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Cold.
It's the first thought that hits him when he disembarks the Starskiff — an unpleasant chill that pricks against his skin, snaking its way into his armour.
The air here is considerably thinner than back in the Xianzhou Luofu, typical of mountainous terrain. That is not to say, however, that he remotely enjoys such a climate.
Jing Yuan sighs, watching wearily as his breath condenses into a thin mist before his face. His back is flaring up again, an unfortunate side effect of being the longest reigning General in history.
Rarely is he sent to the frontlines these days. He'd attribute it to his preference for tactical warfare over actual combat, the past seven hundred years of the Luofu’s hard-earned peace and of course his own age.
More so because of his age.
(Can one blame him? He's been on more campaigns than most of his soldiers have battles. He's been an unmoving constant in the flagship's annals for centuries, the lone survivor throughout its darker days. And yet, somehow, such a feat feels less impressive than it should be.)
But everyone answers to the command of Marshal Hua, regardless of rank. In this case, he's been sent to a planet west of the Xianzhou Yuque. An alpine climate hosting a fairly small population, and miraculously unreached by the parasitic tendrils of the Plagues Author.
Until recently, that is. The Marshal has decidedly deployed a sizeable fleet of the Luofu’s Cloud Knights alongside the Yuque’s smaller battalion, Jing Yuan himself included. A month-long expedition, based on what appears to be no more than a hunch.
(He's not even sure what they're supposed to be looking for, but the Marshal’s words are law.)
There are perhaps half a dozen pairs of curious eyes on his company as they trudge through the heart of the civilisation, a rather quaint little village situated at the top of the mountains. This is, after all, probably the largest brigade they’ve ever seen, not to mention a foreign legion.
We might have more troops than they have residents. Jing Yuan isn’t one to discriminate, but even he finds himself wondering why the Marshal would deploy such a massive squadron for such a minute population.
*
The lodgings they’re provided with are certainly… something.
Of course, as a General of wartime, he’s nothing short of familiar with shabby accommodation. He has definitely camped under far worse conditions — sleeping in the trenches would rank somewhere near the bottom — but calling this a dwelling feels like a stretch at best.
Patches of mould seeping into the wooden walls, trailing along the crevices akin to a grotesque spider web. The walls themselves do little to shelter them from the cold, what with the frigid draught worming its way through the gaps. A thin mattress, a couple of rickety chairs, and a table on its last leg — literally.
Perhaps this is what centuries of peace does to a person, Jing Yuan thinks wryly. He watches with an odd sense of fascination as a girl he recognises as the innkeeper’s daughter lets herself into the room. She flops onto a chair beside him, slumping her arms against the wood.
“A strale for your thoughts?” he asks, less out of genuine concern than from some kind of morbid intrigue.
The girl doesn't hesitate. “Grown-ups are so annoying,” she laments, throwing her hands up in the air. “They always think they know best.”
“But I'm a grown-up too, aren't I?” The General points out, smiling faintly.
“That’s different. You're not from here, you know? Everyone here says to stay away from the forest behind the village.” The girl pouts, crossing her arms. “I think it’s stupid.”
“A forest?” Montane vegetation is far from unheard of, but for an entire forest to flourish atop such a terrain, not to mention on its peak, is much less common.
The girl visibly lights up. “Yeah! It’s this huge area with a lot of trees and these pretty purple flowers, and it’s really warm.” She waves her arms around to illustrate her point, the motion deliberately exaggerated. “Like, it’s kind of cold everywhere here, but the forest is actually warm. And there’s this big blue bird with pretty feathers that takes care of the forest, I think.”
“Tanya! Don’t bother the General with your fairytale nonsense!”
The girl snaps her head around, glaring at her mother’s approaching figure. “But Ma, the bird is real! I’ve seen him with my own eyes!”
“And if this bird is really as nice as you make of him, we wouldn’t have found you passed out in the snow.”
Tanya falls silent at that, stalking away sulkily.
Her mother shakes her head, before turning to Jing Yuan. “My sincerest apologies, General. Tanya has a bit of an overactive imagination.”
“It’s quite alright,” Jing Yuan says, waving her off dismissively. “It’s been a while since someone talked to me this freely. A rather refreshing change, if I must admit.”
The latter seems to catch the connotation of his statement.
“Ah.” She almost looks guilty now, the way she glances around, as if making sure that her daughter is out of earshot.
She sighs heavily.
“It’s just… Tanya sneaks out regularly to the forest. We’re not sure why that forest appeals to her so much, but we just pretended not to notice as long as she returned safely. Let a girl have her fun, you know? Until she got caught in a blizzard, once. We later found her curled up at the edge of the forest, barely breathing.”
The woman sucks in a breath. “She keeps talking about some bird. I know as her mother I really shouldn't dismiss her beliefs like that, but the way she describes him… it’s not just one of her fantasies. It sounds real. And that’s what I worry about.”
“Surely it isn't that big an issue if it is?” the General hums, tilting his head. And if it is, why by Lan's arrows would you allow your child to be anywhere near the source of danger?
He doesn't vocalise that second question, of course.
“No, you don't understand.” The innkeeper's voice drops to a whisper, anxious eyes darting around before she speaks again. “There are… rumours about that forest. Usually I'm not the type to believe in such gossip, but after what happened to Tanya, I fear there may be some truth to it.”
There's a pregnant pause as Jing Yuan digests the latter's ramblings — the peculiarities of the forest certainly sound worthy of some investigation, whether the rumours are true or not. A simple reconnaissance should be alright.
“I'll keep that in mind,” he says finally, offering a nod of assurance.
*
There's a certain majesty to the sprawling greenery around him — to the soothing warmth the forest seems to be perpetually cloaked in, resilient amidst the everwinter beyond its span, to the luxuriant diversity of its foliage, ebullient and teeming with life. It almost feels like a planet of its own, broken only by a gentle quilt of snow lain across the grass.
