Chapter Text
Six months after the Sunshot Campaign
Of all the places the fragile post-war peace could drag him, Carp Tower was the worst. The massive bronze gates loomed before him. Xichen's hands were steady at his sides, but his chest felt tight, and he forced himself to breathe slowly.
Behind him, Lanling City thrummed with life—the clamor of the market square, the calls of merchants hawking exotic wares. The bright clash of aromatic spices should have been pleasant in any other circumstance, but today they only made his stomach turn.
Prosperity. That's what Jin Guangshan had always called it. Xichen had other words for it. Behind the gleaming towers and silk-draped balconies lay another Lanling—one the Jin sect leader had never wanted to see. Poor villagers huddled in their makeshift tents begging for food or a coin, anything to stave off their daily hunger and cold. Shady black-market dealers selling impossible dreams and hopes.
A shadow fell across the courtyard. Xichen's head snapped up, his body knowing before his mind could catch up. Mingjue swept down on Baxia, the saber's dark gleam cutting through the morning light.
Six months since I’ve seen you, my beloved!
Six months of letters that smelled faintly of ink and Qinghe's sabers clashing in mock battles. Six months of waking alone, of biting back words during endless meetings that he could only say to one person.
When Mingjue landed by his side, the smile came unbidden, unguarded for just a heartbeat before Xichen remembered where he was.
The urge to close the distance between them was almost physical—his fingers ached with it, the memory of Mingjue's calloused hands, the solid warmth of him. To shout their love to the world, to reach out and touch—his upbringing held him back like iron chains.
For they were always being watched now.
Appearances demanded propriety. Xichen bowed respectfully. "Nie-zongzhu."
A curt bow in return, then Mingjue stomped toward the gates, grumbling under his breath.
The guards on the upper towers were too far to pay close attention to the two cultivators at the gate. Xichen felt it was safe to lean close to Mingjue’s ear. “Jue-ge,” he whispered. “Is this how you greet me after so much time has passed?”
The moment Xichen's hand touched Mingjue's shoulder, Baxia rattled. Protective instinct flared—the sound hadn't been this pronounced since Nightless City.
Mingjue slowed, then paused. He took Xichen’s hand and gently squeezed it. “Sorry.” Then he turned, grinning, his dimples showing his delight. “Love, you take my breath away with your beauty.”
Xichen laughed at Mingjue’s nonsensical words, yet he tempered his desire and continued with their humorous banter. “Chifeng-Zun, you are shameless.”
“Yes, well, I love you too.” Mingjue winked, then looked up at the guard towers. “Are we being discreet, or do I take your hand and proudly announce you are mine?”
They hadn’t announced their betrothal, but beneath Mingjue’s billowing sleeve, Xichen knew he’d find the Lan ribbon tied possessively around his upper arm.
“That would certainly shake things up. But I think this isn’t the right time to be this bold. The topic of reinstating a Chief Cultivator will be addressed—again,” Xichen said with exasperation.
“And the excessive squabbling over land,” Mingjue added with distaste, his brow furrowed.
A loud creak thundered, and the gates slowly opened to let them pass. As they ascended, Xichen was hyperaware of Mingjue beside him—the subtle scent of steel and leather, the controlled power in each measured step.
The steep stairs seemed endless. Keeping their voices low, they discussed the state of political affairs—the unexpected death of Jin Guangshan, which had sent shockwaves across the realm. A heart attack, some said—others claimed the son had poisoned him. And then, there were the rumors of black arts involved—a secret society aiming to control the Great Five. Xichen had shaken his head at that rumor, but part of him feared that many of the smaller sects would think he was behind it.
Mingjue had his hands full with the Wen trials—appeasing those who demanded harsh retribution with Xichen’s insistence on giving pardons. Within the Great Sect Council, Xichen and his allies fought tenaciously for the reinstatement. Triumphantly, Wen Qing was named the new Wen leader. But this came at a steep cost.
During this drawn-out battle, Xichen and Mingjue had made enemies of the conservative faction. Among their fellow cultivators, they were viewed as too radical—revolutionaries seeking to transform their way of life and change centuries of tradition.
Xichen eyed the ravens circling above—the Jin’s trained spies, watching everything. Better to concentrate on something positive.
