Chapter Text
Drip.
Drip.
The girl’s eyes flutter open. Slowly, she rolls her head, trying to refocus her vision—where?
She hears movement to the left, but she’s too dizzy and it’s too dark; she can’t make out what it is.
She groans and tries to curl her limbs inwards, but she can’t—she’s too weak. It’s then that she notices the burning down her right forearm. No, it isn’t just burning—it’s pain as jagged as broken glass. Pain flaring, a lick of sharp heat up the inside of her forearm—
The girl opens her mouth to scream, but she’s too weak.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” comments a cheerful male voice from the dark.
The girl startles badly, but all that comes out of her throat is a thready croak.
“Shh, it’s okay. Just keep sitting there,” the voice continues, “and hmm, maybe close your eyes for this part. Nasty bit of business.”
Instead of listening, the girl blinks, trying to clear her eyes. She’s slumped against the wall of a dim alley, her legs splayed in front of her uselessly. The forest green fabric of her torn zhongshan1 tunic suit is stained even darker by blood from a wound in her arm. By the weak light from a distant streetlamp, she can make out a shadowy figure, tall and ambling slowly closer. Her instincts tell her to run, but her body won’t listen!
“Hey, hey, I told you not to move! You’ll only hurt yourself worse,” says the voice. It’s coming from deeper in the shadows of the alley. She squints and looks harder—
Crash!
The girl whips her head around. The dark figure is collapsed at the base of one of the walls. When did that happen?
Steadily, inexorably, the figure rises. As it nears, the girl sees its face—this time, a scream finally leaves her throat.
She recognizes that face!
Hazy memories of the night slowly come back to her. It’s the face of the man she spoke with at the bar, the one who offered to buy her a drink. The one who chatted with her about her honors thesis for an hour, all the while looking deeply into her eyes.
The one whose jaw dropped open so far that his face ripped, revealing teeth that were pointed and sharp, unlike anything a human should have. Blood drips down the corners of his torn mouth, but his eyes—they’re black, glittering jewels, hard and flinty like obsidian.
Entirely black.
Before the—the thing can reach her, she notices tendrils of sooty smoke forming around it. As they solidify, they wrap around the creature tightly. Just as the creature takes another step towards her, the tendrils begin to squeeze.
Dark blood splashes across her face. As she blinks it out of her eyes, she can’t help but scream.
In front of her, lying in several dismembered pieces, is the man-creature. A loop of bowel from the transected torso hits the dirty ground with a wet slap. Dark fluid slowly pours from the multiple cuts through the body.
The girl stares wide-eyed at the carnage.
She flinches when a shoe steps out from the shadows. The heel clicks on the ground softly. A black pant leg follows a moment later, then the hem of a bright red coat—
The girl looks up into the grinning face of a tall, handsome man, his ponytail sliding off his shoulder beneath a wide-brimmed hat. A crimson ribbon slides through his hair like blood—like the blood that should be leaking from that–that thing.
The girl can’t tell if it’s dizziness talking, but the man’s skin almost glows in the dim moonlight. He reaches one long-fingered hand out to her and something in her feels compelled to take it.
The man tsks softly. “Look at how he mangled your arm. What a messy eater,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re lucky I got here in time…”
His voice fades as the alley around her begins to spin. Black spots spread around the edges of her vision, blanketing everything until her world goes dark.
“Good night.”
“Report.”
“Oh come on, Lan Zhan, I just got back! Why is it always all work, all the time with you? Don’t be so stiff and boring,” crows Wei Wuxian. He leans over the back of a plushly upholstered chair, head tilted and Cheshire cat grin on his face.
Across a mahogany desk as vast as an ocean awaits Lan Zhan. He stares down the vampire opposite him from behind interlaced fingers, his elbows on the desk and expression unamused. Back-lit by late afternoon sunlight streaming through the wall-to-wall windows, Lan Zhan is glorious. The midnight black hue of his long, loose hair is a stark contrast against the white silk of his button-up shirt. Embroidered in delicate blue stitches upon the collar and cuffs of his changshan2 are tiny clouds that match those on the white ribbon tied across his forehead. From behind the round glasses perched on his nose, his golden eyes glint like those of an eagle.
Not deigning to give into Wei Wuxian’s antics, Lan Zhan repeats, “Report.”
With a sigh, Wei Wuxian dissolves into a cloud of cawing crows. A mass of dark wings and black feathers surround Lan Zhan’s body in moments. Stray beaks pull at his clothing and hair while erstwhile claws catch in the weave of fine silk and scrabble for purchase on slippery wood. The long-haired man remains unmoved until a mischievous beak tugs playfully at a length of ribbon threaded through his hair. His interlaced fingers tighten and he glares. “Wei Ying,” he says gruffly.
Wei Wuxian’s laugh sounds throughout the room as he materializes directly beside Lan Zhan’s high-backed wooden chair, his arms draping over the human’s shoulders. “C’mon,” he drawls. “You don’t have to be all serious and director-y when it’s just the two of us.”
Lan Zhan shrugs off the vampire’s touch. “I will not repeat myself.”
Wei Wuxian pouts and puts his hands on his red-clad hips. “Fine, fine. Have it your way,” he grumbles. Sighing dramatically, he twirls around the table and falls into the seat across from Lan Zhan. “It went as you expected. A blood-crazed fledgling was sucking some poor woman dry. By the time I got there, it was a miracle she was even awake.”
“Hm,” says Lan Zhan, a small furrow appearing between his brows. He closes his eyes for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Wei Wuxian takes the chance to look at him, to watch the tiny changes in his charge’s expression. He remembers how much more expressive Lan Zhan used to be, back when he was fueled by adolescent anguish and righteous fury. The years that passed were like individual grains of sand in the desert of time to a being like Wei Wuxian—negligible. How quickly things change, thinks Wei Wuxian ruefully.
“The fifth ghoul without a sire in less than a year,” says Lan Zhan.
“Mmhm,” nods Wei Wuxian, staring out the window over the other man’s shoulder. “Pretty unusual, isn’t it, Lan Zhan? It’s almost like someone’s out there purposefully turning people into ghouls…”
“Mn,” concurs Lan Zhan. “The body?”
Wei Wuxian smirks. “I brought it home like you asked.” He tilts his head in consideration. “I might have started the autopsy process a bit early,” he laughs. “The thing’s in a few pieces, but I’m pretty sure I got all of them.”
“Pretty sure?”
“Completely sure,” grins Wei Wuxian.
After a brief pause, Lan Zhan’s eyes fix intently on Wei Wuxian. “The woman?”
Wei Wuxian shrugs and flicks a white-gloved hand. “Oh, you know.”
“Wei Ying,” he presses.
“Lan Zhan.”
Silence fills the room. Wei Wuxian imagines he can almost hear the steam coming from the teapot on Lan Zhan’s desk. Finally, he sighs. “You know how it is. I put her to sleep and… well, you know. I drank whatever was left,” he finishes, looking anywhere but at Lan Zhan’s eyes.