Perhaps under other circumstances, Jing Yuan might have appreciated the lushness of the flora and fauna thriving in a single forest, but there's only so much one can appreciate from passing by the same patch of ferns for the fourth time in a row.
Standard protocol would've suggested sending in a small party of scouts, but the innkeeper's words had admittedly piqued his curiosity. Besides, he doubts that anyone would dare report a violation on the Arbiter-General’s part.
Now, however, he's beginning to think his choice to go alone might have been an unfortunate lapse of judgement.
“Are you lost, Mister?”
Jing Yuan whirls around faster than his Synesthesia Beacon can finish translating the question, the sharpened end of his glaive pointed at… a boy?
He appears about fifteen, dressed in plain azure robes, with flowing blond hair tied neatly into a high ponytail. A violet cloth is wrapped over his eyes.
A blindfold, the General realises, faltering. There’s a bitter taste on his tongue.
(For the sight before him feels too reminiscent of the Master who’d trained her student to become her executioner, the Master who’d fallen prey to the whispering tendrils of insanity, the Master he had been forced to strike down with his own two hands.)
The boy appears unfazed, beaming. Perhaps oblivious to the blade that is being held dangerously close to his face.
“You’ve got a pretty spear,” he says brightly, reaching out to trace the ornate carvings on the weapon with his fingers.
Perhaps not.
“It’s a guandao.” Jing Yuan purses his lips, lowering the glaive. Few would dare come near the prized weapon of the Divine Foresight. Even fewer would actually dare to touch it.
It then occurs to him that maybe the boy simply doesn't know.
He frowns slightly. It would make some sense, if the boy has lived his entire life on this planet, but the thought does nothing to explain for a blindfolded child in the middle of a forest.
“Where are your parents?”
The boy tilts his head, his blond locks spilling to his shoulder. Jing Yuan notes the bird-shaped hairclip pinned to his ponytail, its silvery wings glinting under the wintry sunlight.
“Parents?”
Oh. Oh.
“I’m Jing Yuan,” he says gently, offering him a smile. Providing his name should be harmless enough, given the boy’s apparent lack of knowledge about the Xianzhou. Still, there’s no need to mention his rank or title. “What about you?”
The boy seems to stare into the distance despite his blindfold, his gaze abruptly pensive. When he looks up again, his mouth is curled into a childlike pout. “I don’t have a name.”
That's… unexpected.
Jing Yuan conceals his surprise behind a carefully blank face, though he doubts the latter can actually see it. “How should I address you, then?”
There’s a long pause before he gets an answer.
“…Yanzi¹,” The boy finally mumbles as he fiddles with his fingers, suddenly self-conscious.
Swallow. The General blinks. The word can hardly even be considered a name, but he's more fixated on the choice of bird itself.
(A species known to migrate far and wide to escape the biting cold. There's a twisted sort of irony to it, finding a lone fledgling stranded in the snow.)
“I— Someone used to call me that. I think it sounds nice.” He shakes his head furiously, a pinkish tinge colouring his cheeks. “Never mind. Forget I said that.”
It should be distasteful, maybe even scandalous, the way Jing Yuan thinks his reaction is utterly adorable.
“I think Yanzi is a beautiful name,” he says slowly, as if tasting each syllable on his tongue. “Quite suitable for a little bird, don’t you think?”
The boy — Yanzi — huffs in indignation. “I’m not little.”
“You barely reach my shoulder, xiao yan’zi,” Jing Yuan points out, watching with thinly-veiled amusement as the latter splutters, stamping his foot.
He’s not wearing any shoes, he realises suddenly. The boy’s bare soles are practically silent against the snow — it’s no wonder the General had missed him approaching earlier on.
The thought is also mildly disconcerting, if being barefooted is all it takes for an assassin to catch him off guard.
Yanzi clears his throat.
“Well,” he begins, his voice an octave higher than normal as he turns on his heel. “I guess that means Mister Tall-Mature-Adult doesn't need my help then.”
Wait, what?
“I merely jest,” Jing Yuan says hastily, raising his arms before his chest in surrender. Immediately the boy swerves around, a triumphant grin etched on his features, and the General thinks his eyes must be curving smugly underneath the blindfold.
Yanzi reaches up to pat his shoulder — the boy’s fingers are surprisingly cold despite the warmer temperature surrounding them. “Checkmate.”
In such a situation, Huaiyan might offer some comfort, perhaps talk of his own experiences with children while the ghost of a smile tugs at the corners of his lips. Feixiao would just laugh straight at his face.
It’s with no little relief that Yanzi chooses to drop the matter there, occupied instead with introducing the various species of the verdure around them as he walks beside the General. Jing Yuan, on his part, shares about his life on the Luofu, carefully omitting any details that may reveal too much about his identity.
Eventually a clearing comes into view, the stark whiteness of ice and snow sharply juxtaposing the gentler greens of foliage.
“Thank you for…” Jing Yuan trails off when he realises Yanzi is no longer next to him. He turns around to see the boy standing at the very edge of the forest, not a step more.
Like a threshold, his mind supplies. He quashes the thought. “Do you not have somewhere to go?”
“I live here.”
The General tilts his head. “In the forest?”
“Yeah. I’m not actually from around here,” the boy admits, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly. “The village’s too cold. And — well — the locals don’t really like me.”
Oh? The General raises an eyebrow. Yanzi seems harmless enough. What would the people here have against a child?
“It was nice meeting you,” he says instead, smiling lightly. The happenings of this planet are really none of his business; it isn’t his place to pry.
The General gazes into the distance. He can make out the vague outline of the village, ashen tendrils of smoke curling from the chimneys.
“Wait, I—” Jing Yuan swerves his head around, but the boy is already gone.
