden buns. He frowned, tugging it out. He disliked wearing pins in his buns, and especially did not like when they did not feel balanced on his head.
“Aiyo, yes, you do not have to wear it yet! You just hold onto it for now, then,” she teased, pinching his cheek as he examined the pin carefully. “One day, you will wear this when you come of age and depart on your pilgrimage to Yiling, to the temple that houses the young dragon prince.”
After a pause, she continued, looking solemn, “the sects disregard the importance of yin cultivation and it is leading them to their own demise. It is only the true mate of the dragon prince that can wake him––to free him from his curse–– and once again restore balance to the world.”
“Why was Prince Wuxian cursed, A-Niang?” Lan Wangji asked her, tracing the phoenix feathers of the pin with his small fingers. No one had ever explained why the dragons seem to have all disappeared, or why the young prince was kept asleep for over a millennium.
“For power, my baobei, the greed of man can never be underestimated. The dragons have a power that the rest of us do not, and people will always want what they do not have. Do not ever forget this,” she tips his chin up, to look at her directly. The severity of her words and expression, searing the moment into Lan Wangji’s memory forever.
“Greed is forbidden in our sect,” Lan Wangji whispered, peering up at her.
“If that was true, I would not be here, my A-Zhan…”
It would not be for many years, that Lan Wangji understood what she meant.
That night, Lan Wangji dreamed of a vermilion bird on fire, whose body was torn apart and reshaped amongst the flames.
And when he awoke that next morning, it was the last time he ever saw his A-Niang.
He thinks of his A-Niang’s warning now, when faced with the bloodied, sneering face of Wen Xu.
The Wen invasion happened swiftly and without mercy. It was inevitable, Lan Wangji realized, with a mounting sense of dread. Wen Ruohan had invited all the sect heirs to participate in a cultivation tournament, and it was an embarrassment to them when Lan Wangji beat Wen Chao in the archery tournament. As to everyone outside his sect, he was still viewed as a maiden.
Wen Ruohan waited until the following evening, during the final banquet amongst the sects, to make his move, using the opportunity to publicly propose a marriage between Lan Wangji and his eldest son, Wen Xu.
“She is a formidable cultivator and the most beautiful of her generation amongst the sects. The Jade of the Lan Clan indeed. She will make strong children and as the heir to the Chief Cultivator, my son is the only one worthy of such a bride,” Wen Ruohan had smiled down at Lan Xichen, whose practiced amiable expression dimmed, as everyone turned to stare at him, awaiting his response.
“Venerable Xiandi, my meimei and I are most flattered by your words but Wangji is still young. My sect wishes to wait until she has finished her training before arranging any marriage for her,” Lan Xichen attempted to deflect with a forced smile but Wen Ruohan’s expression turned cold.
Not even a fortnight after they returned to Cloud Recesses, the Wen armies attacked. Shufu sent Lan Xichen away with the most precious of scrolls from the library archives. Lan Xichen had begged, kowtowing to Shufu with tears in his eyes, to stay behind and for Lan Wangji to be the one to flee to safety in his stead.
“There is no Gusu Lan sect without our heir, no matter what, you must live and protect our sect’s most valued secrets. Do not fear,” Shufu assured Lan Xichen, pulling him upright from his kowtow, “Wangji will not be taken away by them on this day. I can assure you this.”
Now, Lan Wangji stands cornered, back to back with Shufu, surrounded by Wen forces as the only home he has ever known is burned to flames around them. They were forced to watch as the Hanshi was fully engulfed. His father never emerged.
“Well, if it isn’t my reluctant bride,” Wen Xu smirks at Lan Wangji, who grips Bichen tightly in response. “I have a proposal gift for you.” Wen Xu motions to one of his soldiers behind him, who throws something charred at their feet.
For a long moment, Lan Wangji cannot make out what it is. The stench of smoke seers his nose and makes his head spin, rendering him unable to focus on anything else. It is not until Shufu cries out, falling to his knees behind him, that he sees the jade guan which has rolled toward their feet away from the object. It is his father’s guan.
At their feet is the charred and decapitated head of his father.
Lan Wangji’s vision swims and he has to fight the urge to retch, his stomach heaving with horror.
He cannot let go of his sword, he tells himself. If he does, he knows he will be taken and Shufu will be killed. He cannot. He cannot.
“Drop your sword, surrender to me, and I will let them live,” Wen Xu indicates behind him. Lan Wangji dares to angle himself, so that he can peer at what he is pointing at. His heart drops from his chest when he sees a group of junior disciples, no older than twelve years old. Some of them are weeping and while others try their best to look brave.
“Silly little children, they wanted to be brave…” Wen Xu leers, the end of his sword ever so slightly caressing between Lan Wangji’s shoulder blades.
Lan Wangji dares to look at his uncle, who has gathered himself on his knees, looking defiant as the blade of a sword is held to his neck by Wen Zhuliu. Lan Wangji closes his eyes and sends a prayer to his ancestors, to please let Shufu and the children be spared. For his brother to be safe. For this not all to have been in vain.
When he releases Bichen, the sword seems to echo as it clatters to the bloodied red earth beneath their feet.
He half expects Wen Xu’s sword to immediately plunge into his back, killing him at once. Instead, he gasps as the cold metal of the sword moves quickly behind him and with one sharp movement, Lan Wangji’s headband is cut from the back of his head, the white ribbon falling to his feet in a pool of blood. The sound of his own heartbeat pounds against Lan Wangji’s ears, drowning out Shufu’s cry of outrage. When he comes back to awareness, it's to Wen Xu’s hands upon him, and his rotten laughter against his ears.
Wen Xu has gathered him close, pressing Lan Wangji’s back to his front. With one hand he holds his sword against Lan Wangji’s neck while the other winds its way around Lan Wangji’s waist, thrusting possessively beneath the layers of Lan Wangji’s robes. The blade pressing into his neck renders him incapable of moving away, even as Wen Xu presses a knee between his legs with a lewd grind.
“HOW DARE YOU--” Shufu spits blood, fighting against Wen Zhuliu’s hold. Lan Wangji can hear the juniors sobbing behind him. He hopes that whatever happens, they will be spared the sight of his dishonor.
Wen Xu's laugh is an assault against Lan Wangji’s ears. His breath is sour against his face. Lan Wangji turns away as much as he can, staring blankly at the sight of the Hanshi as it caves in on itself, overtaken by the flames. He hears what transpires next, as if from a great distance.