After a moment, Lan Zhan says with finality, “Good.”
“Lan Zhan—”
“You must feed, Wei Ying.”
“But—”
“No,” interrupts Lan Zhan, golden gaze transmuted to stone. “I will not have you weakened.”
Wei Wuxian wants to argue, but it is useless. This is yet another argument they have had for years, both too stubborn to concede.
Before the silence between them can stretch into further discomfort, a knock sounds at the door.
“Enter,” says Lan Zhan.
Qin Su steps inside, bowing quickly. “Director Lan,” she says, hesitating when she recognizes the second person in the room. “Y-Yiling Laozu,” she stammers.
Lan Zhan gives Wei Wuxian a look that instantly reads as an admonishment: Behave. He nods for Qin Su to continue. Eyes wide, Qin Su does.
“We received word from junior disciples Lan Jingyi and Lan Sizhui that the tree yao they were sent to eradicate is stronger than they had anticipated. They are requesting assistance while they regroup,” she says.
Lan Zhan nods his approval. “Wise,” he comments. He looks to Wei Wuxian.
In increments, a grin spreads across the vampire’s face. He hops out of his chair and bows to Lan Zhan. “Well then, Director Lan,” he says, “that’s my cue to leave.” With a cheeky wink at Qin Su, he is embraced by a mass of shadowy hands, disappearing into thin air.
Lan Zhan holds back a sigh as his secretary gasps in alarm. “They will be safe,” he says. Though Qin Su does not look reassured, she nods.
Lan Zhan runs, his shoes slipping on the marble floors. Desperate, he pivots down a side corridor and sprints into the emptiness.
Behind him are the shouts and uneven steps of the men chasing him, echoing in the limited space. Unable to stop himself, Lan Zhan looks back over his shoulder, fearful that they are getting closer. He sees the first man turn the corner and stops himself from gasping in fear.
He nearly falls when he reaches the stone stairs leading to the basement level. There are unlit sconces on the walls, their designs older than the rest of the Western-inspired manor. It’s so dark that Lan Zhan can only see an arms-length in front of him.
As he reaches the end of the corridor, Lan Zhan spots an unfamiliar door. There are strange engravings across it: swirls of dark runes that he doesn’t understand despite a decade of arcane education with his uncle. Even more unusual is the chain keeping the door closed, so rusted that it looked like it would break under a few good hits.
With his chest heaving, Lan Zhan reaches the door—it’s a dead end. He can hear the men coming down the stairs, closing in on him. With no other choice, he takes a step back and kicks the chain, rattling the entire door. He kicks it two more times before it finally breaks. The chain slips to the floor as Lan Zhan heaves with all his might and wrenches open the door. He enters a pitch-black room and hastily forces the door closed behind him.
As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he is greeted by an immense space with shackles bolted to the walls and an iron cage taking up a corner. Though there are no torture instruments laid out, Lan Zhan immediately knows—he has stumbled into the dungeons.
Slumped across from him is a dessicated corpse, its arms chained to the wall on either side of its body. Dressed in ragged red robes with hair covering its face, even the gender is ambiguous. He approaches it with caution.
The door behind him slams open.
Lan Zhan spins to face the door, his back pressed to the wall beside the corpse. Cold sweat pours off him as his glasses slide down his nose.
“There you are, little Lan Zhan. You’ve given us quite the runaround,” says the first man, cocking his gun. Lan Zhan doesn’t recognize him, doesn’t understand why he’s chasing him down.
“Just shut up and shoot him,” says a voice Lan Zhan does recognize. Out from behind the first man steps his father. Despite his uncle’s deathbed warnings, Lan Zhan did not truly believe his family would try to kill him. He is no longer so naive.
“The Lan family legacy does not belong to you,” says Lan Zhan.
“It will once you’re dead,” replies his father as he aims his gun at Lan Zhan. “I have waited too long for it to go to a mere child. I don’t know what Qiren was thinking! Twenty years, I’ve waited for this,” says the man whom Lan Zhan once considered family.
A flash of light—and sudden burning in his shoulder. Lan Zhan opens his eyes only to see blood soaking into the white of his shirt. He presses closer to the wall, shrinking away from the men approaching him. Most of the faces are unfamiliar, but he recognizes people here and there. He memorizes their faces—if he makes it out alive, he will remember the ones who betrayed him, betrayed the final will of his uncle.
“Maybe I should take my time with you to make up for the trouble you gave us,” says his father.
Chills run down Lan Zhan’s spine. He and his father were never close, but he never expected the man to be so cold-hearted. As a child, Lan Zhan witnessed the grief his father felt after the loss of his mother. This is not the same man.
“It was your fault,” growls Lan Zhan’s father, prowling closer. “Had you not stolen her power—”
“I didn’t!” Lan Zhan yells.
The silence is like a vacuum. Then—crash!
Pain screams through Lan Zhan’s arm as he rolls away from a section of collapsed wall. There’s a smoking bullet hole where Lan Zhan’s chest had been.
Adrenaline spikes.
His father nearly shot him!
The rush of disbelief and pain that he feels is sudden and overwhelming. But now is not the time.
Lan Zhan scrambles to a stand, but he’s backed into a corner. The group of men approach him. Lan Zhan searches for an escape route, but there are none.
Warm liquid splashes across his face. He wipes instinctively at it and opens his eyes.
Bright red arterial blood arcs across the room and splashes him in the face again. It’s everywhere—the walls, the ceiling, the floor; everything is splattered with blood.
“What a treat to wake to such delicious blood.”
Lan Zhan watches as the beheaded bodies of his father’s henchmen are cut into ever-smaller pieces by thin tendrils of resentful energy. The pieces are sucked into the darkest corner of the prison, a shade deeper than any color on Earth or any void in the heavens. Lan Zhan’s legs fail him. He slides down the wall until his knees meet stone.
“Too bad the rest of you taste disgusting.”
Emerging from the endless dark is a man cloaked in pure resentment, the black of his clothing warping the world around him. He holds a black bamboo dizi in his hand and flicks his long, loose hair over one shoulder. With his skin so pale, he looks like death—until his bright red eyes flick open.
The man licks blood from the corner of his lips and grins.
“You Lans are always such prudes. A little bloodletting and you act like it’s the end of the world,” says the strange man.
This visibly stirs Lan Zhan’s father to action. He points his gun at the man, hands trembling noticeably. “Who the hell are you? Stay back! I am the head of the Lan clan!” he yells.
The man laughs like this is the best joke he has ever heard.
In a blink, he disappears.
He reappears before Lan Zhan, his body and resentment a shield against the boy’s father. Lan Zhan blinks up at him, too stunned for words.
“No,” the man says clearly, “he is head of the Lan clan.” Bending so that he kneels before Lan Zhan, the man inclines his head. “I live to serve you,” he says, quiet so that only the two of them hear. Something flashes in his red eyes—for a moment, they swim like quicksilver.
“I…”
Lan Zhan doesn’t know what to say.