*
He meets Tanya again, the girl digging rather fruitlessly at a massive pile of snow by the roadside.
“Perfect timing.” She tosses him a spade. “I could use some help.”
Jing Yuan stares at the instrument in his hand. “Surely you have… larger equipment for this?”
The latter gives him a look. “Aren’t grown-ups supposed to be good at figuring things out?”
“Then pardon an old man for being clueless,” he says with a slight chuckle. Tanya’s eyes widen, before she turns away with a soft hmph.
The conversation is left at that. The two of them work in silence, save for the muted shuffling of snow.
“The bird saved me, you know.”
Jing Yuan looks up. The girl looks uncharacteristically wistful, her eyebrows furrowed with frustration — the frustration of being constantly disregarded. “He shielded me from the blizzard with his wings. Took the brunt of the storm himself. I would have died.”
“Your mother said you were found alone at the edge of the forest,” the General points out, to which Tanya frowns.
“Ma doesn’t know anything,” she snaps, aggrieved. “She doesn’t even believe in those rumours. It’s just a convenient excuse for her distaste towards the forest.”
A pause. The girl inhales deeply. “Sorry.”
“It’s alright,” the General hums, shaking his head. Then, after a moment, “Did something happen there to requite her aversion?”
“I don’t know.” Tanya bites her lip. “Something definitely happened, and she scolds me when I ask.”
She stabs her shovel into the snowpack, collapsing onto the ground with a resigned sigh. “She’ll tell everyone she’s just worried for my safety, but she never liked that forest. I think that… incident only made her hate it more.”
Jing Yuan joins her, sitting cross-legged in the sleet.
“Perhaps you could bring her there,” he offers, picking up a fistful of snow. He watches idly as it melts in his palm, dripping back onto the cobbled pavement. “Introduce her to the beauty you see in its midst.”
The girl raises an eyebrow. “She doesn’t even want to listen to me. What makes you think she’d think about stepping foot into the forest?”
“You never know.”
There’s another pause, before Tanya groans, setting hands around her head. “I can’t believe I’m actually considering a grown-up’s stupid suggestion.”
A teasing lilt enters the General’s voice. “Oh? But since I’m not from here, that makes me different, doesn’t it?”
“Dammit, General.”
*
“Yanzi?”
This is ridiculous. Jing Yuan wants to bang his head against a tree. Some Divine Foresight he is, trying to seek the boy out again, in the very place he’d gotten lost in the last time.
(The narcissist in him scoffs at how easily he's cast everything aside for a mere stranger.)
His fingers hover over the warning flare strapped to his armour. Hypothetically, how disastrous would it be to fire it while surrounded by highly flammable—
A head peeks out from a row of bushes, stray leaves strewn amidst its blond locks. “Mister? You’ve returned.”
“I have.” The General absently notes that the boy still doesn’t address him by name. Perhaps he’s struggling to pronounce it in whatever his native language is.
It's strange, however, since the name he’d assigned himself is also in Xianzhou tongue.
Yanzi taps his chin thoughtfully. “Does the Luofu lack the technology for navigation?”
Ouch. “I came to see you.”
Surprise flickers across the boy’s features. “Why?”
I am determined to uncover the enigma that is your existence.
I want to dispel the rumours that enshroud this place, for myself and for those who call this planet home.
“I don’t know.”
Jing Yuan wants to slap himself.
For a moment, Yanzi simply stares — or, at least, seems to be gazing in his direction — his mouth curled into a bewildered O.
Then he throws his head back, and laughs. He's laughing so hard he's coughing between giggles, leaning heavily against a tree as he tries to catch his breath.
It takes eight hundred years of practiced decorum for Jing Yuan to suppress the blush that threatens to blossom across his face.
(It's strange, how he's almost… enjoying this, this feeling of being treated as someone more than a figurehead to be put on a pedestal.)
Eventually the boy's laughter peters out, leaving an impish grin in its wake. “Then I'm sure Mister wouldn't mind joining me.”
The General finds himself being led through a winding column of pine, the crisp fragrance of their needles permeating the air.
Then he sees it.
A sea of flowers, unfurling petals of deep indigo and rich saffron, of pristine white against fiery crimson. Genera that he neither recognises nor has ever laid eyes on, yet steal his breath away all the same.
“Welcome to my… garden, of sorts?” Yanzi clasps his hands together, almost wringing them. “I just thought this forest could use something other than green.”
Come to think of it, the boy’s right — Jing Yuan hasn’t actually seen any flowers anywhere else in the forest. The startling pop of colour before him is a refreshing change. “Do you tend to them yourself?”
“Yeah,” the latter says, looking up. “Is Mister fond of flowers?”
“I do have a small garden back in the Luofu, but I prefer shrubbery and bamboo.” Of course, the actual size of his bamboo grove cannot be any further from small, but he doesn’t need to know that.
Yanzi hums, as if satisfied by his response. He reaches for the vine² closest to his petite frame, a healthy green adorned with violet five-petalled blossoms.
“Vinca minor. The common periwinkle. They usually thrive in warmer climates, but they’re incredibly resilient in the cold.” A gentle awe seeps into his voice as he cups a flower in his palms. “There were a lot more of these back home. I was surprised when I first found them growing here as well.”
A thought occurs to Jing Yuan. “You haven’t actually told me where you’re from.”
He’s met with silence, and he acutely realises that he’s struck a nerve.
“…My planet doesn’t exist anymore,” Yanzi says quietly, letting go of the periwinkle. “It was destroyed a while ago.”
The boy runs a hand through his hair. “I remember… I remember the blood, the smell of smoke and rotting flesh. I remember waking up here, with the knowledge that my home has been reduced to nothing but ravaged debris drifting across the cosmos.”
“I’m sorry,” the General offers dumbly. What else can he say?