“How dare I? Lan Zhan has submitted herself over to me willingly. She will be my concubine, a fine prize for our conquest here. She could have been my first wife, but your fool of a nephew ruined any chance of an alliance with his arrogance. It is a good thing that she will be mine. Look at how you’ve dressed her! As if she was a man,” Wen Xu tuts in disgust as his hand wanders up to Lan Wangji’s chest. He makes an impatient noise when he is met with Lan Wangji’s binder. “How pathetic the Lan clan is! Your sect leader did not even put up a fight! A coward, just like his heir, who ran away like that, leaving his meimei to fight battles in his stead! How disgraceful! Really, A-Zhan, you should be pleased I’m taking you away. I’ll show you what a real man is like,” Wen Xu grunts out as his hand struggles to loosen the binder on Lan Wangji’s chest.
Lan Wangji does not take time to think, he just turns his head and bites the hand holding the sword to his neck with all the strength he has. Blood floods his mouth, the coppery tang of it makes him want to retch once again as he stumbles free of Wen Xu’s hold.
“Fuck! You little bitch,” Wen Xu shrieks, cringing away to protect his sword hand before raising the other as if to slap him but pauses, before taking his sword to instead brutally strike Lan Wangji in his shin, the bone snapping immediately upon impact. Lan Wangji falls to the ground and his vision swims as he lands in front of where Shufu is held captive. He feels something summoned from the sleeve of his pocket, but cannot move fast enough to stop it.
“YOU WILL STOP AT ONCE!” Shufu bellows from above him and Lan Wangji blinks up at him, when against all odds, Wen Xu does not approach them further.
In his hand, Shufu holds Lan Wangji’s phoenix pin as if a shield above him. The same phoenix pin that all women of cultivation clans are given by their mother’s upon coming of age, to present to the dragon prince in the chance that they are a viable match.
“You may not touch Wangji or lay another hand upon my niece until she has traveled to Yiling to make the offering to the Taizi, completing her ritual duty, otherwise, whatever claim you attempt upon her will not be legitimate and you will dishonor yourself and your father,” Shufu grits out, his eyes furious.
Lan Wangji’s vision swims, he closes his eyes as he remembers the hushed words of his mother that snowy night, after she gave him his phoenix pin.
One day, your elders will arrange your marriage. If it is not a love match, if it is not someone you truly love, then you must not allow yourself to be married, promise me, my darling? A-Huan will protect you, but even he might not be able to protect you from this.
You will be sent to Yiling, as all eligible young ladies from cultivation clans are, to present the prince with your phoenix pin, infused with your own qi before any marriage contract is signed. It is only after the Taizi’s qi rejects yours, that you will be eligible for a marriage…
Wen Xu hisses with contempt, “What kind of place is this?! Why has she not already been presented? She is well over marrying age! First you let her dress and act like a man, and now this? Utterly disgraceful!”
Wen Zhuliu releases his hold on Shufu and Lan Wangji reaches out to support him before he collapses to the ground beside him. The movement makes his vision spin as pain radiates through his leg.
“My lord, we should escort her to Yiling on the way back to Qishan,” Wen Zhuliu bows.
“What the fuck do I care if my whore is legitimate?” Wen Xu spits out in a furious tantrum. “The supposed prince and the myth of him is nothing more than a way to scare cultivators away from reaching their true potential. The dragon tyrants were defeated, destroyed by their own arrogance and outsmarted by the great Xue Chonghai. My father is now even more powerful than Xue Chonghai or any pathetic dragon ever was!”
“If that is the case, then you should have nothing to fear from my niece making the proper offerings,” Shufu shouts, his arm hovering protectively over Lan Wangji with the pin still clutched tightly within his grip. “She needs a blood relative to complete the ceremony, so you will have to escort the both of us there prior to making attempts upon my niece’s honor.”
“My lord,” Wen Zhuliu urges, “it will reflect badly upon your father, if you do not--”
“Shut the fuck up,” Wen Xu spits out to him impatiently before he seizes Lan Wangji by the back of his neck, bodily lifting him away from his uncle. Lan Wangji hisses and claws at his arm, to loosen his hold, but Wen Xu just grips him harder and shakes him like some sort of animal he’s trying to subdue. “Come on, then,” he orders his men. “We have a detour to make, on our victory march back to Qishan.”
Lan Wangji has to focus all his qi to stop the world from spinning around him and to focus his gaze ahead. He rides with Wen Zhuliu on his sword, a pace behind Wen Xu as they make their way over the lakes of Yunmeng and start their descent toward the celestial mountains of Yiling. The famed gates of the temple loom above them before they disappear into the mist that engulfs the temple, obscuring any overhead view from sight. It is said that the walls were constructed and warded by the immortal Baoshan Sanren herself.
He can make out his Shufu some distance behind, a figure in white amongst the sea of the red Wen soldiers.
As they land outside the gates guarding the temple, a gong signifies their arrival. The sound thrums against Lan Wangji’s eardrums, resonating in a way that brings his attention to the sudden overwhelming vibration of pure, unadulterated qi. It is the same sensation he feels when entering the Cold Pond Cave in Cloud Recesses but amplified to a degree where the energy seems to emanate tangibly against his skin, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
This, this is why, after all this time, people still honor the long dormant prince. His energy is not something that could ever be replicated or outmatched.
Lan Wangji can see the Wens shift uncomfortably in the presence of it. Even Wen Xu seems to hesitate, gripping his sword in front of himself in a protective stance as they proceed toward the gates.
Wen Xu indicates for one of his lackeys to lead the way toward the entrance of the gates and Lan Wangji watches the soldier pause before raising a cautious hand as if to touch it; but, before he can make contact with the wood, the wards surge, buzzing statically through the air. The soldier is flung backwards into the crowd behind him, knocking down at least twenty Wen soldiers with the sheer force of the wards.
For a moment, there is chaos as the Wen shout amongst each other in a panic, forming a defensive formation as if under direct attack. Lan Wangji has to resist the urge to smirk, when their dramatics are interrupted at the sight of the gates gently swinging open to reveal a young man and woman, who calmly come to greet them. They are dressed in the traditional black, red, and gray of the Yiling Temple disciples.
When you arrive in Yiling, once you pass the gate, you will find my mother’s family. They are the former Dafan Wen, the stewards of Yiling and guardians of the sacred temple of the prince. You are of my blood and therefore, once you pass the wards of the temple, you will be protected. No one can force you to leave, once you are there…
Lan Wangji’s gaze sweeps over them, discerning, but there is no rush of recognition like he had hoped, perhaps, he would experience if he ever made it here. Time has dulled the memory of his mother’s face in his mind. He has been told by his brother that he has his mother’s eyes, naturally light brown, that can appear golden when in the sun. It saddens him that he cannot remember for certain. There were no official portraits allowed of her, as what would be expected of the wife of the Lan sect leader.
