Chapter Text
The voices were as loud as ever—mocking, cruel, always shrieking about his worthless existence and the pain he would inevitably bring to those he loved. He had grown used to them over time. But the whispers were new. They weren’t loud, yet they burrowed deeper, impossible to ignore. Especially now, since one word had begun to echo with relentless consistency: trap. It had lodged in his mind ever since that letter arrived from Lan Zhan, inviting him to Jin Ling’s one hundred day celebration. He wanted to go. Wen Qing said he should—she even pressed a few coins into his hand, urging him to buy a gift for his nephew.
Was Jin Ling truly his nephew? He and Jiang Yanli are not siblings, not really—just martial peers, and that bond had barely been accepted by Madam Yu. Now, even that thread was frayed beyond recognition. Still, the word trap circled back, over and over, more insistent each day, refusing to let him rest. How could he ignore such a warning—especially when even his gut twisted with unease? Something wasn’t right. But Lan Zhan didn’t lie. He never had. Yet even someone as steadfast as Lan Zhan could be used, manipulated by those who did.
“The dead are louder than ever.” The voice came from right beside him. Startled, he nearly cried out, but stilled when he saw the speaker—one of the Wen elders. The oldest among them, even older than Popo. He sat silently at his side, staring ahead, his frail frame cloaked in tattered rags. His white hair was so thin that the scalp gleamed beneath it. Clouded eyes remained unfocused, his back hunched, both hands wrapped around a worn wooden staff.
“Very loud,” the old man said again, his voice steady, “almost desperate.” Wei Wuxian leaned closer, his voice barely a whisper.
“You can hear them too?” The old man nodded slowly.
“I can. I always could. But not like this… not this clear.”
“What are they saying?” Wei Wuxian asked, studying the old man closely. He had seen him before—often, in fact—but never heard him speak or interact with others, just sat alone watching everything in a detached manner. He’d even assumed the elder was mute. And yet now, something urged him to listen, to pay attention.
“That we will all die soon,” the old man replied, voice calm. Well, that was nothing new. They always told him that. Wei Wuxian waited, expecting more, but the old man said nothing else.
“What else?” he pressed, leaning in slightly. The elder’s cloudy eyes shifted, sharpening for a moment as they met his.
“That you should listen to them,” he said. “Hear what they have to say.” Not helpful, he thought bitterly. Listening to the voices had only ever brought him misery. He sighed deeply, gaze dropping to the ground as if the dirt might offer some hidden answer.
“They’re too loud,” he murmured.
“Then listen to those that whisper,” the old man replied. Wei Wuxian glanced at him, startled by the clarity in his tone.
“Sometimes,” the elder added, “truth lies in murmurs, not screams.” With that, he began to rise—slowly, painfully. His joints cracked and popped so loudly that Wei Wuxian half-wondered if the man was falling apart right in front of him. But he stood, somehow, and shuffled away without another word, leaving the silence thick behind him. What did he have to lose? His sanity? That was mostly gone anyway. So why not? Maybe the old man was right—maybe the whispers of the dead did hold answers. He shook his head, half in derision, half in resignation. He’d really reached that point, hadn’t he? Where the dead seemed more reasonable than the living.
His gaze swept over the settlement. It was bleak, grim even. The buildings were small, barely standing, the land barren. And yet… there was something oddly warm about it. Somehow, these people had managed to carve out something livable in the middle of desolation. With a sigh, he rose to his feet. Time to check the wards. Too many dangerous things roamed these lands for him to let his guard down.
His wards weren’t weak—but they weren’t unbreakable either. Jiang Cheng had broken through them once; others could too. There were two layers: the outer ward, the stronger of the two, which kept intruders out and the fiercer creatures contained within; and the inner ward, which shielded the settlement itself. It prevented resentful spirits from crossing into the village.
He had tried to strengthen them, of course. But using resentment to protect people was always a precarious balance—one misstep and the wards could collapse or turn on those they were meant to guard. Between the two barriers patrolled a belt of fierce corpses. They were silent sentries, enough to deter the curious or any self-righteous cultivators looking to score a moral victory by “vanquishing” the Yiling Laozu and his so-called army of Wens. Wei Wuxian let out a short, bitter laugh. Conquer the cultivation world? With what? A ragtag band of fifty, most of them either too old to stand straight or too young to hold a sword properly? The idea was laughable—and yet people still clung to the myth.
His mind felt more overwhelmed with each passing day. Sleep came rarely, and when it did, it was shallow and restless, full of nightmares. The meagre meals—often shared with A-Yuan—tasted bland in his mouth, perhaps because they always seemed to have radishes in them. He was surprised he’d survived this long. He hadn’t expected to live through the war, let alone come out of it only to “play the hero again”—protecting people who had nowhere else to go.
And yet, here he was. Tired. Fraying. But still standing. He would keep protecting them. Even if it took everything he had—he would do it until his last breath.