Yanzi shakes his head. “Don’t be. It was bound to happen sooner or later. But sometimes I wonder why I’d been spared.”
Silence fills the space between them.
There's a kinship of sorts, Jing Yuan feels, two broken souls finding solace in shared anguish and trauma.
His heart aches, however, knowing that someone so young can share his pain. Granted, he isn't sure if the boy is truly the age he appears, but it hurts all the same to see those youthful features ridden with grief.
“Thanks for listening, Mister.” A small smile twitches at the corner of Yanzi’s lips. “Thanks for the company.”
(It's been lonely all these years.)
“You're welcome,” the General replies. There's nothing else he can say, anyway.
*
These meetings become a frequent affair.
The excuses ranged from confirming the scout party's findings firsthand to requiring a quiet space to think. His own Knights hadn’t bat an eyelid, more than used to his various eccentricities, but murmurs floated amongst the ranks of the Yuque’s battalion.
Not that he cares. They can go believe whatever they want.
Yanzi isn’t at his usual spot today. Jing Yuan allows himself to frown slightly. He’s come to recognise the particular tree, the particular branch the boy likes to sit on as he waits for the latter to be relieved of his duties. That familiar head of blond hair is now mysteriously absent from its boughs, however.
“Yanzi?” he calls, rounding a cluster of shrubs. “Are you…”
The words die in his throat as he takes in the sight in front of him.
A lone figure amidst the foliage, the boy stands facing away from him, his hands held before his chest. Tendrils of frost coalesce in his palms, and a shape fizzles into existence.
A sword, Jing Yuan realises, staring at the icy fractals that fuse at the very top to form the blade. He's an Ice wielder.
It explains his body temperature, at least. It's uncommon for a person's Type to affect their physique, but definitely not unheard of, especially for those who exhibit a stronger mastery over their elemental abilities. His Master, for one.
(His Master, who emanated a piercing chill that seared its way into his skin as he held Starfall Reverie between his hands, whose eyes gleamed a cruel shade of sanguine that recognised neither friend nor foe.)
The boy swings the weapon with practised grace as he traces frigid arcs across the air, poised but precise. His style seems like an amalgamation of multiple techniques, yet it’s his footwork that throws Jing Yuan off — delicate and fleeting, his feet barely touch the snowdrift before they flit about again, a thin rime curling up his ankles. It seems more suited for dance than actual combat, actually.
Well. Time to make his presence known.
The General coughs intently into his palm, and Yanzi snaps his head around.
“Mister!” he squeaks. The ice sword collapses as his hands fly to behind his back, falling to the ground in a flurry of crystalline shards.
Jing Yuan quirks an amused brow. “Did I interrupt something?”
“N-no, I—” the boy swallows, face burning a brilliant shade of red. “I was just practising.”
“Flowers and swordplay? An intriguing combination, if I may.” The General tilts his head, golden eyes glittering with mirth.
Yanzi makes a face, and all traces of his prior embarrassment vanish in an instant. “I thought the Xianzhou was supposed to be a progressive society.”
“Now, that’s hardly my fault,” Jing Yuan returns, a full-fledged smile on his face. “You reacted as if I’d seen something I’m not supposed to.”
The boy sticks his tongue out, and he can't help but huff a laugh.
A comfortable silence stretches between them. For now, he can almost pretend he doesn't have an expedition to get back to, or a weekly report to submit that his Master Diviner will undoubtedly hound him over should he not.
It's this sentiment that dares him to pick up his glaive and—
“Spar with me.”
Yanzi cocks his head, a childlike gesture Jing Yuan finds all too endearing. “With Mister? But I haven't any formal training.”
The General hums in response, a hint of amusement slipping into his voice. “It’s alright. Spar with me anyway.”
There are perhaps half a dozen reasons he shouldn’t do this, which the boy seems to be considering in his hesitance. Yet he cannot bring himself to care, not at the present moment.
“If Mister says so,” Yanzi finally responds, readying his own weapon.
*
The spar ends a whole two hours later, with the tip of Starfall Reverie pointed at the boy’s neck.
“I… I yield,” Yanzi pants out, and his ice sword crumbles out of existence. He collapses unceremoniously onto the grass, wincing as he massages his wrists.
Thank Lan for the cloth around the boy’s eyes, or he’d be able to see Jing Yuan’s own hands trembling from exhaustion.
Granted, he'd refrained from utilising Lightning Lord, but it's terrifying to think a small-boned, blindfolded child had almost managed to disarm him.
“No formal training, you say?” Jing Yuan raises an eyebrow.
The boy coughs into his palm. “I was raised by militants. Practically grew up in the army; I couldn’t actually qualify, though.”
“Because of your age?”
“…That was one of the reasons.” he visibly wilts, resting his head against the trunk of a large oak. “I was born with a strong affinity with Ice, and with it a… condition. Call it a congenital defect, of sorts.”
“You appear perfectly healthy to me,” the latter hums, tilting his head curiously. Perfectly healthy except whatever happened to his eyes, but he'll let the boy talk about it when he feels like it.
Yanzi merely shrugs. “It's like those… those Foxians you mentioned? Like a Foxian without a tail, I guess. It was a deficiency that mattered only to the people of my homeland.”
Ah. Jing Yuan has heard his fair share of the rumours constantly swirling around the Yaoqing’s General. Discrimination has a frustrating tendency to disregard a person’s achievements, however decorated they may be.
“It seems rather counterintuitive to dismiss a fighter over something this superficial, especially someone so attuned to their Type.”
The boy snorts. “My people were staunch believers in unassisted combat. It was a warrior’s pride to rely on nothing but their own prowess in battle — ridiculous, really.”
Something shifts in his tone as he turns his head to the brumal sky. “Isn't it strange? For years I was kept away from the army due to my condition, yet in that final battle I was still sent to the frontlines to aid their dwindling numbers.”