The woman in front of them, though, appears severe. Her lip curls with distaste at the scene in front of her before softening in concern as she takes in the state of Lan Wangji as Wen Zhuliu drags him forward. Shufu is shoved to his knees next to him, his own gaze resolute with his utter disdain. He holds himself proudly, regardless. Lan Wangji straightens himself and holds his left hand behind his back, to do the same.
“Hello there, cousin,” Wen Xu smirks arrogantly at the female Yiling disciple. “We are here to legitimize my war prize. Go on, then, let her kowtow and piss on the shrine to the dead prince. Let’s get this over with.” He uses the back of his scabbard to shove Lan Wangji forward, who winces but refuses to stumble on his broken leg. He breathes through it, not letting the pain show.
The woman’s eyes narrow at Wen Xu, “Our family has long cut ties with the Qishan Wen, over a thousand years ago. Any relation we have is distant and by name only. We do not recognize usurpers.”
The Dafan Wen are a mysterious group, often depicted in epic poems and myths alongside other legendary figures such as Baoshan Sanren, and the mysterious huli jing––who was said to be the personal guardian to the dragon prince–– acting as his eyes and ears to the common people. Not much is known of them, though, besides that they are a matriarchal clan, renowned for their healing cultivation. They are said to practice the ancient healing magic of Phoenix Queen Xifeng, herself.
During Xue Chonghai’s insurrection that killed Emperor Changze and his other dragon kin, the Dafan Wen stayed loyal to Prince Wuxian. They formally renounced their ties to their Qishan Wen cousins, who they claim enabled the massacre to occur. It is said that the Dafan Wen were taken in as disciples of the great immortal Baoshan Sanren, the last dragon besides the prince himself that is still alive today.
Wen Xu barks out a contemptuous laugh in response to her. He feigns disinterested arrogance, but Lan Wangji can detect how the hand on his sword tightens defensively.
“Usurpers! How arrogant you are for a farce of a clan that is nothing more than tomb guardians! You are the ones wasting your lives praying to nothing more than a corpse. Hurry up and let her do her bows. It’s all foolish nonsense, of course, but you lot have still somehow instilled these delusions into the etiquette of the cultivation world,” Wen Xu’s venomous words are spit out in a snarl. His dismissive speech stands in stark contrast to the ominous presence of Prince Wuxian’s qi, that is so powerful that it feels as if a pulsating pressure against their skin.
The wards respond to the threat with a rumble, echoing like thunder, as a surge of energy pushes the Wen soldiers back even further. The soldiers behind them once again stumble into a panicked position, poised for an attack. The tension builds as the Yiling woman and Wen Xu appear locked in a battle of disdainful stares, unmoving, with both of their hands poised over their spiritual swords, ready to attack at the slightest provocation.
At the threat of violence, Lan Wangji surveys his surroundings, attempting to determine how many steps it would take for him to grab his uncle and pull them through the gates.
His mother left Lan Wangji many drawings of the Yiling temple complex and pathways through the caves and mountains. Lan Xichen always thought the drawings were just her way of easing boredom and reminiscing about her home. Lan Wangji realizes now that perhaps she was trying to educate him, should he need to know how to escape an unwanted marriage…
All he has to do is get through the gates of the temple, he reminds himself. He breathes, the air in his lungs feels thin with panic as he realizes there will be nothing he can do to protect his brother, if he does this. Wen Xu will be furious to be denied his prize and have no one to take it out on but what remains of the Lan sect and Lan Xichen, who is out there, somewhere, completely alone.
The tense moment is interrupted when the Yiling man behind the woman steps forward and places a calming hand over her own. He murmurs something quietly to her before nodding in Lan Wangji’s direction. The woman deflates, huffing in frustration at Wen Xu, before tearing her gaze to focus on Lan Wangji, “Come then! Let me dress your wounds. You cannot perform the ritual in such a state of injury.”
The hardened steel of her gaze softens as she addresses him. Lan Wangji finds himself ready to trust her, somehow, and he steps forward, breathing through the pain that throbs up his leg at the movement. Yet, Wen Zhuliu does not relinquish him, instead, he keeps an uncomfortable grip on Lan Wangji’s arm and moves to follow behind him.
“Only blood relatives may follow the Phoenix bearer into the temple, you must remain outside,” the woman hisses impatiently. “Surely you Qishan cultivators have been taught the basics of etiquette when approaching the prince’s temple?”
Wen Xu shouts something in complaint, no doubt another spitting insult, but Wen Zhuliu sighs and releases Lan Wangji with a short bow. Wen Xu’s shouts get ever louder in anger, but Lan Wangji does not hear him. All he can do is focus on moving one step at a time, as quickly as he can, to reach Shufu and grasp his wrist tightly, before marching ahead, pulling them both through the gates.
Immediately upon approaching the entrance, the wards push against them, the sensation akin to being swept away in a river current. It makes Lan Wangji’s injured leg buckle as the wards press against him. Shufu's grip on him is all that manages to keep him upright. Then, as suddenly as the wards pressed on them, they relent, causing both of them to stumble forward through the threshold. There is no time to gain stability as the gates slam closed behind them, creating a surge of wind so forceful that it finally knocks them both to the ground.
“My apologies, the wards can be a bit tricky the first time you enter,” the young man says, his voice gentle and timid.
“I am Wen Ning, courtesy name Qionglin, and this is my jie, Wen Qing,” he indicates to the woman by his side. “My jie is the best healer of her age, please allow her to look over your wounds,” Wen Qionglin bows to Lan Wangji before he reaches forward as if to help him up himself. Shufu shoos him away, though, holding a protective arm out in front of Lan Wangji, eyeing the man suspiciously.
Shufu has always been protective of Lan Wangji in the presence of unknown men. Yet, even after the true threat of harm Lan Wangji just narrowly escaped, he cannot help but still feel embarrassed by his Shufu’s behavior. He huffs, pulling himself out of Shufu’s grasp and bowing as courteously as possible in his condition to their hosts.
“I am Lan Zhan, courtesy name Wangji, and this is my shufu, Lan Qiren. Please forgive our appearance, our sect was just attacked by the Qishan Wen and Wen Xu wishes to make me his bride against my will. I am here to make my ritual offering to Prince Wuxian, as is expected for any bride, but I must humbly request your aid to help shelter us here while I recover, so that we may make an escape.”
