Chapter Text
The war was taking a toll on Lan Xichen. Nie Mingjue knew that few others would make such an assumption – by all appearances, it seemed that Xichen was thriving amidst the chaos of the Sunshot Campaign. Unequivocally the most important person in maintaining unity between the four fronts of the war, Xichen boosted morale at every camp he visited without even seeming to try. He single-handedly ensured that communication flowed as smoothly as possible between the Sunshot Campaign and their allies, and offered invaluable advice and strategies with a calm that was almost infectious.
And wherever Lan Xichen fought, their forces rarely lost. The skill and might of Zewu Jun was almost unparalleled, and he was shaping up to be a clear hero of the war, a symbol of the strength and righteousness of the Sunshot Campaign.
But as strongly as Mingjue agreed with Xichen’s growing reputation…
No one else ever saw him when the doors were closed.
“Is this your blood?”
Xichen shook his head mutely, his eyes focused on the floor, hazed with exhaustion.
“None of it?” Mingjue pushed, and Xichen shook his head again.
“I didn’t have time to change. Sorry,” he said quietly, so quietly Mingjue could hardly hear it.
He scoffed. “I’m not bothered about that. Sit down.”
Grabbing a bowl of warm water and a washcloth, Mingjue helped Xichen shrug off his outer robes, replacing them with a clean set. Then, Mingjue began to scrub the dried blood from Xichen’s arms.
It took only two minutes before Mingjue found a gash on Xichen’s arm, and he pursed his lips.
“It’s not your blood, huh?”
“It’s Suyin’s.”
Mingjue paused, his heart sinking. “…Who?”
“My cousin, Lan Suyin,” Xichen murmured, still staring at the floor. “She was a doctor, helping people on the battlefield, she wasn’t even fighting.” He let out a long, shuddering breath. “The sword went right through her skull…”
Mingjue grimaced. “I’m sorry,” he said, and Xichen nodded absently.
Without another word, Mingjue cleaned and dressed the wound on Xichen’s arm, saving the lecture. Xichen began to shiver lightly, but his breathing was even and slow, so Mingjue wasn’t too concerned about shock or panic. Instead, he paused his task to grab a blanket from the side, slinging it over Xichen’s shoulders.
At that, Xichen looked up, blinking at him.
“Show me your other hand,” Mingjue said, and Xichen glanced down, offering Mingjue his left arm without a word. He’d obviously had a chance to wash his hands, but there was dried blood slicked up his wrist and further up his arm, and so Mingjue scrubbed.
“I thought it was a safer option,” Xichen murmured, and Mingjue listened. “If we’d met them past the head of the river-”
“Then we’d have lost many more than we did today,” Mingjue reminded him.
“Maybe. If I’d-”
“Stop. Reflecting on our mistakes is important, Xichen, but you’re not reflecting. You’re blaming yourself for the crime of failing to see the future.”
Xichen turned his face away, closing his eyes. Then, he sighed. “You’re right. But I… how has it become our responsibility to decide who to send to fight? Why is it our choice who lives and who dies?” His voice trembled, heartbreakingly childlike. “I – I never wanted that, Mingjue-ge.”
“I know,” said Mingjue, feeling the same weight in his own chest. “But as much as it feels it, we are not ‘choosing’ who lives and who dies. Tell me, Xichen – do you or do you not allocate your troops based upon their strengths and experience?”
“…of course, but-”
“If we want our clans to survive this war, we need to win it,” Mingjue said firmly. “And if we want to win this war, we need to fight. They all know this – every cultivator in our army knows it. You are sending your people where they have the best chance to succeed and survive. Sometimes, we must make decisions where the odds are stacked far more against them than we would like, but that is war, Xichen.”
For a long moment, Xichen was silent. Then he shook his head, resting it in his hands. “I know…”
“When was the last time you slept?”
Xichen shook his head into his hands. “I’m not sure. Before Jiangling, I think…”
“Xichen…”
“I was looking.” Xichen’s voice broke on the final word, and Mingjue closed his eyes.
Oh.