“Wen Qing was the right choice for leadership. We are joining forces to build a medical school in Dafan Shan. We hope to integrate music, medicine, and magic to provide new ways of healing.”
Mingjue scoffed, “To rely on magic is tenuous at best. It should be banned.”
A familiar knot formed in his throat. This argument again—this fundamental divide between them that no amount of love seemed to bridge. "Why are you so against using our powers?"
"One, it drains our spiritual core." Mingjue's voice was harder than necessary, and Xichen heard what he didn't say: It can be unyielding, and could hurt you. "Two, for every good purpose, you create an evil one."
The urge to argue rose—to explain about the research on stabilizing magic, about Wei Wuxian, about Wen Qing, and the possibility of healing Mingjue's fractured cultivation. But the words died on his tongue. Not here.
At the landing, Mingjue grasped Xichen's elbow and led him to an empty corner of the palace. The touch sent a thrill through him, an ache for more.
"Before we go in—" Mingjue's voice dropped.
Leaning closer, Xichen noticed the faint shadow of a beard across that square jaw. Fingertips yearned to stroke the rough stubble, to trace those hidden dimples only he could coax from the stoic leader.
"Xichen, are you listening?"
"Huh? Yes, yes, of course." Heat crept up his neck. He'd been caught daydreaming.
“Huaisang warned me that there is talk of our relationship. Many believe we're together to gain more power. And that you’re vying for Chief Cultivator for full control of the Great Sect Council.”
The words stuck like a blade between his ribs. The fear wasn't surprising, but knowing it was coming didn't soften the blow. "I never asked to be considered for Chief Cultivator." More petulant than intended, but there it was.
“You are considered the hero of the people. You have every sect leader’s backing except perhaps the Jin, Yao," Mingjue scoffed, "And Su.”
“And how they would like to see me topple.” Xichen had gained insight into jealousy and greed from his other life. “The Lan do not want power or wealth. Our only desire is to become a depository of knowledge and teach musical cultivation.”
Mingjue’s voice was gentle. “I know that, and those who back you, but we all know that wealth usually wins the war.”
“Not this time.” The words came out sharp and defiant. “We won using our intelligence and keeping our compassion intact. I don’t plan to give up now that we are so close to making great strides in bettering our cultivation.” A shrug. “Maybe we should abolish the position of Chief Cultivator. Let’s wait and see—”
“That’s an interesting thought,” Mingjue grunted his agreement, then looked beyond the palace doors. “Where is Lan Wangji?”
“He arrived a few days ago with his husband in tow. They came early to visit with Jiang Yanli before the wedding. She will be a wonderful asset for Jin Zixuan. She sees things with a clear head, and he is going to need allies.”
Mingjue nodded in approval. “He proved himself in the war. He’s honest and courageous, unlike his weasel of a father.” Mingjue leaned in closer, his gaze sweeping for spies. “But many of his own people don’t trust him.”
“Those rumors have no basis in truth,” Xichen scoffed. The gossip about Jin Zixuan killing his father? Complete nonsense.
“Jin Shao’s next in line to inherit the sect leader position,” Mingjue said. “If Jin Zixuan were smart, he would have him removed.”
Eyes widening, Xichen grasped Mingjue’s shoulder tightly. “Hold your tongue! That’s considered treason here. Jin Shao has the full support of the Elders and his peers.”
Mingjue’s eyes twinkled despite Xichen’s concern. “Fine, but you’re thinking the same thing.”
A noncommittal sound—but the silence confirmed it.
A final adjustment—shoulders back, robe smooth, every hair in place. Together, they strode into the hall. They made a formidable couple, both victorious generals of the Sunshot Campaign. Leaders of major sects and purveyors of magic. No one dared cross them in public, but this didn’t stop the whispers and furtive stares as they walked down the aisle.
The gossip swirled around Xichen—conversations dying when they swept by, only to resume in furious whispers behind them. The burning eyes targeted on his back should have mattered, but frankly, he was tired.
Tired of hiding his love like something shameful. Tired of placating the hate dressed up as tradition, greed disguised as propriety. Tired of fighting a vision that was slipping away with every political maneuver.
He would not bend.
Not anymore.
Cultivators should serve the people, not bleed them dry with taxation and turn their villages and land into battlegrounds for gain.