There are more people dressed in the traditional Red Dragon Dynasty’s colors who come out to greet them cautiously as he speaks. Their eyes linger on the gates, where Wen Xu’s shouts of frustration on the other side are muffled.
“I apologize for the disturbance by Wen Gongzi just now––” Lan Wangji hesitates, stepping forward to bow in apology once again but is cut off as his uncle steps in front of him with a quick and impatient bow to Wen Qing, who seems to be the de facto leader of the Yiling disciples.
“My nephew is the second son of my elder brother, the late Lan Sect Leader, Qingheng-jun, and his late wife, Wen Xifeng,” at the mention of his mother, Shufu stares meaningfully up at Wen Qing, whose eyes widen at this revelation.
Lan Wangji, himself, remains frozen in shock mid-bow.
Shufu and Lan Xichen have always defended him to anyone who questions why he dresses himself as a man and binds his chest. It was Shufu who insisted that he be given a courtesy name, just like the rest of his male peers, and has always stood by Lan Xichen to argue against any talk of an arranged marriage with the Lan elders and, therefore, to delay his presentation to the prince.
Yet, Shufu has never acknowledged him as his nephew before. No one ever has ever addressed him as a male, at least not in words.
“Because of the body he was born in,” Shufu continues, held in his bow, “and since he was announced as Qingheng-Jun’s daughter to all the sects before we knew better, he has had no choice but to live within our clan as a woman. Yet, it was his A-Niang’s dying wish for him to never be burdened with an unwanted marriage. I must beg you, with utmost respect, to help protect him here, as his A-Niang, your kin, would have wanted.”
Lan Wangji has to look down as his eyes flood with tears. The stress of the last few days, the horror and loss, have threatened to overwhelm him, but it is at this moment that he cannot hold back his tears anymore.
“Shufu,” he whispers, but he finds himself unable to express any of the raging emotions inside him with words, so he just falls to his knees in a deep kowtow, hiding his face against his arm as tears finally escape.
“Foolish boy, do not be excessive in emotion,” Shufu scolds quietly, but he kneels down to place a hand upon Lan Wangji’s shoulder in comfort. Lan Wangji has to bite his lip, to hold back a sob.
“He is truly A-Feng’s child?” a new voice asks.
Lan Wangji wipes his eyes and peers up under his bangs as an older woman steps forward. Wen Qionglin hurries to hold her arm and escort her as she shakily steps down the temple platform to make her way over to them, her eyes never leaving Lan Wangji.
Shufu nods, bowing his head low once more as he holds out Lan Wangji’s phoenix hairpin in offering to the woman, the hairpin bestowed to him by his mother, passed down to her by her own mother.
The woman gasps, grasping the pin in her hands, before she falls to her knees in front of Lan Wangji. Wen Qionglin startles in concern beside her, “Popo!”
Lan Wangji stares at her, taking in her devastated expression. She reaches a worn looking hand toward his face. Is this… his Waipo?
“You must be… you look just like her,” she whispers as she smiles. There is melancholy in it, and Lan Wangji wonders how long it has been since she has seen his A-Niang. “You have her eyes. She got those from my A-Niang before me,” she says, her fingers are rough but warm against his skin as she wipes away the tear tracks on his face.
“Come on then, sweet boy. Let your biao jie tend to your wounds. I'll get you both some tea and a hot meal,” she gathers him close, wrapping her long gray cloak around him, though he does not feel cold. Lan Wangji is ready to say such, but he finds he cannot speak. He is stunned in more ways than one, not just at meeting his Waipo, or anyone related to his mother, but of how easily she seems to have accepted Shufu’s explanation of his identity.
The inside of the temple is just as splendid and vaguely ominous as Lan Wangji had always envisioned. It is grander than what he is used to, with large sweeping halls and intricately carved dark wood and metal lattice work that frame the doorways, each detailing references to the mythology of the Four Guardians, the birth of Qinglong, and his Phoenix Queen. Lan Wangji takes note of how the five elements are incorporated into every room, with small atrium gardens and koi ponds that flow and connect each space.
Lan Wangji rests in the infirmary, with acupuncture needles secured to help regulate his strained qi. He stares at the wood carvings on his arhat bed, of two koi fish swimming in an infinite circle, in a state of taiji.
The infirmary is fully enclosed, located deep within the heart of the temple. A brazier keeps the room warm, but the fire that fuels both it and the lanterns by his bedside do not seem to be ignited by oil or coal, judging by how Wen Qing lit them with nothing but a wave of her hand.
How peculiar, he thinks as he gently holds a hand to hover over the lantern nearest to him. There, just ever so subtly, he can detect the thrum of vibration that emanates from Prince Wuxian’s qi.
It makes his heart skip a beat, to think of a being with such power. His fear of the Qishan Wen is soothed momentarily, knowing that Prince Wuxian’s power will keep him and his uncle safe for the time being. But what of his brother? What of his sect? Shufu will not want to stay behind the temple walls forever. And Lan Wangji cannot turn his back on them, no matter what Shufu insists, he is duty bound to return and protect his home.
He can hear Shufu talking quietly with Wen Qing on the other side of the door. Apparently, Wen Xu is getting impatient with how long Lan Wangji’s presentation is supposedly taking, and is attempting to use a battering ram to open the gates. Lan Wangji seethes with frustration. He cannot stay here, he must help to defeat the Qishan Wen before their toxic greed and demonic cultivation overtake the sects.
The sound of the door sliding open makes Lan Wangji shut his eyes, pretending to be asleep, as Wen Qing and Waipo advised him to do. Yet, even the soothing incense they lit could not calm his racing thoughts.
“I know you are awake,” Wen Qing tuts. Lan Wangji appreciates her no nonsense approach. He opens his eyes to stare unrepentant at her in response.
She checks his leg bandages, which are wrapped around a tourniquet that holds his broken bone in place. The smell of camphor and clove oil overpower the room as she reapplies a paste to the scraped areas of his knees.
Shufu takes a seat by Lan Wangji’s bedside. His face is furrowed into a frown, no doubt as stressed by Wen Xu’s behavior as Lan Wangji. Waipo follows eventually, holding a tray of steaming soup. Lan Wangji dutifully eats the meal as she watches him expectantly. It is made with animal broth, he can detect immediately, and he casts a guilty look at his Shufu but otherwise does not mention it.
Shufu does not seem to mind. Lan Wangji knows that to turn away food from a host is a greater offense than consuming meat, when outside of Cloud Recesses. Xiongzhang mentions that he often must eat meat when visiting other sects.
