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Chapter Text

Artwork by Ace

Pristine white robes rippling in the wind, Lán Wàngjī directed his sword, Bìchén, towards his family’s compound, named ‘Yúnshēn Bùzhīchù’ for the constant fog that settled on the mountain peak each morning.¹ Yúnshēn Bùzhīchù was the center of the Gūsū province, gifted to Lán Ān by Emperor Wēn Mǎozǔ for his dedication and loyalty as general in the war that unified the Jiāng​hú under one emperor.² The night-hunt he was returning from had been uneventful—another hungry ghost terrorizing a village already struggling to make ends meet under the once again increased taxes imposed by the Imperial Court.

Lán Wàngjī wasn’t part of the court, much to his brother Lán Xīchén’s dismay, so he didn’t know the reasons behind the seemingly unfair tax increases, but he did worry about the impact they were having on the common people. While his brother worried about the rising rebellion in the south, Lán Wàngjī privately sided with the rebellion’s grievances with the Emperor and the Imperial Court. The rebellion condemned the raising taxes alongside the Imperial Court’s unchecked greed, and critiqued the Emperor himself for his passivity. Lán Wàngjī didn’t like their bandit-like and underhanded tactics, but he had to admit they were rather effective.

As he touched down outside the wards of his home, he decided he would rethink his refusals to join his uncle and brother in the Imperial Court. Perhaps he could help his brother change the Imperial Court from the inside, rendering the rebellion null. He contemplated what role he would fill when one of the guards at the gate stopped his approach.

“Lord Lán,” he greeted. “I’ve been told to inform you that Jīn Zixuān is waiting for you in the eastern garden pavilion.”

Lán Wàngjī acknowledged this with a hum and a slight nod of his head before heading in that direction. Jīn Zixuān was Lán Wàngjī’s oldest friend, having met as children during one of the many lectures Lán Wàngjī’s uncle used to hold for gentry heirs. Jīn Zixuān was never allowed to attend the lectures, being at first a bastard son and later a bastard daughter, but was forced to accompany Jīn Zixūn, her cousin, as a servant before her transition.

Young Lán Wàngjī had found this quite unfair—and a direct violation of his family’s rules. When he went to his brother with this disparity, Lán Xīchén suggested that he tutor Jīn Zixuān privately in the library of Yúnshēn Bùzhīchù, since he knew all the content being taught by heart. Lán Wàngjī reluctantly agreed, but quickly found himself quite liking the shy and awkward Jīn Zixuān. The two of them bonded after realizing they both deeply mourned their mothers but were unable to do so publicly. They wrote to each other quite frequently after the lectures, and soon Lán Wàngjī found himself visiting Jīn Zixuān in Jīnlín Tái while his uncle attended some Imperial Court business.³

It was during this visit that he met Jīn Xuányǔ, Jīn Zixuān’s half-cousin and the future empress. She was a sickly child, something the Jīn desperately tried to hide for fear of the court deeming her unfit for the role placed upon her head at birth. Nicknamed ‘Xiǎoyīng,’ Little Baby, due to her being the youngest Jīn heir and often coddled by her relatives, she was often confined to her rooms for long periods of time, leaving her lonely and bored.

Since Jīn Zixuān was not monitored by her family, she slipped into Jīn Xuányǔ’s rooms to entertain the younger girl whenever she could. She understood feeling lonely, as her mother had raised her alone after her father, Jīn Guāngshàn, had divorced the former Madam Jīn (for the petty reason of her being “too headstrong”) and refused to acknowledge Jīn Zixuān as his child. After her mother’s death, the new Madam Jīn had taken pity on Jīn Zixuān and taken her in as a servant. It wasn’t until after Jīn Guāngshàn’s death that Jīn Guāngyáo formally recognized Jīn Zixuān as her sibling and reinstated her place in the Jīn family.

Whenever Lán Wàngjī visited she pulled him along on her visits to Jīn Xuányǔ, and the three became as close as siblings. Once Jīn Zixuān transitioned, about five years following their first meeting at the guest lectures , Lán Wàngjī’s visits to Jīnlín Tái were shortened and chaperoned for propriety’s sake. The Jīn family didn’t think Jīn Zixuān was of any marriageable value to them, especially as she was unable to bear a man any heirs, but they did care about their image.

“Wàngjī,” Jīn Zixuān greeted him, standing up from the tea table to bow properly. By her side was an older female maid of the Jīn family, chaperoning their visit.

“Zixuān,” Lán Wàngjī returned the greeting before settling across from her at the tea table.

The maid poured them both tea before stepping enough away that she could not eavesdrop but still close enough to interfere should anything ‘improper’ happen.

“How was your night hunt?” she asked politely.

“Uneventful.”

“That’s good,” she said with an unsteady smile. “Wàngjī, have you heard from Xuányǔ recently?”

“No,” Lán Wàngjī replied. “I just came back. Is the imperial wedding not today?”

Jīn Zixuān nibbled at her lip with nervousness.

“The wedding has been postponed. Palace guards found Xuányǔ drowning in a lake in Búyètiān Chéng last night, and she still hasn’t woken up.”

Lán Wàngjī set down his teacup in shock, though it didn’t show on his face beyond the widening of his eyes.

“Drowning?”

Jīn Zixuān nodded miserably. “They are saying it was an accident, but there are rumors that she was pushed.”

Lán Wàngjī’s hand tightened around Bìchén’s grip. An assassination attempt on the soon-to-be Empress? On sweet, shy Xiǎoyīng?

“How is she?” he asked.

“They refused to let me see her,” Jīn Zixuān said, “though Miánmian—Luó Qīngyáng, Xuányǔ’s maid—assured me that there are no complications and that she’s simply resting.”

“Hmn.”

“I know,” Jīn Zixuān sighed, taking a sip of tea. “I’m worried about her too. Why would someone try to assassinate poor Xiǎoyīng? Everyone knows she’s a pawn for…”

She trailed off, sending a worried glance towards the maid across the pavilion, but Lán Wàngjī could fill it in.

“I have been rethinking my brother’s proposal,” Lán Wàngjī said—changing the subject, but Jīn Zixuān understood his hidden meaning.

“Yes, I think that may be for the best,” Jīn Zixuān slowly replied. “I am thinking of moving to Búyètiān Chéng for the winter season. It is far warmer in Qíshān than Lánlíng this time of year, you know.”⁴

“Mn.” Lán Wàngjī nodded knowingly.

Hopefully, Jīn Xuányǔ wouldn’t be alone in the palace for much longer.

“That weak-hearted fool!” Jīn Mǐnshàn seethed to Jīn Guāngyáo, who had adopted him into her clan following her father’s “tragic” death. “How could she do this to the family?”

Jīn Guāngyáo shook her head, hair laden with gold ornaments and a single kingfisher feather hairpin, and continued staring at the gate entry lists to Búyètiān Chéng. Sīsi, her loyal maid who had her tongue cut, her eyes blinded, and her hearing partially damaged to prevent spying as a gift from her father when she first entered the Imperial Court, knelt at her side pouring tea. Across the room, Jīn Mǐnshàn sat at a table with his own pot of tea, knuckles clenched over the fine porcelain.

“Was this her plan? To humiliate our family by throwing a spoiled little tantrum?” Jīn Mǐnshàn continued, teeth gnashing in anger.

“Mǐnshàn,” Jīn Guāngyáo sharply chastised him. “The more you say it, the more it becomes true.”

“Sorry, Grand Empress Dowager.”

Jīn Guāngyáo sighed and shook her head, causing her ornaments to lightly tinkle. She brought a cup up to her painted lips and took a sip, barely holding back a grimace. Rarely did she drink proper tea anymore, instead sipping on bitter brews from the Imperial Physician to push back the aging lines of her face. Jīn Guāngyáo had received favor from Emperor Ránzōng due to her jīndān, though small and weak, and that was one of the reasons she climbed up to the status of Empress so quickly despite being the youngest of his concubines.⁵ It wasn’t until his “unfortunate” death that she was finally able to start working on it in earnest, though by then it was largely too late for it to grow much more. She hid her poor cultivation as best as she could, but soon it would become obvious that she was aging as quickly as a commoner rather than a cultivator.

“Ah, Mǐnshàn, I know you’re frustrated now, but there is a way for us to use this ‘lake incident’ to our advantage.” She paused. “Who was the cousin the Empress Dowager wished to promote to the imperial harem?”

“Niè Míngxiá,” Jīn Mǐnshàn mused. “Ah, I see…”

“Take this to our helpful friend,” Jīn Guāngyáo said as she handed over the entry lists. “And try to figure out what alibi she might have for that night.”

“It will be done, Grand Empress Dowager,” Jīn Mǐnshàn said with a smug grin and a bow.

Minutes after Jīn Mǐnshàn was seen out of the Palace of Eternal Longevity, Jīn Guāngyáo’s private quarters, her lady-in-waiting announced Left State Councilor Lán Xīchén’s arrival.

“Grand Empress Dowager,” Lán Xīchén greeted formally before kneeling at the tea table Jīn Mǐnshàn had just left.

“Vice Director Lán,” Jīn Guāngyáo bobbed her head.

The screen doors were slid shut behind them, leaving them alone with Jīn Guāngyáo’s trusted maid. Being an imperial mother and widow, such forms of chaperoning were for appearances only.

“Ā-Huàn​, it’s so good to see you.” Jīn Guāngyáo’s posture softened, her eyes warmer.

“Same with you, Ā-Yáo,” Lán Xīchén replied earnestly. “I wanted to see how you were doing with… well. I know how worried you’ve been about your cousin, and now this…”

“Thank you, Ā-Huàn​.” Jīn Guāngyáo’s face became worried. “Just as Míngjué’s mourning period was finally over, and now our poor, sweet Xuányǔ? I’m at my wits end. All I can do now is pray my thanks to our ancestors that she was found so soon.”

“Have you heard any more news?” Lán Xīchén asked. “I know Wàngjī will be very worried once he hears. He and Xuányǔ were rather close as children.”

Jīn Guāngyáo hesitated, eyes flickering towards the screen door. Lán Xīchén shuffled around the tea table so he was a few paces closer.

“You can be assured none of this will leave this room if you ask, Ā-Yáo,” he whispered.

“I know, Ā-Huàn​. I just…” She trailed off before leaning closer to Lán Xīchén and pitching her voice even lower. “Now, I’ve only heard whisperings, but there are some witnesses who say that Xuányǔ wasn’t alone at the lake. They saw someone—a young woman—fleeing the lake pavilion right after they heard a large splash.”

“What?” Lán Xīchén breathed in shock. “But who…?”

“I had Mǐnshàn check the entry lists,” Jīn Guāngyáo continued. She winced as she said, “and the only woman entering the palace that late was Niè Míngxiá.”

Lán Xīchén leaned back, his eyes wide in shock. “Truly? I know Huáisāng had hoped…”

“That's why I didn’t want to say anything yet,” Jīn Guāngyáo earnestly replied. “And why I must ask you to keep it a secret. At least until we know her whereabouts and motives.”

“Of course, Ā-Yáo. I won’t tell a soul.”

“I know I can always count on you, Ā-Huàn​.”

Jīn Guāngyáo watched Lán Xīchén leave her quarters with a small, satisfied smile playing at the edges of her painted lips. Niè Huáisāng and Niè Zōnghuī had been pushing back a little too hard, and now they were going to reap the consequences.

First Prince Wēn Xù, posthumously revered as Emperor Xīzōng, was known to dote on and spoil his first wife Niè Huáisāng, and she was elevated to Empress Dowager following his tragic death.⁶ In addition to buying her a new wardrobe every season, he built her an elaborate and exotic aviary in her favorite gardens.

After his death, the Empress Dowager reconstructed the first room of her residence, the Palace of Compassion and Tranquility, into a shrine to her belated husband. If she was not praying for him there, she was often found in her aviary talking to Ā-Xù, the exotic gray parrot that was the last gift her husband gave to her before he died. And no one was allowed into the aviary without Niè Huáisāng’s explicit permission, for fear of her birds’ well-being.

Empress Dowager Niè Huáisāng stood in her aviary, Ā-Xù perched on her right shoulder, a piece of leather draped across it so Ā-Xù’s talons didn’t rip the delicate threads of her silk robes. She carefully burned pieces of plain cloth with characters written in dried blood across them in a bronze brazier that she used to brew tea. Getting up from her table and leaving her now tepid tea, she absently fed Ā-Xù millet grains as she ensured all remnants of the spirit attraction flags disappeared into the coals of the brazier.

“I wonder what chaos spirit we summoned from the planes beyond,” she cooed to Ā-Xù. “Poor Xuányǔ… may her spirit be at peace, wherever it ended up.”

“Poor Xuányǔ,” Ā-Xù crooned.

Niè Huáisāng hummed gleefully as Ā-Xù began preening his feathers.

“Dàgē, dàgē,” Ā-Xù mimicked, causing Niè Huáisāng’s smug smile to melt into a mournful one.

“I miss him too,” she whispered.

“The Emperor has arrived!”

The Imperial Court all bowed as the Emperor, dressed in the yellow five-clawed dragon robes only worn by emperors and crown princes with the addition of the bright red panels of flames on each side of the skirts, as favored by Emperor Ránzōng, Wēn Ruòhán himself.⁷

He’d ordered the flames to be added as a symbol of righteous cleansing after the execution of his traitorous half brother, Wēn Mùhuŏ, and the exile of his family to Luànzànggǎng, the dead mountain of Yílíng.⁸

After Emperor Ránzōng’s beloved son, Emperor Xùzōng, met his untimely demise on a “night hunting accident” and leaving no eligible heirs left of Emperor Ránzōng’s line, Grand Empress Dowager Jīn and the Imperial Court pardoned Wēn Mùhuŏ’s family, crowning his young orphaned son Wēn Níng, courtesy Qiónglín, as the new Emperor and forcing him to leave his elder sister in Yílíng. The new Emperor was of a soft, shy disposition that was easily swayed by the Grand Empress Dowager and the strong Lánlíng Jīn family that overpowered all of the Jiāng​hú. A puppet emperor, powerless to stop Lánlíng Jīn from driving the country to ruin with their corruption and greed.

The Emperor sat on his gilded throne, the Grand Empress Dowager in a veiled seat beside him, and slowly began to go through the many issues and proposals of the Three Departments and Six Ministries.⁹

“About the discontinuation of intermediate class’s duties, the Small Movement Theory and the Big Movement Theory are the opposing schools of thought. We hereby ask your opinion, Your Imperial Majesty,” Minister Niè Bóchéng said.

“Ah, O-Our opinion is…” The Emperor trailed off, fidgeting in his seat. “The big one…” he mumbled, “the small one… how should We choose…”

He looked to the side at the Grand Empress Dowager, who stuck a dainty foot out of her shroud and looked pointedly at the Grand Chancellor, her younger brother Jīn Mǐnshàn.

Jīn Mǐnshàn stepped forward, hands clasped in front of his embroidered rank badge—which depicted a crane mid-flight—and a black muslin fútóu on his head.¹⁰

“The Big Movement Theory insists on discontinuing the intermediate class’s duties,” Jīn Mǐnshàn said, The Emperor turning to look at him with thinly veiled awe, “but that would inevitably lead to a major financial loss. I would suggest reducing the duties in steps, as the Small Movement Theory claims.”

“Y-yes, that’s what W-we are t-trying to say,” The Emperor stuttered.

The Imperial Ministers all smirked to themselves.

“The next is about the imperial wedding, which is the most urgent matter,” Central Secretariat Lán Qǐrén said.

“Ah, yes,” The Emperor said with a shy grin. “We d-don’t know if you know, but she is awake now.”

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Left Vice Director Niè Zōnghuī said, “There is a rumor going around the palace that the awakened Empress-to-be’s condition is serious.”