Nie Mingjue couldn’t say he would be any different if it were Huaisang missing – hell, he wasn’t much different now. Any moment he had spare, he turned his attention to the crowds and the lands around him, scouring the faces and trees alike for any sign of Wangji or the young masters of Yunmeng Jiang. He knew there was little chance of his finding them there, but he didn’t have time or resources to search farther, and doing nothing wasn’t an option. Not when it was Wangji.
“…is there any sign?” He asked, his heart heavy. He knew the answer even before Xichen shook his head, his eyes filling with tears.
“I don’t know where else to look,” he admitted, his voice choked. “Everyone we’ve sent out has come back empty handed – except for some who haven’t come back at all. I’ve scoured the woods around Gusu, and I’ve searched near Yunmeng and Qinghe and Meishan – I don’t know where else to look.”
Mingjue understood. Truthfully, he did not know where to look either – but there was one question that demanded to be asked, one that sat cold and heavy at the back of his throat. His own heart breaking, he put a hand on his friend’s wrist.
“Xichen… have you tried Inquiry?”
Xichen flinched violently, tears spilling down his cheeks as his lip began to quake. “I – I couldn’t. I thought – I tried, but – but I couldn’t – Mingjue-ge, I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t do it!”
“Alright,” Mingjue murmured, squeezing his friend’s wrist. “You don’t have to, Xichen. You don’t have to.”
But Xichen shook his head, his eyes squeezing tightly closed, his arm wrapping tightly around his stomach. “I couldn’t do it, but – but if he – Da-ge, do you think – do you think he’s…”
“I don’t know,” Mingjue said truthfully, before Xichen had to force himself to say the word. “I pray that he’s not, with all my heart, but I don’t know.”
A ragged sob tore through Xichen’s chest. “He’s in trouble, Mingjue. If – if he’s alive, he’s injured, or captured, or trapped, he – he needs me, and I can’t find him!”
Nie Mingjue hung his head. He couldn’t imagine anything worse than the hell plaguing Xichen, and he knew that there was nothing he could say that would bring any comfort. What comfort could there be? With a heavy sigh, he did the only thing he could think of and sat closer, putting an arm around Xichen’s shoulders. Immediately, Xichen collapsed into him, grabbing fistfuls of his robes and sobbing violently into his shoulder. Even now, he was quiet, quiet enough that the sounds of his anguish would go no farther than the tent, no matter how forcefully his sobs shook him.
His own eyes stinging, Mingjue wrapped his arms around his friend and held him close, wracking his brain desperately for any sort of clue they may have missed, but he wasn’t hopeful. If anything, they’d only found the opposite – clues that weren’t really clues at all, leads and sightings that had turned out to be nothing more than misunderstandings or mistakes.
“I can’t find him!” Xichen’s wail was muffled by Mingjue’s shoulder, and Mingjue held him tighter.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. What else was there to say? “I’m sorry.”
It did not take long for exhaustion to claim Xichen. After a short while his sobs lost strength, and his shuddering grew fainter. Steadily, his grip faded, his body falling limp in Mingjue’s arms.
Without hesitation, Mingjue guided him to lie down on the bed, taking another blanket and covering him. There were still tear tracks tacky on Xichen’s cheeks, and his face was still pale as death, but at least he was asleep. That was something.
Rubbing his eyes, Mingjue moved back over to his desk. He’d abandoned the maps and notes strewn across it with the news that Xichen had returned to camp, but now they commanded his attention once more. By defeating Wen Xu, the Nie had achieved a significant victory, but there was no time to be complacent. If they didn’t press this advantage, it was next to worthless.
That said, there were two obvious paths ahead to push on further into Hejian, but both were wrought with risk, and so far Mingjue was struggling to find the better of the two. With a heavy sigh, he pushed down his own fatigue and set to the maps, drafting proposals for each of the routes. He’d present each to his council and discuss it with them tomorrow – or today, as the case may be. By the time he finished, dawn was beginning to touch the horizon. Ignoring the niggling, Huaisang-like voice protesting his own hypocrisy, he settled for splashing his own face with cold water rather than bothering to try and get some sleep.
He hoped that Xichen would sleep past five, at least for an hour or two, but by the time he came back around the screen after changing his robes and sorting his hair, Xichen was sitting up in bed, blinking blearily around the tent.