Lan Wangji would not know, the only times he has ever left Cloud Recesses was once, when he was a small child, to visit the Qinghe Nie Clan, who catered to the Lan’s vegetarian diet, and then; when he went to Nightless City just the previous month. Lan Wangji could not recall anything about the cuisine if he tried, too anxious with the ominous threats of Wen Ruohan, to even taste anything.
He is startled out of these thoughts as Waipo absently combs her fingers through his hair. Lan Wangji is reminded with a pang of his forehead ribbon. He wonders if it still lies abandoned outside the Hanshi, along with the charred remains of his father. Or, perhaps it burnt along with the rest of the Cloud Recesses…
He is just finishing the soup when two women enter the infirmary, wearing plain white robes. The first thing he notices is that one of them is unusually tall, at least a head taller than everyone else in the room. Lan Wangji double takes when he notices her pearl-like antlers that slope backwards in a graceful curve behind her head. Sure enough, a long white tail, speckled with spots of gray and brown extends from the back of her robes.
“Immortal Baoshan Sanren,” he whispers in awe. The low frequency of qi that emanates through each object in the room seems to intensify in her presence. He straightens himself to bow as low as he can from his seated position on the bed.
She waves a hand nonchalantly at him, “Enough of that, Lan Er-Gongzi, no need to reopen your wounds on my account. A-Qing will have my head if you do,” she chuckles, before indicating to Shufu, “this one nearly busted his head on the floor attempting to kowtow to me earlier. Really, you Lan are too formal.”
Lan Wangji blinks, stunned by her casual tone. He darts a glance at Shufu, whose face has colored drastically, the shade of a ripe plum.
“And you are going to give the boy a qi deviation with your teasing, twig head,” the other woman behind her huffs, stepping forward. Lan Wangji is stunned once more when he sees the Lan headband in place on her forehead.
“You are… Lan Yi,” he states. Lan Yi was the only female Sect Leader the Gusu Lan ever had. She led the Lan forces to defend Emperor Changze against the coup led by Xue Chonghai over a millennia ago. It was her Chord Assassination method that held off Xue Chonghai’s forces of the undead, fueled by his attempts at channeling resentful energy through the Yin Iron.
It was only because of her that Baoshan Sanren was able to escape to the mountains of Yiling with the young prince, who was just a child at the time. Lan Wangji has admired her for most of his life, choosing to focus his scholarly research on her for Shufu’s lessons on Lan family history.
“Ah, it’s nice to see some of my kin still recognize me. I was sure I had been written out of all the history books,” she smiles enigmatically. Lan Wangji cannot decipher if she is amused or chagrined.
The sentiment is not unfounded, Lan Yi has quietly been omitted from much of the Lan sect historical canon. Likely deemed too controversial, as she had attempted to argue in favor of utilizing the Yin Iron against Xue Chonghai’s puppet army, while the prince was in hiding with Baoshan Sanren, still too young to fight back.
It is said that after the final battle, where the then adult Prince Wuxian destroyed Xue Chonghai and his undead army, destroying the Yin Iron is what drove him to near qi deviation. Afterward, when Prince Wuxian was forced into a sleeping stasis by Baoshan Sanren, Lan Yi gave up her title and devoted herself to be a priestess and temple guardian in Yiling, in penance for the role she played in his downfall. No one has ever heard from her since.
As filial as he tried to be, he could not help but admire the strong willed woman. Lan Wangji has always argued that she was simply misunderstood.
“My wife and I have come to ask a favor of you, Lan Er-Gongzi,” Lan Yin continues and Lan Wangji tries to not look so shocked by her casual mention of her marriage between two women. Between that and how euphoric that the title ‘Lan Er-Gongzi’ makes him feel, Lan Wangji feels almost faint as he looks upon her.
“Your qi is the strongest and most pure that we have encountered in… nearly a millennia,” she says, eyeing him critically. “We wondered if you would still proceed with the ritual presentation? We mean no disrespect and do not wish to make you uncomfortable, we know that this is catered to women. It was assumed that his partner would be female, to fulfill the needs to provide an heir. No one thought to consider how to accommodate people in your circumstance. But as long as the person is born of yin, then they are eligible. We cannot overlook any potential candidate in finding a true mate for him. Not when fools like Wen Ruohan act so recklessly outside our walls. No one but A-Xian can safely cultivate resentment, but he just needs some …help, to protect himself…And, you see, A-Xian never had a preference for a particular sex.”
Lan Wangji flushes at the implication of what helping would mean.
And he’s heard the stories of course, of the cutsleeve romance of Prince Wuxian and his huli jing guardian. There were rumors that that is the reason why Prince Wuxian remains asleep, unmoved by the qi of the many thousands of women presented to him. They say his soul is still in mourning for his lost love, who was believed to be killed in the final battle against Xue Chonghai. Others say that the prince is purely a cutsleeve and has no interest in women. Lan Wangji was never sure what to believe.
Lan Wangji takes a moment to observe the countenance of everyone present. Lan Yi and Wen Qing look upon him with intrigue, while Waipo looks upon him with concern. Shufu looks disapproving, glaring mutinously at the brazier as if it is to blame for their situation. Baoshan Sanren, however, is inscrutable.
“I will do it,” Lan Wangji agrees softly.
Shufu and the rest almost look startled with how easily he is convinced. In the past, the thought of his presentation was always something that he looked upon with dread, as it was done in advance of any marriage contract. Lan Wangji did not wish to be treated as a woman, yet in this instance, any chance for Prince Wuxian to wake up must not be overlooked. The prince is the best chance the sects have to defeat Wen Ruohan’s abuse of the supposed resurrected Yin Iron.
Also, it was important to his mother, he thinks, that he perform the ritual presentation. She grew up here on the temple grounds, surrounded by the thrum of his qi. She knew the undeniable power that Prince Wuxian wielded first hand. She may have never known the truth about Lan Wangji, that he is her son, not her daughter, but Lan Wangji thinks he would still like to do this, for her, and for the slim chance that it might even work.
How can he not try? When Wen Xu lurks just outside the gates, ready to turn his ire against his sect, the longer he is denied his victory prize?
Lan Wangji determines that he must try.
Wen Qing walks him through the preparations and what to expect, though Lan Wangji is already well versed in such matters. She tells him that tomorrow morning, at chen shi, is when the presentation should take place, as it is the most auspicious time for the ritual. It makes sense, he thinks to himself, as chen shi is the hour of the dragon zodiac. The hour is known for the rise in temperature, as the sun rises further in the sky, and represents the time before dragons bring rainwater to the people.