“Do you accept?” asks the man.
Lan Zhan stares into those crimson eyes. He makes a decision.
“What’s your name?” he asks. He accepts the bloodied handle of one of the henchmen’s fallen guns.
“Wei Ying.”
Lan Zhan takes aim at his father.
“I accept.”
Notes:
1. This is the tunic popular in the republican China era that later became known as the Mao suit.back
2. A changshan is a traditional piece of clothing for Han Chinese men that combined elements of traditional hanfu and Manchu clothing. It was popular in the early 1900s and was often paired with a magua (riding jacket). Link to wiki article with images.
back
Chapter Text
“Don’t you think calling for a cultivation conference was a bit hasty, Director Lan?” asks Jin Guangshan, a patronizing smile on his face. “I heard that there have been a number of… problems in your territory.”
Unfazed, Lan Wangji sweeps a look across all the clan leaders. “And elsewhere,” he replies.
Grim but determined, Nie Mingjue gives Lan Wangji a sharp nod, arms crossed across his broad chest. In comparison, the other clan heads appear unconvinced. Yao-zongzhu rolls his eyes; Wen Ruohan looks at his nails; and a satisfied smirk crosses Su Minshan’s face. Even a glance at the man’s face is enough to bring back the old distaste for the former Lan Agency disciple-cum-new clan head. Su Minshan was expelled from their order of hunters and instead of leaving their world, he started his own sect using the knowledge he learned from the Lan clan.
“The Jin territories have not seen anything out of the ordinary,” huffed Jin Guangshan. “And the Wen territory hasn’t either, has it, Wen-zongzhu?”
“I have only heard about the trouble in Lan territory,” replies Wen Ruohan as he waves his red-tipped fan slowly with a shrug of his shoulders.
As other clan representatives let their questions fly, Lan Wangji looks at Jin Guangshan and Wen Ruohan with mild contempt. Both men are dressed in the latest fashion straight from the docks of the Shanghai Bund—finely tailored Western suits, newly starched and pressed. Jin Guangshan’s lapels are stitched in gold thread and he leans on an ebony cane topped in gold; perched atop his head is a matching hat. Wen Ruohan’s suit is plainer in comparison, but his burgundy silk necktie is a shock of color against the backdrop of his black suit. No hint of their shared cultivation tradition can be seen in their appearance.
Lan Wangji knows the other clan heads see him as a stodgy traditionalist, clinging to old values for legitimacy because he is the youngest amongst them. But this is not his reason for staying true to old traditions. It is because he and Wei Ying know that each successive generation’s cultivation abilities have waned as interest fades and old techniques are lost. Without someone like Lan Wangji reminding the Lan clan of where they come from, their cultivators would be much worse off.
“There’s also been unusual activity at the edges of Nie territory,” booms Nie Mingjue, his voice cutting through the increasingly loud chatter. Silence floods the room in the wake of his announcement. Nie Mingjue nods subtly at Lan Wangji.
With a grateful dip of his chin, Lan Wangji continues, “There were children among the ghouls.”
The silence thickens.
“But—but that’s impossible! Are you certain? Maybe they were—they were not so innocent?” a shaky voice asks.
Lan Wangji shakes his head. “There were too many,” he says, meeting the eyes of each clan leader, “Virginity was not in question.”
“Then they should have been turned into vampires! Are you sure they were not—”
“We’re certain,” says a clear voice from behind Lan Wangji. Gasps of the Yiling Laozu! are heard around the room as Wei Ying steps out of Lan Wangji’s shadow, materializing into thin air. He is a comforting presence behind Lan Wangji, his voice steady. “We found this within the bodies of the ghouls where a golden core would be.” Stepping forward, Wei Ying holds a small bead between his thumb and forefinger, its surface so black that it seems to suck the light out of the room. “Someone has been implanting normal people with artificial golden cores.”
Immediately, the room bursts into outraged exclamations, every person demanding more details. Lan Wangji glances at Wei Ying who gives him a wry shrug. This is exactly what they expected.
"The purpose is unknown,” says Lan Wangji over the din of the room. “What matters is the resultant ghouls.”
“This isn’t possible—”
“Who would—”
“How can you be sure this was the cause?” asks Jin Guangshan, his eyes fixed on Lan Wangji.
Wei Ying laughs, the sound giving the cultivators pause. “Do you want to know exactly how I peeled this from the abdominal cavity of the ghouls? How they looked just like a golden core spinning within a body?”
“Director Lan! You expect us to trust the word of a vampire?” asks Jin Guangshan, looking to the other. “How could we trust such a creature not to lie?”
“I trust Wei Wuxian,” says Lan Wangji with finality. He looks at Wei Ying and is rewarded with a toothy smile. Something in him wants to flush with pride at making that expression cross Wei Ying’s face.
Light footsteps echo throughout the corridor. Shadows lengthen as each person passes by a candle that lights their path. Its flame flickers—one, two, three, four. At the end of the corridor, the steps pause.
“Did you hear that?” asks a young man.
“Hear what?” replies another voice.
Something rustles in the distance.
“No, seriously, did you hear that?” asks the first one.
“Jingyi, just because you’re scared of the dark doesn’t mean—”
“What was that?” a third voice asks.
All of them fall silent. For a moment, there is nothing. Then—shuffling, like cloth against stone.
“There really is something!” a fourth voice hisses.
“Fall back into a defensive formation,” whispers the third person.
“But—”
“Listen to Sizhui,” says Jingyi.
With quick steps, they move backwards in the corridor and stop. The far end of the hall is dark. The light from the candles reaches only a short distance around them, leaving the remainder of the space threatening. The young men are silent as they await what comes, the sliding-shuffling sound coming closer.
The shadows at the end of the hallway flicker.
Suddenly, the space fills with ghouls, drool dripping down their lips while sightless eyes peer at the four young men. They stagger forwards on stiffened legs like drunks after a rowdy night out, except their hands are clawed and teeth pointed. Between the adults stumble the bodies of children, all of them just as mindless and stiff. All of them, ghouls.
“Swords out!” commands Sizhui.
All four sword points face the incoming horde, not a single one shaking. Awaiting Sizhui’s directions, they pause.
“Now!”
The four youths spring apart and, in a flurry of blades, drive towards the vampires. With practiced movements, each pair falls into a coordinated dance of blade and muscle. Blood fills the air as grasping limbs are severed and bodies collapse as leg ligaments are cut. The cultivators move backwards, leaving the tight corridor as their enemies advance.
Spreading out into the wider room, the four turn to their incoming enemies. More ghouls pour from the corridor, stumbling over the bloodied bodies of their brethren. Man, woman, boy, girl: an endless stream of empty bodies pours forth.
The young men breathe heavily with every slash of their swords. Sweat drips down their faces as their movements begin to slow. Sizhui holds steady, but the other three falter as the endless stream of dead continue their barrage.
“Ah!” a cultivator cries out, one leg giving out under him.
“Sizhui!” Jingyi calls out when he sees his comrade fall.
