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Jiang Cheng couldn't think straight.
His family was dead, killed by the Wens. He was effectively an orphan—can you even call a grown man an orphan? His a-jie was gone, slaughtered at the Nightless City. His a-die and a-niang were dead, massacred with the rest of the Jiang Sect. And his shixiong—
At the thought of Wei Wuxian, buried anger reared its head. They were supposed to grow old together, the Twin Prides of Yunmeng; his shixiong was destined to be his right hand come the day Jiang Cheng ultimately took the mantle of Sect Leader. But that dream had been cut short, quashed by the other sects. If it weren’t for Wei Wuxian’s reckless venture into demonic cultivation or his insistence in defending the blameless Wens, maybe none of this would have happened.
And that blasted Lan Wangji, he thought bitterly. If Hanguang-jun hadn’t ensnared Wei Wuxian, if he hadn’t been led like a lamb to slaughter, swept up in the Sunshot Campaign—
Jiang Cheng stewed in his anger, cursing his shixiong, Hanguang-jun, anything—everything—to the heavens; all propriety had abandoned him now. He raged and screamed until his throat was hoarse and he had no fight left in him, the four walls of his chambers bearing the brunt of his outburst. Shards of glass and porcelain rained down upon the carpet below as his hands grappled desperately for something, anything to release the overwhelming fury coursing through his veins—the teapot on his table, the potted plant sitting on his desk, even the blue-and-white vase lingering innocently in the corner.
Scenes of happier days burst forth from his memory: chasing his shixiong, drinking his a-jie's soup, standing proud by his parents’ side; each one more painful than the last. A sob tore itself from his chest, the sound echoing within the four walls of his rooms. If anyone could hear him, he didn’t care; the pain was too extreme to let him think of anything else. As the clock ticked, he cycled through memories—each one deepening the wound that their deaths left within him.
He thought of Wei Wuxian’s laugh, how it brought joy to others’ faces. He remembered the tone of his a-jie's voice, gently admonishing him and his shixiong after one of their spats. He looked back at his parents, a-die's fond smile and a-niang's simmering courage. Jiang Cheng replayed the moment when his parents’ corpses came into view, hands intertwined—together even in death. He shook at the memory of A-jie's murder, the monster’s blade protruding from her throat.
The weight of his grief crumbled down upon him, heavy from the years he spent suppressing his emotions; he had too many responsibilities to allow himself to feel everything. Closed away in his room, he finally allowed himself to fall apart—curled up on the hardwood floor, tears soaking into the grains.
Jiang Cheng was drowning.
He could barely breathe, water filling his lungs and poisoning his insides. With each pull of the waves, he went under—further into the swirling sea, further into thoughts of his fallen family. He struggled for air, attempting to fight his way to the surface; the chains refused to relent—he was fighting a losing battle. His efforts to break free of the whirlpool only served to bring him deeper into the ocean until he could no longer feel seafloor beneath him. Venomous accusations hissed into his ears, the symphony of poison crescendoing around him—
You should’ve tried harder, pulled your shixiong away from Gusu faster. Protected your parents better. Noticed the fierce corpse quicker. Yanked a-jie away harder. It’s all your fault. Tried harder, better, faster, harder, faster, better, fasterharderquickerfasterbetter IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT—
“SHUT UP!” Jiang Cheng shrieked, pulling at his hair. His cry was all for naught; the blame kept coming, circling around him like a predator facing their prey. He was never a claustrophobic person, but the feeling of ghosts and other undead closing in upon him was something he could not bear—not with all this grief running through his veins.
In his desperate, panicked haze, his vision zeroed in on a slender sheath on the table: Sandu. Jiang Cheng crawled forth, dragging himself towards his sword despite the screaming protest of his body. With trembling hands, Sandu’s gleaming blade revealed itself—his only salvation from the suffocating cacophony pushing his ribs tighter around his chest, clawing at his lungs, pulling him apart.
He picked up the sword, raising it against the army of resentful corpses beating down upon him. With each stroke, the voices fell; with each strike, the volume lessened. But with each slash and each fallen foe, a sting bloomed across his arms. Jiang Cheng winced but kept pushing forward, determined to defeat the opposing general. He fought his way through the resentment, bodies crumbling one after the other. The overwhelming ache in his wrists grew and grew, almost toppling him as he continued his relentless ascent.
As he reached the summit of the mountain, the corpses beat down upon him more aggressively. Sandu could barely keep up with them as rotting hands tore and clawed at his clothes, his face, his hands—anything they could reach. Just when he was about to drive his sword into the heart of the opposition, a particularly vicious creature cut down upon him.
Jiang Cheng frantically lopped its head off, but not before it let out a final snarl: It’s all your fault.