He is too focused on the look that Baoshan Sanren gives him before she takes her leave. She looks almost pleased? Expectant? Lan Wangji cannot determine the spark that blazes in her expression as she looks upon him.
Wen Qing determines it is best that he sleeps in the infirmary, as it is the warmest room in the temple outside of the kitchens. As such, Shufu refuses to sleep in the guest quarters and instead lies on the other arhat bed opposite Lan Wangji’s. He watches for a while as Shufu tosses and turns, until the hazy pull of incense finally overpowers and guides Lan Wangji into the numbing lull of sleep.
He dreams of his mother urging him to follow. She leads him through the narrow passageways of the temple, to an empty hall deep in the heart of a cave.
“Come, A-Zhan! This way,” she calls out before she seems to disappear into the darkness ahead.
Lan Wangji is alone.
He follows the sounds of water to a small grotto that gathers around the stalagmites, carved to look like dragons emerging from the water’s depths.
The sound of laughter echoes through the cave, it’s melodious and charming, like that of a playful young man. The laughter sours as resentment burns through the air, the smoke stings at Lan Wangji’s nose. In the water, a massive black coiling shape, overwrought with resentment, writhes from within.
I have to help.
Lan Wangji plays his qin, which is there, somehow, next to him. He plays Cleansing over and over, until his fingertips start to bleed and his blood drips into the pool below.
The creature shivers before sinking into the water. The pond goes dark. His qin disappears. Lan Wangji peers into it, and it’s a deep red. It smells vaguely metallic.
Blood, it is now a pool of Lan Wangji’s own blood, spilling from his fingertips in rivulets.
Lan Wangji panics, trying to reach in, to save the creature underneath from what he has done, but whenever he attempts to reach in the pool, his hands are unable to penetrate the surface. Lan Wangji’s heartbeat pounds against his ears, echoing throughout the depths of the cave, like a rhythmic drum.
A shadow moves behind him and when Lan Wangji spins around, the sight of a young boy, takes him off guard. Concern consumes him, this boy is too young to be alone in a place like this.
When he steps closer, a haze clears from his eyes, and he can make out the boy’s small antlers, little obsidian stubs just starting to grow from his disheveled hair. The boy has a long reptilian tail that peeks out from his robes. The scales of which shine like charcoal in the fire light. His tail seems too large for one so small. Lan Wangji worries, absurdly, that the boy might tip over and be stuck, like a turtle turned on its shell.
The boy plays quietly by himself with a butterfly made of straw, his laugh is sweet, like a gentle bell. It’s familiar to Lan Wangji, somehow. When he spots Lan Wangji, the little dragon boy beams and runs to him, holding out his arms and reaching for him. When he gets to Lan Wangji, he hugs his leg and stares up at him adoringly.
Lan Wangji is magnetized, extending a hand to cup the boy’s face, the blood on his fingertips smearing against the softness of the boy’s cheek.
The child stares up at him almost hungrily and when Lan Wangji locks eyes with him, the boy's eyes gleam a vibrant vermilion red before they are both engulfed in flames.
Lan Wangji is frozen in place, he cannot move to protect himself or the child who clutches at him for comfort. The echo of his heartbeat continues to vibrate against the cave walls. Smoke starts to obscure his vision.
Yet, he cannot look away.
The boy doesn’t cry, just continues to stare up at him with wide, trusting red eyes as Lan Wangji’s flesh burns and melts under the blistering scorch of the flames.
He wants to be seen, Lan Wangji understands. So he does not look away.
He will not look away.
Lan Wangji wakes promptly at mao shi, just as his body is trained to do.
His heart is still racing from the remnants of the dream. He has to hold up his hands and pat himself down to assure that he has not truly been burnt. The sensation was too real and the scent of charred human flesh lingers in his nose, a visceral memory that evokes the unbidden sight of the Hanshi crumbling before his eyes.
He breathes through the memory, willing it away. And, as with most dreams, within a few moments after waking, the details of it start to drift away, weighted down like a rock sinking to the bottom of a stream, until all Lan Wangji can remember is the smell of smoke and wide vermilion eyes.
Shufu is already awake, sitting up in a meditation pose. Lan Wangji wonders if he has slept at all.
The preparations for the ritual go smoothly. Lan Wangji is given a hearty breakfast that he has to force himself to eat.
The smell of burnt flesh seems to follow him, even as Waipo and Wen Qing help him into a warm bath filled with jasmine petals. The strong scent is meant to cleanse the body and spirit, but the lingering smell seems to haunt him, making him feel nauseous.
He closes his eyes and tries to meditate it away.
Waipo combs his hair and recites the proper rites and blessings for Lan Wangji, for a fortuitous future. For the blessings of a happy marriage. For longevity and to be blessed with fertility. She ties his hair back into a simple top-knot, forgoing the elaborate braids that many young women chose to do for this moment. An elaborate phoenix headdress is secured to the top of his head, with strings of gold that drape in front of his face as a veil. His mother’s phoenix pin is the last adornment bestowed, secured in his top-knot.
He is given a simple white cotton robe to wear, warmed by the brazier. It is embroidered with the motifs of Qinglong and Xifeng, their dragon and phoenix forms twisting around each other, entwined in a sinuous dance.
He is led by his Waipo to a long hall where Shufu awaits with Baoshan Sanren, Lan Yi, and a group of Yiling disciples by an atrium fountain where lotus flowers bloom. He can only recognize the siblings Wen Qing and Wen Qionglin among them. His cousins, he reminds himself.
The early morning dawn shines through the windows of the hall, painting a dreamlike image as the sun glows like the reflection of light on a tranquil lake. Yet, the serene image is disturbed by the rhythmic drums of Wen Xu’s troops outside the Yiling Temple gates. Lan Wangji recognizes the beat, welcoming more troops to the battlefield…
It had happened in Cloud Recesses, as he had fought against a horde of Wen soldiers using Chord Assassination to allow the young disciples and non fighting Lan cultivators and servants to flee to the back hill and into the safety of the Cold Pond Cave.
Eventually, the Wen war drums sounded too strong, drowning out the sound of his qin. Wen Xu had stayed safely out of range, laughing when Lan Wangji was surrounded by hundreds of troops. A cowering Lan disciple, Su She, Lan Wangji recognized, was held captive by some soldiers. He gestured frantically at Lan Wangji, and then, an arc of arrows blanketed the sky, heading right toward him.