Sizhui glances over his shoulder, eyes widening when he sees the state of his compatriot. Before him, the river of dead remains endless. Making a split-second decision, he jumps back, helping his fallen friend up.
“Retreat!”
The cultivators run, passing through the open doorways and courtyard of the mansion. The once-beautiful doors now lie in ruin, paper yellowed and peeling away from the wooden frames. A lit candle falls and rolls dangerously close to a fallen door as the young men rush past. The horde of ghouls follows behind them, steps slow but relentless.
When the cultivators burst out the front gates of the mansion, their chests heave with exertion.
A shadowed figure waits for them beneath a tree outside.
The four stumble to a stop, maintaining several meters of space from the figure. The quiet evening is broken only by the sounds of rapid breathing. The moon bathes them all in gentle light.
“Clear?” asks the figure.
“There, there are too many!” pants Jingyi.
The figure laughs like Jingyi told the funniest joke. When he steps away from the tree, shadows cling to the edges of his form, not bearing to release him.
Sizhui’s eyes flick down and note the abnormality, but he says nothing.
The fifth man gives Jingyi a pat on the back as he steps past the group, then he reaches into the flapping sides of his jacket and draws two guns. One gleams bright silver in the moonlight while the other is as dark as pitch. Engraved on the first gun are the characters Suibian while the second bears the name Chenqing. The man tilts his head back, his burning red eyes peering out from under his wide-brimmed hat.
He has been sent by Lan Wangji as backup for the juniors after ghouls troubled them on their last hunt. Though he has full faith in the group’s abilities, the attacks on Lan territory feel targeted.
It seems he is right.
Wei Wuxian faces the wooden doors of the decrepit mansion, half-detached from their frame. Once grand in its heydey, the bright white paint has mostly peeled away from the outer walls. From the size and location next to one of the larger tributary canals of their city, its former residents may have been merchants or other humans of means.
He walks through the gates into the outer courtyard where he is met by a stream of undead. With a grin on his face, he cocks both guns.
Gunshots fill the night air. A volley of bullets erupt, mowing down the first line of ghouls. As more pour out of the building, the deadly rain continues, turning stumbling dead into mince in moments. The holes in the fallen bodies smoke gently.
The night falls quiet.
Roars pierce the air as more ghouls burst out of the mansion. Wei Wuxian hums as he evaluates the coming crowd. Despite the onslaught of monsters, he is unhurried as he reloads. Explosions echo in the empty courtyard as he fires another set of bullets
Rows upon rows of ghouls fall under the power of Chenqing and Suibian. Within a minute, the chambers click empty. Wei Wuxian hums as he checks for extra rounds and comes up empty. “Well, that’s annoying,” he sighs.
Holstering his guns, he faces down the remaining ghouls. Red light flashes from his eyes for a moment. Shadows stream out from under his billowing red jacket. Its black silk lining glows under the moonlight.
“Hidden Cloud, First Stage: Foundation. Unlock.”
Resentful energy floods the air, slowly blocking the moon. The night holds its breath.
With the sound of tearing steel, Wei Wuxian’s resentment opens its maw.
And clamps down upon the undead.
“This should not have been,” says Lan Zhan.
In the light of day, the run-down mansion is innocuous in appearance, its roof half-collapsed under its own weight. It could be any other older home, fallen into disrepair when the cost of maintaining a mansion of such size exceeded a family’s income.
Nothing of the horrors hidden inside shows. Corpses piled upon corpses. Body parts strewn into every inch of the inner rooms. Blood and gore splattered upon every wall, staining the fabrics and wood permanently.
It is more bodies than Lan Zhan has ever seen.
Lan Zhan is no stranger to death, but the scale of this desecration is even beyond him. Wei Wuxian watches his friend take in the gruesome sight, knows that Lan Zhan makes note of every tiny hand or foot.
Wei Wuxian hates that someone has put such pain on Lan Zhan’s face.
“They wouldn’t stop coming! The mansion was empty until we got past the inner courtyard, then suddenly a whole bunch of them showed up! They wouldn’t stop. There were just so many of them…” laments Lan Jingyi, interrupting Wei Wuxian’s thoughts. He places a hand on the shell-shocked boy’s shoulder.
“Our spiritual swords were able to stop them, at least,” adds Lan Sizhui, stepping over to Lan Zhan’s side. “They didn’t keep getting back up like the last ones.”
“Mn,” says Lan Zhan, kneeling down. He draws a finger through the blood pooling between the stones in the ground. “The resentment has dissipated,” he continues, an unasked question within his words.
Wei Wuxian laughs and holds out a hand to pull his friend up. “What do you take me for, Lan Zhan? I wouldn’t leave this much resentment out to fester. No, I cleared all of it up last night. Now all that’s left is the cleanup.”
Lan Zhan nods. Looking at Lan Jingyi, Lan Sizhui, Ouyang Zizhen, and Lan Meihua, he says, “Build a fire. Gather the bodies. Do not leave a single piece.” To Wei Wuxian, he adds, “I trust you to make sure.”
Wei Wuxian scoffs, “C’mon, you know me better than that.” Draping an arm over the clan leader’s back and shoulder, he nuzzles Lan Zhan’s temple.
Lan Zhan indulges him for a moment, but soon moves away. Always business with that one.
Wei Wuxian doesn’t mind doing the cleanup. It’s much easier for him to gather the smallest pieces when he was the one to turn them to human mulch. With his command over shadows of resentment and ability to use them as prehensile limbs, he should really be the one to collect collect what remains of this sad batch of humans.
He doesn’t feel much at the sight of so much death, but his head swims from the cries of the furious souls he absorbed last night. Only Lan Zhan catches how he moves more slowly, his shoulders heavy with the weight of countless lives cut short. It’s why Lan Zhan doesn’t push him to help their junior cultivators—the night wasn’t easy on him either.
As he walks into the depths of the mansion, Wei Wuxian opens his senses. Inside the dusty and dim innermost chamber, he finds a scene as horrific as that in the courtyard.
In the midst of a bloody array sits another artificial golden core. Gore splatters the black covered windows and the talisman pasted walls. At each corner of the array is a dismembered body part, blood pooling in a wide circle from where they were severed. Four limbs, an upper torso, and a lower torso; the only thing missing is a head. Wei Wuxian smells how each came from a different human, sacrificed solely for this ungodly ritual. From the vast quantity of blood, he knows that each sacrifice was alive when their limb was severed. It should disgust him, but all he feels is the familiar hunger begging him to claim yet more resentful souls.
Wei Wuxian knows that this horror predates their intervention. From the souls screaming inside his head, he knows that this array is the source of the ghouls, the reason for their pain.
He knows that Lan Zhan will want to see it.
He manifests a crow familiar and sends it outside, bringing a message for his master’s ears only. Mere minutes after, he hears the clicking of heels behind him.
“Lan Zhan.”
The clicks approach until he senses the warmth of another body at his shoulder. He smells the faint scent of sandalwood incense, comforting in its familiarity.