He had four weeks to prepare. Four weeks to decide whether he could bear to walk into Koi Tower again. He wanted—desperately—to see Shijie’s son. His nephew? He wasn’t sure what to call him, but he wanted to be there, to see the child with his own eyes. To begrudgingly congratulate the Peacock and threaten him with severe bodily harm if he dared to be a poor husband or father. To tease Jiang Cheng about maybe passing down his legendary temper. To, just for a moment, enjoy what he once had—what had been taken from him. But the more he let himself imagine it, the more impossible it felt.
He knew what would happen the moment he stepped into Koi Tower. Those self-righteous cultivators would pounce on him like wolves. It would be easy—so easy—to shackle him, to end his life, and in doing so, destroy every soul still struggling to survive here.
But if he didn’t go? He’d be called ungrateful. They would pity Jiang Yanli for ever believing that the wretch he’d become could still be helped. Either way, he would lose his life… or his reputation. Both were already in ruins.
The only thing still in the balance were the Wens. So the real question was—how could he secure their safety?
The sigils etched into the stones he used as anchor points glowed faintly—an eerie light pulsing under the ever-overcast sky of the Burial Mounds. Their glow confirmed the wards were still active. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
Stepping beyond the boundary, he walked the short distance between his shields and the massive stone totems the cultivation sects had once placed to seal the mountain and his monsters. They had stood for centuries—until he arrived.
The idea behind them hadn’t been bad. But the execution? Lacking. They were ancient and ineffective now. Good enough to contain the larger beasts, perhaps, but the walking corpses always found a way out. They’d wander down into the nearby villages, especially Yiling, causing chaos and fear. His own wards did a far better job of keeping things in—and, somehow, even the resentment in the air felt lighter now than it had before. He shook his head with derision.
“They didn’t even try very hard when they set these,” he muttered, running his fingers over the carved radicals and faded sigils. They were so basic, so weak—it was a miracle the wards hadn’t collapsed under their own failure decades ago.
His steps up the mountain felt heavier than usual. The air clung to him—thick, damp, and reeking of rot. The absence of sunlight made everything feel more suffocating, and with each breath, his mood sank deeper into the gloom.
What was the point of it all? He wasn’t some immortal with boundless power. He was a broken man with no golden core and a body saturated with resentment. These days, he barely trusted his own mind. He questioned every decision, triple-checked every step, and still woke most mornings wishing he hadn’t. All he wanted now… was rest. Just rest.
“Xian-gege!” The only warning before something small and solid collided with his legs. He looked down and found the brightest, purest smile in the world beaming up at him, clinging like a barnacle to his calves. A-Yuan. Without thinking, he scooped the child up and pulled him close. Instantly, tiny arms wrapped tightly around his neck, holding on as if he could anchor Wei Wuxian to the earth.
“Xian-gege sad?” A-Yuan asked softly. No three-year-old should carry that kind of worry in his voice.
“No,” Wei Wuxian murmured, pressing his cheek against the boy’s hair. “Just tired, A-Yuan.” This small body—too thin, too small for his age—held so much warmth. So much light. Enough to pierce through the darkness that had wrapped itself around Wei Wuxian’s heart. Because in the end, there was still joy to be found in moments like this. Quiet, fleeting, but real. In A-Yuan’s innocent grip, so much was held in balance. His laughter, his trust, his unshaken love—they carried more weight than the grand ideals of any sect or the judgment of the so-called righteous.
Wei Wuxian held him a little tighter.
The truth settled in, unspoken but undeniable. He needed A-Yuan far more than A-Yuan needed him.
The night was thick with shadows. His mind, flooded with thoughts and the endless screams of the dead, teetered on the edge of exhaustion. Who the hell was he supposed to listen to when all they did was scream? Shouts of blame, of grief, of rage—overlapping, relentless. The whispers were there too, faint and distant, like echoes behind a locked door. He could hear them, barely, but their meanings slipped through his fingers. Meanwhile, the louder voices screamed accusations—You abandoned your brother. Your action brought the Wens to Lotus Pier. You doomed the Wen remnants by bringing them here. You're a coward, hiding here instead of standing your ground. He tried to tune them out, to focus on the whispers. But the soft voices were always the easiest to silence. How did the Lans use Inquiry without being driven mad?
He considered empathy, just for a moment—but quickly dismissed it. That would be suicide here in the Burial Mounds. The spirits that roamed these lands weren’t just lost—they were furious, hungry. Empathy would only open the door for possession, and he wasn’t about to risk that now.
He had developed this method back in his teens. It was based on an old shamanic technique once used to commune with restless spirits. But the dead here weren’t merely restless—they were steeped in resentment, their emotions twisted beyond recognition.
That’s where his innovation began. Based on that, he’d crafted the paper-man technique. Ridiculed for its simplicity, dismissed as childish games by Madam Yu both dangerous if used incorrectly and yet, when executed properly, they were precise and effective. He found his methods elegant and they worked. No one had taken him seriously at Lotus Pier. And perhaps that was a gift. Their scorn had given him the freedom to experiment, to innovate without interference.