“Is that so?” the Emperor said, surprised. “We have never heard of such a rumor.” He laughed self-deprecatingly. “Are We the only slowpoke here?”

“It’s nothing but a rumor,” Minister of Public Works Jiāng Míngtāo, one of the few surviving Jiāng following the Yúnmèng Jiāng Executions, harrumphed, “so the officials decided it unimportant to report.”

“It’s not just a rumor, I’m afraid,” Minister of Justice Niè Bóchéng insisted with a deep bow towards the Emperor.

“Oh, I—We did… We heard she lost her memory of the accident,” the Emperor said nervously.

“The grave danger she was in must have been so shocking that it caused memory loss,” Lán Qǐrén mused.

“D-danger?” the Emperor asked.

“The Empress-to-be falling into the water was not just an accident,” Chancellery Director Jīn Zixūn said.

“What?” the Emperor blurted out.

“At the time, the Head Eunuch of the Palace Kitchen saw a suspicious woman as he passed by the lake,” Jīn Zixūn insisted.

The Imperial Ministers all turned to each other in surprise, muttering about this new information.

“Who was it?” the Emperor asked.

“We checked the entry and exit list,” Jīn Mǐnshàn replied. “The only woman who entered Búyètiān Chéng so late was Niè Míngxiá.”

Outrage sparked amongst the Niè and the families aligned with them.

“What are you trying to say, Duke Jīn?” Minister Niè Bóchéng growled.

Jīn Mǐnshàn opened his mouth to retort, but was cut off by a deep, pointed laugh. Niè Zōnghuī stepped forward and bowed to The Emperor.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” he said. “This must be a mistake. Niè Míngxiá was seen by multiple witnesses in Bùjìng Shì helping with the latest landslide in Qīnghé territories.”¹¹

“Then,” The Emperor shot a look at the Grand Empress Dowager, but she was fixated on the crowd of Imperial Ministers, “this mysterious woman must be caught and held responsible.”

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty,” the council bowed.

The council all left, leaving just the Emperor and the Grand Empress Dowager in the hall. The Emperor stood up and bowed shallowly to her from the bottom of the steps leading to the throne, his face sheepish.

“We are sorry for all the trouble Our incompetence causes you, Your Royal Highness.”

“Don’t be,” the Grand Empress Dowager said with a kind, dimpled smile. “Your skills in ruling the government are also improving, My Emperor.”

“We are flattered,” the Emperor said with a shy smile. “We are just barely making it by depending on you.”

“We will find out who the Head Eunuch of the Palace Kitchen saw,” she continued. “We must make sure that the Empress-to-be will never be in danger again.”

“Yes, you are absolutely right,” the Emperor agreed, stepping away from the steps so the Grand Empress Dowager could walk down and out of the hall. He watched her leave with a peculiar tension in his face. His musings were interrupted by a servant, who informed him that his medicinal tea from Yílíng had arrived.

1. 云深不知处 - Yúnshēn Bùzhīchù: Cloud Recesses. 云 - yún: cloud; 深 - shēn: deep / far / very / extreme; 不知 - bùzhī: not to know / unaware / unknowingly / fig. not to admit (defeat, hardships, tiredness etc); 处 - chù: place / location / spot / point / office / department / bureau. ^{go back⤴}
2. Temple name: 卯 - xī: early morning / mortise (slot cut into wood to receive a tenon) / fourth of twelve earthly branches (十二支) / rabbit (兔) of Chinese zodiac / period from 5-7 a.m.;祖 - zǔ​: ancestor / forefather / grandparents. ^{go back⤴}
   Sources:
   “Temple Names.” Wikipedia.
   fineillsignup. "Tips for Choosing a Chinese Name for Your OC When Writing." Tumblr, 29 Apr. 2019.
3. 金鳞台 - Jīnlín Tái: Golden Carp Tower. 金 - jīn: gold / money / golden; 鳞 - lín: fish scales; 台 - tái: terrace / tower / lookout. ^{go back⤴}
4. 不夜天城 - Búyètiān Chéng: Nightless City. 不 - bù: no; not so / (bound form) not; un-; 夜 - yè: night; 天 - tiān: day / sky / heaven; 城 - chéng: city walls / city / town. ^{go back⤴}
5. Jīndān: (alt. golden core) A concentration of qì in the lower dāntián, used in cultivation. ^{go back⤴}
   Source: Saint. "‘Cores’ in Chinese Cultivation Novels." Immortal Mountain, 20 Nov. 2016.
6. Temple name: 熙 - xī: (used in names) / (bound form) (literary) bright / prosperous / splendid / genial; 宗 - zōng: ancestor. ^{go back⤴}
7. Temple name: 燃 - rán: to burn / to ignite / to light; 宗 - zōng: ancestor. ^{go back⤴}
8. 乱葬岗 - Luànzànggǎng: unmarked burial mound; untended graveyard; mass grave. ^{go back⤴}
9. Three Departments and Six Ministries: a type of primary administrative structure in imperial China. I am basing a lot of this fic on the Táng dynasty in particular, but I have taken (extensive) liberties so it is in no way historically accurate. ^{go back⤴}
   Source: “Three Departments and Six Ministries.” Wikipedia.
10. Rank badge: a large embroidered badge sewn onto the surcoats of officials, also called a ‘mandarin square.’ Different ranks were designated by different birds or animals.
    Fútóu: a type of headwear worn throughout Chinese history by government officials. ^{go back⤴}
    Sources:
    “Mandarin Square.” Penn Museum.
    Ivoci. “Futou 幞头, Ancient Chinese Headwear.” Ivoci, 6 February 2023.
11. 不净世 - Bùjìng Shì: Unclean Realm. 不 - bù: no; not so / (bound form) not; un-; 净 - jìng: clean / completely / only; 世 - shì: generation / world / era. ^{go back⤴}

Chapter Text

8th day of the Sixth Month (lunisolar), Modern Day

“Wow, that’s great mom. No, I had no idea that Taoist sex magic was still being practiced. Oh, wow, dad, TMI much?”

Wèi Wúxiàn sat at his breakfast bar, scrolling mindlessly through his phone as he listened to his parents talk about their trip to Nepal and the surrounding area through his wireless earbuds. His parents rarely called him, and when they did he knew it was because all their other friends were unavailable or asleep at the moment and couldn’t get on the phone to hear about what random cultivation-and-or-sex related thing they had learned.

Wèi Wúxiàn had already known too much about his parents’ sex life before he read his mother’s new book Practical Applications of Dual Cultivation in Modern Relationships (of which about a thousand signed copies are still being stored in Wèi Wúxiàn’s apartment for whenever his parents decided to stop by again), and he deeply regretted opening the book during a fit of extreme boredom. He learned way more about his parents than he ever wanted to.

“That’s nice. Well, I better get going to work now. Bye mom, bye dad!”

He cut the call before they could carry on any longer, sighing into his empty coffee cup. To be fair, he really did need to get going. As much as he wished he could just hop on Suíbiàn and fly to work, the paperwork, fees, and hoops a cultivator needed to jump through in order to get a “Casual Flight License” took years to complete and proved to be more trouble than it was really worth. After his night hunting accident nearly five years ago, his weakened jīndān could barely stand more than five minutes of flight. This was, afterall, why he’d been forced to give up his dreams of teaching cultivation at Yílíng Cultivation Institute, the very same cultivation school the infamous Yílíng Lǎozǔ had founded nearly one-thousand years prior, and instead went to culinary arts.

Wèi Wúxiàn was lucky he fell in love with cooking, as there was a surprising need for trained cultivators as chefs at the National Cultivation Bureau. He found a groundbreaking study done by Dr. Jiāng Yànlí (one of the few remaining ancestors of the now-obsolete Yúnmèng Jiāng Sect), who proved that cultivators can infuse foods with qì, which not only enhanced their nutritional value but also drastically improved the foundation and building of a jīndān. The more powerful the cultivator, the better the output.

Seeing as most powerful cultivators preferred to cultivate than cook, there was a highly sought after niche that Wèi Wúxiàn just happened to fill. His meridians were shriveled during his accident with a rather powerful demon, but his jīndān was untouched, leaving him with a very powerful core that he could barely use since his qì trickled through his meridians instead of poured. This just so happened to make him the perfect candidate for Dr. Jiāng’s research. Thus, Wèi Wúxiàn became one of the first cultivation chefs, which earned him plenty of fame and a sizable amount of money.

After chugging the last of his room-temperature coffee, Wèi Wúxiàn grabbed his work bag and left his high-rise apartment in a rush to catch the bus on time. Though he could technically afford to take a hired car to work every day, or even own a car himself, Wèi Wúxiàn preferred taking the public transit. In his opinion, it was more efficient and better for the environment. Plus, he was able to have an entire half-hour to himself every morning, noise-canceling headphones on and heavy metal blasting through his eardrums as he read the most recent academic papers published by YCI.

He smiled at his phone when he saw a paper published in his favorite subject: the tumultuous Wēn Dynasty, where the downfall of cultivation sects, the rapid modernization of cultivation, and the end of imperial rule happened simultaneously. It was also known as the Era of the Yílíng Lǎozǔ, named after the mysterious cultivator that revolutionized cultivation forever before seemingly vanishing from history. Wèi Wúxiàn wrote his undergrad thesis on the Yílíng Lǎozǔ’s talisman theory and spellwork after a lifelong fascination with the Grandmaster of the Ghost Path, and had been hoping to dedicate the rest of his career to researching the historical figure.

With a bitter smile, Wèi Wúxiàn slipped his phone into the pocket of his leather jacket and prepared to exit the bus. He entered the NCB headquarters through the employee entrance at the back, swiping his identity card and going through the metal detectors before heading to the kitchens. Being the head chef, it wasn’t necessary for him to be the first in the kitchens, which was a blessing for Wèi Wúxiàn as he is terrible at waking up early. He had gotten through culinary school with a shit ton of energy drinks and very little sleep.

As soon as he entered the kitchen, dressed in his clean and pressed uniform, he was immediately accosted by Sū Shè, the executive chef. He liked to think he was the emperor of the kitchen, constantly nagging Wèi Wúxiàn’s sous chef and ordering around his station chef while being absolutely useless at his actual job. Despite Wèi Wúxiàn being the head chef, he often found himself also doing the managerial aspects of the NCB’s kitchens that Sū Shè failed to complete. Wèi Wúxiàn was convinced he only held this job because of connections; he certainly wouldn’t have made it as an NCB Cultivation Officer with his poor cultivation. That was something he definitely held a grudge about, and was also why he hadn't been chosen for the position as head chef.

“Wèi Wúxiàn! You’re late,” Sū Shè sneered.

“Nope,” Wèi Wúxiàn said shortly, ignoring Sū Shè’s aggravated splutterings in favor of catching up with his sous chef.

The rest of his work day went by the same as every other one. Sū Shè attempted to order him around, saying he was “doing it wrong.” Wèi Wúxiàn ignored him. The kitchen porter dropped only two potatoes and barely skinned himself today, which was a huge win.

Wèi Wúxiàn went over the menu for the day and checked the supply log. He contemplated his life purpose, and whether he was happy or not. Sure, he liked his job most of the time, though Sū Shè was quickly ruining that for him, but he wasn’t fulfilled.

Despite being labeled as a social butterfly during his youth, Wèi Wúxiàn had a hard time keeping people around. He could make everyone at the bar laugh and have a good time, but in the end he always went home alone. All of his relationships stayed superficial despite his best efforts. He was lonely, though he could barely admit that to himself.

He walked home from the bus stop, having gotten off earlier than usual so he could enjoy the warm summer night. He looked at the call log to his mom from the morning, scrolling through his call history. Twenty to thirty minute calls maybe twice a month to his parents, calls to the doctor’s office or dentist here and there, plenty of scam calls. Wèi Wúxiàn couldn’t remember the last time he went out and did anything fun.

Once the study with Dr. Jiāng was over, he never contacted them or the other study participants again, despite getting their numbers. He was just so focused on putting one foot in front of the other, on staying afloat and working on his career, that he never stopped to look back.

Looking back hurt, not that he’d ever admit it to anyone. After his night-hunting accident, he’d fallen out with all his cultivator friends, unable to stand the pity in their eyes. The doctors had recommended he see a therapist at the time, but after going to one session where an older man told him his reckless behavior would drive him to ruin and that he was right to blame himself for the accident, Wèi Wúxiàn couldn’t bring himself to go again. The man was right, of course, but that didn’t mean Wèi Wúxiàn wanted to hear all his darkest thoughts validated.

For a long time, Wèi Wúxiàn hadn’t seen the point of living. If he wasn’t going to be a cultivator, what was his purpose in life? Meeting Dr. Jiāng had literally saved his life, and he owed the professor a debt for it. But now, nearly eight years after the accident, Wèi Wúxiàn was losing sight of that drive again. He didn’t love cooking anymore, and he was terrified of losing yet another dream before he could reach it.

“Too bad I can’t see the stars,” Wèi Wúxiàn sighed to himself.

He stopped at the middle of the bridge that stretched over one of the many rivers that ran through the middle of the city. Once, these rivers boasted Liánhuā Wù, Yúnmèng Jiāng Sect’s headquarters.¹ It burned to the ground over a thousand years ago at the order of Emperor Ránzōng, but sometimes Wèi Wúxiàn liked to imagine what it would’ve looked like.

“Hey!” an angry voice called.

Wèi Wúxiàn turned to see an irate Sū Shè storming up to him.

“What—”

He barely got the words from his mouth before Sū Shè had him by the collar of his T-shirt and pushed. Wèi Wúxiàn scrambled to grab onto the railing of the bridge, but his fingers slipped in the humid night air. His screams were quickly swallowed by the rushing river below. I can’t die yet! was Wèi Wúxiàn’s last thought before his head hit hard against a rock and the world went dark.

When he came to, he was still underwater, though this time without a current. It was all dark around him, the water stretching endlessly in all directions. Wèi Wúxiàn wildly spun around trying to figure out which way was up or down. Above his head, he noticed a faint, pale light. He began to swim up, but his head throbbed and his vision started going blurry.

Suddenly, there was a young woman swimming towards him, her eyes filled with an emptiness that caused Wèi Wúxiàn’s chest to ache in sympathy. She was wearing a full hàn​fú, the heavy layers of her many skirts obviously weighing her down. Wèi Wúxiàn couldn’t help but notice that she had wrapped her collars to close on the left, the way most people did for the dead.

Makes sense, he thought idly, since she must be at least a couple hundred years old to be wearing a hàn​fú like that.

Ice cold but soft and small hands closed around Wèi Wúxiàn’s face, her manicured nails digging into his jaw.

“Take my life!” she snarled, her delicate face contorted in rage and deep hurt. “I don’t want it.”

Before Wèi Wúxiàn could comprehend her words or wrap his head around how she was speaking so clearly while underwater, she pressed her lips to his and exhaled air into his burning lungs.

Wèi Wúxiàn woke with a gasping breath that sounded wrong coming from his mouth. His eyes opened to an ornate ceiling that was too traditional to be his apartment, and much too expensive—those were solid wood beams—to be a hospital room. He sat up in bed and looked around. Gauging by the painted screens, type of furniture, and the amount of gold leaf, he had to guess this room was a replica of mid-to-late century Ancient Jiāng​hú bedroom, most likely from one of the palaces of Búyètiān Chéng given the sheer amount of sun imagery.²

As he began to stand up, he noticed his center of balance was off. He looked down in confusion, only to be met with two—oh fuck, those were breasts! Wèi Wúxiàn brought a dainty—dainty!—hand and pressed at his chest in shock and horror.

“Aren’t I supposed to be dead?” he whisper-yelled, and yeah, that was definitely not his voice.

He was dressed in a pair of pants in a soft pink silk with a layer of open-crotch, gauzy red pants over them. Tucked into the tight strip of layered fabric wrapped around his stomach was a long sleeve blouse that folded over his chest and tied at the sides, also in a pretty pink with embroidered red flowers along the hems and sleeves.