“Desperation can be a powerful thing.”
He of all people would know. It was desperation that had made Dan Feng commit a divine sin, that had driven Yingxing to become his accomplice, that had forced Master to deal the killing blow to that purple-haired thing that had once been their comrade and friend.
It was desperation that tore the High Cloud Quintet apart, leaving him to pick up the pieces.
“Mister too seems well-versed in loss,” Yanzi notes, shifting to face him again.
The General gives a hollow laugh. “You have no idea.”
A part of Jing Yuan feels bad for withholding his past from him, especially with how open the boy has been. Yet it feels selfish, in every sense, to offload his grievances onto another, a stranger at that.
Sometimes he wishes he had gone insane along with the rest of the Quintet. At least he’d be blissfully ignorant of all that had transpired — of the blood he now had on his hands, of the nights of unwelcome wakefulness that followed.
And Fu Xuan would get her wish of being General, no?
(He’d only ever visited Dan Heng’s cell once before his exile. The look of frustrated confusion on the Vidyadhara’s face had almost broken him on the spot, because no, this was not his Dan Feng.)
Suddenly Yanzi stands up, positioning himself in front of the latter, both arms outstretched.
It almost looks like he’s offering…
A hug.
“Uh,” he begins, pink blossoming on his cheeks. “I’m not sure if I’m doing this right? My planet didn’t have a culture of physical touch³, but I heard this makes people feel better.”
Jing Yuan blinks.
“Mister doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to,” the boy rambles on, as if trying to fill the awkwardness of the moment. “Sorry. I just thought—”
The latter crashes into his arms.
Despite the boy being more than a head shorter than him, despite Jing Yuan having only just met him a few weeks ago, it’s the warmest he’s ever felt in centuries.
(It is his duty, as the Arbiter-General of the Xianzhou Luofu, to prioritise the people before his own needs. In that case, is it selfish for him to long for this feeling to last?)
“Thank you,” the General murmurs when Yanzi finally pulls away. He almost misses the embrace already.
A satisfied smile tugs at the boy’s lips. “You’re welcome.”
*
“Would you hold yourself accountable for the things your ancestors did?”
The boy’s question is so out of the blue that Jing Yuan starts, blinking rapidly.
No one's ever asked him that before. Thinking now, he probably doesn't — after all, it was his predecessors that had first sought out the Aeon of Abundance all those years ago, desperate for a cure for death.
“I suppose not,” he says finally. “Why do you ask?”
“Just a thought.” It's all Yanzi offers in response, and the conversation is left at that.
*
The footsteps stop before his desk.
It’s midnight. All the Knights should have returned to their respective quarters, retiring for the night, so the man is either a higher ranking officer, someone demanding his audience, or both.
“Lieutenant General Xuewen of the Yuque, sir,” he introduces, dark blue hair falling to his face as he tips his head. As usual, the Seer Strategist hadn’t been deployed in person, so this man is likely her stand-in.
The General doesn’t look up from his papers. “Is there a problem, Lieutenant General? It’s the middle of the night.”
“I apologise for disturbing the General this late.” Xuewen bites his lip. “We’ve detected an abnormal influx of elemental energy. Two elements.”
So their little spar hasn’t gone unnoticed.
“Oh?” Jing Yuan pretends to sound surprised. “Have you traced its origin?”
“I— I fear the General might not like the answer to that question.”
“Try me.” He raises an incredulous brow. This man is a Lieutenant General?
Surely Yao Guang had the foresight to pick someone with a bit more… spine. Her immediate subordinate should have a compelling presence, and perhaps even compensate for her own lack of martial prowess.
The man almost wrings his hands. “Not yet. I would like to perform a thorough sweep and investigation, if the General is willing to grant me that permission.”
As the second-in-command, he doesn't even need to consult the latter before doing so. There's a sole exception where the General’s authority is required, however, and the realisation hits him like a bucket of cold water.
“You're requesting for clearance to conduct an extermination.”
Silence.
Then the man sighs. “It was worth a shot.”
Something shifts in his eyes — it's sharper now, almost predatory. Gone is the cowardly charade from before, and in its place is someone Jing Yuan thinks he might have sorely underestimated. “I am. Is there a problem?”
Of course, Yao Guang had picked someone as unpredictable as her.
“The source of the elemental energy has yet to be determined, and you wish to eliminate it already? For all we know it was simply a fellow soldier who forgot to cover their tracks.”
“Hmm. The General speaks as though he doesn’t already know.”
Ah.
“I fear I do not understand what you are trying to imply,” the General says, keeping his face carefully neutral.
“I mentioned two elements, did I not?” Xuewen taps a finger against his chin, pretending to think. “Lightning. None of the other Knights wield this element, and interestingly enough the timestamp corresponds with the duration of your little breather.”
The man tilts his head. “The locals speak of the forest as if it were one of the Xianzhou’s Plaguemarks — they say those who venture into its depths return either cursed or crazed. We’re merely… concerned for your wellbeing.”
Concerned? An incredulous laugh tugs at the General’s lips. “Surely you do not believe in the rumours?”
“Not particularly. But rumours often stem from some kind of truth, no?”
Jing Yuan inhales. He can already feel the lightning thrumming at his fingertips, desperate for release. Striking the latter down would certainly be easier than dealing with this, but no.
He cannot look like he’s lost.
“You are not to pursue the signature.” He bites out, swallowing the tremor that threatens to seep into his voice. “That’s an order.”
Xuewen merely shakes his head.
“As I recall, in the event that the commanding Knight is unfit for duty, it is my obligation to fill their position.” The man flashes an infuriating smile. “How unfortunate for you.”
Jing Yuan narrows his eyes. “Your words sound dangerously close to insubordination.”
“I answer to General Yao Guang,” he returns serenely. “Your threat is an empty one.”
