'Rules… Can anything of true worth a rise without them, inscribed by the legendary cultivators in every text?'
Lan Wangji stood motionless in the cold, cloud-swallowed dawn, the thought a silent echo in the hollow of his mind. His golden eyes, once sharp with an unyielding light, were now dull—twin graves reflecting a sky that promised no sun.
Before him lay a neglected mound of earth, a grave where no one came to place flowers.
Wei Ying's grave.
By now, it likely held nothing but a skeleton. The vibrant, laughing man reduced to silent bone.
It had been thirteen years. A waking nightmare where he'd forgotten how to close his eyes. The past was a sealed tomb. Unchangeable. Yet moving on was an impossibility. Those mischievous, storm-grey eyes hunted him in every shadow. His ears, trained to catch the faintest demonic whisper, now treacherously caught phantom calls of 'Lan Zhan…' on the wind, especially in the quiet of the library.
A sigh, almost inaudible, escaped him. His hands rose, and with a deliberate slowness that felt both sacrilegious and liberating, he untied his cloud-patterned forehead ribbon. The white silk slithered free, unnoticed by any living soul.
He was tired. Tired of the rules. Tired of accepting every sanctioned cruelty disguised as righteousness. He was torn, suspended between the terrifying impulse to walk the dark path Wei Ying had carved and the familiar, suffocating rules of the Gusu Lan, which had left him a hollow shell—a walking corpse with perfect posture.
He held the ribbon aloft, staring through it as if it were a ghost itself. His thoughts had nothing to do with the mist or the grave.
'Should I…?'
The thought was so silent, so final, it would escape even a ghost's hearing. It was as dark and cold as the clouds clotting the sky.
'It is forbidden. There is risk.'
The other part of his mind hissed, the part forged by three thousand rules and a lifetime of discipline. A warning. The ultimate sin. It could not be done. Not by Hanguang-jun.
'How long more?'
he hissed back, scolding the obedient part of himself. His hand fell to his side, fingers clenching around the silk until his knuckles turned bone-white. His jaw ached with tension.
'If the clan no longer sees me..or him… then I shall no longer see them.'
The resolution settled in his marrow, sending a violent shiver down his spine. The risk was astronomical. The cost, unthinkable.
He would bring him back. That was final.
What did he lack? He had studied every forbidden text locked in the Forbidden Pavilion. He understood the theories of spirit-summoning, the arrays for anchoring a soul, the dark allure of resentful energy. He had the knowledge, the skill, the terrifying focus.
He needed Wei Ying's possessions. Something intimately touched by his spirit. And a clear image to guide the soul home.
He knew where to find them.
But—
How did one take the first step into that abyss when one's entire life had been a lesson in perfect, unassailable balance?
Before his internal war could reach a crescendo, a gentle voice called from the path behind him.
"Wangji."
It was Lan Xichen. His brother's eyes held a deep, weary sorrow that had built over thirteen years of watching this silent vigil. "We should return. The weather is turning."
Somehow, Xichen was the only one who did not believe Wangji had gone mad. He saw not insanity, but a profound fracture—a man who had lost far more than he had ever been allowed to possess.
"Mn." Wangji hummed in acknowledgement. With a swift, practiced motion, he retied the ribbon around his forehead, the symbol of his restraint once more in place. He fell into step beside his brother, his gaze unfocused, seeing nothing of the mist-shrouded path.
He felt Xichen's worried eyes on him, but the sensation was distant. He used to be silent and called emotionless. Now, he looked emotionless because all feeling had ceased within him, a frozen lake waiting for the final, shattering crack.
He walked. His steps were measured, disciplined, but filled with a weary heaviness.
It was a tiredness that had no end.
"No cultivator who steps onto the demonic path can hope for prosperity or peace." Lan Qiren's voice cut through the lecture hall, sharp as a blade. His gaze, heavy with implication, landed squarely on Wangji.
Wangji's hand clenched into a fist beneath the table. That topic. That same, accursed topic.
For years, it had been eating him from the inside. And his uncle, whether out of cruelty or a twisted sense of pedagogy, seemed determined to salt the wound daily. To ensure the lesson was etched in pain.
'Focus. Shufu is teaching',
Wangji commanded himself, the internal voice strained.
But Lan Qiren offered no quarter. "Wei Wuxian's final chapter serves as the perfect testament. A painful death. A grave so accursed none dare pass it. How… pathetic."
The last word was a deliberate drop of poison.
"Yes, Shufu," the junior disciples chorused, their voices hesitant. The air in the room had grown thick and uneasy; they could all but feel the winter emanating from the Second Jade.
Wangji stood up. The movement was so abrupt his table shuddered, its legs groaning against the floor. He kept his head bowed, watching the wooden grain swim before his eyes.
A heavy silence crashed down.
"Wangji." Lan Qiren's voice was dangerously calm. He tapped his jade-handled fan against his palm once, twice. A prelude to discipline. "Explain this discourtesy."
"This disciple apologizes." Wangji's voice was perfectly polite, yet the steel beneath was unmistakable. "I cannot attend this lesson today." He paused, the next words a whisper torn from a place of raw tension. "May I be excused, Shufu?"
He was breaking a dozen rules. But this was a test. A rehearsal. He needed to know how it felt to defy gravity before he leaped from the cliff. He needed to trace the ghost of the defiance Wei Ying had worn so effortlessly.
Lan Qiren's eyes narrowed. Wangji could almost feel the ghost of the discipline whip on his back, the old scars throbbing in sympathy. Each stripe had been a lesson in guilt. A receipt for his failures.
Before the storm could break, the door slid open.
"Shufu."
All eyes turned to Lan Xichen, who stood on the threshold, a picture of serene urgency.
Lan Qiren let out a slow, irritated breath. "Xichen. What is it?"
Xichen's glance flickered to Wangji, then back to their uncle.
"Forgive the interruption. The matter in Yueyang has resurfaced. The walking corpses… their numbers have increased, and they now threaten the common folk in daylight. I must request Wangji's assistance to lead the senior disciples. The situation requires his… particular focus."
Wangji watched his uncle. After a tense moment, Lan Qiren waved a dismissive hand. "Hmph. Very well. Take him. Take a full contingent. May your path be secure."
"Thank you, Shufu." Xichen bowed, a polite mask over his intervention.
The relief that washed over Wangji was thin and cold, but it was air. He bowed silently and followed his brother from the stifling room.
Once they were safely down the corridor, out of sight and hearing, Xichen stopped and turned.
"Go back to the Jingshi," he said softly.
Wangji blinked. "Mn?"
"The situation is not so dire. A small team will suffice." Xichen's expression was one of gentle, painful understanding. "I saw the fog in your eyes, wangji. You were drowning in that room. This was merely a pretext."
"But—"
"I can handle it. You are not sleeping. Your spiritual energy is restless, and your last injury has not fully mended." Xichen's tone brooked no argument, yet it was filled with care. "Go. Rest."
Wangji held his gaze for a long moment, then the fight left him in a silent exhale. The weariness returned, heavier than before. "As you say."
He turned and took a smaller, secluded path not toward the gates, but deeper into the Cloud Recesses, back toward the quiet prison of his own quarters.
The test was over. The rebellion, however, had just been decided. In the silence of the Jingshi, with the ghosts of his failure and the phantom of a laugh ringing in his ears, Lan Wangji would begin his true descent.