He rose from the cold, hard stone that served as his bed and moved to the equally unforgiving slab that passed for a table. The room was dark and damp, filled with the smell of mildew and old smoke. He lit a small candle, its flickering flame casting weak, dancing shadows on the cave walls. Papers were scattered in a loose, disordered stack—too valuable to waste. Even the cheap kind was a luxury here. Instead, he grabbed a stick and crouched on the dirt floor, dragging it slowly across the ground as he began to sketch.
He was trying to reimagine the empathy technique—reshape it into something that could work here, in the heart of the Burial Mounds. Traditional empathy only allowed for one voice at a time. One spirit, one conversation. That wasn’t enough. Not here. Not with so many souls screaming over one another, their resentment drowning out everything else.
But what if… What if he could create a space—an internal chamber, a warded circle—where their resentment was softened? Not erased, but quieted. Just enough for clarity. A place where they could focus on their desires instead of screaming about his failures. Maybe then, they could finally be heard. And maybe he could finally understand what they were trying to say.
It wasn’t long before A-Yuan padded over, his small form barely making a sound. He clutched a worn toy made of old rags to his chest, eyes wide and wet with unshed tears.
“A-Yuan is scared,” he whispered, his voice trembling. Wei Wuxian immediately opened his arms, and the child climbed into his lap without hesitation, pressing himself against his chest in search of warmth and safety.
“Bad dream?” he asked gently, his voice low as he began to rub soothing circles along the boy’s back. A-Yuan gave a small nod and burrowed deeper into his robes, tiny fingers curled into the fabric. Sleep came quickly after that, the boy’s breathing evening out with his face tucked into Wei Wuxian’s shoulder. With one hand, he reached behind to pull the thin blanket from his stone bed and wrapped it carefully around the small, sleeping form. Then, with his other hand, he returned to the lines scratched into the dirt in front of him.
Even with exhaustion clouding his mind and a child cradled against his chest, he kept working—carefully shaping the idea of a space where the dead might speak without rage, where clarity could emerge from chaos. He would find a way, he had to.
A sudden throat-clearing startled Wei Wuxian back to reality. He looked up from the chaotic scribbles etched into the dirt and found Wen Qing standing over him, arms crossed tightly across her chest, her mouth set in a thin, displeased line. She didn’t have to say a word—her glare spoke volumes.
“Qing-jie,” he whispered, careful not to wake A-Yuan, who was still curled against his chest, breathing softly.
“Have you slept at all tonight?” she asked, her voice low but sharp, somehow managing to carry that familiar edge of scolding even in a whisper. He gave her a sheepish, tired smile.
“I had an idea... couldn’t sleep. But I think I’ve made real progress—I can show you what I’ve come up with so far.” Despite his exhaustion, there was a lightness in his voice, because even with a child in his arms and fatigue clinging to his bones, he had come closer to something that might actually work. More than he’d expected. Wen Qing sighed and rubbed her temples, the weight of both her worry and frustration settling in her shoulders.
“Wei Wuxian, you have to take care of yourself,” she muttered, not unkindly. “These sleepless nights will catch up with you—and when they do, I’ll be the one left patching you up, again. You know how limited our resources are.” She lowered herself beside him, her gaze shifting to the scattered markings in the dirt. After a pause, she asked, “What is this?”
“Sorry,” he said quietly, shifting A-Yuan in his arms to settle him more comfortably. “I just needed to get it out of my head before I lost it. It’s still rough, but... I think I can make it work.”
She frowned, eyes scanning the sigils and symbols with clinical precision. “What is it supposed to do?”
“It’s an array,” he began, his voice taking on that rare, eager energy that surfaced when he was on the brink of invention. “A way to communicate with the spirits—but more... focused. Right now, everything is chaos. This would help me filter through the noise.”
She looked up sharply, brows raised. “You want more voices in your head?” The way she stared at him made him flinch. Like she thought he’d finally gone mad. He blinked at her, then scowled.
“No, I don’t want more voices. I need clarity. Right now, they’re all screaming over each other—I can’t understand them. But this—this could help me isolate individual voices. Focus. Listen to what they’re really trying to say.” Wen Qing looked at him in silence for a moment, the lines of worry still etched across her face. He knew how it sounded. But madness and genius were neighbors, and he was always just passing through their borderlands.
“Why?” she asked, genuinely confused. And she had every right to be. He had spent so long trying to silence the voices, to push them back into whatever corner of his mind they clawed out of—and now, suddenly, he wanted to listen? Wei Wuxian didn’t answer immediately. He looked down at A-Yuan, still asleep in his arms, the child’s breath warm against his chest. The sigils before him blurred for a moment as doubt crept in again. But the itch was stronger than ever. The compulsion. The need to understand. Especially after what the old Wen elder had said—those strange, heavy words that echoed a thought he'd buried deep. A thought he’d refused to follow because he was terrified of where it might lead.
“I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice rough. “Maybe I’ve lost it.” Wen Qing gave him a look. He half-smiled.
“But I can’t shake this feeling. Like they’re not just screaming to torment me. Like there’s something buried in the noise. Something important. A warning, maybe.” He hesitated, then looked up, meeting her eyes. “That old man—the elder—he said they’re louder than ever. Desperate. That they’re trying to tell me something.”