“Ah…” he said, his voice raspy with sleep. “I’m sorry, Mingjue-ge, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
“You needed it,” Mingjue said, studying him. “Probably still do.”
Xichen gave a weak smile. “I’ll be fine.” Mingjue raised his eyebrows, but Xichen’s smile grew almost wry. “Tell me, Mingjue-ge, how long did you sleep last night?”
Nie Mingjue snorted. “Touché.”
Stifling a yawn, Xichen rubbed his eyes delicately. “What’s on the agenda for today?”
Mingjue paused carefully. “Well, we want to push further south within the next forty-eight hours, but there are a couple of different routes we could take, and I need to consult with my council before we decide. I’d appreciate your input, too.”
“Of course,” Xichen said. “What are the options?”
For a moment, Mingjue paused again. He didn’t know whether or not to bring up the search for Wangji again – there was no way it was not front and centre in Xichen’s mind. Seeing his face, Xichen’s expression became almost stubborn.
“I can focus, Mingjue-ge,” he said firmly, but Mingjue shook his head.
“I’m not worried about your ability to focus,” he argued, and Xichen sighed, glancing down.
“I know,” he said quietly. “But truly, I… I don’t know where else to look. I don’t have any leads, or any idea of where to go next. I won’t stop looking – I will never stop – but at the same time… If I let the war effort slip because I was searching blindly, Wangji would never forgive himself. It would be different if I had any sort of lead, but… While I’m thinking of my next steps, it makes sense to do what I can here in the meantime.”
His heart heavy, Mingjue nodded. It wasn’t like he disagreed. “Very well.”
From the moment they stepped out of the tent that morning, the grief and stress all but vanished from Xichen’s face. In its place was a steady, attentive expression, matched with a voice that was calm and measured – firm when he needed to be, gentle when he could afford it. The turmoil wreaking through him was hidden by a mask even Mingjue struggled to see through – when he was outside of the tent, Lan Xichen was exactly who they needed him to be. He was Zewu Jun.
And as proud as it made him, Mingjue ached to see it.
Still, Xichen’s input was invaluable. There wasn’t a single member of Mingjue’s council who wasn’t visibly relieved to see him, and the boost in confidence was enough to get them to agree to a primary route by midmorning. By lunchtime, scouts had been sent out, and they were already making preparations to press onwards, progress faster than Mingjue had dared to hope for.
As the afternoon worse on, the mood in camp was tangibly high. For most, the high of their last victory was yet to fade, and anticipation hummed through the very air as the camp prepared to move on. Every group he checked on, from his officers to his foot soldiers and his armourers to his healers reported being ready to move, eager even.
As he made his way back towards the war tent, Nie Mingjue allowed himself a moment, just a moment, to feel that relief and anticipation himself.
And a cry of horror rang through the air –
Short and sharp, but terrified and anguished –
Xichen.
Without a seconds’ hesitation, Mingjue broke into a run, tearing back into the war tent and breaking through the ring of startled disciples around its edge. Xichen stood in the centre of the tent, his face wrought with horror, a box and a letter clutched in his hands –
And then he fell, crashing down to his knees with another strangled cry.
“Out!” Mingjue barked, and his disciples jumped, hastening to obey. “Everyone, out! Zonghui – where did they come from?!”
His second in command needed no further explanation. “The normal messenger – I’ll take him into custody.” Mingjue grunted in approval, and Zonghui swept out of the tent after the others, leaving Mingjue and Xichen alone.
The letter fluttered free from Xichen’s grip, his now-free hand hovering over the box. His breathing was too fast, too shallow, and Nie Mingjue had never, ever seen him look so horrified.
Dread crushed down on his heart like an anvil, and Mingjue stepped closer carefully, making his voice as gentle as possible. “Xichen?”
Xichen flinched, looking up and him –
And then his eyes filled with tears –
And he screamed.
It was a sound unlike anything Mingjue had ever heard, a raw cry of desperate anguish that cut right through his very soul. Horror tore through him, and Mingjue dropped to one knee himself.
“Xichen!”
But Xichen squeezed his eyes shut, the box clattering to the floor as he snatched its contents free, clenching them in his hand and hugging it to his chest. Curling over himself, Xichen wailed, and Mingjue saw a flutter of blue and red silk fall down his wrist –
Pain struck Mingjue dead in the chest.
