Chapter Text
All the way back to Cloud Recesses, Lan Wangji struggled to contain the storm raging within him. He had no idea what to make of everything he’d seen in Yiling. Wei Ying with the little Wen boy. A’Yuan. The destitution of the Wen remnants and their desperate attempt of a home in the midst of the Burial Mounds. Wen Ning, and everything his continued existence represented.
Wei Ying, outcast.
Wei Ying, in rags.
Wei Ying, farming in grave dirt.
Wei Ying. Wei Ying. Wei Ying.
His thoughts were so turbulent that he didn’t notice the turbulence of the sky overhead until it was too late, and a thunderclap announced sudden sheets of rain.
He didn’t have an umbrella.
Blinking the rainwater out of his eyes, he scanned the desolate road ahead for any form of shelter. Squinting, he could just make out the shape of a small temple in the gloaming. He hurried forward.
The temple appeared abandoned at first glance, but it was clean and tidy when he stepped inside. Wringing out his soaking hair in the doorway, he offered up a silent apology to the as-yet unknown deity for bringing his mess into their temple.
Feeling very bedraggled but no longer actively dripping, Lan Wangji looked around, taking in the modest altar and the iconography on the walls. He recognized it at once. This was a shrine to the Rebel God, Ne Zha.
Lan Wangji had never put much stock in popular religious figures, but as a dedicated scholar, he knew of them. The library at Cloud Recesses contained many tomes detailing the stories of various deities; as cultivators dedicated to serving the common folk, it was their duty to familiarize themselves with civilian culture. Lan Wangji was also aware that many deities were based on historical figures, but he had never seen evidence of a prayer being answered.
Tonight, that didn’t matter. Tonight, he was desperate. He knelt before the altar of the Third Lotus Prince.
He was unable to give voice to his prayer, but as he lit the incense and kowtowed, he begged silently and hoped against hope that the Rebel God might hear him.
Please protect Wei Ying. He has turned against orthodoxy. He is condemned by cultivation society. But he means well. Please.
His breath hitched, and he swallowed hard. Why would anyone listen to him? He was powerless; Wei Ying was a criminal harboring criminals, as far as society was concerned. What could a mere prayer do against powerful men?
But Lan Wangji was in despair, and there was no one here to see him prostrate himself for a desperate hope. Of all the deities he had ever heard of, the only one who might perchance take pity on Wei Ying, who had rebelled against orthodoxy and polite society, was the Rebel God himself. So Lan Wangji allowed himself a flicker of hope that karma had caused him to stumble into this particular temple on this particular night.
Please protect Wei Ying. He rebelled, but only to do what he believed was right. He rebelled, but only to protect those he believed wronged. Please protect him. Please.
The cold embers in braziers on either side of the altar roared to life, flames shooting halfway to the ceiling. “You’re not normally the praying type, are you,” came a voice from behind him, and Lan Wangji whirled, Bichen at the ready.
The figure that stood just inside the doorway was both inconceivably dark and blindingly bright. He was either absorbing all the light in the room or glowing like the sun, and Lan Wangji couldn’t make up his mind which it was. He squinted and shielded his eyes, dazed.
The figure chuckled. “Sorry about that,” the voice said. “I don’t spend much time in the human realm these days.” As it spoke, the figure dimmed—or perhaps it brightened—and between one blink and the next Lan Wangji saw a cloaked and hooded man standing before him.
The man was shorter than Lan Wangji, yet he somehow took up the entire room with his presence. The man lowered his hood, and Lan Wangji noticed two things in quick succession: the first was that his eyes were red. The second was that his hair, once released from the hood, flowed upward, like flames.
Lan Wangji realized he was staring and cast his gaze at the floor. His words were stuck in his throat.
The man laughed again, and it sounded neither friendly nor hostile. “You really are desperate, aren’t you,” he said.
Lan Wangji, not knowing what to say, nodded. It occurred to him that he had not spoken aloud this entire time, which meant that there was only one way for this man to know of his desperation.
He kowtowed.
“Oh, cut it out,” the voice said, exasperated now. “I’m not that kind of god. Get up and face me.”
Lan Wangji did as he was told. He wondered if he was dreaming.