“I’m dreaming, I have to be dreaming,” he said hysterically to himself.

“Your Highness!”

A young woman entered the bedroom with a tray holding what seemed to be a bowl of water and some folded washcloths. She hastily set the tray down onto the floor and crawled to where Wèi Wúxiàn had folded himself up to weather through his current panic attack.

“You finally woke up!” she cried, joyful tears forming in her eyes. “I knew you would wake up. Oh, I’m so thankful!”

She began to cry in earnest, bowing at Wèi Wúxiàn’s pale, bare feet. Wèi Wúxiàn attempted to move away from her, already squirming from her honesty, but she shot up to stop him.

“Don’t move! You’re still not well, so I’ll…”

She pulled Wèi Wúxiàn into her arms and cradled him close before grabbing a bowl from the tray—apparently not water, but some type of disgusting medicine that had Wèi Wúxiàn spitting it back up immediately.

“What the fuck is that?” he spat, still trying to get the taste from his mouth as the maid wiped her face of his spit.

“Is it that uncomfortable to drink?” she asked fretfully. She tried the drink before coughing in disgust. “I will tell them to concoct it with more licorice,” she said through a strained voice.

Wèi Wúxiàn looked down at himself in horror, barely noticing the maid scurrying away. Never has his sense of taste been so vivid in a dream.

“I’m not dreaming, am I,” he whispered to himself, already knowing the answer but wishing he could stay ignorant for a moment longer. “What on earth is going on?”

The maid stopped at that. She turned around and knelt back down, setting the tray back down with a loud clack.

“It’s all my fault,” she cried, and Wèi Wúxiàn was too stunned to stop her groveling. “I shouldn’t have left you alone, even for a moment.”

Oh, dear, Wèi Wúxiàn thought with trepidation.

“I feel so regretful,” the maid continued to cry, bowing her head. “From now on, I will never take my eyes off you!”
Once she finished her declaration, she looked up and found Wèi Wúxiàn no longer in the room.

I can’t handle all this sincerity! He cried to himself as he snuck out of the room. I’m going to go insane!

He tried keeping his footsteps light, but as he stepped out of the (very well-done, if he does say so himself—super realistic and historically accurate) rooms, he recognized it as a lost cause. Immediately after sliding open the screen door, he was greeted with a line of maids all bowing in the hallway to the door.

With careful steps, Wèi Wúxiàn made his way halfway down the hall before being discovered.

“Your Highness!” the maid called out, rushing out of the set of rooms and into the hallway full of maids.

“Your Highness!”

The one call for Wèi Wúxiàn, supposedly this ‘Highness,’ began a domino fall effect as all the maids suddenly began power walking towards Wèi Wúxiàn and calling out for him. Wèi Wúxiàn sped up, only to run headfirst into a man wearing green robes and a tall black hat. He didn’t wait a moment as the man and the two servants behind him fell to the ground, instead picking up his pace and rushing through whichever open doors he could find. While Wèi Wúxiàn ran with all his might, his chasers forced themselves to keep a brisk walk that was nearly a jog.

“Your Highness, where are you going?” the older maid kept calling. “It’s dangerous to run!”

“This place is a damn maze,” Wèi Wúxiàn whined to himself as he picked up the pace. Finally, after weaving in and out of many rooms, he found himself outside in the free air. Only, the outside didn’t look like a set to him.

“Your Highness, please stop!”

Why am I in a palace at Búyètiān Chéng? He thought as he rounded a paved corner and was confronted with a sprawling garden with many estates stretching beyond it. How did I even get to Qíshān?

But it was weird. Everything was weird. This wasn’t how Búyètiān Chéng looked now. He glanced up and read the plaque above the main entrance to the palace. The Detached Palace? But isn’t that where…

Finally, Wèi Wúxiàn’s entourage caught up to him, all screeching to a dramatic halt as he froze in place. He already knew he didn’t want to confront the truth, no matter what it may be.

If this isn’t a dream, then what is it?

But Wèi Wúxiàn already knew what was happening, knew, somehow, deep down in his soul.

Jīn Xuányǔ, that was her name. Why did that seem familiar? Wèi Wúxiàn thought he recognized the name from his History of the Wēn Dynasty class from university, but that was so long ago now. Maybe she was some sort of notable woman from the period? But if that was the case, then…

Have I fucking time traveled? he thought faintly. He looked around at his entourage with all the wildness and fear of a cornered rabbit, his heart beating in his ears.

Well, fuck this.

He picked up his skirts and began to run again. Maybe he could make it out of Búyètiān Chéng and become a hermit in the woods until he figured out how to get back to the modern century. All he had to do was get out of this hellscape. Búyètiān Chéng had never been a peaceful place, but it especially wasn’t during this era. His chasers picked back up their frantic pace, calling for him with increasingly distressed tones.

He made it about two more minutes before he rounded a corner and ran headfirst into someone more than a foot taller than him. His entourage all gasped in horror before dropping to their knees and pressing their foreheads to the ground.

“Y-Your Imperial Majesty,” the one sweet maid from before stuttered.

Wèi Wúxiàn looked up at the person he’d run into, and found himself staring up at a face he could only describe as gentle. He had big brown eyes and a round face; with the look of shock, he reminded Wèi Wúxiàn of a startled rabbit. His lips and eyebrows pinched in concern as he looked down at Wèi Wúxiàn.

“Oh!” the man said softly as his two companions gently pulled Wèi Wúxiàn away from him. “You’re awake!”

“Your Imperial Majesty,” a maid said, the older one who had been chasing Wèi Wúxiàn the hardest, keeping her head bowed. “Her Highness is still recovering and… confused. We apologize for this indecent scene,” she continued, and Wèi Wúxiàn was almost certain she was talking about him running around the palace grounds in what is considered his underwear during this time period.

“A-ah,” the man, apparently the Emperor, stuttered. “I-it is no matter. We will be wed tomorrow, anyway. Now that y-you’re awake, we can continue with the wedding.”

Wèi Wúxiàn swayed on his feet. Married? Tomorrow?

“What?” he breathed out in shock before collapsing to the ground in a fantastically dramatic swoon.

When Wèi Wúxiàn woke up again, he was back in the same room as before with the same sweet maid crying by his bedside. With a grimace, he sat up from his bed and attempted to soothe the poor girl, but she scurried out the moment he awoke, calling out for a physician. Wèi Wúxiàn took his time observing the rooms of the Detached Palace, one of the smaller residencies usually reserved for a high ranking member of the imperial harem and historically used as the quarters for future Empresses once the use of harems fell out of style. If what that man he ran into earlier—the Emperor, apparently—told him was right, then Wèi Wúxiàn wouldn’t be in these rooms for very long.

Wèi Wúxiàn stared with furrowed brows at a rather pretty painting of two white peonies and a blue gentian on a gold leaf background. Despite how gilded it was, the painting was perhaps the only thing in these rooms that didn’t feel impersonal or exorbitant. As he stared closer, taking in the steady but obviously amateur linework, he couldn’t help but feel like this painting was important to him. Suddenly, he felt a sharp stabbing pain in his temple that had him gasping and clenching his eyes shut.

Wèi Wúxiàn opened his eyes, feeling the headache slip away with the remnants of the memory. He stared at the painting in front of him, overwhelmed by the intense feelings of grief, loneliness, and helplessness Jīn Xuányǔ had felt in the memory. This young girl has been so lonely despite being surrounded by people all the time, and it was a feeling Wèi Wúxiàn knew with intimate experience.

Perhaps we are more similar than I thought, Jīn Xuányǔ.

His thoughts were interrupted by a familiar man entering his rooms, dressed in a green hàn​fú and a black fútóu tied on his head, followed by the sweet maid from Jīn Xuányǔ’s memory—Miánmian—and the older maid from earlier.

“Your Highness,” the man bowed. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Wèi Wúxiàn said with suspicion, his eyes narrowed. This must be the Imperial Physician. Wèi Wúxiàn wasn’t keen on finding out what crazy shit he planned to do to him in the name of “medicine.”

The physician looked to Miánmian, who sadly shook her head.

“What is the year?” the physician asked.

“2024,” Wèi Wúxiàn said with a pout. Maybe if he gave truthful answers they’d say he was insane and send him out of the palace in disgrace.

“What is your name?”

“Wèi Wúxiàn.”

“What is your age?”

“36.”

With each ‘nonsensical’ answer he gave, Miánmian became more and more distressed, while the physician grew grave.

“She has amnesia, likely from being under the water for so long,” the physician finally sighed. “Her jīndān is unharmed, and she has no signs of a curse or resentful qì in her meridians. This memory loss is likely caused by an overabundance of yīn from the lake. I can try to unveil the shroud over her mind, but I’m afraid there is nothing more we can do besides wait and pray.”

Miánmian failed to stifle a sniffle, and earned herself a glare from the older maid.

“Please, do whatever you can to help Her Highness regain her memory,” the maid said solemnly.

“Of course,” the physician promised. “Your Highness, I recommend an hour of acupuncture focusing on the sìshéncōng points followed by a hot bath and warm foods to restore Your Highness’ yáng.”⁴

“Do we have to do acupuncture?” Wèi Wúxiàn said with a pout. One look at Miánmian’s pitifully guilty face had him acquiescing. “Ah, fine, fine. But only for an hour! I’m not the biggest fan of needles, you know.”

Later, Wèi Wúxiàn lounged in a hot bath and attempted to figure out how to get himself back to the 21st century. He certainly hadn’t done anything to send himself back in time, so it must have been something here that caused this whole mess. Problem was, Wèi Wúxiàn couldn’t just up and leave to figure out the source. Which meant he needed to do some investigating first.

“Hey Miánmian,” Wèi Wúxiàn called to his maid, who had been hovering anxiously around him all day.

“Yes, Your Highness?” she replied, immediately stepping forward from her subservient bow against the wall with the other maids. That was one thing about this era of the Jiāng​hú that Wèi Wúxiàn was quickly growing to loathe—no privacy, especially if you were in the imperial city.

“What exactly happened to this body? Er, I mean, me?” Wèi Wúxiàn asked.

“It’s all my fault,” the pretty maid mourned. “I didn’t know you were going alone outside. Two nights ago, you said you were tired and ordered us to prepare your bed early. I did check on you falling asleep before I went back to work, but… according to some guards patrolling, they heard a sudden splash. When they went to investigate, they found your motionless body face down in the lake! They dove right in and saved you. The physician said you were fine when he felt your pulse, but for some reason, you didn’t wake up for an entire day.”

“And just woke up today?” Wèi Wúxiàn asked, mind already spinning with theories.

Miánmian nodded. Wèi Wúxiàn looked over the body he was inhabiting. He has been trying very hard not to look too closely, as it really isn’t his body, but he was too curious. There weren’t any curse marks that he could see, though there was a slight hum of energy across on his right forearm. He absentmindedly traced his fingers over the skin there as he compared Miánmian’s story with his own.

“The only thing that’s similar is…” Wèi Wúxiàn mumbled to himself before looking down at the bath before him. “Water.”

He sat up suddenly in the bath, causing the water surface to ripple. That must be how he got here—somehow, the water they both fell into became portals of some sort. Most likely due to the yīn energy, which was why this body was unbalanced.

Without further ado, Wèi Wúxiàn slipped his head beneath the surface and stayed there. And stayed there. And stayed there. He could somewhat distantly hear the maids panicking, but he tried his best to avoid being brought up to the surface before his lungs started burning. He surfaced with a gasp, causing his retinue to heave sighs of relief. Not the bath, then. Maybe it had to be the lake? Oh, but which one…

“There’s three lakes here, right?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” the lady-in-waiting said solemnly. “However, all the lakes are the same for now.”

“What does that mean?” Wèi Wúxiàn asked, but knew he was going to hate the answer.

“The Grand Empress Dowager ordered the draining of all lakes in Búyètiān Chéng,” she replied.

“All the lakes in Búyètiān Chéng?” Wèi Wúxiàn was incredulous. “For how long?”

“For eternity, Your Highness.”

Wèi Wúxiàn collapsed helplessly into the bath, startling the maids. He couldn’t last another day here, much less a lifetime! In a daze, he allowed himself to be dried and dressed in far too many layers by his maids. As they fussed about the final layer, Wèi Wúxiàn had an epiphany. The bath didn’t work, but maybe other bodies of water would?

He slammed open the sliding screen doors to the familiar long hallway of maids. Most of them weren’t waiting outside for him anymore, and the rest that were in the hallway were busy scrubbing the wooden floors. Wèi Wúxiàn eyed their buckets of water, debating. With a careless shrug and a quick glance around, he bolted towards one of the buckets and shoved his face into it.

I have to try it with every kind of water! He promised himself as several maids attempted to pull him away from the wastewater. Wèi Wúxiàn made good on his promise, throwing himself into every bit of water he could conceivably fit in, much to the distress of his entourage of maids.

After nearly drowning himself in an ornamental koi pond but still staying in this time, Wèi Wúxiàn threw in the towel and demanded Miánmian take him to The Lake.

“Not just any lake,” he warned. “Take me to the lake I was found in.” At her rather terrified and sad look, he added, “Maybe it will jog my memory of what happened.”

Soon, Wèi Wúxiàn found himself standing in front of a long walkway that led to the big red pavilion sitting in the center of the lake. It was obviously a manmade feature, as the island at the center was too perfectly round to be natural. Beautiful trees framed the lake’s edge, isolating the pavilion to give an illusion of being completely encased by nature. It would have been an amazing view, had the lake not been a giant mud puddle.

“Noooooo,” Wèi Wúxiàn whined, stomping his dainty little shoes in the dirt with as much aggression as he could muster.

The simple walk over to the lake had completely winded him, forcing his entourage to take several breaks so he could catch his breath. Not only was he stuck in a foreign body, but said body was also weak as hell! Jīn Xuányǔ’s jīndān was worse than his back home—and his was medically fucked up!

“Stupid, empty lake, stupid, weak body, and stupid, tiny jīndān! I hate it here! If I had to get isekaied into another fucking universe why couldn’t I have at least taken over a cool body?!”

After throwing his little tantrum, Wèi Wúxiàn led his entourage on a sulky, defeated march back to his rooms. They made it about halfway before they passed another pavilion overlooking yet another empty lake. This one was larger than the others, put on stilts on the bank so it would hover gracefully over the water. Sitting in the pavilion was a solitary man seated in bright gilded robes accented with red flames, his face shielded from view by the beads of his miǎnliú guān as he read something on the table in front of him.⁵ He looked up from his readings and caught Wèi Wúxiàn’s eye.

“I could’ve sworn I’ve seen that guy before,” Wèi Wúxiàn murmured.

“That guy?!” Miánmian squeaked. “That’s the Emperor!”

“Ah,” Wèi Wúxiàn dismissed, his nose wrinkling up and eyes narrowing. “Just my luck, huh.”

“Yes, Her Highness is very lucky to be marrying His Imperial Majesty,” Miánmian agreed, misunderstanding Wèi Wúxiàn’s intentions.

The Emperor smiled timidly at Wèi Wúxiàn and beckoned one of his servants over to say something. Soon, the servant was scurrying over to Wèi Wúxiàn’s entourage and bowing low.

“His Imperial Majesty requests Her Highness join him for some tea.”

Wèi Wúxiàn winced, taking another look at the earnest look on the Emperor’s face before agreeing with obvious reluctance. He walked over, but apparently his strides were too long or something as the very stern, somber maid from before—he picked up her name was Court Lady Lí, and was apparently his lady-in-waiting—hissed at him to ‘walk properly.’ Wèi Wúxiàn didn’t think there was a ‘proper’ way to walk, so he ignored her.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Wèi Wúxiàn greeted with a formal bow he’d learned as a kid while obsessed with hàn​fú-era cultivators. By the sharp gasp from Court Lady Lí behind him, he got that wrong, too.