“What elder?” Wen Qing asked, her frown deepening.
“The one who looks like he might fall apart every time he moves—” Wei Wuxian started, then winced at himself. “Sorry. I mean, the one older than Popo.” She gave him a puzzled look.
“Popo is the oldest among us.” He blinked.
“No, no. I’ve seen him before. Walks with a big, worn staff, almost no hair, back so bent he's almost folded in half.”
“You mean Elder Tong?” she asked, though her tone was already uncertain. “He works with bamboo. Crafts tools. Bowls. That one?” Wei Wuxian shook his head slowly.
“No. Not him. This man’s always on the outskirts. Quiet. I’ve never heard him speak before, but he was there. Always... there. In the background.” Wen Qing’s expression grew tighter, more wary.
“Wei Wuxian... I know every soul who lives in this settlement. I would've noticed someone like that.” He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Because the look on her face wasn’t just confusion anymore—it was concern. And not just for the elder. For him.
“I’ve seen him,” he said, more firmly now, though the words felt thinner with every breath. “He was right beside me yesterday. He said the dead were louder than ever. Like they were shouting a warning.” Wen Qing’s gaze didn’t leave his face, but her voice softened.
“Wei Ying... are you sure he was really there?” He didn’t answer. Because now that she said it doubt crept in. Did he hallucinate the old man? Was he just a figment of his imagination—or perhaps a ghost that somehow slipped past his wards? But how could that be? The man had looked so real, so tangible. He shut his eyes, concentrating on the memory, desperate to find some detail that might convince her he wasn’t losing his mind. Suddenly, he opened them and said.
“He had a big mark on the left side of his neck—like a light red prune—just under his ear.” Wen Qing's frown deepened, then her eyes widened. She whispered:
“Elder Wen Sihan… Wei Wuxian, he died in the camps. He never came with us here.” Wei Wuxian felt a cold trickle run down his spine. So who—or what—had sat beside him yesterday?
“I saw him,” Wei Wuxian said quietly, his voice suddenly unsure. “He looked real, Qing-jie. Solid. He even made noise when he rose. Spoke in a whisper, like breath caught in stone. That’s not... that’s not how ghosts behave.”
“No,” Wen Qing murmured, her expression unreadable now. “It’s not.” A long silence stretched between them, thick with the unspoken. Then she asked, cautiously, “Did he touch you?”
Wei Wuxian thought. “No. He didn’t. He just... sat beside me.”
“And the wards?” she pressed. “You were inside when you saw him?
”He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Just outside the cave entrance. I was preparing to walk the perimeter.”
Wen Qing’s eyes narrowed with calculation, worry creeping in around the edges of her clinical mask. “There’s no way a ghost could get through undetected. Unless...” She trailed off.
“Unless what?” he asked.
“Unless he didn’t get in,” she said softly. “And he was already here. He came with us.” Wei Wuxian stared at her, the whisper of Wen Sihan’s voice echoing again in his mind: “They are loud. Desperate. Shouting a warning.”
"The dead can't speak to the living the way he did." Wei Wuxian looked at Wen Qing, there was something she wasn’t telling him. “What else?” he asked, eyes fixed on her. She sighed and turned to glance at A-Yuan’s sleeping form.
“On our maternal side, our ancestors were rumored to be descended from shamans. Over the years, some members of our family developed a certain... sensitivity to spirits. We never spoke of it outside our closest kin, but—” she hesitated, then continued, “Wen Sihan was the most affected by this trait. A-Ning was one of them to but only slightly.” Wei Wuxian knew well how shamans were viewed among cultivators—often with suspicion or disdain. Their rituals, rooted in blood magic and communication with spirits, was seen as madness, not as a gift. So he stayed quiet, waiting for Wen Qing to go on.
“We always took him seriously and heeded his advice. He was very wise,” she said, rubbing her temples. “I don’t know what to think, Wei Wuxian. Your connection to the dead, to the resentment they carry... it might have enabled this vision. Or meeting. He was a recluse, even in life, so maybe—” she trailed off.
“He’s trying to warn me,” Wei Wuxian whispered, eyes fixed on the scribbles on the ground. “If he was warning me, then that’s all the more reason to finish this—because I need to hear what they have to say. I need to understand the warnings.” He looked up at her, expression resolute. “Qing-jie, there’s so much we still don’t understand about ghosts and spirits. And this whole situation with the invitation... it doesn’t sit right with me. I need to be sure—so I can protect all of you.” Wen Qing gave him a small, weary smile, then stood slowly.
“I’ll bring you some tonics. But you are going to sleep this morning—or I will knock you out,” she added, the worry creeping back into her voice.
“I understand, Qing Jie,” he said, flashing a wide, boyish grin. She sighed, shaking her head as she walked away, muttering, “Pest.” He snickered at her retreating back and turned his attention to the array. It just needed a few adjustments before it was ready for testing. Of course, he would sleep first—he wasn’t about to risk her bringing out those needles again. He shivered at the memory, then pushed it aside, focusing on the task at hand.