“This isn’t an array that I recognize,” comments Wei Wuxian. “The use of blood is interesting. It’s one thing to dismember body part, but whoever drew this wanted to make sure there was enough resentment gathered to create the ghouls.” He walks forward and dips a finger into the blood. It flakes off at his touch—brown, dried, and used up. He smells it and sighs. “Blood magic is already taboo, but it wasn’t enough for them.”
“Power lies in blood,” murmurs Lan Zhan.
Wei Wuxian turns back and smiles. “Power does lie in the blood. So much of the soul can be controlled through blood. I wonder how they figured that out—it isn’t something that’s written in the books.” Bumping Lan Zhan’s shoulder, he continues, “I made sure of that years ago. The last time a human attempted to broach the ultimate taboo of blood magic and resentment…”
Lan Zhan hums.
“Well. It was just before I was sealed, as you know,” says Wei Wuxian.
Lan Zhan nods. He takes in the horrific scene for another moment, then turns back to return to the juniors. “Clean this up,” commands Lan Zhan. “We will stamp out this evil.”
“As you command,” replies Wei Wuxian with a bow. He removed all records of the cultivation path he created for a reason. He has no plans to allow some nobodies to abuse it. Blood magic rituals have cropped up periodically over the many years of Wei Wuxian’s life, but few humans have successfully used the unholy power.
He has spent hundreds of years repenting for his mistakes, ensuring that nothing remains of his inventions and writings. Chasing rumors of resentful cultivation over the course of hundreds of years has not been easy, but it helps to travel much faster than a human.
It is Wei Wuxian’s mandate to eradicate all others who walk the path of resentful cultivation.
This ritual array reminds him too much of the years spent developing his cultivation path. Dread is a heavy mantle over his shoulders.
None of them ever understand what darkness they invite.
Wei Wuxian opens his palm and allows the thrumming spirits to manifest into resentful energy. With a wave of his hand, the dark mist spreads and slowly begins to absorb the blood and gore plastered on every wall. He feels the faint pull of a few new souls as their bodies are added to his collection, their voices dissonant to the din in his head. He twists their energy until they submit to his will, until they too join the resentment cleaning the room.
“Time to get to work.”
He walks around the central array, senses open to the rage and pain brewing around him. As the cacophony grows louder, Wei Wuxian pauses. There, like the feet of a butterfly touching the surface of a pond, he catches it. A familiarity to the acrid scent of the blood and the gut-churning jealousy.
Wei Wuxian smirks. Someone wasn’t careful around the tools used to drain their victims. And now he knows. There is a traitor in their midst.
Chapter Text
Lan Wangji’s steps echo down the cavernous hallway of the Cloud Recesses. The clicks of his shoes are brisk and his pace unusually rapid. His fist clenches in barely-concealed anger. With another breath, he releases his clenched fingers. He must remain calm. He recites his uncle’s old admonishment to himself—do not be overly emotional—and reminds himself that this problem will soon be solved.
The halls are empty of students and agents, an eerie quiet settling over the once-familiar space. Lan Wangji’s feet take him down the same path he has walked daily for more than twenty years.
In his long tenure as director of the Cloud Recesses, this is the first time he has ever dealt with a traitor.
As he approaches a set of wooden doors intricately carved with the relief of mountains reaching through clouds, Lan Wangji pauses.
He doesn’t wait long. Moments later, a figure dressed in a long red duster coat and a wide-brimmed hat melts out from a shadowy corner. The tall figure approaches Lan Wangji and lays an arm across his shoulders.
“Looks like it’s time to clean house,” he says, grinning widely.
Lan Wangji looks back at Wei Ying and nods. “Together.”
“Together.”
Lan Wangji places one large palm on a brass handle and pushes the door open.
Light filters through the windows, dazzling them briefly. Inside Lan Wangji’s office are the other cultivation sect heads, most of them impatient for their arrival.
“What is the meaning of this, Lan Wangji?” asks Wen Ruohan, arms crossed and face contorted into the perfect impression of faux-outrage.
Wei Wuxian tenses, ready to retort at the lack of respect for Lan Zhan’s office. Lan Zhan sets a hand at the small of Wei Wuxian’s back and gives a subtle shake of his head. Wei Wuxian is unhappy that he was stopped, but his cheeks heat at the touch.
“Our investigation has progressed,” says Lan Zhan.
“Progressed?” asks Jin Guangshan with a sneer. He fiddles with a golden necklace sitting heavily at his neck. “You’re wasting our time by calling another conference for mere progress when what we need are results,” he huffs.
Murmurs of assent spread throughout the room. Before things get out of hand, Lan Zhan continues, “A large group of ghouls was created by someone. Here.”
The room falls silent.
Lan Zhan looks into the faces of each sect leader and says, “The ultimate sin.” His sharp gaze falls upon Su Minshan and his mouth tightens. “Su Minshan. Explain yourself.”
Su Minshan looks around the room searching for assistance. No one is willing to throw him a lifeline.
“I—I’ve done nothing wrong!” he protests.
Lan Zhan steps towards him. Su Minshan stumbles back, crashing into Wen Ruohan who shoots him a dirty look before flicking the sleeves of his red robes.
“Your blood was in the array we found,” says Lan Zhan.
Su Minshan pales. Shaking his head, he squeals, “That’s a lie! I would never—how could you even know something like that?”
Wei Wuxian steps forward, a feral grin spreading across his face. He approaches the little rat with one hand on his ever-reliable Chenqing. “Now wouldn’t you like to know,” he says with relish.
“Him again!” exclaims Su Minshan. “Always that dog of yours… You trust a vampire more than you trust us humans! How do you know he isn’t lying?” Eyes wild, he looks at the faces of the sect leaders who slowly back away from him. “I wasn’t—wasn’t the one to set it up! I didn’t—”
Lan Zhan pulls Bichen out of its sheath. The cultivators glance uneasily around the room; most place a hand on their own sword. Lan Zhan points Bichen’s tip at Su Minshan’s throat and commands, “Tell the truth.” When Su Minshan makes no move to speak, Lan Zhan continues, “Now.”
Shaking his head, Su Minshan peers down the length of Bichen to meet Lan Zhan’s golden eyes. “I didn’t do it! You’ve always been so self-righteous, Lan Wangji.”
“It was you,” says Lan Zhan, moving his sword’s point closer to Su Minshan’s throat.
Su Minshan’s eyes narrow and his face contorts into a mask of rage. His hand rises in an attempt to throw something into Lan Wangji’s eyes, but he’s too slow—Bichen swipes down to pierce the offending arm.
Su Minshan lets out a strangled scream. In the very same moment, before Wei Wuxian can react, Lan Wangji feels a searing heat at his back. He backs away from the sobbing man clutching his bloodied arm to his chest. The heat at Lan Wangji’s back spreads to his front. When he looks down, the fabric of his white shirt is entirely drenched in blood. His glasses slip down his nose and clatter to the ground. The pain doesn’t hit until seconds later, but when it does, it is worse than being pierced by a sword.