“Ah, there’s no need…” the Emperor stuttered shyly. “I just wanted to check in on you. Are you feeling better?”

“Eh.” Wèi Wúxiàn shrugged. “As good as I can be, with this body’s poor excuse of a jīndān. Seriously, what did this girl spend all her time doing as a kid? Because it sure wasn’t meditation.”

The Emperor looked at him with a confused expression on his face. “O-oh. Well. That’s good to hear?”

“Say, aren’t these empty lakes such an eyesore?” Wèi Wúxiàn said, seeing an opportunity and grabbing it.

“I suppose…” the Emperor replied.

“It’s really throwing off my energy, you know. I wanted to meditate surrounded by the pretty trees and calm waters only to find mud!” Wèi Wúxiàn barrelled on. “Could you fill up one of them? As a wedding present? It would mean so much to me.”

“Ah, I’m not sure…” the Emperor stuttered. “The Grand Empress Dowager ordered them to be drained, so I can’t…”

That threw Wèi Wúxiàn for a loop. “What? But you’re the Emperor.”

Something flashed across the man’s face, but it was gone too quickly for Wèi Wúxiàn to interpret. He gave Wèi Wúxiàn a small, tremulous smile that, with his big brown eyes, made him look like a particularly pitiful kitten.

“I’m still so new to this, and the Grand Empress Dowager has been so helpful. I must defer to my elders in this judgment,” he said.

Wow. This guy has no power here, like at all. That means… Wèi Wúxiàn studied the man in front of him, wracking his brain as he tried to remember the different emperors of this era. The red flames, an overbearing dowager… Oh, fuck me. I’m getting married to Emperor Shòuzōng? The Illiterate Puppet Emperor? Then…⁶

Now Wèi Wúxiàn remembered: Empress Jīn, personal name Xuányǔ, child of Jīn Rúsōng, Jīn Guāngshàn’s youngest half-brother, and Second Madam Mò, Empress during the Wēn Dynasty. Her parents died when she was very young, and she lived with Jīn Guāngshàn and Madam Jīn. It was rumored that she was actually Jīn Guāngshàn’s bastard, though there wasn’t any proof. She died thirteen years after her marriage to Emperor Shòuzōng, bearing him no children that survived past eight years old. No records of her grave existed, and she was given no posthumous name, making historians debate about her cause of death.

He’d always found her story rather sad; she was constantly overshadowed by the two ambitious Empress Dowagers that fought petty little wars to stay in power, all while the entire Jiānghú crumbled beneath their greasy, greedy fingertips. Very little was known about her, more for the insignificance of her husband than anything else. With a weak husband and an even weaker standing within her own family, Jīn Xuányǔ had very little power during her life at the palace.

Wèi Wúxiàn took a glance at whatever book Emperor Shòuzōng had been reading, only to notice that the Emperor had been reading it upside down, making it easy for Wèi Wúxiàn to read it from this side. Oh, he was so screwed.

“Fuck!” he shouted, causing all the servants in the area to gasp.

The Emperor widened his eyes and took a step towards him. “Is everything alright with you?” he asked.

“No! Everything’s terrible!” Wèi Wúxiàn wailed. “I don’t want to be here anymore!”

“Your Imperial Majesty, Her Highness is still rattled from earlier,” Court Lady Lí rushed to say, pushing Wèi Wúxiàn into Miánmian’s waiting arms to be ushered away. “She needs more rest, especially so she can be at her best tomorrow. Please, excuse her.”

Wēn Qiónglín watched as the court ladies closed rank around a still-wailing Jīn Xuányǔ, his face the picture of concern. Once they were out of sight, he turned back to his desk, face falling into a contemplative frown.

“Just what is her play?” he murmured softly to himself.

“Her Highness suffers from severe amnesia. She is confused and spouts nonsensical fantasies when asked basic questions. Her Highness knows her own name, but anything more than that is debatable.”

Jīn Mǐnshàn scowled, hand going white as it clenched on the hilt of his sword. Jīn Guāngyáo smiled amicably at the Imperial Physician.

“Thank you for your dedicated care,” she said, “and for ensuring Her Highness’ sensitive situation does not get revealed. We don’t want to curse such an auspicious day.”

“Of course not, Grand Empress Dowager,” the Imperial Physician agreed with a nervous bow.

“Do everything in your power to get her memories back,” Jīn Mǐnshàn spat.

“This one will do his utmost to help Her Highness, Duke Jīn,” he said, sweat beading at his temples.

“That is all, then,” Jīn Guāngyáo dismissed him.

The man scrambled out of her rooms, the screen door sliding shut behind him. Jīn Guāngyáo dropped her smile and sighed, taking a sip of her tea as Jīn Mǐnshàn stood up and began to pace.

“Just what is her plan?” he seethed. “We should call her here and get to the bottom of this nonsense so we can be done with it!”

“Patience, Mǐnshàn,” she soothed. “There’s nothing more we can do but wait. If this is an act, she can’t keep it up forever. If it isn’t… well, there’s not much we could do then. Now go. We have a wedding to get ready for.”

1. 莲花坞 - Liánhuā Wù: Lotus Pier.
   莲花 - liánhuā: lotus flower; 坞 - wù: (bound form) low area within a surrounding barrier / (literary) small castle; fort; structure with high sides to keep the wind out (e.g. a dock). ^{go back⤴}
2. I am basing Búyètiān Chéng’s layout on the Forbidden City [紫禁城 - zǐjìn chéng: literally ‘Purple Forbidden City’]. Historically, it should actually be Dàmíng Palace in Cháng'ān, modern day Xī'ān (just east of modern Qíshān county as well), but Dàmíng Palace was destroyed after three wars in 883, 885 and 896 CE and there isn’t a lot of information about the exact layout and buildings. Like everything in this fic, I am playing fast and loose with historical accuracy. Some of the palace names have been switched around or changed altogether, and I have definitely improvised details. ^{go back⤴}
   Sources:
   The Ministry of Culture of the People's Republic of China. “Daming Palace.” ChinaCulture.org (Web Archive), 24 Sept. 2003.
   “Forbidden City.” Wikipedia.
3. 堂姐 - tángjiě: older female patrilineal cousin; 堂妹 - táng​mèi​: younger female patrilineal cousin. ^{go back⤴}
4. Sìshéncōng: an acupuncture term referring to a group of points at the crown of the head. ^{go back⤴}
   Source: Lotus Institute of Integrative Medicine. “Sishencong (EX-HN1).” Master Tung Acupuncture, 2024.
5. 冕旒冠 - miǎnliú guān: a type of crown worn by emperors, typically composed of 6 parts: [延 - yán], the flat rectangle board at the top; [旒 - liú], the two sets of 2 strands of jade beads hanging in front of and behind the rectangular board; [紞 - dǎn] and [纩 - kuàng], two golden silk cords that hang just beside the ears; [玉笄 - yùjī], a jade hairpin that fastens the hat to the hair knot; and [缨 - yīng], red silk rope fastened to the yùjī that loops from one side to the other beneath the chin. ^{go back⤴}
   Source: Lin. "Brief of Emperor Hat in Ancient China." Newhanfu, 29 Mar. 2020.
6. Temple name: [受 - shòu: to receive / to accept / to suffer / subjected to / to bear. From the idiom (逆来顺受 - nìláishùnshòu: to resign oneself to adversity (idiom); to grin and bear it); 宗 - zōng: ancestor]. ^{go back⤴}
   Sources:
   “Temple Name.” Wikipedia.
   “逆来顺受.” MDBG.
   fineillsignup. "Tips for Choosing a Chinese Name for Your OC When Writing." Tumblr, 29 Apr. 2019.

Chapter Text

Ninth day of the Sixth Month; Day 2

Wèi Wúxiàn heaved a sigh of relief as the heavy fèngguān was finally unpinned from his head and he could change out of the heavy brocade wedding robes.¹ Left in only two layers of red robes with gold embroidery, Wèi Wúxiàn knelt at a table to wait for his new husband.

Oh, if only his parents could see him now. They had always talked up romance and marriage to him, encouraging him to date in high school and college. Every time they called, his mother always asked “So, seeing anyone recently?” and pretended not to be disappointed when Wèi Wúxiàn had inevitably answered “No, mom.” Romance and love had never interested Wèi Wúxiàn. He’d never met anyone that sparked anything for him, and Wèi Wúxiàn had never been a ‘one-night stand’ kind of guy.

He pushed down the well of feelings that bubbled up at the reminder of his parents, refusing to linger on them any further. One day soon, he’d wake up in a hospital room and call to tell them he was okay and to not cut their trip short. For now, he had a wedding night to worry about. Wèi Wúxiàn was very specifically not thinking about the logistics of said wedding night. He nervously drank an entire pot of tea as he waited, wishing with each sip that it was something stronger.

Finally, he heard the jeers and taunts from the hallway, though particularly more muted and tamer than what was usual at a wedding, considering this was the Emperor. Wèi Wúxiàn fussed with the creases of his hàn​fú and checked that his hair was in order before stopping himself.

What was he doing, nervously fixing his appearance like a teenager with a crush? To prove a point, he gave up on his perfect posture and slumped over, leaning his cheek on one palm and both elbows on the table. He blew a puff of air at a stray piece of hair tickling his nose just as Emperor Shòuzōng entered the bridal chamber.

The Emperor visibly hesitated upon seeing Wèi Wúxiàn’s lack of decorum, but approached the table nonetheless. He settled silently across from him and waited, most likely expecting Wèi Wúxiàn to serve him the tea and dried dates as was expected. Wèi Wúxiàn did nothing but smile blandly at his new husband. The Emperor visibly sighed before politely reaching for the teapot and pouring himself a cup.

They both sat in uncomfortable silence, an unspoken game of chicken playing between them as they waited for the other to break the quiet and speak first. Wèi Wúxiàn was the one who buckled first, as long lapses of silence made his brain itch. He drank a cup of tea like a shot and set it down with a frown that was definitely not a pout.

“Isn’t there anything stronger around here?” he grumbled.

Artwork by Ace

Emperor Shòuzōng seemed to perk up at his question and turned to grab another teapot one of the maids had brought earlier. Wèi Wúxiàn expected it to be more tea, but the Emperor poured both of them a bowl of clear liquid that certainly didn’t smell like tea (oh, if Wèi Wúxiàn’s father saw his manners right now, forcing the Emperor to serve him, he’d probably die from a heart attack on the spot).

“To a long and happy marriage,” the Emperor stuttered with an earnestness that gave Wèi Wúxiàn chills.

Wèi Wúxiàn winced at the toast but drank anyway. The bái​jiǔ had a rice aroma, clean and refreshing with a hint of sweetness.² Personally, he preferred more light aroma bái​jiǔ, but he couldn’t be picky; any alcohol was better than no alcohol right now.³ With an impish grin, Wèi Wúxiàn took the pot of bái​jiǔ and began pouring himself and the Emperor another serving. He didn’t think the alcohol content during this time period was very high, so he was confident he could handle at least three more bowls.

“To getting through this with limited casualties,” Wèi Wúxiàn toasted, ignoring Emperor Shòuzōng’s confused gaze as he guzzled down the bowl of bái​jiǔ in two large gulps.

He smacked his lips appreciatively and popped one of the dates into his mouth, enjoying the sweetness in conjunction with the liquor. As he poured himself another bowl, he missed the calculating look Emperor Shòuzōng leveled at him as he pointedly did not finish his bowl. Wèi Wúxiàn put his third bowl of bái​jiǔ down with a clatter, his head already feeling fuzzy.

Oh, I’m getting drunker than I expected, he thought. He tried to circle some of the liquor through his jīndān, a trick his mom taught him after he came home plastered from a party in high school and puked his guts out into the bushes by their front door, but Jīn Xuányǔ’s jīndān was weak and couldn’t handle the large amount of liquor Wèi Wúxiàn had very quickly drank. Maybe the drunker he was, the easier this wedding night will be. He very studiously did not think about what parts were supposed to go where during such a night.

His thoughts were interrupted by another bowl being poured for him, the Emperor giving him an eager smile that Wèi Wúxiàn couldn’t help but find endearing. Wèi Wúxiàn, against his better judgment, downed the bowl of liquor just as quickly as the previous three and popped another date into his mouth. The room was faintly spinning and his head felt very heavy. He slouched at the table, his limbs loose as jelly.

“I’m just gonna take a nap,” he slurred.

His eyes fluttered shut and he was instantly asleep. Emperor Shòuzōng stared at him for a long moment, fiddling with something in his right sleeve. There was a flash of metal before he decided otherwise and instead carefully carried a rather light Jīn Xuányǔ to their marital bed. He didn’t bother to tuck her in, and instead settled into a lotus position on the floor to meditate while he waited, hands clenched around a pouch of medicinal tea from Yílíng, embroidered with a rising red sun.

Tenth day of the Sixth Month; Day 3

Wèi Wúxiàn woke up freezing cold and with a killer headache that wouldn’t go away no matter how much meditation he attempted to do. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so hungover—probably high school, and maybe once or twice in university. All he wanted to do was laze about in his rooms and eat a nice bowl of instant noodles.

“I want instant noodles so bad,” he whined, groaning as Miánmian and Court Lady Lí shuffled into the room and began bullying him into being an actual person.

“You are having tea with the dowagers,” Miánmian said. She winced at Wèi Wúxiàn’s responding sob of despair.

They dressed him in too many layers, put too many pins in his hair, and applied too much makeup before they dragged him out the door and into the awaiting palanquin. He didn’t see the point of all this trouble over a ten minute walk across the palace grounds, and he made sure to say as much. Loudly.

He was, of course, ignored.

Once they arrived, there was a whole script he was required to act out, which he stumbled his way through with as much grace as he could muster (little to none) and plenty of spite. Soon enough, he was bowing to the dowagers and serving them tea out of a fine porcelain pot. His father did teach him manners—he simply chose to ignore them, much like his mother—so even Court Lady Lí couldn’t muster any criticisms about his form.

From what he remembered, Grand Empress Dowager Jīn Guāngyáo was the widow of Emperor Ránzōng, Wēn Ruòhán himself, while Niè Huáisāng was elevated to Empress Dowager after Wēn Xù’s death, since he was posthumously honored as Emperor Xīzōng. Historians debated back and forth about whether these dowagers were mortal enemies or simply pawns of their families, but they all agreed on one thing: both Niè Huáisāng and Jīn Guāngyáo were somehow implicated in their husbands’ deaths. Wèi Wúxiàn made a note to try and stay on their good sides.

Wèi Wúxiàn watched with his head on a swivel like a tennis match as the two dowagers threw thinly-veiled but polite insults at each other through the whole tea ceremony.

Grand Empress Dowager Jīn had a sharp wit and even sharper tongue. Her smile reminded Wèi Wúxiàn too much of the bland Customer Service Smile for it to be at all genuine. She was definitely someone Wèi Wúxiàn would have to watch out for.

Empress Dowager Niè seemed to be a bit of an airhead. He had lost count of how many times she replied “oh, I don’t know” to questions that she probably should know. Despite that, there was something in her eyes that made Wèi Wúxiàn think she knew much more than she wanted to let on. She didn’t have Grand Empress Dowager Jīn’s cold, calculating edge, but she was probably just as dangerous.

As he observed the two dowagers, he couldn’t help but notice their distinct differences in appearance. While Grand Empress Dowager Jīn was much more decorated, practically drenched head-to-toe in gold, Wèi Wúxiàn noted that it was more of a deflection than pompousness. She played up her political power to deflect away from her lack of personal, physical power—because Grand Empress Dowager Jīn was visibly aging. She was doing a great job at hiding it, but Wèi Wúxiàn came from an age where skincare, beauty products, facelifts, and other such medical marvels have pushed back the rates of physical aging in non-cultivators; and that’s not even mentioning what modern cultivators have been able to achieve. All to say, Wèi Wúxiàn could see the subtle signs of aging in a weak cultivator, likely better than most others in this time period.