Suddenly the man turns on his heel, waving a hand. “But alas, I’m a man of principle. I have no intent to act until the threat gives me a reason to.
“You might want to warn them, whoever they are,” he continues mildly, stopping before the doorframe. Jing Yuan catches a glimpse of the vicious glint in his eyes.
“Of course, it’s just a humble suggestion from this lowly Knight. Surely the General is smart enough to decide on his own.”
*
Jing Yuan stares at the minute shape cupped in his hands. A bird made entirely of ice, with an even tinier crown of petals weaved around its head.
“A gift,” the boy explains, beaming. “I’m not sure if the ice would last the trip back to the Luofu, but I’m sure Mister will think of something.”
(Something to remember me by, your intriguing combination of flowers and swordplay.)
Tell him, a part of him hisses. He needs to know.
But why is he placing more faith in a stranger than his own troops? Xuewen had every right to be suspicious — the General of the Luofu, the Divine Foresight, throwing it all away for a nameless child he doesn’t even know the home planet of.
Yanzi seems to notice his expression. “Is there something on Mister’s mind?” he asks, cocking his head.
“Nothing,” Jing Yuan says gently, wrapping his fingers around the bird. “Thank you for the gift. It’s lovely.”
The boy looks unconvinced, but doesn’t ask again.
*
A high-pitched wail tears through the atmosphere.
Jing Yuan is running before he knows it, glaive poised in his hands. The source shouldn't be too far away, somewhere behind the village—
He freezes at the scene before him.
A pair of Knights, standing over the pale plastic of what he instantly identifies as a body bag. A petite figure hunched over the body, shoulders hitching as fat tears spill from her cheeks.
“Wake up, Ma,” the girl babbles, clawing at the plastic as if it would bring her mother back. “Wake up wake up wake up…”
Tanya. The General swallows the bile in his throat. By Lan's arrows.
One of the Knights is approaching him now, head bowed in solemn mourning, their face hidden beneath a curtain of dark blue hair.
Dark blue hair he really wishes he didn't recognise.
“She’d already lost three litres of blood before we got there,” Xuewen says grimly. “We couldn't save her.”
The man's voice then lowers to a whisper — a whisper he knows is meant for only his ears.
“I said I wouldn't act, but she was surprisingly easy to convince.” He manages a pitying sigh. “Such a shame she had failed.”
A cold fury stirs in Jing Yuan's chest. “You orchestrated this.”
“The knife was in her hand. I have my reason now, though.”
Something inside him snaps.
"Conniving bastard,” he snarls, grabbing the latter by the collar and shoving him onto the snow, the tip of Starfall Reverie pressed against his throat.
An ounce of fear flickers across Xuewen’s features, but it's gone as quickly as it had come. “You wouldn't strike me down in front of a grieving child.”
He's right. Jing Yuan hates that he is.
“I would think the General also has a reputation to upkeep,” the man continues smoothly, getting back onto his feet.
The latter doesn't offer him a response, turning on his heel and striding towards the body bag.
Tanya doesn't look up when the General comes to a stop beside her. “I listened to your suggestion, General.”
And look what happened.
“Tanya, I'm—”
“She tried to kill the bird!” the girl snaps, throwing her hands up. “She asked to touch his wings. And when he let her, she stabbed the knife through his feathers!"
She suddenly gets up. Her eyes rage with emotion — hurt, anger, grief, it's all there.
Something cracks in her voice when she speaks again.
“I actually… I actually thought my words got through to her, for once,” she murmurs, before stalking away.
Jing Yuan doesn't try to follow her, turning his attention instead to the body.
It's a gruesome sight — gaping holes where dense vines had pierced through her skin, now an ashen pallor from the blood loss. The fingers of her left hand are still clawed where the knife had been pried out of them, while those of her right are wrapped firmly around a fistful of icy blue feathers.
The bird is a Wingweaver. Bile rises in Jing Yuan’s throat. It's no wonder the innkeeper had been so desperate to keep her daughter away from it.
How did we miss it?
It shouldn’t be possible. Tanya had spoken of the creature as if it had been there for years, so their sensors should have gone off the moment they stepped off the Starskiff.
Something catches his eyes.
Tiny lilac spots trail across the vines, seemingly in clusters. They had gone unnoticed before, where the wounds and the vines themselves had taken precedence.
No, not spots, he realises, reaching for one of them with exactly five petals. Buds.
(“Vinca minor. The common periwinkle. They usually thrive in warmer climates, but they’re incredibly resilient in the cold.”)
The General breaks into a sprint.
*
Jing Yuan doesn’t know how long he’s been running.
The rumours, the bird-shaped gift, even the boy’s name — the pieces fall into place, too perfectly, achingly so. The signs had all been there, waved right before his eyes, and yet he had chosen to ignore them.
(After all, what kind of prey would willingly walk into the embrace of its predator?)
Which means the destruction of his home planet… had been the fall of Muldrasil.
More than two thousand years ago.
Wingweavers, devout followers of Yaoshi they may be, are not immortal. Even the most long-lived of species would not survive this long, especially with their minds still intact.
An Emanator, then. An Emanator of Abundance the General has simply let slip between his fingers.
Oh, how he hates the way Yanzi perks up at the sound of his footsteps, sliding eagerly from his perch on the branch. “Mister! I’ve been—”
“You lied to me.”
Silence.
“Are you… going to kill me?” the boy asks softly, and his heart lurches.
Yes, Jing Yuan wants to say. Or better yet, drive his glaive into the latter’s chest and be done with it.
But he can't. Those blessed the Plagues Author too share THEIR permanence — even the remains of Shuhu have yet to perish despite defeat, merely sealed in the depths of the Shackling Prison. How does one kill something that cannot die?
(It's an excuse, he knows, an excuse that belies a much more selfish desire.)