When Wen Qing returned with the tonic, she reached for A-Yuan, but he gently refused. The child felt good in his arms—grounding, warm, a reminder of what he was fighting for.
He couldn’t have ignore the unease gnawing at him, especialy after the old man’s warning—and the revelation Wen Qing had just dropped on him—there was no turning back. Knowledge was the ultimate goal here. And he would attain it.
*
He woke with a start from the nap Wen Qing had forced on him after breakfast, the images of his dream still vivid in his mind. Without wasting a second, he rushed to the table and began scribbling frantically on a piece of paper.
Restless sleep always plagued him whenever he was on the verge of a breakthrough. He had managed to refine parts of the array earlier that morning—but now, the convoluted dream he'd just had brought realizations that felt far more logical than anything he had considered before. There was something there—hidden in the chaos of the dream—that made sense.
How do spirits speak when they have no mouths? They don’t. Not with sound. Not in the way the living do. That much was clear. So how had the old man spoken to him? Why had it felt so real? Was the shamanic sensitivity to spirits—something Wen Qing had hinted at—a key factor? Did it manifest differently after death? He’d seen the man before, but never truly looked at him. Was it his own sensitivity to resentment that allowed only him to see the man... and not the others? Maybe... maybe the old man had used resentment itself to make sound, to shape it into something intelligible—to carry a message.
Thoughts. Yes. He hadn’t heard words so much as felt them. It was like someone had dropped a memory into his mind. Not speech—no—but intent, urgency, emotion. That meant the key wasn’t the voice. It was the mind. So thoughts could be heard too. But where did they come from?
Consciousness. He froze mid-scribble, breath catching. If thoughts are the product of consciousness... and spirits still think... then that consciousness hasn’t dissolved. Not entirely. It lingers. That must be what the “in-between” truly is—not a place, but a state. A fractured version of the self that hasn’t moved on, held in place by emotion, by will, by resentment. He gripped the edge of the stone slab as another realization hit him like a blow.
Wen Ning. He hadn’t just raised Wen Ning’s body. He had brought back a flicker of who Wen Ning was. His will. His memories. His loyalty. Which meant he hadn’t simply reanimated a corpse. He had reached through that liminal space and pulled a conscious soul back, anchoring it to a body held together by the same resentment that tethered that soul to the living world. His heart pounded at the enormity of it.
If that was possible... then could he give Wen Ning more? A better existence? Something... cleaner? Another idea sparked—wild, terrifying, brilliant. Too many thoughts. Too fast. He pressed a hand to his forehead, willing his mind to slow down. Focus. One step at a time. He needed theory. Proof. Structure. The array still needed refining. But the implications— He exhaled sharply.
It was like a dam had broken—everything came rushing in at once, flooding his mind and demolishing everything in its path. All his long-held ideals, the truths he had clung to for years... shattered. The shift was inevitable.
There was no turning back from this. He felt it deep in his bones—this was the moment everything changed. And it had all started with a few whispers... and a spirit too stubborn to pass on. Time dissolved. Hunger, forgotten. The world outside the cave ceased to exist. He didn’t notice he was out of paper until he reached for another sheet and found none. But he couldn’t stop—not now. He grabbed a piece of charcoal and began scrawling directly onto the cave walls. Every smooth surface became a canvas. Diagrams. Symbols. Notes. Questions. Epiphanies. It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t careful. But it was urgent. Necessary. His thoughts were too loud, too vivid, too alive to ignore. They spilled from him like a storm—words racing ahead of reason, ideas sparking faster than he could process. The cave became a living mind, its stone skin etched with the fevered script of someone chasing the edge of understanding... and perhaps crossing it.
"Wei Wuxian!" He startled, spinning around from the wall where he was still scribbling. Wen Qing stood there, a bowl of food in her hands, glaring at him with barely contained fury.
"You’ve been at this all day," she said, her voice low but dangerously sharp. "Barely eating, barely sleeping, and now you’re ignoring me completely. Do I really need to repeat myself again?" Her tone wasn’t loud—but it didn’t have to be. He glanced down and caught A-Yuan staring at him with wide, uncertain eyes, as though unsure whether to approach or flee. Wei Wuxian let out a slow breath and stepped away from the wall, accepting the bowl from Wen Qing with a tired smile.
"Thank you, Qing-jie." A-Yuan immediately bounded toward him, climbing into his lap and settling there like a warm little weight. But his eyes were fixed on the walls, now covered in chaotic lines of ink and charcoal.
"Meat?" he asked, peeking into the bowl. Wei Wuxian blinked down, surprised to see bits of meat nestled among the familiar radishes.
"Wen Ning hunted a few rabbits this morning," Wen Qing said, still frowning at him. He nodded, carefully avoiding the meat as he began to eat. That part would go to A-Yuan—he needed it more.
Wen Qing looked around the cave, taking in the layers of scribbled theories, diagrams, and madness spilling across the walls.
"...What is all this?"
Wei Wuxian chewed slowly, then replied without looking up: "A new way to cultivate."