Conversely, Empress Dowager Niè still looked quite young. He vaguely recollected learning somewhere that Empress Dowager Niè had put up the act of being a poor cultivator and generally a lazy, incompetent fool for quite some time. Even the palace scholars had written about her as a foolish, silly woman in the official records. However, that was all turned on its head when her personal diaries were discovered. Wèi Wúxiàn hadn’t bothered to read them, but some of his classmates had, as extra credit, and did a presentation discussing her hidden intelligence and ruthlessness.

He pushed his thoughts aside as Empress Dowager Niè turned to him with a shy smile, her painted fan fluttering absently.

“I prepared a gift for you, xífù.⁴ I was given this book after my marriage to my dear husband.” She paused to sniffle and dab lightly at her eyes. “Oh, excuse me. I’m just so happy to see the palace decorated in red once again. Please, use this well.”

She gestured to a servant and a wrapped parcel was handed to Wèi Wúxiàn.

“This one thanks you, Empress Dowager,” Wèi Wúxiàn said with a deep, respectful bow.

Grand Empress Dowager Jīn smiled tightly at Wèi Wúxiàn, her dimples on full display, but Wèi Wúxiàn could see the concealed anger at being shown up by Empress Dowager Niè to her own cousin. She recovered very quickly, Wèi Wúxiàn would give her that.

“I’m afraid my present was too large to hand over to you, so I’ve sent some of my retinue ahead to install it in your rooms.”

“This one thanks you, Grand Empress Dowager,” Wèi Wúxiàn intoned, hiding his smirk behind his sleeves at the sharp glance Empress Dowager Niè sent her in-law, having clearly expected to one-up her.

His hands itched to unwrap the present, but he held off. The palanquin ride back to the Palace of Earthly Tranquility seemed to last much longer than before, and Wèi Wúxiàn was growing restless. He practically jumped out of the palanquin as soon as they arrived, giving Miánmian a heart attack. While he was curious to know what Empress Dowager Niè had given him, he decided to see Grand Empress Dowager Jīn’s gift first. What kind of wedding gift needed to be installed?

The answer was a giant bronze bathtub with heating talismans etched into the sides, artfully integrated with the gold leaf peonies that decorated the entire exterior of the tub. It was so big he could stretch out all four limbs and not touch the sides. As nice as it was, Wèi Wúxiàn was a little confused. Were bathtubs a common wedding gift during this time?

“Grand Empress Dowager heard you were distressed by the lack of lakes and thought this would be a good consolation,” one of the retainers explained upon Wèi Wúxiàn’s confused glance.

Wèi Wúxiàn held his tongue and simply nodded, trying very hard not to let his anger get the best of him.

Oh, that snake…

Taking a deep breath, Wèi Wúxiàn left his private bathroom and requested some tea from Miánmian. He sprawled on the cushions at the tea table as Miánmian finished brewing, his shaking leg betraying just how agitated he was by all this. After two cups of tea, he finally felt calm enough to open Empress Dowager Niè’s gift.

“Hopefully, this one isn’t a backhanded insult, too,” he muttered.

His laugh of pure delight upon seeing a very explicit spring book, with annotated tips in the margins, was heard throughout the palace grounds.

Three dark figures slipped over the palace walls and disappeared into the dark. After rendezvousing with three others, they took to the skies on swords carefully wrapped in black fabric to hide their glare. Soon enough, they were slipping into a Jīn compound in Jīnlín Tái, covertly taking out guards as they made their way towards one of the Jīn’s many treasure rooms. While three stood guard outside, the other three frantically grabbed papers and opened crates, looking for something.

When their search proved fruitless, they ended up taking a large chunk of Jīn gold before slipping back out, just as the new rotation of guards found their colleagues knocked out and sounded the alarm. They didn’t stop running until they were deep into the forest, and only then did they take to the night sky on their covered swords.

Landing down in a small village sitting in the looming specter of Búyètiān Chéng, the tallest of the group stepped forward. He didn’t take off his mask, so his words were muffled but still clear.

“Did you find it?” he asked.

His two companions shook their heads negatively. He sighed, bringing up a gloved hand to rub at his temple.

“Take what we were able to find to jiě​jie, and give her this.”

He handed over a medicinal herb pouch embroidered with a rising red sun to one of his companions before saluting. Six became three, and they turned to each other briefly before wordlessly flying back to the palace.

After an entire day of being scolded (Court Lady Lí), fawned over (Miánmian), and essentially stalked (the rest of his sticky retinue of maids), Wèi Wúxiàn was completely and utterly sick of it. Then, to make matters worse, he was sternly but politely informed by Court Lady Lí that he was prohibited from drinking. Something about it not being ladylike? He honestly didn’t care, because the moment that sunk in he was certain his life was over. Not only was he stuck here as an Empress without an internet connection, but he also couldn’t drink?

“Fuck!” Wèi Wúxiàn shouted, tearing out his hairpins and throwing them on the floor in a blind fury. “I can’t do this, Miánmian! I’m going insane!”

Miánmian watched him with sad, nervous eyes. After he tired himself out, he huffed and turned to look out his window at the carefully manicured gardens stretching out beyond his new home—‘Palace of Earthly Tranquility?’ More like ‘Palace of Eternal Despair.’ He stared longingly at the distant city beyond the palace walls, watching as the sun dipped beneath the horizon. At least out there, people had access to good, greasy food and nice liquor without all the stupid social rules that lorded over Búyètiān Chéng more thoroughly than the Emperor himself. Or, perhaps more accurately, the Grand Empress Dowager herself. The memory of her bland, dimpled smile still made a shiver run down Wèi Wúxiàn’s spine.

As he stared at the palace walls, he pushed out his spiritual awareness to prod at the wards. From what he could remember of Búyètiān Chéng during the Wēn Dynasty, their wards were not at peak power during this time period to make it easier for the ruling families, especially the Jīn, to sneak and smuggle through the wards. Wèi Wúxiàn had inspected his ward token earlier, and while it would get him in and out of the palace, it also had an alarm array imbedded into it that would notify someone—Wèi Wúxiàn was unsure who, exactly—that he was leaving. So, if Wèi Wúxiàn were to sneak out, he needed to do so without his token. In addition to slipping through the wards, he also needed a disguise.

“What are you planning?” Miánmian interrupted, her voice full of suspicion.

“Planning?” Wèi Wúxiàn attempted to feign ignorance. “What do you mean?”

“That’s your planning face,” she said.

Wèi Wúxiàn continued his act of innocence. Miánmian furrowed her brow.

“If you tell me, I can help you,” she eventually offered.

Something within Wèi Wúxiàn told him he could trust her, and though he didn’t understand where the feeling was coming from, he chose to trust in it anyway.

“I want to go out of the palace tonight,” he admitted.

Miánmian looked at him for a long second before nodding decisively and turning around to get something out of a low cabinet.

“Wait, that’s it?” Wèi Wúxiàn blurted. “I thought you’d put up much more of a fuss… Not that I’m complaining! Because I’m not.”

She resurfaced with a bundle of dark cloth and a qiánkūn pouch, which she set on the tea table.

“You like to go out after curfew sometimes,” Miánmian explained. “Especially with your tángjiě, so the two of you could meet with Hánguāng Jūn without all the escorts. You had a set of mens clothes tailored for you a while ago.”

A secret rebel, eh Jīn Xuányǔ? Wèi Wúxiàn thought with a snicker.

“No time like the present, then!”

Miánmian dutifully helped Wèi Wúxiàn get dressed into the blue and black lánshān, which was much more convenient with its narrower sleeves and simple leather belt than any of Jīn Xuányǔ’s regular daywear.⁵ She changed his hair into a simple top knot, covered by a soft cotton fútóu. By the end, Wèi Wúxiàn was transformed into an unassuming palace scholar.

“You haven’t done this since we arrived at the palace,” Miánmian said as she straightened out his robes. “At first I thought you were just nervous, but at some point you stopped carrying your token so I figured… Well, it doesn’t matter.”

She pushed Wèi Wúxiàn over to the silver mirror and squealed in delight.

“Oh, if I didn’t know better I’d think you were a handsome young scholar!”

Wèi Wúxiàn stared at his slightly distorted reflection and felt something warm and fluttery grow in his chest. Miánmian was right; Jīn Xuányǔ’s delicate features transformed into something still soft and youthful, yet undeniably masculine in these robes. Wèi Wúxiàn swallowed thickly. This was the first time since being in this body that he has felt at ease. Quickly shaking himself, he grinned at Miánmian and tied the qiánkūn bag to his belt.

“All I need is my sword and some talisman papers, then I’m good to go!” he said cheerfully.

Miánmian paused. “Your sword?”

“Yes. I have one, right?”

“Well, yes…” she said hesitantly.

Wèi Wúxiàn simply smiled and held out an expectant hand. Miánmian stared at him for a beat longer before slowly turning and opening another cabinet. She handed him a stack of talisman papers and some cinebar first, before going to dig through his dresser. The sword she handed him was surprisingly plain compared to everything else Jīn Xuányǔ owned. Its sheath was a plain brown leather with minimal gold detailings. A red tassel hung off the hilt’s end, decorated with a single white jade bead carved into the shape of a rabbit. When Wèi Wúxiàn pulled the blade partway out of the sheath, he could barely feel the sword spirit. Upon a closer inspection, he couldn’t find a name carved on the blade.

“It doesn’t have a name?” he asked.

“No, Your Imperial Highness. You never…”

Ah. Jīn Xuányǔ’s cultivation was very poor, indeed, if she hadn’t been able to connect with her sword spirit. Wèi Wúxiàn sheathed the blade once more and attached the leather strap to his belt, letting it hang next to the qiánkūn pouch. He very purposefully did not think of his own sword, Suíbiàn, and how the last time he’d tried to unsheathe her he hadn’t felt anything, either.

“Well!” Wèi Wúxiàn said with a clap, startling poor Miánmian. “I’ll be going now, then.”

Without waiting for a response, he slid the shutters for the window open and hopped out.

“Be back before the gates close at zǐshí!”⁶ Miánmian called out to him as Wèi Wúxiàn slipped through the dark gardens behind his palace.

Once near the wall, he quickly wrote a basic stealth talisman and applied it to the inside lapel of his robes. Then, after another scan of the wards, he wrote a modified version that would allow him to slip out of the wards without detection. Taking a running jump, he easily scaled the palace walls and slipped past the guard tower completely unnoticed.

Finally out of the palace, Wèi Wúxiàn took a deep breath and smiled broadly before slipping down a few alleys until he was far enough from the palace walls. From there, he followed the throngs of other palace scholars and officials towards the busier roads. It seemed like a majority of these palace officials had the same idea as Wèi Wúxiàn, and he found it hard to find a quiet but decent teahouse with enough space to afford him a private room. He hadn’t known how much he appreciated his privacy until coming to this time, and all he wanted to do was eat and drink in a room by himself.

Towards the outskirts of the city surrounding Búyètiān Chéng, he finally found a teahouse that wasn’t already brimming with patrons. He was able to secure a private room easily enough with a flash of his coins, and ordered the spiciest dish they had to offer and two jars of their finest bái​jiǔ.

“That would be our Emperor’s Smile,” the waiter said with a grin. “Clean and refreshing as a mountain spring.”

While he didn’t think the name was very apt, Wèi Wúxiàn had to agree that the wine was pretty damn good. After all but inhaling his food, Wèi Wúxiàn settled down to sip at his light aroma bái​jiǔ and enjoy the quiet, serene privacy of the teahouse.

Well. He meant to only sip at the wine, but before he knew it he guzzled three full jars and was having a hard time keeping his head up.

“Fuck you, Jīn Xuányǔ,” he slurred as he tried and failed to sober himself up with his weak jīndān. “Damn, this liquor is good. Emperor’s Smile indeed!”

A few hours later, Wèi Wúxiàn couldn’t ignore his body’s call to nature. After requesting a pot of tea and some roasted peanuts to be delivered to his room, he stumbled out of the teahouse towards the outhouse in the back. In his drunken state, he didn’t pay much attention to where he was going or who was around him, and so he missed the look of shock and recognition in the amber eyes of the white robed man in the stall next to him. Said look became more pronounced as Wèi Wúxiàn attempted to find his penis to pee, only to remember the very real lack of it a moment later.

“This sucks!” he cried. “Sitting down to pee is stupid!”

He looked to the man next to him and stared somewhat longingly at the hand wrapped around his junk. The man’s eyes grew worryingly wide and he froze up completely. Wèi Wúxiàn took one last wistful glance at the guy’s dick before stumbling over to the squat toilet to finish his business. He walked out of the outhouse, leaving behind the man still completely stunned.

Back inside, Wèi Wúxiàn attempted to find his room. Peeing had helped clear his mind somewhat, but he was still far from sober. He slid the doors open to what he was fifty percent sure was his room, only to stumble in on three people having an intense discussion. Two of them, one in all white and the other in all black, sat at the tea table with their swords easily in reach. The other sat behind a screen, shielding their face from the door. There was a strong medicinal smell in the room, likely from whatever tea they were drinking. Upon his interruption, the two men at the table quickly unsheathed their swords, staring at Wèi Wúxiàn in shock and barely hidden anger.

“Oops,” Wèi Wúxiàn slurred and stumbled back out of the room. “Not my room.”

After finding his actual room, Wèi Wúxiàn couldn’t shake a sense of unease in his gut. So, after chugging the pot of now tepid tea and shoving a handful of peanuts in his mouth, he left a generous amount of silver on his table, grabbed his sword, and left the teahouse towards the palace.

He did not notice the two men following him.

“Wàngjī,” Lán Xīchén greeted warmly. “It’s so good to see you. How was your night-hunt?”

“It was uneventful,” Lán Wàngjī replied as he settled down at the tea table across from his brother. This teahouse wasn’t as popular as others in the city due to its humble appearance, but they had some of the closest tea blends to Gūsū and had become the Lán’s preferred teahouse while working in Búyètiān Chéng.

“Good, I’m glad to hear it.”

An amicable silence fell over the two brothers as they sipped their mild tea and simply enjoyed each other’s presence.

“Brother,” Lán Wàngjī began, “I have decided.”

“You have…” Lán Xīchén paused for a moment before clarity washed over his face. “Oh! Wàngjī, I’m very happy to hear that. What position did you decide on?”

“Minister of War.”

“Of course,” Lán Xīchén replied with a smile. “Uncle will be very proud to hear you will step into father’s previous role. I’m sure the Grand Empress Dowager will be very pleased to have another Chief Commander Lán—as will the Emperor, I’m sure.”

“Mn.”

His piece said, Lán Wàngjī listened to his brother talk of the recent council meetings, the imperial wedding, and other happenings of the palace. It wasn’t gossip, his brother insisted, but rather information gathering.

Some time later, Lán Wàngjī excused himself to use the outhouse and returned to the room looking shaken.

“Wàngjī? Is everything okay?” Lán Xīchén asked in concern.

“I must go,” Lán Wàngjī said, picking up his sword and leaving the room without another word.

Lán Xīchén watched him go with a worried expression, but otherwise didn’t follow. His brother would tell him what was wrong eventually. For now, he had to inform Jīn Guāngyáo of his brother’s request.

Lán Wàngjī slipped out of the teahouse just as Jīn Xuányǔ stumbled around a corner down an alleyway. Knuckles clenched around Bìchén, he quietly followed his childhood best friend from a distance, trying to figure out what the newly married Empress was doing out past curfew, at a teahouse, getting drunk. As he was readying himself to confront Jīn Xuányǔ, he saw a flash of silver from the corner of his eye. Bìchén shot out, blocking the sword blow that would have stabbed Jīn Xuányǔ through the back.