“Your true appearance," he commands, pointing his glaive at the latter. He hates how his hands are trembling. “Show it to me.”
“…Okay.” Yanzi lowers his head as he peels the blindfold off his face, and the disguise melts away.
The General's breath catches in his throat.
Icy blue wings folded behind his back, extending all the way to his feet, dipped in gold along the edges. A shimmer ripples across their span as the feathers catch the seeping rays of sunlight.
Azure, deerlike antlers covered in sprawling vines and flowers, perched atop his blond hair like a headdress of foliage.
(The hallmark of the Plagues Author’s gaze, a crown lovingly adorned by THEIR own hands.)
And his eyes — oh, by Lan's arrows — twin rims where pupils should be, empty and vacant and flecked with violet, the same hue as the periwinkle surrounding them, piercing through the seams of flesh.
“It seems she finally came back to avenge her husband.” The boy shrugs, the gesture almost flippant. “And I don’t blame her. I do wish she had chosen instead to spare her daughter from the grief, however.”
Jing Yuan lowers his glaive. “You knew Tanya's father.”
“I did.” Yanzi reties the blindfold around his face, taking the latter’s silence as a signal to continue.
“When I first arrived on this planet, I was intent on keeping to myself within the forest, away from the public eye, and they too ignored my existence for a long time. Until one day… he ventured here.”
The boy — the abomination, the Hunt in him hisses — seems to gaze into the distance. “A lone traveller from afar, who had left his home planet to explore the cosmos. To find the meaning of life, he'd said, offering not a name, but simply an anonymous term of address.”
A smile tugs at his lips as the memory resurfaces, soft but laced with melancholy.
“You see, Wingweavers are solitary creatures by nature. It doesn't help that our population is scattered across the galaxy, but even before the fall of Muldrasil, we favoured a caste system over familial ties. But being by Mister's side… it felt so, so warm.”
(A little swallow, left alone in the snow, had sought comfort in a different kind of warmth.)
“At some point, Mister began visiting the forest less and less, and soon after he stopped coming altogether. Until one day he returned, with a young lady in his arms and the brightest smile I'd ever seen on his face.”
“Tanya's mother.”
A meek nod. “Mister had found his meaning of life… in love. I was happy for him, and perhaps a little jealous of his life outside of the forest, if I must admit. He promised to come back every now and then, but he never did.”
The boy sucks in a shuddering breath. “Caught in a crossfire with the Antimatter Legion during one of his travels. Somehow, the resemblance to my own situation ached more than the knowledge of his death.
“His wife approached me about a month later. Apparently Mister had asked for one final favour upon his deathbed — to cure his daughter's blindness, a condition she had since she was born, and of course I agreed.”
Tanya was blind? The General briefly wonders if the girl had been aware of all of this, or that her beloved bird had an actual part to play in her life. “You gave her your eyes.”
“Yeah.” Yanzi shifts, discomfort slipping into his tone. “I can't quite cure congenital afflictions, so it was the best I could do. But Mister's wife was always scared of me despite his coaxing, and I think a part of her blamed me for her husband's death. What I did only cemented her fears.”
There's a pause, before Jing Yuan speaks again. “As I recall, only the Wingperor is considered an Emanator amongst Wingweavers.”
“Ah.” The boy bites his lip. “You know that defect I mentioned before? It was my wings. Thanks to my constitution, the ice had frozen off the arteries connecting them to my back. They had to be surgically removed before the damage reached my other organs.”
He brings his hands before his chest, seemingly hugging his petite frame.
“In that final battle… the Legion planted a minefield. Such a weapon was virtually useless in a battle against a winged race, but they used it anyway." The boy swallows. “Getting blown apart is a feeling I never want to experience again.”
Suddenly he looks so impossibly small in front of Jing Yuan, giant wings curled around his body like a protective cocoon.
And in that moment the latter wants nothing more than to pull him into a firm embrace, give him a shoulder to cry on. Perhaps the boy’s tears have long since run dry, too.
“And somewhere, somehow, the Plagues Author took notice of my dying body. THEY stitched my limbs back together, filled my veins with the flowers of my homeland, and brought me here to start anew. If you search hard enough, there are records detailing the sudden appearance of this forest — I am as much a part of it as it is a part of me.”
Plagues Author?
“You too call THEM the Plagues Author. Do you not believe in THEIR gift?”
“What’s there to believe?” Yanzi almost spits, planting his gaze firmly on the ground. “For two thousand years I’ve been confined to this planet. THEY cured my condition, bestowed upon me the wings I had so yearned for, but there’s no one left to even care.”
Laughter spills from the boy’s lips — it’s a terrifying sound, wild and manic and so sick of it all. “Incredible. It’s been two thousand years, yet these accursed wings continue to damn me till today.”
(At least he’s still capable of hating life, Jing Yuan thinks despite himself. He’s almost envious.)
The righteous fury ebbs from his voice as quickly as it had come, replaced with a bone-deep exhaustion the General is all too familiar with.
“I didn't mean to kill her,” he whispers, voice cracking as he runs a hand through his blond fringe. “I really—”
The boy gasps mid-sentence as his body lurches forward.
Jing Yuan is moving before he realises it, catching the latter before he collapses on the ground. The arrow has embedded itself all the way through Yanzi's back to his chest, the metallic sheen of its point gleaming under the light.
Violet-mottled vines spill from the wound, latching around the protruding shaft as if trying to remove the weapon. The boy himself tugs at it with both hands, but to no avail.
It's custom-made, he thinks, feeling the blood drain from his face. The metal looks like an alloy of some sort, steel mixed with something lightweight enough for it to fly.
As if its owner had foreseen the need to go fowling.
Sure enough a repulsively familiar head of dark blue hair comes into view, flanked by a cluster of the Yuque's Knights. It's a small company, slightly less than a proper squadron — Jing Yuan counts perhaps ten or eleven men, likely hand-picked by the Lieutenant General himself.