She stopped and regarded him quietly. Said nothing at first—just looked at him. Then, without a word, she turned and slowly continued inspecting the scribbled walls. "Weren’t you looking for a way to communicate with ghosts?" she asked, her voice more thoughtful now than angry.
"Yes," he said, looking up at her, a flicker of life returning to his eyes. "And I did." He smiled, exhausted but proud. "The array is finished. It’s perfect, Qing-jie." He exhaled, the weight of it settling into his chest like something sacred.
"But then—" he gestured around them, to the walls covered in theories and half-mad inspiration, "—this exploded in my mind, and I had to write it down. I couldn’t stop." He looked at her again, more serious now. "It’s extraordinary, Jie. If I can put it into practice... it’ll change everything. The cultivation world as we know it—it’ll never be the same."
Wen Qing turned back to him, her arms crossed, gaze steady. She didn’t speak right away. Instead, she studied his face—the dark circles under his eyes, the hollow of his cheeks, the tremor in his fingers as he held the bowl. “You look like hell,” she said flatly, but her voice had softened.
He gave a tired chuckle. “Thanks, Jie. That’s encouraging.”
She walked over, crouched beside him, and placed a hand gently on his back. “Wei Wuxian… you are brilliant. But brilliance doesn’t protect you from burning out.” She gestured to the walls again. “This—whatever it is—it may very well change the cultivation world. But if you break yourself trying to carry it alone, it won’t matter.” He looked down, momentarily silent. A-Yuan curled closer, quiet and warm against him.
“But,” Wen Qing continued, voice quiet but firm, “I believe you. I believe this could be something new—something important.” She hesitated, then added, “And I want to help you. But only if you let me keep you alive in the process.” Wei Wuxian blinked, his chest tight. It had been so long since someone had offered him that—support without demand, belief without condition.
He nodded slowly. “Okay, Jie. I’ll sleep. After this bowl.”
“You’ll finish it all and the meat.” she corrected, already rising. “I’ll watch A-Yuan. No excuses.” He smiled sheepishly, taking another moutfull and cheuwing slowly. “You’re scarier than most sect leaders, you know that?”
“I should be. I keep reckless geniuses alive for a living.”
They sat in silence while Wei Wuxian finished eating. A-Yuan, already bored with the scribbled cave walls, mumbled to himself as he played with the delicate butterfly toy Lan Zhan had bought him back in Yiling. It was one of his favorite things in the world—he treated it like a treasure. Wei Wuxian managed to sneak him a few pieces of meat when Wen Qing wasn’t looking. Or so he thought. She said nothing in the end, just sighed quietly and pretended not to see.
Wen Ning shuffled into the cave just as Wei Wuxian finished the last bite. "I brought the tonic, Jie," he said softly, holding out the cup with both hands.
"Thank you, A-Ning," Wen Qing replied, offering her brother a small, genuine smile before turning back to Wei Wuxian with a familiar sharpness in her eyes. "Drink it. All of it. Every drop." Wei Wuxian raised an eyebrow, then gave her an obedient nod.
"Yes, yes, Qing-jie. I wouldn’t dare waste your hard work." He took the cup and downed it in one go. The bitterness hit him immediately—sharp, earthy, and unforgiving—but he swallowed without a word. It was awful. But so was being on the wrong end of Wen Qing’s temper. He winced slightly, then forced a smile. "Delicious."
She rolled her eyes. "Sarcasm doesn’t work."
"I’m not trying to be sarcastic," he said, stretching out with a sigh. "Just trying to earn a little grace with the terrifying doctor." A-Yuan giggled from his lap, still waving the butterfly around.
"Tell me about this new theory of yours," Wen Qing said, shuffling through the scattered papers on the floor.
Wei Wuxian glanced at the scribbled walls, then turned to Wen Ning, who stood quietly to the side. "Come, Wen Ning. You’ll want to hear this too." The corpse sat stiffly beside his sister, eyes fixed on Wei Wuxian with quiet anticipation.
"As you know, Wen Qing, I’ve been working on a method to communicate more precisely with spirits—to hear a specific voice, not the overwhelming chorus." He picked up a few sheets from the ground and handed them to her. "I’ve done it. It’s surprisingly simple, more effective, and carries no risk of possession like Empathy does."
"Empathy?" Wen Qing asked, eyes scanning the papers.
"Yes, a technique I developed years ago, before the war. It allows one to see a ghost’s memories before its death. Useful during night hunts with restless spirits, but dangerous. It creates a bridge between the ghost and the mind of the caster , so the risk of possession is high if done incorrectly."
"How old were you when you created this method?"
"I don’t know—twelve, I think. Just after I became head disciple."
"You created this at twelve years old?" she echoed, her tone a mix of disbelief and concern. Wei Wuxian nodded, opening his mouth to continue, but Wen Qing wasn’t finished. "So you created this talisman and the other one with the paper man when you were a child?" He nodded again, puzzled by her insistence. "And how did the Jiang sect capitalize on that?"