He pulled Bìchén back to him and jumped to land between the masked assailant and Jīn Xuányǔ, who stumbled back in surprise. The attacker was dressed in all black with a soft cloth fútóu wrapped around his head and a scarf tied across his lower face, leaving only his eyes uncovered. Lán Wàngjī parried another blow, surprised by the amount of strength behind it. He was not being arrogant when he said very few people had ever been able to meet him blow-for-blow like this, one of them being his brother.

Despite the assailant's skill, Lán Wàngjī was quickly able to pinpoint a glaring weakness; the man favored his right side over his left, and had a barely noticeable limp because of it. The fight quickly devolved to a standstill, and just as Lán Wàngjī was about to take advantage of his opponent’s weakness, Jīn Xuányǔ began to violently vomit, most of it ending up on the attacker’s robes and boots. The veiled figure stumbled back and fled. Lán Wàngjī would have pursued if he wasn’t so worried over Jīn Xuányǔ, who was now passed out on the ground in an undignified heap.

Nose wrinkling at the stench of bile, Lán Wàngjī shrugged off his outer robe and wrapped Jīn Xuányǔ in it before mounting Bìchén and flying to the palace. As he flew past the wards, his token allowing him free passage, he replayed the fight back in his mind. Lán Wàngjī knew of only one person who notably favored his right over his left. He clutched Jīn Xuányǔ close to his chest as he quietly landed in the gardens behind the Palace of Earthly Tranquility.

Why was the Emperor trying to kill his wife?

Wēn Qiónglín stopped by a well to wash off most of the bile that had ended up down his front, choosing to focus on his boots and discarding his outer robe entirely before heading back to the teahouse. Xiǎo Xīngchén and Sòng Zǐchēn were still waiting for him at the room, both of them in different forms of unease.

“She was completely and utterly drunk,” Wēn Qiónglín said in lieu of a greeting. “I don’t know why she was here, or how she stumbled in on us, but I highly doubt she heard or saw anything. Even if she did, she won’t remember it tomorrow.”

“Are you sure, Your Excellency?” Imperial Inspector Sòng Zǐchēn asked, not unkindly. “She could have been faking it. Tricks are not beneath the Jīn, as they’ve proven so far.”

“I’m sure,” Wēn Qiónglín replied, a little frustrated at his friend and subordinate’s questioning. “I don’t think any Jīn can projectile vomit upon command.”

Xiǎo Xīngchén, Captain of the Imperial Guard, winced in commiseration.⁷

“Though she wasn’t alone,” he added. “Lán Wàngjī fought me blow for blow.”

“Bastard,” Sòng Zǐchēn swore. “The Láns call themselves ‘righteous,’ yet they ally with the very antithesis of righteousness!”

“We don’t know their intentions,” Xiǎo Xīngchén chimed in, placing a calming hand on Sòng Zǐchēn’s shoulder. “The Jīn could be lying to them, or manipulating them through other means. Just like Jīn Xuányǔ, who could be little more than a pawn to her more ambitious family members.”

“That still doesn’t explain why she was here,” Sòng Zǐchēn retorted. “The day after her wedding, she decides to get drunk at a tiny teahouse on the outskirts of the city—and she just happens to walk into our room by accident? She must have ulterior motives. No one is that lucky.”

Xiǎo Xīngchén tilted his head in acquiescence.

“I don’t know,” Wēn Qiónglín slowly replied. “I’m still not convinced she is aligned with the Grand Empress Dowager. With what happened at the lake, and how nervous she was on our wedding night…”

“That’s true,” Xiǎo Xīngchén said. “She hasn’t said anything regarding the fake blood sheet, nor has she mentioned the… lack of a wedding night, despite the pressure she must be getting from her family to conceive.”

“I still don’t trust her,” Sòng Zǐchēn said. “You would be wise to be wary of her, Your Excellency.”

Wēn Qiónglín nodded at his words, but didn’t speak further.

“We received word from the rebellion leaders that some sources have revealed the schematics for the weapon being built by the Jīn is not in Jīnlín Tái at all,” Xiǎo Xīngchén said, bringing the subject back to the one they had been discussing before Jīn Xuányǔ’s interruption. “Apparently, they aren’t risking the use of demonic cultivation so close to their headquarters. They call it the Yīnhǔfú. Some of our spies have claimed it to be a weapon of mass destruction so terrible it could wipe out entire armies.”

“But then that would mean…” Sòng Zǐchēn trailed off, his face going stormy with realization.

Xiǎo Xīngchén nodded grimly. “It is somewhere close to Búyètiān Chéng.”

Wēn Qiónglín sighed deeply, bringing a hand up to rub at the bags under his eyes.

“We will plant some of our men around the city,” Sòng Zǐchēn said, noting the Emperor’s fatigue. “There’s nothing more we can do without proof. And with a weapon that powerful, there is no way there isn’t at least some residue of resentful qì or demonic energy. We will find it.”

“Your sister sent some more tea,” Xiǎo Xīngchén said kindly. “Please, try to get some rest tonight, Your Excellency. We can handle the rest for tonight.”

“Thank you both,” Wēn Qiónglín said with a wan smile before standing up and veiling his face once more before quietly exiting the teahouse.

He unsheathed his sword, Shǔ​guāng, and swept off into the night.⁸ Letting the chilly night air soothe him, he took the long way home, using the time to contemplate his new wife, the search for proof of the Jīn’s corruption, and his fight with Lán Wàngjī. Wēn Qiónglín was not known for his martial prowess—in fact, most of the Imperial Court thought his sword was all pretense, that a backwater boy like him couldn’t have learned to fight while in exile.

Soon, Wēn Qiónglín would prove them all wrong. Though the facade of being a helpless, shy boy—as he had been in youth—was harder to keep up with each passing day, Wēn Qiónglín needed his enemies to underestimate him. Hopefully, his cover wasn’t blown by his fight with Lán Wàngjī.

A sharp pain blossomed from his left side, his scar throbbing with phantom pains. Wēn Qiónglín grit his teeth and turned Shǔ​guāng on a direct path to Búyètiān Chéng. Hopefully, the tea his sister sent would help him sleep through the inevitable nightmares tonight.

1. 鳳冠 - Fèngguān: phoenix crown; a type of traditional headwear for noblewoman. There are different styles depending on social status, time period, etc. ^{go back⤴}
   Source: Wong, Evy, et al. Celebrate Chinese Culture: Chinese Auspicious Culture. (English ed.). Asiapac Books, Sept. 2012. p. 111.
2. 白酒 - bái​jiǔ​: a spirit usually distilled from sorghum; 米香 - mǐxiāng: rice aroma. Clean sensation and a slight aroma. ^{go back⤴}
3. 清香 - qīngxiāng: light aroma. Delicate, dry, and light, with a smooth and light mouthfeel. ^{go back⤴}
   Source: hectate-98. “Emperor's Smile.” Reddit, 12 Dec. 2019.
4. 媳妇 - xífù: daughter-in-law / wife (of a younger man) / young married woman. ^{go back⤴}
5. 襕衫 - lánshān: a type of robe worn by scholars and officials. ^{go back⤴}
   Source: Ling. “Chinese Traditional Costume - Lanshan for Scholars.” NewHanfu, 28 Nov. 2020.
6. 子时 - zǐshí: 11 pm-1 am (in the system of two-hour subdivisions, called shíchén, used in former times). ^{go back⤴}
   Source: waffles_4_breakfast. “Waffle's Glossary of Chinese Terms.” ArchiveofOurOwn, 22 April 2022.
7. The Imperial Guard is not to be confused with the palace guards. While the palace guards are made up of high-ranking common soldiers or lower-level cultivators, the Imperial Guard are a group of highly-trained cultivators that are technically part of the Xiūxiān Armies, but in practice they serve as bodyguards that are loyal to the imperial family—like a group of twenty Wēn Zhúliú (without the core-crushing abilities, of course). The Captain of the Imperial Guard reports directly to the Chief Commander of the Xiūxiān Army but takes their orders directly from the Emperor. ^{go back⤴}
8. 曙光 - Shǔguāng: the first light of dawn / (fig.) glimmer of hope after a dark period; a new beginning. ^{go back⤴}

Chapter Text

Eleventh day of the Sixth Month; Day 4

Wèi Wúxiàn woke up for the second morning in as many days with a hangover so bad he felt like dying again (Did he die in his time? He wasn’t actually sure anymore. How mortifying would it be if fucking Sū Shè killed him). Miánmian bullied him into getting ready far earlier than he ever wanted, but was merciful with his hairstyle by opting for a simple braid pinned into a bun with an ornate bone comb engraved with orchids.

He was too sick to eat breakfast, but after sipping on some tea he was able to stomach lunch. The dishes brought in by a maid looked much simpler than they had before. After taking a tentative bite into the soft wonton, Wèi Wúxiàn was surprised by the amount of flavors that exploded on his tongue from that single bite: finely ground fatty pork, fermented soy, garlic, ginger, and scallions. He took a sip of the soup, savoring the hearty chicken bone broth with hints of ginseng. Despite being a relatively simple dish, he could tell that a lot of skill and quality ingredients had gone into it.

“Did they switch cooks?” Wèi Wúxiàn asked, staring at his bowl in wonder.

“Is it bad?” Miánmian fretted. “Since you’re Empress now, your food is being cooked by the imperial chef. Is it not to your liking? I can send for something—”

“No!” Wèi Wúxiàn interrupted. “It’s good! It’s better than good!”

He scarfed down the meal in large bites, ignoring Court Lady Lí’s disappointed and judgemental glares at his lack of manners. Once the bowl was empty, he sighed in contentment before abruptly standing up.

“I want to meet this chef,” he declared.

Miánmian’s face paled and she tried to reason with him, but Wèi Wúxiàn was already walking out of the Palace of Earthly Tranquility towards where he thought the kitchens would be. Once she caught up to him, slightly winded and more than bewildered, she directed him towards the imperial kitchen.

“Your Imperial Highness,” Miánmian cautiously said, “why do you want to see the imperial chef? Are you sure you weren’t dissatisfied with the food?”

“That meal was the best one I’ve had since coming here!” Wèi Wúxiàn exclaimed, using his hands to pull up the skirts of his hàn​fú so he could take bigger strides. He could hear Court Lady Lí hissing at him to drop his skirts and dutifully ignored her. “I want to see the kitchens and meet my new chef that has so thoroughly impressed me.”

“I’m sure it’s a great honor,” Miánmian hedged, “but Her Highness doesn’t need to deliver such praise in person.”

“Nonsense! Of course I do!” Wèi Wúxiàn exclaimed before sliding open the doors.

The entire room froze as the newly-crowned Empress sauntered into the imperial kitchen, his skirts pulled up to reveal his delicate socked ankles and dainty slippers.

“Y-Your Imperial Highness!” one of the chefs stuttered, dropping into a low bow that was quickly imitated.

“No need,” Wèi Wúxiàn waved his hands. “Who is the one that cooked my lunch today?”

The chef who bowed first shuffled forward, still keeping his torso parallel to the ground.

“This one apologizes for his lack of skills. This one will aim to do—”

“No, no! I’m not here to—” He cut himself off, dropped his skirts, smoothed out the wrinkles, took a breath, and started again. “Please, rise. I am not here to critique.”

The chef followed his instructions, but still kept his face tilted down.

“Your skills are unparalleled,” Wèi Wúxiàn praised. “I have never tasted a dish so simple, yet so elegant. Please, may I know the name of the chef that made the best meal I have ever eaten?”

Maybe he was laying it on a bit thick, but he couldn’t help it. He felt bad that he’d scared them all so badly; Miánmian had warned him, but he’d forgotten the general… well, everything of this time period. The rich have always been real pieces of shits, huh, he thought grimly. Some things never change.

“Oh!” The chef looked up at Wèi Wúxiàn in surprise before bowing even lower than before. “This humble one is Jiāng Wǎnyín. This one is honored by your praise, Your Imperial Highness.”

“Ah, Jiāng Wǎnyín, there’s really no need for this,” Wèi Wúxiàn pleaded. “Please, rise. I would like to tour the kitchens, if you’d be so kind.”

“Of course, Your Imperial Highness,” Jiāng Wǎnyín replied, his voice soft and airy.

He tried and failed to hide his look of surprise and confusion. Wèi Wúxiàn didn’t blame him; when had someone of the gentry ever taken an interest in such a “lowly” job as chef? Not for the first time, Wèi Wúxiàn missed the easy casualness of the modern world.

Wèi Wúxiàn surprised Jiāng Wǎnyín with all the questions he had about the kitchens, their supplies, and the chef’s menu. The more time the imperial chef spent with the Empress, the more he forgot himself and relaxed. They got into a heated discussion about how hot a wok needed to be to make the perfect stir fry, much to everyone’s surprise. By the end of the tour, Wèi Wúxiàn decided that Jiāng Wǎnyín was his favorite person he’d met so far—tied with Miánmian, of course.

Jiāng Wǎnyín proved to be a soft-spoken but determined individual who was clearly gifted in the art of cooking. He had a smaller stature than most of the other men in the kitchens, but he didn’t let that stop him from ruling over the palace kitchens with a kind but firm hand. He would’ve been a priceless asset to Wèi Wúxiàn’s team at the NCB. Before either of them realized, it was already time for Jiāng Wǎnyín to finish the dinner preparations.
“I will visit you soon!” Wèi Wúxiàn promised with a grin as he left the kitchens and returned to his palace.

Waiting for him in the sitting room was a vaguely familiar man dressed in all white, standing stock still with his shoulders pulled back and one hand resting behind his back. Wèi Wúxiàn couldn’t help but think he looked like some sort of heavenly immortal, poised and pretty as a jade sculpture. The man bowed to Wèi Wúxiàn as he entered.

“Your Imperial Highness, I apologize for my unannounced visit. I was unaware you were busy,” he said.

Wèi Wúxiàn liked his voice; it was deep and melodic and familiar, though he couldn’t place why.

“Ah, no worries,” Wèi Wúxiàn said with a casual wave. “I was just visiting the kitchens.” He sat down at the tea table, his legs sprawled about him. Court Lady Lí bit her tongue. “What can I do for you, sir?”

The man flinched at the formal address, which made Wèi Wúxiàn frown in confusion. When Miánmian leaned over to pour him some tea, he whispered to her.

“Do I know this guy?”

Miánmian’s eyes filled with tears. “Yes, Your Imperial Highness,” she replied shakily. “This is Lán Wàngjī. You are childhood friends.” Her eyes darted to Court Lady Lí before lowering her voice to a bare whisper. “He was the one who brought you home last night.”

“Oh,” Wèi Wúxiàn said, turning to Lán Wàngjī with a grin. “What can I do for you, Lán Wàngjī?”

Apparently, that wasn’t any better. Lán Wàngjī looked like he’d just been slapped in the face. Not that his expressions were very obvious, though. Wèi Wúxiàn could tell based on his eyes and the slight movement in his jaw that he was shocked and—maybe a little hurt? How he knew to look for those signs was a mystery to him, though.

“Just Wàngjī,” Lán Wàngjī said, a hint of sorrow in his tone. “You call me Wàngjī.”

“Wàngjī,” Wèi Wúxiàn repeated, feeling the syllables melt off his tongue.

He liked how it felt, saying this man’s name, but it was also not quite right. Suddenly, Wèi Wúxiàn’s head throbbed sharply. He dropped his tea cup to clutch at his temples, clenching his eyes shut as he remembered a memory.

“Your Imperial Highness!”

“Xuányǔ!”

Miánmian and Lán Wàngjī both rushed to his side as the pain faded with the memory.

“Ah, I’m fine, I’m fine,” he waved off their concern. “Just a headache.”

“You’ve been getting more of those since that night,” Miánmian fussed. “Should I call the physician?”