“Lan Zhan!”
He feels arms wrap around him, but he is losing blood too quickly—his mind is already fogged.
“Lan Zhan, I swear—”
His vision blurs. The chaos of people scrambling around the room fades until there is only the hands holding him and the blood. The bright crimson spreads across his clothes like the unfurling of a rose, petals opening to unveil his unprotected core.
“If you die, I swear—”
Everything is colder. Cold, just like the hands touching him. Before he loses consciousness, Lan Wangji forces his head up. It’s one of the hardest things he has ever had to do.
His dimming golden gaze meets eyes the same color as his blood. When they blink, those eyes shine like silver under moonlight. Tears of blood roll down the infinitely familiar face. Lan Wangji reaches up to brush a tear away, but all he can manage is to smear blood across Wei Ying’s dear face. There’s something he must say… before it’s too late…
He opens his mouth to speak but no sound comes out. He tries to breathe deeply, but his lungs no longer obey—he coughs and chokes on the blood filling his lungs.
“—an Zhan—”
The familiar voice calling his name becomes distant. The cold seeps into him until he is numb, until he feels nothing.
Then he is nothing.
All of this has happened before.
All of this will happen again.
He watches as the only person he has ever let into his heart breathes his last. He watches as the radiance of the only star in his pitch-black galaxy fades into nothing.
He clutches his almost-lover’s hand until it grows as cold as his own. It is wrong in every way—as wrong as his own endless existence.
Lan Zhan was the first to have promised him a forever together. And they did have endless seasons together, decades upon decades of wandering the earth. But even several lifetimes spent as the shadow to his Hanguang-Jun is not enough, not when eternity was meant to be theirs.
Yet despite the excruciating pain, he cannot regret opening up his frozen heart, not when the alternative is not knowing Lan Zhan.
There is nothing he would not give up to know Lan Zhan.
Raising his head from where he is crouched like a hurt animal at Lan Zhan’s bedside is one of the hardest things he has ever done. To gaze upon Hanguang-Jun with his light snuffed out feels like a violation of the most integral laws of the universe.
Wei Wuxian sees the path of his future, the days stretching out like white dominoes broken up only by the shadows of sleep. A blank infinity filled with nothing.
For years, he grappled with the meaninglessness of his own existence, an accident of fate caused by his hubris. The result of a man who believed himself capable of controlling a power beyond that of a god’s.
And then—light. Illuminating his shadowy world was Hanguang-jun, protector of innocents; a man so good that he recognized the man in Wei Wuxian despite setting out to slay a monster. The first person in the vampire’s very long life to see beyond his appearance and recognize the loneliness instead.
Oh, the joy they experienced together—a cultivator and a vampire traveling side-by-side, helping the needy and dispelling evil wherever they went. Though the Lan clan hated that their shining light traveled with a being of evil, there was nothing they could do. Hanguang-jun went where the chaos was and the chaos followed Wei Wuxian.
That was meant to be their entire lives. Lan Zhan was so close to immortality—his golden core so pure that it spun with the gravitational pull of a planet. A few more decades and it would have been perfected.
Instead, he was betrayed by someone of his own clan. It was already too late when Lan Zhan returned from his final visit to the Cloud Recesses. The slow-acting poison that infiltrated his meridians had damaged his golden core irreparably. Wei Wuxian had still held hope that, with time and medical care, Lan Zhan’s core could be repaired.
Then, the attack.
Now, Lan Zhan is dead.
The Lan clan is coming for him. Yet this does not spur Wei Wuxian into action. There is nothing for him without Lan Zhan. His immortality is once more a curse.
It was always meant to be a curse.
Wei Wuxian lies his forehead against Lan Zhan’s cold hand and feels empty.
He is empty.
The world slows as Lan Zhan stumbles after he is shot. Wei Wuxian was so focused on Su Minshan that he did not noticed the gunman behind them. But there is no time for self-flagellation, not when red blooms across Lan Zhan’s back, the iron-tanged sweetness filling his nostrils like the bouquet of the finest wine. He hates himself for this, for the never-ending hunger. While his stomach clenches, he catches Lan Zhan and lies him gently on the ground. It’s all he can do to put pressure on the wound, but the red blossom continues to grow. He can smell it—each pulse of Lan Zhan’s heart pushing his lifeblood out of his body, the scent of the sweetest blood growing stronger. He screams at Lan Zhan, tells him he cannot die, threatens him, begs him—anything that can reach the one person that matters most in the world.
Lan Zhan is barely able to swipe one cooling hand against Wei Wuxian’s cheek. It’s all he can do not to howl at the world in agony. This cannot happen again.
This cannot happen again.
A loud thump alerts him to the presence of the enemy. At first, he cannot tell where they are aside from that useless man Lan Zhan stabbed. The sect leaders disperse the moment the doors fly open.
A horde of ghouls spill into the now-crowded room, blank eyes tracking the movement of each warm body as drool drips off their sharp teeth. Undead of all ages come rushing in, some half-decomposed while others are still cooling. They attack with no discretion and chase the living even after being cut down. The few Lan guards present are overwhelmed as screams rip out of their throats.
With rage and pain coursing through his veins, Wei Wuxian calls upon every soul dwelling within his blood.
“Hidden Cloud, Final Stage: Ascension.”
He summons their resentment and power, unshackling his final limiter and letting the spirits of the dead free.
“Unlock.”
As black resentment fills the crowded room, Wei Wuxian covers Lan Zhan’s body with his own. He pulls out Chenqing as he continues to put pressure on Lan Zhan’s wound, taking aim at an approaching ghoul. With a single shot to the head, it crumbles to ash. Wei Wuxian has a limited number of bullets created from his own powdered rib bone and blood, but he will use everything he has, for there is no tomorrow if Lan Zhan dies today.
Shot after shot pierce undead bodies. Ghouls turn to dust as they fall, but more squeeze in through the open door. They are so numerous that those entering through the door are crushed by the ones pushing in behind them, a sea of writhing bodies stampeding in a frenzy for blood.
Wei Wuxian allows his resentful spirits to kill whomever they will—all of the men in this room are culpable for the wound that Lan Zhan sustained, whether through inaction or betrayal.
If Lan Zhan dies, Wei Wuxian will ensure that there is nothing left to salvage.
Chenqing clicks—he needs to reload. Cursing, he pockets her and pulls out Suibian as dark smoke solidifies into black ribbons, shredding the bodies of half a dozen ghouls. As they turn to dust, more eager mouths take their place.
Sword glares fly around the room, driving into the undead. For every ghoul that Wei Wuxian cuts down, two moresqueeze into the room. The humans begin to falter.
Closing his eyes, Wei Wuxian calls the spirits back into his body. With his final limiter removed, they cocoon him and Lan Zhan like strands of black silk. They unfurl with a twist, releasing Wei Wuixan from their grasp. The form he wears is his most monstrous, with sharp, protruding teeth and his hair lengthened into ribbons of resentment. His clothing is replaced by a straitjacket of black shadow that moves as if it is a part of him. Wei Wuxian’s crimson eyes glow as he snarls, “It’s time you leave us in peace.”