The hall was segregated by sect—the Great Five in front, lesser sects behind.
A hierarchy carved in seating arrangements.
Mingjue squeezed Xichen's arm before moving to join the Nie contingent, where Nie Huaisang lounged with his painted fan. The walk to the Lan section felt endless, each step widening the distance between them.
The Jiang sat right of the Nie, nearest the Jin throne—honored for the upcoming marriage. The Wen held the far opposite edge, a calculated slight. Wen Qing sat ramrod straight despite it, Wen Ning beside her, both elegant in crimson robes with their new symbol: a pink chrysanthemum, defiant as a raised fist.
The Lan sat farthest left, most distant from the throne. Icy sensations crawled down Xichen’s spine—the deliberate insult landed exactly as intended. The Jin had not forgotten who championed the Wen's reinstatement, and they wanted him to know it.
Wei Wuxian grinned and waved Xichen over to sit beside Lan Wangji. Pure exuberance—it drew a laugh that Xichen hid behind his sleeve. More than once, he'd blessed the heavens for bringing Wei Wuxian into the Lan. Whenever gloom settled over him, he sought out Lan Wangji's husband—and somehow, things felt brighter, like basking in pure sunlight.
“Wangji, Wei Wuxian,” Xichen bowed. “I’m glad you could join me.”
“Xichen-ge, I wouldn’t miss it,” Wei Wuxian said, not even trying to hide his smirk. “The political intrigue? The subtle insults? It’s better than the theater.”
“Xiongzhang. Will you be returning home tomorrow?” A glint of mischief sparked in Wangji’s golden eyes. “Or perhaps—making a stop in Qinghe first?”
Heat flooded his face—revenge for all the times he’d teased his didi.
Without answering, Xichen turned his attention to the center of the vast hall where Jin Zixuan sat on a gilded throne. Fidgeting hands, darting eyes—the young sect leader looked like he was searching for allies, or perhaps, an escape route.
Jin Shao sat to his left, bent toward his sect leader, speaking to Jin Zixuan in a low voice.
What was Jin Shao whispering to the Jin leader? Nothing good, Xichen was certain. The Jin Elders had an influential spokesman in Jin Shao, who had supported Jin Guangshan's every move. Whatever he was saying now, it would serve the old guard's interests—not Jin Zixuan’s.
Jin Shao’s gaze shifted from Jin Zixuan to Xichen. Hands sweating, unease coiled in Xichen's gut like a serpent. He grew uncomfortable with the direction this meeting might be heading.
As he cast his gaze around the vast hall, cataloging allies and enemies with practiced ease, his eyes snagged on a figure that didn't belong. A short cultivator among the Ouyang clan—eyes beneath round glasses downcast, his posture small, shrinking behind the mass of muted brown robes as if he could make himself invisible.
His blood went cold.
That careful way of holding oneself to take up little space while seeing everything. He knew it too well.
Meng Yao.
The man lifted his head for just a moment, and Xichen saw his face clearly. The same sharp intelligence, the same carefully neutral expression that could mean anything or nothing. But now he wore neutral beige colors. Not the steel grey of a Nie or the gold robes of the Jin. He'd found a sect, found legitimacy, found—
Found a weapon.
Xichen's heart hammered against his ribs. The vague unease that had plagued him since entering Carp Tower crystallized into certainty, sharp as a blade.
Meng Yao quickly lowered his gaze, melting back into the crowd of muted robes.
And now Meng Yao was among them—aligned with the Ouyang, perfectly positioned to poison the conservative bloc's ears.
Across the hall, Mingjue remained oblivious. The urge to shout a warning nearly broke Xichen's composure—to tell him about that silver tongue, more dangerous than any saber.
Mingjue's own warning rang in his ears. Jin Shao's empty smile. All the pieces were moving across the board in patterns he couldn't decipher.
We're not ready for this. Whatever this is, we're not prepared.
The political winds had shifted, and Xichen could feel the storm brewing dangerously close to the surface. He'd known some would stop at nothing to preserve the old ways, to keep power in the hands of the wealthy where it had always rested. He just thought he had more time, to dream, to hope…
Xichen's hands were shaking. He clasped them together tightly and forced himself to breathe.
Let it begin, then.