“You’re not dreaming,” said Ne Zha (for he was clearly Ne Zha), rolling his eyes. “You’re in one of my temples, and your thoughts are screaming loud enough to wake the dead. I should know.” His grin turned wicked.
“You’re a protector,” Lan Wangji started, finally finding his voice.
“So it is said,” Ne Zha said. “The affairs of mortals are complicated. What is it you really want?” He met Lan Wangji’s gaze, and his eyes burned like brands.
“Can you protect him?” Lan Wangji whispered. “Wei Ying. Can you...save him?”
Ne Zha narrowed his eyes. “You remind me of someone,” he murmured, seemingly as an aside. “You’re both cynical and idealistic. That’s a hard balance to strike, you know. It can eat you alive.”
Lan Wangji had no idea what to make of this statement. He said nothing.
Ne Zha snorted. “You want someone to intervene,” he said. “Are you too afraid to do what you believe is right, yourself? Or...do you not even know what you believe to be right?”
Lan Wangji stared at this incomprehensible being. He had always been so firm in his convictions, in his belief that following the correct rules would lead to the correct outcomes. But he had followed the rules all his life and he still had no idea how to help Wei Ying. Even his desperate attempt to pray to a higher power, unusual but not incorrect, was going completely wrong.
Without really knowing why, he opened his mouth and asked, “Are there rules for everything in this world?”
Ne Zha threw back his head and laughed. “People make the rules of this world,” he said, “and people are fallible. You should know that by now.”
Lan Wangji had indeed begun to notice the fallibility of men. It made no sense to him; it did not fit the established order that he had been brought up with, so he was unable to reconcile it. It plagued him more and more of late.
Ne Zha nodded as if he’d voiced this maelstrom of confusion aloud in plain words. “Men will bend and break the rules to suit their own needs. Not everybody has noble intentions. Many are selfish and cruel. All too often, “rules” are just words used by powerful men to control those who are different. Never forget that.”
“What can I do?” Lan Wangji asked in a small voice. “Is Wei Ying destined to…” He couldn’t finish his sentence. Couldn’t give voice to his deepest fear.
Ne Zha crossed his arms and sighed. “Destiny and fate are also concepts made up by those in power to control those who aren’t. They’re just an illusion. Remember that. The worst thing you can do is stand by and do nothing. The best thing you can do is try.”
“Are all gods as infuriating as you?” Lan Wangji snapped in frustration, forgetting himself. It had been a very long and very trying day, and he was truly at the end of his rope.
The god he’d just insulted to his face burst out laughing, and he seemed genuinely amused, not angry, despite the flames that flared out around him. “Not even a little bit!” he cackled. “And most wouldn’t have the courage to say that to my face. I like you.” He was smiling now, almost friendly. His aura felt less harsh now, the temple more welcoming. “Hold out your hands,” he said.
Lan Wangji was suspicious; he suspected this rebel god was also a trickster god.
“Sometimes,” Ne Zha admitted. “But this isn’t a trick. Hold your hands out.”
Lan Wangji sighed and held out his hands. Ne Zha raised his own, and Lan Wangji realized that instead of human fingernails, his fingers were tipped with black claws. He looked demonic, Lan Wangji realized. His aura was demonic.
“You got that right.” Ne Zha was grinning at him. In his cupped hands, flames blossomed.
Lan Wangji watched, transfixed, as the flames took the shape of a literal blossom. A lotus. Within moments, the flames died down but the shape remained, and when Ne Zha extended his hand, he held out a living lotus flower.
He dropped it into Lan Wangji’s open palms.
“Keep this with you,” Ne Zha said “as a reminder. If the world won’t accept you, you have to change the world. The same goes for the one you love. Remember that.”
The lotus blossom felt real. Lan Wangji held it up to his face and inhaled. Its sweet floral scent rolled over him. The flower was as real as if it had just been plucked from its watery home.
“That one won’t wilt,” Ne Zha informed him. “It would be pretty rotten god magic if it did, ha!”
“God magic,” Lan Wangji repeated.
“Yeah,” Ne Zha replied. “Have you heard it said that humans were created by the gods, in the image of the gods?”
“I’ve read so,” Lan Wangji replied. “Did you?”