“There’s no need,” Wèi Wúxiàn insisted. “I’m probably just still hungover.”

Lán Wàngjī stepped back and settled down across from him, his eyebrows still pinched with worry.

“Your Imperial Highness,” he began, clearly struggling to find the right words.

He just needs more time than some to find his words, Wèi Wúxiàn thought, and knew without a doubt this was Jīn Xuányǔ and not himself. He really needed to figure out what was happening. First the impromptu memories that weren’t his own, and now thoughts that weren’t his? Wèi Wúxiàn was itching to figure out this mystery.

“Did you recognize who attacked you last night?” Lán Wàngjī finally asked.

“Attacked?” Wèi Wúxiàn asked with surprise. “I was attacked? When?”

“After you left the teahouse,” Lán Wàngjī replied.

That didn’t really explain anything. He vaguely remembered leaving the teahouse, but didn’t remember much else. Why did Lán Wàngjī know he was at a teahouse last night? How did he find him?

“I don’t remember,” Wèi Wúxiàn said, and it made him uncomfortable.

The last time he got blackout drunk, he woke up without shoes in a park with his pockets full of dead fish, surrounded by stray cats eating said fish out of his pockets. A day later, the cops knocked on his door and fined him for illegal fishing, as drunk Wèi Wúxiàn decided it was a good idea to go fishing in the dead of night with his bare hands. It wasn't a pleasant experience, and he made an oath to himself to never get to that point ever again.

Fuck you and your shitty alcohol tolerance, Jīn Xuányǔ!

“Nothing at all?” Lán Wàngjī pressed.

Another sharp pain exploded at his temples, causing Wèi Wúxiàn to groan and close his eyes.

“Ah, it hurts,” he mumbled.

“Your Imperial Highness, you shouldn’t force yourself!” Miánmian fretted.

“I apologize,” Lán Wàngjī said stiffly.

Wèi Wúxiàn waved off his apology. “Ah, it’s fine! Thank you for saving me, and for your… er… discretion.”

Lán Wàngjī nodded, but didn’t say anything further. He seemed to hesitate, his piercing amber eyes glancing towards Miánmian for a moment before eventually asking another question.

“I heard about the incident at the lake which postponed your wedding,” he said. “Do you remember anything unusual from that night? Did you meet anyone?”

Wincing, Wèi Wúxiàn again denied having any memories of the event. Jīn Xuányǔ’s memories were being very picky about when to show up, and so far they’ve given him no useful information. If he was going to be stuck here, he needed to figure out just what exactly happened to her at the lake. Everything seemed to be going back to that night.

“Her Imperial Highness is still feeling the effects of the incident,” Miánmian said sadly.

“I understand,” Lán Wàngjī replied. He bowed woodenly. “Apologies for intruding.”

He left the Palace of Earthly Tranquility with a concerned furrow in his brow, but his shoulders were set with determination.

Twelfth day of the Sixth Month; Day 5

The worst thing about being Empress—after the total lack of privacy and the insane expectations from everyone, even his own maids—was the ridiculously exorbitant ornamentation required of him to even walk in his own private garden, much less his presentation to the Imperial Court as their new Empress. His scalp burned with how tight it was pulled back and the amount of pins keeping his hair in place, not to mention the weight of his fèngguān. The kingfisher headdress was beautiful, with its startling blue color and the strings of milky white pearls, but it weighed a fuck ton.

After nearly tripping on his robes for the fifth time, Wèi Wúxiàn finally gave in to Court Lady Lí’s hissed demands to take smaller steps. He couldn’t help it; he was used to having much longer legs, afterall. As he settled next to the Emperor on the dias, he eyed Jīn Guāngyáo in her veiled seat beside him before sweeping over the crowd of Imperial Ministers.

There were the Lánlíng Jīn, dressed in their tacky gold and peach robes with the zhūshāzhì at the center of their foreheads.¹ Ah, Wèi Wúxiàn had almost forgotten about this era’s obsession with cinnabar. While it looked pretty, and was an obvious sign of high status, he couldn’t help but wince at the fact that they were putting literal mercury on their faces. Mixed in with the gold of Lánlíng Jīn was the startling white of the Gūsū Lán. Their sect was dwindling by this point in history after falling out of favor with Emperor Ránzōng for refusing to marry a cousin to his youngest son, Wēn Cháo.

In school, Wèi Wúxiàn and his classmates had jokingly referred to Wēn Cháo as the “Whore Prince” after learning he died from “overexertion” at a brothel not long after his father’s death. Historians at this time were not known for their impartiality, but while they sang Emperor Ránzōng and Emperor Xīzōng’s praises, they had very little to say about Prince Cháo.

On the opposite side of the room was Qīnghé Niè with their infamous sabers strapped to their backs. Wèi Wúxiàn remembered a unit from his History of Cultivator Swords class that discussed at length the Niè’s mysterious ritual for entombing their sabers separate from their owners in death, making their sabers some of the best preserved artifacts of the time period. He tried to see if he could recognize any of them from his textbook, but he couldn’t get a good angle on any of them.

These are the two families that will destroy the cultivation world with their petty squabbles, Wèi Wúxiàn thought bitterly. Following Emperor Shòuzōng’s death, the Niè and Jīn squabbled for power—first in the nine ministries, then in all-out war about a decade later. It was during this time that the Yílíng Lǎozǔ appeared and started the first merit-based cultivation sect for over three hundred years, devoted to the ghost path in order to “balance out the scorching rays rending our fields infertile.” His disregard for the clan-based sects was well documented, and he became very outspoken about it when the Jīn-Niè War escalated to using civilian troops as cannon fodder.

By the time the war ended, there was very little left of the great cultivation sects that so thrived during the Wēn Dynasty. Historians often said the war should have caused a dark age of cultivation, as so much knowledge was lost in the conflict, but the Yílíng Lǎozǔ’s prolific work instead boosted cultivation—both traditional and nontraditional—to new heights despite the power struggles that destabilized the entire empire.

Wèi Wúxiàn’s musings were interrupted by a man who looked like he belonged in the Lán sect but was wearing the Jīn zhūshāzhì on his forehead. Now that he thought about it, he looked a lot like a cheap, knockoff version of Lán Wàngjī. Wèi Wúxiàn felt like he should know this man, but the name was escaping him; he’d never been good at names. He did look very familiar, though.

“For these reasons, we recommend Lán Wàngjī, Hánguāng Jūn, as the new Minister of War and Chief Commander of the Xiūxiān Armies.² In addition, Her Highness has expressed Her worry about His Imperial Majesty’s safety,” the man continued. “We only want what is best for the Son of Heaven.”

The Emperor looked at the man with a complicated expression before turning to Wèi Wúxiàn. His eyes were guarded, but his face was amicable.

“Is this true, Empress?”

Wèi Wúxiàn didn’t want to side with the Jīn, to be completely honest. He’d always thought the cultivation sects had deserved their downfall, but the Jīn most of all. On the other hand, it felt wrong of him to interfere with history. If things went according to plan, Wèi Wúxiàn wouldn’t be here for much longer, and this would all be forgotten to history. Emperor Shòuzōng would die, the war would happen, and Wèi Wúxiàn would return to the world as he knew it.

“It is true I worry for His Majesty’s safety,” Wèi Wúxiàn carefully said. “However, I trust my husband and will defer to his judgment.”

Hey, that wasn’t half bad! Wèi Wúxiàn congratulated himself. He kept the Emperor's gaze confidently while trying to appear as demure as possible; he was unsure if he succeeded. In the end, Emperor Shòuzōng turned to the court.

“Very well,” he said slowly. “Please prepare an official appointment for Hánguāng Jūn for Us to appraise.”
One of the secretaries came forward with a scroll that only needed the Emperor’s seal.

“Oh, you’ve already prepared it!” Emperor Shòuzōng said with surprise. “You must have known We would agree before We even did.”

Wèi Wúxiàn looked down to see the Emperor’s hands clenching and shaking at his sides. He glanced at his new husband and was surprised by the deeply hidden fury within his warm brown eyes as he gazed upon the Imperial Ministers of his court. Perhaps there was more to Emperor Shòuzōng than the palace historians were led to believe.

The rest of the court meeting droned on, and Wèi Wúxiàn tried very hard not to fall asleep. The Emperor’s heavily concealed fury lasted through the entire session, simmering beneath the surface. Wèi Wúxiàn wouldn’t have noticed it had he not observed his earlier slip. He was beginning to question the accuracy of his cruel nickname. Was the Illiterate Emperor not as benign and servile as the world thought?

As Wèi Wúxiàn followed the Emperor and the Grand Empress Dowager out of the hall, he contemplated his place in this time. With how things were looking, it might take him a long while to convince the Grand Empress Dowager to refill the lakes, especially after her passive-aggressive wedding gift. He didn’t think it was fair to his lawful husband to continue keeping the truth from him. Mind made up, Wèi Wúxiàn returned to the Palace of Earthly Tranquility to change out of his ornamental robes before heading towards the Emperor’s study.

His entourage of maids tittered excitedly as the Empress calmly walked into the Hall of Knowledge, greeting the Emperor demurely before requesting privacy. Emperor Shòuzōng raised his eyebrows at the request but readily dismissed his servants.

“Husband,” Wèi Wúxiàn started, wincing at how awkward it came out.

He struggled to find a good starting point, but in the end decided to just put it all out there, consequences be damned.

“I’m not who you think I am!” he blurted out. “I really don’t know how I got here, but I’m not actually Jīn Xuányǔ—or, well, I am, technically, but that’s just the body. What I mean is, I’m actually a man from the future. Like, hundreds of years in the future. One second I was falling off a bridge in the middle of Wǔhàn³ into the Jīng River,⁴ the next I was waking up here in a completely different body. I’m really just trying to find a way back home.”

He paused, trying to gauge the Emperor’s expression. When he couldn’t get a good read, he barreled on.

“So, let’s form a truce, hm?” Wèi Wúxiàn said with a grin. “I won’t meddle in your business, and you don’t bother with mine. All I need to do is fill the lake back up so I can go home, and then you won’t have to worry about me anymore. No need to worry about being lovers or whatever. Let’s just be—roommates! We can be roommates.”

Here, the Emperor mouthed the words ‘lovers’ and ‘roommates,’ which Wèi Wúxiàn had said in English out of habit. Damn, the internet has really fucked up my vocabulary, Wèi Wúxiàn thought.

“Roommates?” the Emperor repeated, butchering the foreign pronunciation.

“Uh, yeah, roommates. People who live together but are separate.”

Emperor Shòuzōng looked at Wèi Wúxiàn for an uncomfortable moment, and Wèi Wúxiàn began regretting this decision. Maybe he really was an airheaded puppet emperor and this was all a huge mistake.

“Together but separate? That is what you wish?”

“Yes!” Wèi Wúxiàn agreed with relief. “Together but separate. Roommates.”

“Very well,” the Emperor eventually replied. “We will be this roommates, as you said.” He nodded to himself before rising and calling for his guards to reenter the room. “Xiǎo Xīngchén, please escort the Empress to the Imperial Physician for a full physical, mental, and spiritual examination, and tell him to report directly to me.”

The palace guard, dressed in all white, bowed to the Emperor before turning to the Empress with a kind smile.

“Please follow me, Your Imperial Highness.”

“H-Hey,” Wèi Wúxiàn retorted, his voice raising with concern. “That’s not—I’m fine, I really don’t… You have to believe me! I’m not crazy, I swear!”

The Emperor ignored his complaints as Xiǎo Xīngchén and Miánmian gently but firmly led him out of the Hall of Knowledge, instead turning to talk with his other personal guard, dressed in all black with a serious expression on his face.

Well, that fucking backfired, Wèi Wúxiàn lamented.

Wēn Qiónglín stared down at the scroll on his desk, his eyes tracing the characters but not truly reading. His thoughts were swimming with questions about Jīn Xuányǔ. After their strange conversation, he found himself frequently thinking about her. The examination from the Imperial Physician hadn’t answered any of his questions, either.

Xiǎo Xīngchén had pressed some of the maids in her retinue for more information, but found very little that they didn’t already know. Sòng Zǐchēn insisted that she was faking it in some deluded attempts to lower their guards around her, but Wēn Qiónglín couldn’t help but remember the desperation in her eyes as she pleaded him to believe her fantastical story. A spirit from the future? If ājiě​ was here, she would laugh herself sick before thoroughly studying and documenting the Empress’ condition.

Since the assignment of Lán Wàngjī as Minister of War and Chief Commander, Sòng Zǐchēn and Xiǎo Xīngchén have had difficulty making contact with their sources on the outside. Xiǎo Xīngchén directly reported to the new Chief Commander, and he had reluctantly relayed to them the Lán’s complete competence in his new position. Unfortunately for them, Lán Wàngjī was very good at his job. He took to it with a single-minded focus that Sòng Zǐchēn was begrudgingly impressed by, for all that it interfered with their secret meetings outside.

Tonight; Guō Teahouse, Xiǎo Xīngchén traced the characters on the table before excusing himself from the Hall of Knowledge. Wēn Qiónglín looked up at Lán Wàngjī, still standing rigidly, faithfully, by the entrance. His gut twisted with dread.

“Chief Commander,” he called. “It is late, and I fear I am not quite done yet. Please, retire for the evening. Sòng Zǐchēn is perfectly capable of guarding me alone, especially this late.”

Lán Wàngjī met his eyes with steely determination, and the dread became grim acceptance. He had been recognized that night after the wedding.

“It is no imposition,” Lán Wàngjī cooly replied.

Wēn Qiónglín met his gaze, keeping his face blank. He knew there was no point in attempting to lose the Second Jade of Lán through speed or force, especially not with Wēn Qiónglín’s scar acting up with phantom pains from sitting still for so long.

“Very well,” he conceded, slowly standing up from his table and hiding the wince of pain as his right knee almost buckled beneath his weight. “Then I suppose I might as well retire, if only to allow my faithful servants some rest.”

“Unnecessary,” Lán Wàngjī bit out before sharply following Wēn Qiónglín out of the hall and towards the Palace of Radiance, his personal quarters.

Wēn Qiónglín didn’t mention the Chief Commander’s presence as he closed the doors to his rooms and began to get ready for bed. He glanced at the position of the waxing moon, estimating it to be not quite hàizhèng.⁵ His lips twitched with a smirk. No matter how stubborn, he’d never met a Lán that could stay up past hàishí unless they were on an active nighthunt.⁶ All he had to do was be a little patient.

Putting out the candles in the room, Wēn Qiónglín watched Hánguāng Jūn’s steadfast form from behind the paper screen. Wēn Qiónglín didn’t have to wait long before his knees wavered and his normally statuesque shoulders softened. Lán Wàngjī stumbled back and slid down the paper screen so he was sitting outside the door. Wēn Qiónglín waited a moment more before quietly sliding the door open.

He looked down at the sleeping man, his head lolled forward with his chin on his chest. Carefully, he tipped Lán Wàngjī to the side so his body rested against a wooden pillar, cushioning his head with his hand before letting it rest at a less awkward angle. After a quick glance around, Wēn Qiónglín silently slipped back into his rooms and out the secret entrance behind his wardrobe. He disappeared into the night, leaving Lán Wàngjī asleep outside his rooms.

He arrived soon after at a new teahouse across the city from the one Jīn Xuányǔ had eavesdropped in, run by an older gentleman who refused to serve alcohol and grumbled about serving Wēn Qiónglín’s special tea blend rather than his own house blends. Xiǎo Xīngchén and Sòng Zǐchēn were already waiting for him, a kettle warming on the brazier and a pot already brewing in front of them.

“You got away quickly,” Sòng Zǐchēn remarked.

“Waited until zǐ​shí,” Wēn Qiónglín said, causing the other two to laugh.⁷

“Ah, that damn Lán,” Sòng Zǐchēn sighed. “I can’t tell if I admire him or hate his guts for being good at his job. He sticks to you better than sticky rice.”