He laughed mockingly. "It was never sold or even recognized. I was just a kid playing around with talismans. Madam Yu actually forbade me from doing that after I burned a tool shed testing a fireproof talisman." Wei Wuxian chuckled at the memory, recalling how furious Madam Yu had been. He'd spent the entire night kneeling in the ancestral hall, legs numb and aching by morning. When he looked up, Wen Qing wore a perplexed frown, and though Wen Ning's face could not show emotion, the slight tilt of his head conveyed shared confusion.
"What?" Wei Wuxian asked, puzzled.
Wen Qing's gaze sharpened. "Even if the talisman needed refinement, they didn't encourage you to perfect it or develop more? You do realize that talisman masters are exceedingly rare, and we've seen little innovation in this field over the past century. Yet you're telling me that a sect leader overlooked the potential in his disciple, and Madam Yu actually forbade you from innovating?" Wei Wuxian fidgeted, his fingers tracing patterns on the floor. "When you put it that way, it does sound rather shortsighted. But still, I wasn't exactly the most disciplined disciple. They couldn't just indulge me in something that could be dangerous."
Wen Qing's eyes narrowed, disbelief evident. "You created groundbreaking techniques at twelve, and they dismissed it as child's play? That's not just shortsighted; it's stupid." Wen Ning, silent as ever, nodded in agreement, his gaze steady on Wei Wuxian. Wei Wuxian sighed, a hint of bitterness in his smile. "Well, I did burn down a tool shed testing a fireproof talisman. Madam Yu wasn't exactly thrilled about that."
Wen Qing's expression softened slightly, but her tone remained firm. "Innovation often comes with risks. But suppressing talent out of fear? That's a loss for everyone." Wei Wuxian looked away, memories swirling. "Perhaps. But at the time, it just felt like another scolding." The cave fell into a contemplative silence, the weight of unacknowledged brilliance pressing down.
Wei Wuxian leaned forward, his eyes alight with excitement. "But enough of that. Back to the point. This array doesn't create a bridge like Empathy does; it translates the ghost's thoughts into words within your mind. And thanks to this portion," he said, pointing to a cluster of sigils in the array, "I can focus on one voice at a time. Their resentment is reduced under the array's influence, making their messages clearer, less overwhelming." Wen Qing's eyes widened. "The part where resentment is reduced caught my attention immediately too. I'm trying to replicate that specific function on a larger scale and eventually..."
"Cleanse the mounds," she finished for him, her voice barely above a whisper. "Can you really do that?"
"That's what I'm trying to find out," he replied, his tone serious. "If my theory is correct, I could do more than cleanse the mounds. I could actually give Wen Ning a better body." He let that sink in before continuing, "I believe his consciousnessis attached to his soul. If he has the same affinity as Elder Wen Sihan, he could shed in some way this shell he is trapped in and cultivate a new body." Wen Qing stared at him, a mix of hope and disbelief in her eyes. Wen Ning remained silent, but the slight tilt of his head indicated his attention. Wei Wuxian took a deep breath. "It's a lot to process, I know. But if there's a chance to give Wen Ning a better existence, I have to pursue it."
Wen Qing's gaze lingered on her brother, her eyes reflecting a mixture of hope and disbelief. The idea that Wen Ning could regain a semblance of life, not just animation, but true vitality, was almost too much to fathom. Wei Wuxian, observing her reaction, felt a surge of determination. He knew he needed rest to refine his thoughts and theories, but the urgency to help was pressing.
"Is that even possible?" Wen Qing murmured, her voice tinged with wonder as she looked from Wen Ning to Wei Wuxian. Wei Wuxian took a deep breath, his eyes scanning the myriad notes and diagrams sprawled across the cave walls.
"When you told me about Wen Sihan, I began to reconsider my interactionwith him, it felt so real, so tangible—I could almost feel his breath hear his joints pop. It led me to question why I could perceive him so vividly, unlike other spirits. What made him unique?" He paused, collecting his thoughts. "Shamans establish channels to communicate with spirits, often through blood rituals and substances that alter perception. If they can converse with spirits long departed, it suggests that time holds no sway over the dead. For them, there's no past or future, only an eternal present and their reincarnation are nothing but small pochets of life spred acroos their karmic existence. It's a concept that's challenging for the living to grasp, bound as we are by time's linear progression. But the more I contemplate it, the more it makes sense." Wen Qing nodded slowly, absorbing his words. The implications were vast, challenging established beliefs about life, death, and the boundaries between.
Wei Wuxian continued, "If we can truly understand them—really listen—then perhaps we can do more than just communicate with spirits. Maybe we can ease their pain, help them let go of resentment, and offer them peace." The cave fell silent, the group absorbed in thought, each contemplating the potential this understanding held.
"The balance of yin and yang has always been fundamental," he went on. "They're not moral opposites—it's not about good or evil. Yin and yang are complementary forces, constantly interacting to maintain harmony. Yin represents darkness, stillness, receptivity. Yang stands for light, action, and drive. One cannot exist without the other." He paused, his voice steady but reflective.
"Yin isn't evil. It's simply the energy associated with death and the spirit world. But we fear it, because we're living. What truly gives rise to resentment is the emotional residue we carry after death—especially pain, sorrow, and unresolved injustice. These can tether a soul to this world, unable to move on." Wei Wuxian looked around before continuing.