A forehead ribbon. A blood-soaked forehead ribbon.
That could only mean…
“Xichen,” he said again, grabbing his friend’s shoulder. “Xichen, I-”
“No!” Xichen howled, his body shuddering violently, and Mingjue let go quickly. “No, no, I – can’t, I can’t, I can’t!”
“Xi-”
But Xichen cut over him, a wordless scream of agony so loud Mingjue’s ears hurt. In the same moment, he grabbed Mingjue’s wrist, clutching it so hard Mingjue felt himself start to bruise. Shaking his head desperately, Xichen choked through his screams, “I can’t!”
“Can’t what?” Mingjue demanded urgently. When he got no response, he grabbed the letter from the ground, scanning it quickly –
An avalanche of horror crashed down upon him, cold, crushing, suffocating –
Lan Xichen,
Long enough have Qishan Wen tolerated your part in this treacherous rebellion. In the wake of the cowardly murder of Wen Xu, Qishan Wen see it fit to inform you that your brother, Lan Zhan, is currently in our custody charged with high treason. His execution has already begun – but the process of demonic lingchi takes a week. Within this time, it can be stopped.
In his mercy, Wen Ruohan will pardon your brother and commute his sentence if you agree to the following demands:
Stand down your army.
Officially surrender yourself to Nightless City, handing over all spiritual weapons in your possession.
Bring with you the head of the murderer Nie Mingjue.
If each of these demands are met, the life of Lan Wangji will be spared. If you fail to meet a single requirement, his death is guaranteed. To remind you – the execution process has already begun. You have one week.
Mingjue’s mouth felt very dry. He swallowed hard, grabbing his friend by the shoulders and squeezing. “Xichen, Xichen look at me. Look at me!” With a desperate sob, Xichen met Mingjue’s eyes, and for a moment, the pain within them was so severe that Mingjue couldn’t breathe. “Xichen,” he forced himself to say. “You need to breathe. I need you to breathe.”
Xichen sucked in a shuddering breath, but he released it a moment later in a low keen, shaking his head. “I need – I need to – to go to Qishan,” he sobbed. “Need – need to get to Wangji –”
“Then what?” Mingjue demanded, his heart breaking. He couldn’t imagine the agony Xichen was going through, and he knew that charging to Qishan would be his own first reaction, but he also knew that they needed to act on reason, not instinct. “What would you do when you got there?”
“Doesn’t – doesn’t matter,” Xichen gasped, grappling with Mingjue’s arms. “Something, anything – they can take me, they can do whatever they want-”
“That won’t be enough. You know it won’t, Xichen – it would only end with both of you dead.”
Xichen keened. “Then, then I’ll – I’ll -”
“You’ll what? Bring them my head?” Xichen flinched so violently it looked like Mingjue had stabbed him, but Mingjue pressed on. “Kill a stranger and take them his head? Hope they don’t notice?” For a split second, Mingjue saw consideration flicker across Xichen’s eyes after the second suggestion – but only for a second. Horror and guilt quickly drowned it out, though Mingjue didn’t judge him. “Listen to me. Listen. You need to breathe.”
But instead, Xichen collapsed into Mingjue’s chest, sobbing desperately. His heart aching, Mingjue held his friend close, letting him cry. Logic wouldn’t help here, not yet. The choice before Xichen was utterly abhorrent, but also cruelly effective. Wen Ruohan had to know there would be next to no chance of Xichen delivering Mingjue’s head to Qishan Wen, but murdering Wangji would undoubtedly break Xichen’s spirit – something that would cripple the Sunshot Campaign.
Taking out both Jades of Lan would be a blow far worse than the loss of Wen Xu was to Qishan.
If Wangji was killed…
It was a grief Mingjue would carry on his shoulders for the rest of his days.
“If there’s anything that can be done, we’ll do it,” he swore, hugging Xichen close. “If there’s a way to rescue him, we will.”
Xichen choked. “D-do – do you think we can?”
“I don’t know,” Mingjue admitted painfully. “But we’ll try.”
In his heart, Mingjue didn’t know what chance they had. Launching an assault on Qishan was out of the question – and likely do more harm than good – and sneaking into the dungeons of Nightless City… Nie Mingjue did not know if it could be done.