The shadows suddenly fall as if condensed into liquid and spread across the floor. The ends of Wei Wuxian’s hair meet the ground and liquefy, pumping more black fluid around the enemy. The darkness reaches around the legs of the ghouls, pulling them until the black pool swallows them whole. The sect leaders are momentarily dazzled as their enemies are consumed by the ground, but when they realize what has happened, they look at Wei Wuxian with fear and disgust.
None of it matters. Not when Lan Zhan is dying and there is no apparent end to the ghouls.
Wei Wuxian picks up Lan Zhan, keeping him tightly wrapped in ribbons to stem the flow of bleeding.
“Hey! Where are you taking Director Lan?” shouts Nie Mingjue, raising an arm like he plans to stop Wei Wuxian.
Wei Wuxian’s eyes are so red that they seem to emit a glow. He snarls in anger and holds Lan Zhan tighter. “You dare to stop me?”
Nie Mingjue hesitate. His arm dangles in the air.
“He is mine,” spits Wei Wuxian as rage propels him out of the room.
No one follows.
He cuts down the ghouls attempting to enter Lan Zhan’s office with a wave of his solidified resentful energy. He knows there is someone bringing these ghouls in; he must find and stop them before he can afford to tend to Lan Zhan’s wound fully.
With his resentful spirits unleashed, Wei Wuxian’s senses reach further than they did before. He can hear activity on the floor below them; he sends a spirit to check as he takes off at a run. Doors blur past him, but he does not sense the living anywhere. Cursing, he reaches the stairs to the lower floor and jumps past them, allowing his shadows to catch him.
There must be someone summoning the ghouls. There must be.
There must be someone he can stop.
Wei Wuxian shakes his head to clear his muddled thoughts. His gaze falls to Lan Zhan’s face—placid but so, so pale, as if he truly is the jade statue to which everyone compares him.
Wei Wuxian can tell that Lan Zhan’s body is still the slightest bit warm—not all is lost. He thanks the gods that once failed him for sparing Lan Zhan.
The spirit he sent to scout returns with news: it found living beings in the basement. Wei Wuxian almost laughs. The dungeon is the only thing down there. Fitting that he will circle back to the beginning, like a snake eating its own tail.
He runs towards the place where he first woke and formed his bond with Lan Zhan. When he reaches the stairs, he sees that the door at the bottom is very obviously ajar. He knows that it is a trap, but he must find a way to stop the attack and save Lan Zhan.
Wei Wuxian sets Lan Zhan into a pool of his shadows, letting it cradle him gently. It pains him to leave Lan Zhan’s side, but he cannot risk exposing him to further injury. All he can do is hope that he can return before he is too late.
He watches as the light of his life sinks into darkness and is hidden completely. He cannot help the instinctive clench of fear as Lan Zhan’s face is immersed despite knowing he will be able to breathe.
Wei Wuxian faces down the door to the dungeons, the place where he was once shackled and abandoned for over a thousand years by the sect that promised to accept him. The place where a group of self-righteous cultivators chose to hide the evidence of their greatest sin: the murder of one of their own.
But none of that matters now. It stopped mattering the moment Wei Wuxian opened his eyes and saw Lan Zhan, knowing in his blood that it was his Lan Wangji.
Wei Wuxian takes out both Chenqing and Suibian, reloading each gun in turn. He slides their safeties off and takes the stairs down in silence. There is no movement inside the darkened room.
Wei Wuxian blinks. When his eyes adjust, he sees a man sitting calmly on top of the rack. His dark eyes shine like those of a beetle’s in the dark. When he notices that Wei Wuxian sees him, a wide grin spreads across his face.
“It’s really an honor,” the man says, flicking a penknife into the air and catching it. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
Wei Wuxian shoulders the door open completely and enters the room. Frowning, he asks, “Who are you?”
The grinning man continues to flick his knife. “You could say that I’m… a fan of yours. Maybe even the biggest fan alive,” he says with a laugh.
Cold fingers of dread crawl down Wei Wuxian’s back. He edges into the room slowly, vigilant for movement. Something does not sit right. The source of the ghouls undoubtedly knows of Wei Wuxian’s strength, but this man is too relaxed.
“A fan of mine? Well then, the least you can do is tell me your name,” says Wei Wuxian. He extends his shadows along the walls on either side until the entire room is encircled by unseen resentment under his control. If he keeps this person talking, Wei Wuxian will soon be able to catch him.
“My name is Xue Yang,” the man says. His grin is sharp when he continues, “Surprised? I told you that I’m a fan. It’s only fitting that you know my name. After all, I know yours.”
A shiver goes down Wei Wuxian’s back. There’s no way that this human he has never met knows his true name… is there?
“Ah Xue Yang, is it? Well, Xue Yang, I’m in a bit of a rush, so if you could point me to where the ghouls are coming from…”
Xue Yang’s jagged laughter interrupts him. “Where? They come from everywhere! Anywhere and everywhere the bodies pile up. It’s easy. All I need to do is give them this little thing,” he says, pulling out a familiar spherical object from his pocket, “and poof. Ghoul! There’s no need for any true vampires to even be involved.”
Wei Wuxian grimaces, recognizing the artificial core in Xue Yang’s hand. It is exactly the same as the one they found, confirming that Xue Yang—or someone he works with—is the one behind the ghouls.
“Tell me,” continues Wei Wuxian as he tries to buy time, “what’s the point of creating useless guys like these? All they can do for you is die again.”
“Who wouldn’t want an undead army?” asks Xue Yang, jumping down from his seat. The word army sets alarm bells ringing in Wei Wuxian’s mind. With the current political conflict between the Kuomingtang and Gongchandan3 becoming more violent with every day that passes, the idea of an army in either group’s hands would spell disaster.
“Look at what they did to the great Cloud Recesses. Look at what they’ve done to you, Yiling Laozu. They’ve helped kill your pet human, haven’t they?”
Wei Wuxian cannot stop the growl arising from his throat. Xue Yang looks pleased, laughing like he told the best joke in the world. Despite his nonchalance, Wei Wuxian cannot take this human lightly. Whomever produced the artificial cores is certain to be dangerous.
“They’re imitations only, nothing like the real thing,” says Wei Wuxian, stepping to the side to lure Xue Yang closer.
“Oh really?” asks Xue Yang. Up close, Wei Wuxian can see that Xue Yang’s face is youthful; he can’t be older than twenty. In his dark clothing and silver chains, he looks like the very definition of a rebellious teenager. It would make Wei Wuxian laugh in any other situation, but he is numb from seeing Lan Zhan shot.
“Yes,” replies Wei Wuxian. A little more… “They are nothing like me,” he says, and there!. His red eyes flash and light up the dungeon momentarily as resentful energy converges under his control, the shadowy spirits ready to tear Xue Yang’s body apart.