"That’s why, when we form our golden core as young cultivators, our teachers stress emotional balance. Learning to release negativity is essential to maintaining spiritual harmony. Because our consciousness stays with the soul until its next reincarnation. And while most forget their past lives, a soul burdened by resentment can’t cross over. It's that resistance to letting go—spiritual memory steeped in pain—that traps them." He picked up a worn slip of paper, studying the faded ink.
"This is what I'm trying to do. To offer spirits a path to let go. Not through force, but through understanding. Too many cultivators today focus solely on extermination. They believe some spirits are beyond saving. But they're not. They've just been abandoned." She looked at him with an expression he couldn’t quite place. Admiration, perhaps—but he wasn’t sure.
“So,” she asked, folding her arms and leaning slightly forward, “how exactly are you planning to do that? By listening to every single ghost out there?” Wei Wuxian laughed, the sound echoing lightly off the cavern walls. He shook his head, amusement playing in his eyes.
“Heavens no. That would take decades—and I’d probably lose my mind somewhere along the way.” Her brow arched, clearly unconvinced. He smiled.
“I’m going to apply my mother’s method.” That got her attention. Her expression shifted—curious now, guarded still.
“Your mother?” He nodded, gaze turning inward for a moment, as if sifting through half-buried memories.
“I don’t remember much about my parents. Just fragments. But there’s something she used to say that’s always stayed with me.” He recited it softly, the words weighted with memory:
“Remember the things others do for you, not the things you do for others. Only when people stop holding so much in their hearts will they finally feel free.”
Silence followed—deep and thoughtful. He reached to his left and held up a sheat of paper, its edges worn and ink a bit smudged . “This array I’am designing—it’s not meant to fight. It’s meant to remind. To bring forth the spirit’s most cherished memories. The ones filled with joy, love, peace.” He looked up at her, voice steady. “If those memories can shine brighter than the resentment… then maybe the spirit can let go.” She didn’t speak, but something in her eyes softened.
“Light is always stronger than darkness,” he added. “Even a single candle can chase shadows from an entire room.”
"You are the brightest, kindest, silliest pest in the world," she said, rising to her feet. "Now go to sleep before I take out my needles." He squeaked in mock terror, then shot a sideways glance at Wen Ning and gave him a cheeky wink. “I thought Wen Ning was the kindest, you’re the brightest, this little radish here is the silliest… and I’m just the pest.” She turned, her lips twitching with amusement.
“I stand corrected,” she said dryly. With a small smile, she scooped a sleeping A-Yuan into her arms and headed for the exit, Wen Ning following close behind.
“Sleep,” she called over her shoulder, voice light but edged with warning, “or else.”
He gathered his scattered papers, stacking them as neatly as he could manage. With a sigh, he set them aside and stood, deciding to take a walk before trying to sleep. He needed fresh air—he had been cooped up in that cave since yesterday. It was late afternoon. The sun hadn’t fully set yet, but in the Burial Mounds, the light was already fading. Shadows clung to the rocks and trees like mist. The air was cool and quiet. That’s when he saw him, the old man, seated on a rock, clutching a wooden staff with both hands. His posture was still, too still. Wei Wuxian slowed his steps, something in his chest tightening. He could see the differences now. Why hadn’t he noticed it before? Had he seen other ghosts—spoken to them—even confused them for the living?
He stopped beside the old man, who hadn’t turned or even seemed to register his presence. His gaze was distant, unfocused.
“Can I sit here?” Wei Wuxian asked, pointing to the patch of ground next to the rock. The man nodded slowly. So, Wei Wuxian lowered himself into a cross-legged position on the ground, eyes never leaving him.
“Why can I see and hear you?” he asked after a pause. The man still didn’t look at him, but this time, he spoke.
“Because I wanted you to.” His mouth moved, yes—but the voice Wei Wuxian heard wasn’t external. It echoed inside his mind, subtle but unmistakable. He felt it more than heard it. Strange. Stranger still that he hadn’t noticed this sooner.
“Why the warning?” he asked next. The old man’s face remained a stony mask.
“Did you listen?” he asked in return.
“Not yet,” Wei Wuxian admitted. “But I will.” The man gave a small nod.
“Then you will know.”
“Why do you linger here?”
“Because I want to.”
“Are you… waiting for something?” Again, a nod.
“For you to awaken.” Wei Wuxian frowned.
“What does that even mean? Am I asleep?” The man gave a dry, almost amused snort.
“For someone so smart, you can be quite dense sometimes.” He tilted his head slightly. “You’ll know. Now go to sleep before the kind doctor finds you.” Wei Wuxian rose slowly, still frowning, his thoughts racing. He walked back toward the cave, passing a few of the Wens on the way. He studied their faces carefully now, wondering—were any of them spirits too? So far, no bells rang in his mind. But the idea unsettled him more than he expected. And with the memory of Wen Qing’s temper flashing in his head, he finally relented. His mind, thankfully, urged him to rest. He should sleep. Tomorrow was another day.