There was a crushing dread in his chest, warning that Wangji’s death was all but inevitable. If anything could be done to prevent it, Nie Mingjue would put everything he had towards it –
But in truth, he didn’t know if there was anything he could do anything but pray.
It was the work of minutes.
As he walked through the bloodied courtyard, even Wei Wuxian marvelled at how easy it had been. Nearly fifty corpses of Wen soldiers were strewn across the stone ground, draped over stolen sculptures and carefully maintained hedges. Nearly fifty men, and between his flute, his amulet, and Xiaoshou, Wei Wuxian had despatched them in minutes. There’d barely even been any noise.
He smiled.
Some of the faces he recognised as those who’d been with Wen Chao all along, those who’d helped beat Jiang Cheng and Lan Zhan – those, he set the drowned ghost to, watching their eyes bulge with horror as they drowned on ghostly water, their feet still on dried ground. Others were strangers. For them, Wei Wuxian felt nothing.
He had a job to do.
Delicately, he opened the door before him, making sure to move as slowly as possible. He could hear terrified whimpering coming from within, and the curl of his smile grew more satisfied. He glanced down at Xiaoshou, shivering with anticipation at his ankles, and jerked his chin towards the door. The hand flexed its fingers, scuttling inside like some giant spider –
And Wang Lingjiao shrieked, her terror so piercing Wei Wuxian’s ears hurt. He smiled harder.
“Get away, get – ahh!”
Slowly, Wei Wuxian stepped inside the room, resentful energy curling around his ankles like black smoke, and turned towards the bed in the corner. Xiaoshou was already there, moving almost too fast to track, tugging at Wang Lingjiao’s hair and robes, scratching deep wounds into her cheeks and arms.
“Ghost!” she screeched as she saw him, waving an arm wildly and desperately pressing a talisman against her chest with the other. “Ghost, g-ghost!”
A million retorts flew through Wei Wuxian’s mind, but he said nothing, widening his smile to show his teeth. Then, as she screamed, he slowly raised the flute to his lips. Began to play.
“Save me!” she wailed, scrambling as far back in the bed as she could, clutching the covers around her as though they might offer some protection. “Help, help, someone help me! Help!”
There was no need to worry. Help was not coming. Everyone who could offer it was dead, and Wei Wuxian had ensured that Wen Chao’s room was locked from the outside before he started. He relished the idea of letting Wen Chao run, of hunting him down just as he had hunted Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng and Lan Zhan. Wei Wuxian could imagine little more satisfying than letting Wen Chao taste that final sliver of hope, only to rip it away at the last second.
But he couldn’t. He was on a time limit, after all.
“H-help!” Want Lingjiao blubbered, shaking her head frantically. Wei Wuxian continued to play, tendrils of resentful energy coiling towards her in a tantalising dance, and she sobbed, finally thinking to address him. “W-Wei-gongzi, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it wasn’t me! It wasn’t me, Wen Chao made me! He made me, I didn’t – I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean it! Please!”
A small part of Wei Wuxian felt sorry for her. He couldn’t imagine being so pathetic a creature, so willing to wield power and pain with an army behind him, so cowardly as to abandon any sort of principle or dignity when alone. But it was a cool, detached pity, like watching a fierce corpse walk blindly into a wall. There was something to pity there, but that didn’t mean the pitiable thing was not evil. It didn’t mean the pitiable thing didn’t deserve everything it had wrought upon itself.
The Wife felt fitting. The ghost of a young woman married off to a man twice her age, a man who had no intention of setting aside his lover for his new bride. When the young Wife fell pregnant, the lover had murdered her, strangling the life from her and her unborn child alike, tossing the young woman’s corpse into the Burial Mounds. By some mercy, the child’s spirit moved on, but the Wife remained, her entire being now steeped in fury and hate. She had no desire to rest in peace, not until she had her vengeance.
And why should she? What justice was there in silencing her fury, of burying the crime done to her just because the perpetrators were long since dead?
Why shouldn’t she take revenge now?
Take revenge for them both.