Ne Zha gave him a wry smile. “Not me,” he said. “I was born a mortal. Mostly.” He cocked his head. “What it means, though, is that...well. Humans are fallible. So what does that tell you about gods?”
Was this god honestly telling him that the gods themselves were fallible? He opened his mouth—
“Yes,” Ne Zha said. “Gods are definitely fallible. We are, after all, just people.”
His expression shifted, his eyes darkened. “Gods are capable of unimaginable cruelty, just as mortals are. But the gods have more power. You want to know why I spend very little time in the mortal realm anymore?”
Lan Wangji blinked, nonplussed. It seemed that he would be told no matter what he said, or didn’t say, so he continued to say nothing.
Ne Zha smiled, but it was a sad smile this time, and the shadows behind his eyes did not abate. “I can’t be everywhere at once,” he said, “and there are forces in the celestial realm that would destroy the mortal world if they could. They would burn this world to ash and call it justice. If we didn’t stop them.”
This finally piqued Lan Wangji’s curiosity. “We?” he asked.
“Ah, yes. My cultivation partner and I.” Ne Zha’s smile this time was affectionate. Loving, even. But his eyes were far away. “The worst thing we could do would be to stand by and do nothing. So...we try. We’ve been fighting for a very long time.” He suddenly looked tired. Ageless, but ancient.
Lan Wangji felt dead on his feet. If this god—demon—could feel such exhaustion at the memory of his endless fight, then what hope did Lan Wangji have? What difference could he possibly make?
What good was he to Wei Ying?
Ne Zha was shaking his head. “That’s not why I told you this story,” he said firmly. “I told you this so you know you have choices. Don’t expect fate to play out a certain way. You need to make your own fate. That’s what this is for.” He poked at the lotus blossom in Lan Wangji’s hands. “It’s a reminder. But also…” Ne Zha smirked. “It’s a talisman. You can speak to me through it. One-time use, so make sure to save it until you need it. I may be...busy. I am often on the celestial front lines.” He sighed. “But if I receive your message and am able to help you, I will.”
That seemed like a promise almost too good to be true. And with what Ne Zha had been telling him about the fallibility of gods…
Ne Zha huffed. “That’s right,” he said. “I’m sorry that’s the best promise I can give you. It’s more than most mortals get these days, I’ll have you know. From any of us.”
Lan Wangji frowned. “Then why offer me help at all? I’m not special.”
“I told you already,” Ne Zha said. “You remind me of someone. My cultivation partner, in fact. That little worried face you’ve been making? He used to always look at me like that. I’d do just about anything to make it stop…”
Ne Zha trailed off, and where before he had looked ageless and ancient, now he looked very much like a young man in the bloom of first love.
Could it be that…?
Ne Zha ran a hand through his flame-wild hair, a sheepish grin on his face. “Yeah,” he said. “We’re not so different, you and I.”
Then he met Lan Wangji’s eyes again and his countenance shifted back to ageless warrior. “I have to leave now,” he said quietly. “The fight never ends, not for me. But don’t forget what I said.”
Lan Wangji, at a loss for words, simply nodded and tucked the lotus into his qiankun pouch. As he did so, Ne Zha made a gesture, leapt into the air, and two fiery wheels appeared beneath his feet. Another gesture and a golden spear appeared in his hand, while a floating red sash twined about his shoulders. He was suddenly every inch the martial god that Lan Wangji had seen depicted in paintings and murals.
Ne Zha nodded to him one last time. “Good luck out there,” he said. The he flew upward—
—directly through the roof, and up into the night sky.
Lan Wangji had to duck as a shower of masonry dust and shattered tiles rained down around him.
He was exhausted. If not for the obvious physical evidence of the hole in the roof, he would assume he’d just hallucinated the entire encounter with Ne Zha. What kind of a god just destroyed their own temples? He brushed the dust out of his hair and shook his head.
The rain had finally let up. Lan Wangji could see the stars now, and a tiny sliver of moon.
He had to get home as soon as possible. His uncle and brother would be worried. He was already out way past curfew.
Doing his best to gather his wits about him, Lan Wangji set off down the road again, traveling at a less than sedate pace lest he be caught and accused of desecrating a temple.