“General Jing Yuan accuses me of insubordination!” Xuewen barks a laugh as he nocks a second arrow. “Yet it’s he who commits nothing less than high treason!”
The tip is now aimed at the General. “I wonder, General. Would you prefer to spend the rest of your years in the Shackling Prison, or—”
A blue and blond blur darts past him, and suddenly the man’s head is rolling across the snow-strewn grass, eyes frozen in deadened shock. It takes his body a moment to catch on, tainting the aforementioned grass a sickening shade of crimson when it crumples to the ground.
Hovering a full metre above the ground, Yanzi’s wings have flared open, stretching to their full, icy blue span. The arrow is still lodged in his chest — a carmine stream leaks steadily from the wound and pools beneath his feet, coalescing with the rivulet that similarly drips from the glacial blade in his hand.
For a solid minute, no one moves.
Then someone shouts, and all hell breaks loose.
The ground splits open, and flowers with tremendous petals and barbed stalks thicker than Starfall Reverie spring forth from its soil. With the lethal blooms are sharpened icicles rivalling in size, impaling anyone unfortunate enough to get in their way.
It’s chaos. Somewhere amidst the rain of gunfire and hail of arrows Jing Yuan catches a glimpse of the boy as he cleaves through the fray from above, his lips curled into a snarl.
From a purely anatomical perspective, the build of a Wingweaver is far superior for combat — it's a species of deadly speed and agility, with their pneumatised bone structure and massive wings capable of deflecting projectiles. And that's not even including the fact that Yanzi is actually a skilled fighter, and an Emanator of Abundance.
The battle isn't a long one, and when it ends the air becomes eerily still.
A lone figure amidst the foliage, doubled over from exhaustion and blood loss. Backlit by a paradox of glacial blue and brilliant red, the flames licking hungrily at leaves encased in rime.
Fractalled streaks of white have unfurled across the boy's body, from his arms to his face and even beneath his blindfold, seeping into the empty sockets within. His skin contrasts sharply against the icy pallor, all flushed and blistered as the frostbite gnaws away at his flesh.
In the end, it is Yanzi's attunement to his element that kills him.
“You… didn't fight,” the boy mumbles, but it comes out more as a pained wheeze. The vines from before are splayed across his frame, frozen solid before they could weave the gashes back together. “Those were… your men.”
Jing Yuan reaches a tentative hand for the latter's shoulder, recoiling sharply when a bitter chill stabs at his nerves. A thin layer of frost has coated his skin almost immediately, crumbling to the ground in pale flakes when he flexes his fingers.
“Don't… don't touch me,” he insists weakly, curling down onto the snow. The General can only watch, mutely, as the boy's petite frame seems to be swallowed by the soil beneath him, starting with his bare feet.
Ah, so this must be what the Disciples refer to as returning to the earth.
“Goodbye… Jing Yuan.” Yanzi offers one final smile, tinged with longing, agony and regret. “Sorry for… leaving you… behind.”
All is silent once more.
*
“Baba!”
Jing Yuan’s eyes flutter open.
The pair of icy blue feathers comes into view before Yanqing's own face, blocked entirely by the sheer size of it. Panic and worry swirl in the golden depths of his eyes as he crawls across the mattress, stumbling slightly under the weight of his wings.
For years the wings were simply a pair of feathery nubs flushed against the boy’s back, until they fully sprouted about a month ago. It had been a thankfully painless process, and within a week Yanqing had taken to them like they’d always been there.
(It had been a chilling reminder — of how the boy isn't one of them, of how little it would take for the current serenity of their lives to shatter overnight.)
“Baba is okay,” the General assures gently, letting the boy crawl into his embrace. “I just had a nightmare.”
A lie, at any rate. It had been less a nightmare than a memory, one he’s been trying and failing to bury with the rest. It seems he can’t get away from even his subconscious.
Cupping the latter’s head against his chest, Jing Yuan briefly wonders if the delayed growth of his wings had been a relapse of his condition. Perhaps even THEIR blessing couldn’t compensate for the defect immediately.
He also wonders how much the boy remembers of his past incarnation, if anything at all. He hopes not — a child should never have to bear such a weight.
(Yanzi had suffered enough.)
“Baba was crying,” Yanqing mumbles shakily, burying his face in the General's shirt. “Yanqing doesn't want baba to cry.”
Suddenly the boy perks up, a renewed resolve burning in those brilliant gold eyes of his.
(Something aches in its familiarity. Had Jing Yuan not been like this, once, a starry-eyed Lieutenant who thought nothing could stand in his way?)
“Yanqing will get rid of nightmares!” Yanqing declares, his giant wings bristling with anticipation. “So baba can always be happy.”
(There's something terribly precious in the boy's innocence, something Jing Yuan wants nothing more than to cherish for the rest of his — no, their — lives. And so he will do anything, everything, to make sure Yanqing never goes down the same path of despair.)
“To have you by my side, xiao yan'zi…” he says softly, a fond smile gracing his lips. “Baba cannot be happier.”
*
He stares at the sight before him.
The boy stares back.
Sitting amidst a sea of deep indigo and rich saffron, of pristine white against fiery crimson, everything's the same as it had been twenty years ago. The flowing blond hair, pinned up with a silver bird-like hairclip, the deerlike antlers, though now pale blue stubs peeking from his young head.
No, not everything, because the boy has been reduced to a mere toddler and his eyes—
Gold. Full and warm and brighter than the sun.
It's his eyes.
No wings, he thinks absently as he takes a tentative step forward, scooping the child into his arms. The boy doesn’t resist, curling snugly against his chest as if he’s always belonged there.
“You're safe now,” he whispers, combing a hand through the boy’s hair.
And, just this once, he allows himself to believe it's true.