Wang Lingjiao’s screams became hysterical as the Wife’s body took form, and it was a struggle not to smile as the ghost swept down, tearing into Wang Lingjiao’s flesh with talon-like nails and teeth sharp as daggers. It was a shame it was hard to play the flute properly while smiling.
Wei Wuxian played, guiding and strengthening the Wife’s attacks at every turn, watching as rivers of blood ran down Wang Lingjiao’s arms and chest and face. Xiaoshou stepped back, its fingers curling around its thumb in a gesture Wei Wuxian had come to interpret as the equivalent to folding its arms, practically radiating satisfaction as it watched.
“Hel-” Wang Lingjiao began, but the Wife leant down and tore out her throat with her teeth. Wang Lingjiao gave an awful, gurgling gasp, blood bubbling on her lips, and Wei Wuxian slowly lowered his flute.
That was quicker than he’d intended.
The Wife drew back, hovering behind Wei Wuxian’s shoulder and growling softly down at Wang Lingjiao, who stared up with bulging, desperate eyes, one mangled hand pawing uselessly at her throat. Wei Wuxian stared down at her as her eyes slowly lost focus.
The gurgling stopped.
The Wife growled appreciatively, and Wei Wuxian glanced at her. “Is that enough?” he asked gently. Even as he asked, he felt her energy swell, a wave of agony and fury and drive, and he knew the answer. “Okay,” he murmured, opening the amulet and recalling her inside. “Okay.”
Once again, Wei Wuxian raised his flute to his lips. As he played, Wang Lingjiao’s body rose up like a puppet, and a sense of grim satisfaction filled Wei Wuxian’s chest. He drove her over to Wen Chao’s door, releasing the locking talisman to send her inside.
A shriek of pure terror rang through the room, and Wei Wuxian fought not to smile. He stepped in after her, and Wen Chao’s eyes bulged so wide it was a wonder they didn’t fall out.
“Wen Zhuliu! Wen Zhuliu!” Wen Chao shrieked, and Wei Wuxian paused. He hadn’t seen Wen Zhuliu in his sweep of the camp. It didn’t matter. He narrowed his eyes, playing harder, and Wang Lingjiao’s corpse lurched forward, diving in to attack. Wei Wuxian was careful – very careful. He didn’t want Wen Chao to die, not yet. He had questions.
Wen Chao screamed frantically as the corpse of his lover tore at him like a rabid beast, tearing the skin from his arms and chest and neck, ripping the hair from his head handful by bloodied handful. The agony in his screams turned Wei Wuxian’s stomach a little, but it was also satisfying beyond anything he’d hoped for, and he played a little harder, watching as Wen Chao writhed on the ground.
The door burst open behind him, and Wei Wuxian ducked gracefully, avoiding the strike of Wen Zhuliu’s sword with ease.
“Wen Zhuliu!” Wen Chao babbled, and Wei Wuxian turned, narrowing his eyes.
Without missing a beat, Wen Zhuliu lurched towards Wei Wuxian’s stomach, palm outstretched, but Wei Wuxian wasn’t about to give him such a chance. He leant back and blew a sharp note on his flute, and energy burst from his amulet, throwing Wen Zhuliu back against the wall. The man’s eyes widened in surprise and alarm, but Wei Wuxian didn’t give him time to figure out what had just happened. Another coil of resentful energy shot out, wrapping around a knife on Wen Zhuliu’s own belt, tearing it free –
Slicing through his neck.
Wen Chao shrieked as Wen Zhuliu fell, but pain quickly drowned out the sound of his panic. The reanimated corpse of his mistress tore at him over and over, until he was sprawled, quivering on the floor.
Wei Wuxian whistled sharply, and Wang Lingjiao’s corpse stepped back, her head dropping unnaturally to the side, sending blood spurting out of the wound on her neck. Whimpering, Wen Chao tried to shuffle away, but Wei Wuxian strode over, pinning his arm in place with a foot. Wen Chao howled.
“Quiet,” Wei Wuxian said coldly, and Wen Chao’s screeching faded into frightened blubbering. “Where are they?”
“W-W-Wei-gongzi –”
“Where,” Wei Wuxian growled, enunciating each word, “are Jiang Cheng and Lan Zhan?”