Lan Wangji spun, using Chord Assassination to destroy them easily, but in the movement, his eye was caught by the white figures amongst the red, captured alongside Su She. It was with horror that he spotted his uncle, who freed himself from their hold, flying at Wen Xu to challenge him in an intense sparring of swords.
When Shufu stumbled, blood spitting from his mouth, Lan Wangji had no choice… He had no choice…
“Wangji,” Shufu calls to him now, right in front of him. He is dressed in the same white robes as Lan Wangji for the ritual.
“The Wen soldiers…” Lan Wangji turns to Baoshan Sanren in concern.
“The gates will hold,” she says, her voice like iron.
And so, they continue. The gong of the Yiling Temple sounds discordant with the echo of the Wen drums, as Lan Wangji parts the beads of his veil, so that Baoshan Sanren may anoint Lan Wangji’s third eye with purified water from the lotus fountain. It tingles against his skin, not unlike the water in the Cold Pond back in Cloud Recesses.
Finally, she presents a small dagger to Shufu. Who steps forward and takes the blade. He hesitates, staring at Lan Wangji, his eyes asking, ‘Is this what you want?’
Lan Wangji nods, but he notes how Shufu seems to sadden when Lan Wangji’s eyes dart to the windows under his veil, where the sounds of the Qishan Wen drums continue to beat.
Shufu sighs, before in one quick movement, he slices the tip of his pointer finger with the blade.
“Blood of my blood, may your qi bring harmony to this world,” he whispers, completing the ritual preparations when Lan Wangji parts his veil, allowing his uncle to press his bloodied finger to Lan Wangji’s forehead, between his brows and over his third eye, where his Lan headband would normally rest.
Lan Wangji is given the blade and guided to follow Baoshan Sanren behind the fountain. She waves her hand and a narrow doorway appears on the floor in front of them, it opens to reveal stone stairs leading underground.
“Let the prince’s qi guide you, you will know when you are where you need to be,” she says, holding a small lantern in the shape of a lotus flower for him to accept in his other hand. Lan Wangji nods and steps down onto the first step. He turns back, one final time, to nod at his Shufu and Waipo, before making his descent.
The doorway disappears above him as soon as the top of his headdress is fully submerged and with it, the lotus lantern is all that lights the narrow stairway in front of him. Yet he finds that he barely needs it, even with the veil obscuring his vision. The thrum of Prince Wuxian’s qi is so strong now that it acts as a magnet, pulling him forward, down the stairs, and eventually through a narrow stone hall.
The space seems familiar somehow, though he cannot remember how. A peculiar dripping noise grates on him, though he’s unable to determine the source. It seems to grow louder with every step he takes. He walks for over a ke until eventually the narrow pathway gets so small, that he has to stoop down to avoid scraping his headdress and displacing his phoenix pin– until suddenly he doesn’t– and he’s in a cavernous looking grotto, with intricate dragon motifs carved into the stone walls of a cave.
The sound of drums echo in the space, and Lan Wangji wonders if the cave lies underneath where the Qishan Wen soldiers wait outside the temple gates. The vibration of it contends with that of the prince’s qi, which seems to breathe, steady, like air into the lungs.
He continues walking until he is standing on a circular platform carved with four points indicating the four cardinal directions. The platform overlooks a dark pool of water in the grotto below. The strange trickling noise is revealed to be the echoing sound of water trickling down the sides of the cave into the pond below. Yet, something else seems to be causing the noise to sound almost metallic in nature, Lan Wangji thinks, but he cannot compare it to anything he has ever heard before.
The pool ripples and something catches the light from his lantern from below the water’s surface. Lan Wangji squints to see beyond the veil and peers into it. He gasps, as underneath the water, is the massive, coiled body of a sleeping black dragon.
Prince Wuxian’s gleaming obsidian antlers extend out of the water, and the droplets of water that trickle down the cave and land on them are what is causing the strange, echoing noise.
Lan Wangji is mesmerized.
The beauty of the prince’s dragon form and his pure, unadulterated power, are unlike anything else Lan Wangji has ever felt or experienced. It is enough to render him stunned. Strangely, his mind supplies him with the sound of laughter. It’s high and mischievous, not like anything Lan Wangji has ever heard before, but familiar somehow.
Lan Wangji cannot help the creeping sensation that he has been here, in this cave, before.
Before he can consider this strange feeling further, his qi responds for him, igniting within his body as he steps onto the center of the platform, moving closer like a moth to a flame, to stand in the center of the four points. He sets down the lantern, moving without conscious thought as he slices his pointer finger with the blade still bloodied by his Shufu.
“May my body, my blood, and my spirit bring harmony to the world,” Lan Wangji finds himself uttering. His voice sounds like it is coming from a distance, from someone else. He tucks back his veil and presses his bloodied finger to his third eye, over the mark that Shufu left and pulls his phoenix pin out of his hair, which tumbles loose around his shoulders.
The moment his bloodied hand touches the phoenix pin, Prince Wuxian’s qi seems to explode around him. For a suspended moment, Lan Wangji’s body is nothing but pure sensation.
Lan Wangji knows that he was standing on a platform, but somehow his body drifts, like he is underwater. The movement around him feels like it is both moving at rapid speed around him and like the slow drip of molasses against his skin.
He can feel his qi pouring out of him, bright and steady, it glows softly like moonlight. It extends out of him, moving to meet the blazing fire of the sun. The two light sources meet in a blinding crescendo that is all consuming, until the world goes dark.
The silence that follows is unlike anything Lan Wangji has experienced before. His body is untethered, numb to his senses.
Come back, he calls to his qi. Come back to me.
A light flickers in the distance and Lan Wangji swims toward it.
When he gets closer, he peers down into the light, and he can make out the sight of a small boy in the distance, swimming amongst lotus flowers.
Suddenly, he is now the boy.
He laughs as he swims, trying to give chase, when a massive black dragon emerges from the water, its scales glimmering blue and purple with the reflection of the lake.
Caught you, the dragon says with a deep, rumbling voice, gently touching his tiny forehead with his massive snout. His dragon antennae reach out to tickle him.
He giggles and squirms away, wriggling with delight as he cheers, Silly Baba, no fair! You are too big! I will win when I’m big one day, just like you!
I’m sure you will, his Baba agrees calmly as he carefully nudges his small form to tumble over his nose and slide down to where the crown of his Baba’s head meets his antlers. Then, Baba takes off, soaring into the air, swimming through the clouds as rain and thunder dance around them.
He laughs, holding tight to his father's antlers.
In this moment, he feels truly free.
The scene changes, and the smell of smoke and resentment burns his nose, a familiar sensation now.