As it deteriorated into nothingness, so did the rest of the horde; one by one, they faded until the image of his chambers filled his vision once more. Jiang Cheng finally looked down; the sight of blood spilling in rivulets from gashes littering his sleeves sent a wave of horror through him. Did he do that? No, he couldn’t have—he was fighting demons—
Sandu clattered from his hands, the sound of it echoing through his chambers. Bright liquid glistened along its blade, staining the wood a deep crimson. Everything was red. His sleeves had red blossoms flowering across the fabric. A pool of red slithered along the floorboards, burrowing between the cracks and into the fibers of his carpet. Red splattered onto his robes, staining its purple a dark magenta.
He did this.
Jiang Cheng was ready.
He sat upon his bed, meditating, preparing for the upcoming battle—he would properly face the general this time. Sandu lay before him, dried blood from past attempts coating his blade. All previous tries had failed; the opposing leader’s face turned into someone he loved—a-jie, Wei Wuxian, a-die, a-niang—just as he was about to drive Sandu into its chest. He would drop his sword every time, unable to bring himself to commit the act.
As his vision cleared, he would realize each time that Sandu dug into his ribs, his stomach, his throat. He had long since come to terms with it; he, too, must die to defeat the enemy. He was ready to make that sacrifice—just as his shixiong did, as maddening as this similarity was—to trade his life to put an end to evil of his own creation.
Bandages snaked around his torso, hastily applied by his own shaking hands; what remained of the slowly rebuilding Jiang Sect would never discover this war that their own Sandu Shengshou had been fighting. Despite his slight reluctance at depriving them of a sect leader once more, he trusted the newly appointed elders; they could continue the job without him. He would be with his family in the afterlife, chasing his shixiong in mock outrage as his a-jie and parents looked on in fond exasperation. He could see his people again, with voices he had long since forgotten the sound of and faces he saw only in his dreams—shidis who died too young, elders who didn’t live long enough.
Sandu was pointed at the enemy, the two of them circling each other on a barren battlefield. There was no need for the army of corpses anymore, not when Jiang Cheng no longer cowered behind a feeble excuse of a shield and the voices had thrummed in the background of his mind for so long. He was prepared—his mind willing, despite the burning fear within his heart—to do anything to put an end to the plague that had feasted upon his psyche for months.
He thrust his blade forward, a solemn prayer on his lips—Elders, forgive me; this may be the last enemy that I face.
As he and the dark mass that was his opponent clashed, he was distinctly aware of a thick liquid dripping down his abdomen; had Sandu pierced him already? The general fought back, of course—its attack manifested as whispers, worse this time: Will you die, then? Will you abandon Yunmeng, just as Wei Wuxian did? And what would your mother say, the great and powerful Madam Yu, how would she react to her precious heir forsaking everything she fought for?
He could feel it now, the cold bite of Sandu’s blade enveloped in tender flesh; the pain barely registered, his mind too focused on winning this fight. He was sure he had torn his wrappings—the infirmary nurse would have a fit, that much was true—but he was too far gone to care. Where was his blade now? Would it be wrapped within his ribs, sliding into its new sheath? Or would it be tasting his breath within his throat?
He was just upon the opponent now, its throat so close—just a bit closer, and maybe he could drive Sandu into it, too. Jiang Cheng saw Sandu’s tip upon the skeleton’s chest, could feel it digging into his own, a trickle of blood falling from his mouth. Victory was near; the voices were quieting—a tell-tale sign of its power weakening. Before he could deliver the killing blow, however, a shrill cry pierced the air—Jin Ling.
The toddler's wail cleared his mind better than the Lan Clan’s Song of Clarity ever could, bringing him back to the present. His nephew stood in the open doorway, his toy half-forgotten on the floor as his eyes took in the sight of his uncle before him, bloodied and injured.
“Jiujiu!” Fat tears dripped from his chin. “Jiujiu is dead!”
Jiang Cheng raised his head, holding both arms out to Jin Ling as he made weak shushing noises. “No, Jin Ling, jiujiu hasn’t died yet—he’s just... just injured, that’s all.”
Jin Ling’s figure crashed into his chest, making Jiang Cheng wince—but his nephew mattered more than his own pain. In this moment, Jiang Cheng cared not whether his steadily bleeding wound had stained Jin Ling’s clothes; all that mattered was getting the child to stop sobbing.
As uncle and nephew held each other—one broken, the other breaking—Jiang Cheng remembered the final promise he made to his sister: Take care of my son.
I promise you, a-jie, Jiang Cheng hoped his sister could hear him, wherever she was. Your son will not lose another parental figure.
Jiang Cheng survived that day, though only just; his salvation came not in the form of victory, but through the last remnant of his family.