For a split second, he sees Xue Yang’s grin widen. Then the young man is buried in the souls of the screaming dead.
But instead of being torn limb to limb, the flurry of souls encircle Xue Yang before they disappear, sucked into his chest.
“You—” says Wei Wuxian, taking an unconscious step forwards. The souls—
“Me,” replies Xue Yang with glee, “I’m the one who recreated your notes, Yiling Laozu. I’m the one who will control you.” He throws his blade at Wei Wuxian who instinctively sidesteps the weapon. “Gotcha,” Xue Yang says with a wink.
White light fills the room as a complicated array centered on Wei Wuxian comes to life. Xue Yang walks to the other side of the dungeon and another, smaller array lights up beneath him.
“I’m the one who will surpass you, Yiling Laozu, Wei Ying!”
Wei Wuxian feels the array sucking at his power, hungry for the resentful spirits surrounding him. In moments, the dark smoke filling the room is gone.
Xue Yang laughs and throws his head back, gleeful as the resentful energy enters his body. “I will make good use of this power instead of being some clan’s pet monster. You don’t deserve it!”
Wei Wuxian watches coolly while Xue Yang basks in the power traveling to his dantian. His hands clench as the spirits of his former victims are turned into useless energy. Then he relaxes his hands.
“It’s power you want?” asks Wei Wuxian over the laughter. He smiles. “Then you can have it!”
He throws his hands out and lets loose everything and everyone he has collected over thousands of years of wandering, allowing pitch black shadows to explode out his chest. He frees the souls dormant in his blood to find their vengeance.
The shadows pour into Xue Yang’s body. At first, his laughter continues as a look of surprise crosses his face. He frowns as more enter him, the rush of black shadows endless while the arrays connect them. He tries to step out of his array, but the shadows keep him rooted. Soon, he is screaming as the souls of hundreds of angry spirits undoubtedly fill his ears and attack his spinning golden core. His screams grow sharper as the rush does not stop. He falls to his knees. Xue Yang looks up at Wei Wuxian with effort, pain etched across his features. “You!” he accuses.
Wei Wuxian looks down at the man coldly. What a waste of a young life. “This is what you wanted,” he says. Shadows converge behind him and form the semblance of a ghostly figure. A smile with sharp white teeth contorts where its head should be. In an instant, hundreds of eyes open across Wei Wuxian’s shadows and fix upon Xue Yang.
“A true vampire is nothing like those imitations.”
The flow of shadows stops and Xue Yang’s yelling ceases.
He emits a hysterical scream as an almost-audible crack occurs.
Then his golden core shatters, unable to integrate the thousands of souls that have entered him, unable to calm rage and pain collected over millennia.
Xue Yang’s eyes are wide as he stares at Wei Wuxian. He finally looks like the young man that he is, not the power-hungry creature he seeks to be.
The shadows inside him explode out, tearing Xue Yang’s human body into pieces as they leave him simultaneously. Thousands of souls shear his muscle and bone into bloody mince, unrecognizable as anything approaching human.
The blood rains down across the dungeon floor, saturating the old stones once more. His hungry spirits rush to eat it up, integrating yet another doomed soul into their midst. When they have eaten their fill, they return to Wei Wuxian and nestle back into his blood.
Wei Wuxian looks at the empty dungeon for another moment before turning his back on the place that was his beginning and his end. Dark smoky hands pull the heavy door back into place behind him as he walks to where the darkness hides Lan Zhan.
The shadows expand, allowing him to reach inside. He pulls Lan Zhan out and into his arms, cradling him.
“Let’s go, Lan Zhan.”
“Will he live?”
The clan physician looks at him grimly.
“There’s a chance, but he has lost a lot of blood. Everything from here is up to the Gods.”
Wei Wuxian snarls at the thought and the physician flinches. Reining himself back, Wei Wuxian looks down at where Lan Zhan lies in bed, IVs hooked into his arms and breaths shallow. He feels panic welling in his chest. Though he has no need to breathe, he keeps his breaths steady to try to stay in control.
“Thank you,” he gasps to the doctor, collapsing over Lan Zhan’s bed. He grips the white sheets and squeezes his eyes closed, willing the tears not to fall. The physician gives him a nod and leaves, letting the door of Lan Zhan’s bedroom close with a gentle thud.
Wei Wuxian lets himself stare at Lan Zhan’s face, his bloodless lips, his sunken eyes.
“I hope you will forgive me,” he murmurs, brushing Lan Zhan’s hair back. He presses a gentle kiss to Lan Zhan’s forehead.
He hesitates.
He leans down further and lets his fangs drop.
Then he makes a decision.
Notes:
3. These are the Kuomingtang and Chinese Communist Party. They were the two political parties in conflict over control of mainland China for many years until the Kuomingtang were forced to retreat to Taiwan. There is a lot more that can be said about them and the historical conflict, but I am no expert.back
Chapter 4: Epilogue
Chapter Text
“Director Lan!” chirps a happy voice. Lan Jingyi rushes towards Lan Wangji’s desk and almost drops the papers in his hands as he rushes. He bumps into the edge of Lan Zhan’s sprawling desk and plops the likely important documents onto it. “You’re back!”
Lan Sizhui follows inside at a more sedate pace, but his face also lights up at seeing the director. “We are so glad to see you recovered!” he adds.
Lan Wangji nods at both of them. Bandages still encircle his abdomen, keeping the stitches holding his wound closed dry. White gauze also wraps around his neck, tied tightly into a neat knot.
“Thank you,” says Lan Wangji. “Your business?”
Both the juniors turn a little pink and stumble as they explain the nighthunt they just completed. Lan Wangji takes the report with a nod and provides his feedback. Though both juniors look like they want to say more, they leave after reassurance that they would have time for questions once the workday ends.
“Good rascals, aren’t they?” says Wei Wuxian from beside Lan Wangji’s ear. His body materializes to stand behind the other man’s chair, draping insouciantly across its back.
Lan Wangji turns to look back at Wei Wuxian. Their faces are separated by a bare few inches. “They are,” he breathes.
Wei Wuxian’s eyes flick down to the bandages around Lan Wangji’s neck. He pulls back to stand with his hands on the back of Lan Wangji’s chair instead.
“Lan Zhan…”
“Don’t,” interrupts Lan Wangji. His golden eyes stare the vampire down. “I am glad.”
“Now you’ll be cursed—”
“No,” continues Lan Wangji, “I have been blessed by Wei Ying.”
“What kind of blessing—” cries Wei Wuxian, pushing away from the human to face the windows.
“The kind that allows me to be with Wei Ying.”
Silence fills the air.
“I don’t want you to live like me,” Wei Wuxian whispers.
“I know,” says Lan Wangji. “I have no plans to die any time soon.”
The tension in Wei Wuxian’s shoulders slowly dissipates. Finally, he turns and faces Lan Wangji.
“That’s a promise?”
Lan Wangji smiles.
“It’s a promise.”
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