He is still a small child, not much older than before, but now he is running frantically hand in hand with a woman dressed in white, she turns to say something to him.
“Don’t look! A-Xian, don’t look!”
She has white antlers… It’s Baoshan Sanren. She has tears in her eyes.
He doesn’t mean to, but he can’t help it, he looks, because his Baba has always been the safest thing for him to look at.
His Baba’s dragon form has been impaled with what must be thousands of spears and arrows. And through the center of Baba’s head, there is a sword, tainted with resentment, impaled through his skull right between his antlers.
He screams.
Baba’s body lies atop the corpses of his dragon shushus and gugus. Their bodies piled up in a horrific burial mound consumed by resentment. He cries as they run past and the blood of his family stains his shoes and splatters his face until he stumbles, when his small legs struggle to keep up with his shizun.
Baoshan Sanren doesn’t hesitate, she picks him up, cradling his small form close, as she continues to run toward the mountain pass. He buries his face in her neck and sobs. He wants his Baba, he wants…
Baoshan Sanren nearly stumbles as a hand reaches out from the pile of corpses.
“Please, wait,” a female voice begs. “Let me see him— before I die. I want the last thing I see to be him.”
Baoshan Sanren lets out a mournful howl.
“Please, Shizun,” and the voice sounds garbled, like she is drowning.
Baoshan Sanren’s tears are cold as they land against the back of his neck. Cold, wet hands paw at his robes, and he screams, frightened, as he is dragged out of his shizun’s arms and on top of a bloodied corpse.
She is not dead, though, not yet, he realizes with a startled cry. Her cold, bloodied hands sweep over his face, leaving a trail of blood in their wake.
He looks into the face of what once must have been a beautiful woman, with wide eyes and strong cheekbones.
He tries to look away. He is not supposed to look, he is not…but she grips the back of his head, pulling his face even closer to hers.
“Look at me, baobei. Let me see your face. Let your poor A-Niang see you, at least once, before I have to go, huh? C’mon now, my little noodle, let me see.”
He startles at the familiar nickname and stares down into the dark, unfamiliar eyes of his A-Niang, whose face he has never seen before. She always has to wear a weimao whenever he visits her.
She smiles, and her smile looks just like his own, if blood was not staining her lips.
“Beautiful. My beautiful boy.”
He screams in panic as more blood chokes out of her mouth. He tries to look away but her hold on him is too strong, he wails as she coughs, drowning in her own blood. Finally, he’s yanked away with a shout by Baoshan Sanren.
They both cry out when flames ignite around the dying woman. Baoshan Sanren transforms into her dragon form, letting out a wail of pain as she does so, shielding his body from the flames.
She clutches him within one claw as she takes off into the sky. There are shouts as they are spotted and arrows tainted with resentment come flying at them. He can see an army in all black below them. Puppets. Xue Chonghai’s army of the undead.
He curls up in fear, thinking of his Baba’s corpse, pierced with arrows, lying just below them. Suddenly there is a flash of light and then, Lan Yi is shielding them, using her qin to blast the army below with her Chord Assassination method.
“GO NOW!” Lan Yi shouts. “Take the prince to safety, I will cover you!”
And so Baoshan Sanren takes off to the mountains and the last thing he can see, before his shizun flies them out of sight, is his father’s dead body curled in death toward the scorched earth, where his mother’s body used to be.
The scene changes again and he’s alone deep in a cave. He is older now. No older than twelve or thirteen perhaps. He has just finished carving an intricate silver mask. “I think I’ve done it,” he murmurs to himself. All around him talismans and broken masks lay discarded on the ground.
He uses his claw to cut open his other hand, using the blood to seal the mask with a talisman using resentful energy. When he places the mask on his face, it transforms him. He laughs, triumphant as he stands and peers down as his reflection in a nearby pool of water. The mask has altered his appearance, his face unrecognizable. He resembles a young human boy, no trace of his antlers or scales.
He spends some time touching it before he scurries out a narrow path to the outdoors, where a small group of Yiling disciples sit down for a midday meal. One young man stands, brandishing his sword at the sight of him.
“Who are you? How did you get in here?” The disciple demands.
“Wen-xiong, it worked! You are looking at me,” he giggles, the mounting joy he feels is unlike anything he has ever experienced. He spins happily when he enters out into the sun, his arms outstretched.
The disciple looks at him, consideringly. “Dianxia?”
“Yes, it’s me!” He cheers. “The mask, it worked! I told Shizun I could do it!”
The older boy smiles, his eyes going wide with excitement as he calls for the others to come over. When he turns back the boy's smile drops, blood spewing from his mouth and nose.
No!
No, no, no, no, please! I thought it worked!
The boy has started convulsing, falling to the ground.
No! Please! I didn’t mean to!
The boy is dead, his body incinerated by his own golden core, along with the rest of the disciples before help can arrive.
The scene changes again, and he is older now, he’s flying in his dragon form through the trees. Below him there is a small animal running and he laughs when he spots it. It’s a huli jing, whose three tails twist around the trees as it runs.
Caught you.
“Not yet, you big flying fish!” The huli jing calls out, dodging between the rocks when he swoops down. “Try harder next time!”
The scene changes again, and he’s swimming in his dragon form into an unfamiliar cave. He shrinks himself down to the size of a common garden snake, so that he can slip easily into the shell of Xue Chonghai’s bastardized version of Xuanwu undetected. He grimaces in disgust at the smell, but swims along, determined to find what he is looking for.
He has to find it, he has to…
He can sense it, the resentment, so he lets his qi lead him and… There, there it is.
The sword–– made with Yin Iron. The sword that killed his parents. He shifts back into his human form to pull it free from this fake Xuanwu’s shell. When he does so, it screams with the voices of a thousand resentful spirits.
Do you want revenge? The voices ask him.
Yes .
The scene changes again, and he’s staring down at the dismembered corpse of Xue Chonghai. The terrified screams of soldiers sound distant, all he can hear is the sound of thunder and, somewhere, a dizi.
The scene changes again, and he’s in the middle of a cave and the pressure of the resentful energy seems to consume him. He screams, shifting nonstop between his human and dragon forms. It’s the most pain he’s ever endured. He can’t stop it.
It’s too much, just let me die, he screams in agony, writhing, as he falls into the cold water of the cave pond. Please, just let me die.
A familiar voice calls out his name, and he can’t help but look up. His body stills, no longer fighting.
There is a warm glow above him, shining gently like moonlight. He would know that light from anywhere.
He opens his eyes.