“Nightless City!” Wen Chao yelped quickly. “They’re – they’re in the dungeons at Nightless City! I can get them for you, I’ll fetch them-” he cut off with a shriek as Wei Wuxian increased the pressure on his arm.
“The same dungeon I was held in?” he demanded. “With that… dog?”
“Y-yes, no, it’s – it’s further in! Further in, they’re in the Inferno Palace. It’s, it’s the most g-guarded area in Qishan, I – I can help you! I’ll help you, see? Th-th-this is a misunderstanding!”
Wei Wuxian smiled coldly. “A misunderstanding?”
“Yes, yes! I’ll bring them to you, I’ll bring them straight to you, there’s-” He choked off as Wei Wuxian moved put a foot on his throat instead.
“The only misunderstanding here is your belief that you will live through the next hour,” he said. “I do not need your help.”
“No, wait – please!” Wen Chao shrieked, but Wei Wuxian simply stepped back, whistling once more.
With an ungodly, gurgling shriek, Wang Lingjiao’s corpse lurched forward again, and Wen Chao’s screams filled the air.
By the time Wei Wuxian was done, Wen Chao’s corpse was in pieces.
Wei Wuxian walked back out into the courtyard, closing his eyes as the cool night air hit his face. Resentful energy still lingered, but the air was still so much clearer than anything he’d breathed in months. Even after cleansing the area of the Demon Subdue Palace, there had been a grim stuffiness in the air there, and the rest of Burial Mounds were far worse. It was almost strange to fill his lungs without exacerbating the constant buzz of pain moving through his body.
Slowly, he opened his eyes, gazing up at the sky. He could see the stars more easily here, too.
He’d forgotten how bright they could be.
But there wasn’t time to look at the stars. Tracking down Wen Chao had taken several days, and he was still at least a day out from Qishan. Lan Zhan and Jiang Cheng had been imprisoned by the Wen for more than three months – if their captivity had been anything like Wei Wuxian’s –
He wouldn’t let it last a minute longer. Wei Wuxian glared down at Wen Chao’s sword, his lip curling. It was likely that the blade wouldn’t work for him, but it was clearly the most powerful weapon there, and Wei Wuxian needed to fly. But despite his suspicions, the blade pulled free from its sheath with ease, and Wei Wuxian snorted. It seemed even Wen Chao’s own sword couldn’t stand him.
Ignoring the sharp ache in his core that had become so common a part of his life, Wei Wuxian took to the sword, taking off out of the courtyard –
And he froze.
Something was missing.
He frowned, looking around. “…Xiaoshou?”
There was no reply. Of course, he hadn’t been expecting a sound, but usually if he called out, the hand responded with a wave, or sent out a spark of energy to show its location. Instead, everything was still.
“Xiaoshou! I’m going!” he yelled, but there was still no response. “Fuck…”
He could just leave – a sane person would probably leap at the chance to leave their demonic ex-body-part behind and fly away as fast as they could. But somehow… Wei Wuxian couldn’t help but feel fond of the little demon. He huffed, closing his eyes and focusing on its energy. If Xiaoshou was close enough, he could usually hone in on –
There.
He returned to the ground, striding back into the room Wen Chao had died in –
Stopping dead.
“Really?”
Xiaoshou froze, turning towards Wei Wuxian. Then, it bobbed up and down in a motion that Wei Wuxian knew to be a nod, and returned to its task, hacking at Wang Lingjiao’s wrist with Wen Zhuliu’s discarded knife.
“You know she’s already dead.”
A wave of emotion flew out and struck Wei Wuxian, an indignant insistence that it was the principle of the matter.
“We need to go,” Wei Wuxian pressed, and Xiaoshou nodded again. With a burst of energy, it flew into the air, shooting back down as fast as an arrow to strike one final blow with the knife. Wang Lingjiao’s hand fell from her wrist, tumbling free. Xiaoshou twirled the knife over its fingers in an admittedly impressive manoeuvre, driving it through Wang Lingjiao’s palm and pinning it to the floor.
Xiaoshou gave a final, satisfied nod, flying through the air to perch on Wei Wuxian’s shoulder. For a moment, Wei Wuxian stared at the newly severed hand, pinned to the ground.
He had to admit, it did feel like justice.