“I haven’t been able to search much of the palace grounds for the Jīn weapon,” Xiǎo Xīngchén said apologetically. “Every time I think I’m clear, I see him in the corner of my eye and have to redirect.”

“It’s no use,” Sòng Zǐchēn grumbled. “We aren’t going to find anything now.” He looked at Wēn Qiónglín with a grave expression. “I was able to get a message to your sister, so we should be getting our next tea shipment soon, at least.”

Xiǎo Xīngchén looked over at Sòng Zǐchēn and then back at Wēn Qiónglín.

“Song Lán and I talked,” he said slowly, “and we both agreed that it is best if we push Jīn Xuányǔ for more information about that night. The odds of her not being involved in her family’s business is negligible. I’m sorry, Your Excellency, but we both agreed it best. Your sister should be sending us something extra with the tea shipment. It won’t cause long term damage, but it will… loosen her tongue, better than alcohol could.”

Wēn Qiónglín nodded, biting his lip as he looked down at his hands. He flexed them in his lap to keep from clenching.

“The Grand Empress Dowager has requested that I spend two nights a week with my new wife,” Wēn Qiónglín admitted. “It would be easy to slip something into her tea.”

Xiǎo Xīngchén looked at him with an apologetic twist to his mouth. “I know none of us wanted it to come to this,” he said. “But it will be better to know if she’s truly involved before jumping to anything more… rash.”

“We need to be very careful,” Wēn Qiónglín agreed. “I think Lán Wàngjī has his suspicions about me, though he has no proof, and I’ve heard he is quite close to Jīn Xuányǔ. If we do anything, best it be subtle.”

He pointedly did not divulge his private talk with Jīn Xuányǔ. He was still pondering over her words from that meeting in his office, and while his deputies and closest friends might have some insight into her confusing speech and erratic actions, he was worried it would only paint her in a worse light. Something in his gut told him she wasn’t his enemy. For all she may be a Jīn, she didn’t seem to be entrenched in their corruption. At worst, she was a bystander to it all. For all he knew, she could even be a victim of her own family. The Jīn would stoop that low, he was sure. If he made a move prematurely… He didn’t want to add an innocent woman to the blood already soaking his hands.

1. 朱砂痣 - zhūshāzhì; 朱砂 - zhūshā: cinnabar / mercuric sulfide HgS; 痣 - zhì: birthmark / mole. ^{go back⤴}
   Source: hunxi. “Question You May Or May Not Be Able To Answer.” Tumblr, 13 April 2020.
2. Xiūxiān Armies [修 - xiū: to cultivate / to study; 仙 - xiān: immortal], ‘Immortal Armies’ are the Emperor’s armies of cultivators, separated into three parts: the northern Běixiān Imperial Army, the central Zhōngxiān Imperial Army, and the southern Nánxiān Imperial Army. Instead of individual sects taking care of territories, each sect is required to draft a certain amount of cultivators into the subdivision their sect belongs to.
   For each Xiūxiān General/Xiūxiān Army there are at least 2 Common Army counterparts, representing the common people. While the Xiūxiān soldiers mostly focused on cultivation matters, such as nighthunting and larger scale conflicts, the Common soldiers made up everyday guards and foot soldiers. ^{go back⤴}
3. 武汉 - Wǔhàn: [武 - wǔ: military; martial, warlike; 汉 - hàn: Chinese people; Chinese language] Wǔhàn city on the Chāng River, subprovincial city and capital of Húběi province. In an interview, MXTX said she had a separate file for basic information regarding each clan, which include their emblem, home base location, sphere of influence, clan rules, and motto. She recalled drawing on a map of China and assigning real locations as the modern-day counterpart bases for the major clan regions featured in the story. She had Wǔhàn City (武汉市) in Húběi Province (湖北省) as the seat of Yúnmèng Jiāng. ^{go back⤴}
   Source: kuiqejenniferwilson. “MXTX interview (4).” Tumblr, 28 Jan. 2019.
4. 荆江 - Jīng Jiāng: Jīngjiāng section of the Cháng River [长江 - Cháng Jiāng: Yangtze River, or Chang Jiang]. The Cháng River is called by many names: in Húběi (and also Húnán, from what I’ve read), where Wèi Wúxiàn is from, their section of the Cháng River is called the Jīng Jiāng, after the Jīngzhōu province from the Hàn dynasty (202 BC – 9 CE; 25–220 CE); the West call it Yangtze or Yángzǐ, likely derived from an ancient ferry crossing called Yángzǐ or Yángzǐjīn; older texts called it simply Jiāng, river; on a map from the Qíng dynasty (1636–1912), they labeled it as Dà Jiāng, Great River; Cháng Jiāng is the official Chinese name for the river.
   For my purposes, I’ve decided that Wēn Níng knows this river as Dà Jiāng, and is not familiar with the name Jīng Jiāng. Wèi Wúxiàn is also exaggerating here; he didn’t fall into the Cháng River, but one of the many smaller tributaries that spread across Wǔhàn. ^{go back⤴}
   Sources:
   “Yantze River.” Britannica.
   “Yantze River: Etymology.” Wikipedia.
5. 亥正 - hàizhèng: 10 pm (Each shíchén can be split into 初 - chū and 正 - zhèng). ^{go back⤴}
   Source: waffles_4_breakfast. “Waffle's Glossary of Chinese Terms.” ArchiveofOurOwn, 22 April 2022.
6. 亥时 - hàishí: 9 pm – 11 pm (in the system of two-hour subdivisions, called shíchén, used in former times). ^{go back⤴}
7. 子时 - zǐshí: 11 pm - 1 am (in the system of two-hour subdivisions, called shíchén, used in former times). ^{go back⤴}

Chapter Text

Fifteenth day of the Sixth Month; Day 8

After his disastrous attempt at convincing the Emperor, Wèi Wúxiàn decided to cook his stress away. His tour of the imperial kitchens hadn’t scratched his need to cook like he’d hoped, and he found his hands anxious to do something. He lasted all but two days before he gave into the urge.

“I’m craving instant noodles so bad,” he cried to Miánmian as he walked towards the imperial kitchens, ignoring Court Lady Lí’s distressed shouts to “walk properly,” “put down your skirts,” and “speak mildly.”

“I’m sure the imperial chef can cook such a dish for Her Highness,” Miánmian pleaded. “There’s no need to—”

“He can’t!” Wèi Wúxiàn interrupted plaintively. “I know he can’t! But I…”

He abruptly stopped walking, causing his entourage to stumble.

“But I can!”

Grinning from ear-to-ear, the Empress ran into the imperial kitchens with her delicate socked ankles and dainty shoes showing for the second time that week, once again causing the entire kitchen to freeze.

“Your Imperial Highness!” Jiāng Wǎnyín greeted, bowing low.

“Jiāng Wǎnyín!” Wèi Wúxiàn greeted, pulling the chef up from his bow and clapping him on the shoulder. “You’re doing great, no complaints! I will be taking over your kitchen for a little bit, though. Don’t mind me!”

Without waiting for a response, he grabbed an apron, cinched it over his peach and gold silk chest qíxiōng rúqún, tied back his wide sleeves, and got to work.¹ Slowly, the kitchen resumed motion, though it was much slower than before as everyone watched the Empress move about the kitchen as though he’d been cooking all his life; unbeknownst to them, he had, in a way. Jiāng Wǎnyín stopped many times to observe Wèi Wúxiàn’s techniques, and soon enough he gave up all pretenses of working to observe the Empress and ask a steady flow of questions, too enthralled by his strange techniques to remember propriety.

After a rather convoluted process, Wèi Wúxiàn finally had a bowl of instant noodles. Granted, it was more gourmet than any modern instant noodles could ever hope to be, but it was still, in the end, instant noodles. He didn’t bother going back to his palace to eat it, choosing to instead sit down on a barrel at the edges of the kitchen and scarf it down before it became soggy. Jiāng Wǎnyín asked for a bowl as well, and Wèi Wúxiàn took great delight in watching his surprised and awed expressions with each bite.

“Your Imperial Highness, I never knew you were such a good cook!” Miánmian gushed after taking the first bite from Wèi Wúxiàn’s bowl, despite his protests that he made it and wouldn’t poison himself.

Wèi Wúxiàn shrugged nonchalantly, but couldn’t keep the smug grin off his face at her praise. As he was finishing his bowl, a few servants returned to the kitchens with a platter covered with cloth. Jiāng Wǎnyín grimaced before setting aside his instant noodles and approaching the servants. He pulled off the cloth and sighed at the largely uneaten plates of food still left on the platter.

“Oh?”

Wèi Wúxiàn wandered over and looked over the array of dishes. He couldn’t help but notice that all the softer foods were largely eaten—the rice, soup, boiled vegetables—while the more crunchy and harder foods were barely picked at. Suddenly, the meme of Mr. Fresh’s judgemental side-eye came to his mind and he had to bite back a chuckle.

“Who’s dinner was this?”

“Her Immanence, Grand Empress Dowager Jīn,” Jiāng Wǎnyín replied. Under his breath, so softly Wèi Wúxiàn strained to hear it, he said, “Ah, what a waste of food.”

“Does this happen often?” Wèi Wúxiàn asked, pretending that he hadn’t heard Jiāng Wǎnyín’s complaints but filing that information away for later.

“Yes, Your Imperial Highness,” one of the servants said with a reverential bow.

Wèi Wúxiàn looked down at the food once more, biting back a smirk. Clearly, Grand Empress Dowager Jīn was doing a good job of hiding her age—physically; but dental care in this time was poor, especially for those without a strong jīndān to clear out infections and cavities. His mind recalled the bronze bathtub, and he had to fight down the instincts to get back at the Grand Empress Dowager.

She is the real political power here, he reminded himself. She is the one who ordered the draining of the lakes. She is my only way home.

“Jiāng Wǎnyín,” Wèi Wúxiàn turned to the imperial chef. “Let me cook for the Grand Empress Dowager tomorrow. If I can get her to clear the entire platter, I will continue to cook her meals for her.”

“Ah,” Jiāng Wǎnyín stuttered, eyes wide with disbelief. “That—Your Imperial Highness, I couldn't possibly—”

“Please,” Wèi Wúxiàn said, raising a hand to stop his scrambled refusals. “I insist.”

Jiāng Wǎnyín glanced at Miánmian, who shook her head subtly, and Court Lady Lí, who seemed completely resigned with the situation. He looked back at the Empress before bowing.

“As you wish, Your Imperial Highness.”

Wèi Wúxiàn grinned, slapping Jiāng Wǎnyín’s shoulder with casual familiarity and turning towards the food stores. He had just the dish to knock Grand Empress Jīn’s gold-embroidered socks off.

“This one apologizes, Your Imperial Majesty. Her Imperial Highness has not returned to her rooms,” Eunuch Píng said with a low bow.

“What is she up to so late?” Wēn Qiónglín muttered under his breath. He looked out the dark night sky, taking a breath before turning to the prostrating eunuch. “Where is Our Empress at such an hour?” he asked, an aloof but kind smile on his face.

Eunuch Píng visibly started to sweat and bowed even lower. “Her Imperial Highness is in the kitchens.”

Wēn Qiónglín looked at the eunuch in visible confusion, and from the corner of his eye both Sòng Zǐchēn and Xiǎo Xīngchén did the same.

“The kitchens?” Xiǎo Xīngchén asked.

“Yes, Captain. This one is not privy to her reasons.”

“Was she told We required her presence?” Wēn Qiónglín pressed.

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty. This one was unable to convince Her Highness to leave. This one apologizes for his failings.”

“Ignoring a direct summons?” Sòng Zǐchēn hissed under his breath.

“You are dismissed, Eunuch Píng,” Wēn Qiónglín said solemnly.

The eunuch all but scrambled out of the Hall of Knowledge. Wēn Qiónglín turned to his two friends, his hands clenched in the long sleeves of his dragon robes.²

“The kitchens?” Xiǎo Xīngchén wondered. “Does Her Imperial Highness know how to cook?”

“I will go investigate, Your Excellency,” Sòng Zǐchēn said.

“There’s no need,” Wēn Qiónglín said, rubbing at his temples. “That will just make everyone suspicious. No, it’s best to be patient. She’s clearly trying to avoid a confrontation with me. It seems she did hear something that night.”

The other two began debating what the Empress may have overheard, but Wēn Qiónglín wasn’t listening. He frowned as he remembered that strange conversation, mouthing the foreign word ‘roommate’ to himself.

“Sòng Zǐchēn,” he interrupted. “When you were with the monks at Báixuě Temple, did you come across the term roommate? Perhaps an idiom of some sort?”

“Roommate,” Sòng Zǐchēn repeated slowly. “No, I have never heard this term.”

“I haven’t either,” Xiǎo Xīngchén said with a slight frown. “Why do you ask?”

“No particular reason,” Wēn Qiónglín replied, barely paying attention as he thought further on the Empress and her odd, nonsensical choice of words. Wǔhàn, Jīng River, lovers, roommates; “Together but separate. Roommates.” There was something more going on with her that Wēn Qiónglín wasn’t seeing. But he knew he would have to get closer to her to find out the truth, and he wasn’t sure it was worth the risk.

To be entirely honest, he wasn’t sure if she was innocent or guilty. He thought before that there was a chance she could be another victim, a pawn in the hands of her family, but the irreverent way she treated him spoke otherwise. From the moment she woke after the Lake Incident, he stopped being able to anticipate her next move.

Before, he knew Jīn Xuányǔ to be a meek, mild young woman. While she didn’t make much of a fuss for the servants at Búyètiān Chéng, she still had all the markings of a spoilt gentry lady. She was picky with her food, often sending entire platters full of food back to the kitchens. Servants talked in hushed tones about her intense territorialism with her items, especially her embroidery, and that some were punished for daring to tidy up her embroidery kit.

But since waking from her near drowning in the lake, Jīn Xuányǔ developed a different reputation. She was intensely mercurial, often throwing childish tantrums at the maids yet insisting they call her more familiarly. All her prior grace and poise seemed to have escaped along with her sanity. She sat sprawled at the table, didn’t bow properly to anyone, refused a direct summons from her Emperor to—what, spend time in the imperial kitchens?

Wēn Qiónglín had entered this arranged marriage ready to fight a silent war with his wife; her as his enemy, him as her family’s pawn. Now, he wasn’t sure what to make of anything. Not for the first time, Wēn Qiónglín dearly missed his sister. She always had a sharper mind for these sorts of things than he did.

Sixteenth day of the Sixth Month; Day 9

“It’s done!”

Jiāng Wǎnyín, several of the servants, and Miánmian startled awake at Wèi Wúxiàn’s sudden, loud exclamation. Court Lady Lí slept right through it, her chin on her chest as she slumped against one of the pillars near the edges of the kitchen. Despite the midmorning hour, Wèi Wúxiàn was the only person still actively awake, standing proudly in the middle of the kitchen, covered in flour and mysterious liquids, staring with hands on his hips at the plate before him.

“Only took me a few tries!” he gushed.

“And most of the yogurt supply,” Jiāng Wǎnyín griped under his breath.³

“Hm?” Wèi Wúxiàn turned to look at him, smiling bright despite the dark bags under his eyes.

“Nothing, Your Highness,” the imperial chef replied with a tired grin (really more of a grimace, but Wèi Wúxiàn was too wired to infer anything more from it).

Wèi Wúxiàn shrugged off Jiāng Wǎnyín’s odd behavior and instead stared at his masterpiece. Sitting on a bronze plate, inscribed with preservation and heating talismans that Wèi Wúxiàn may-or-may-not have tweaked just a little bit to be more efficient, was a beautiful mound of handmade potato gnocchi covered in a creamy yogurt-based sauce.⁴

It had taken him most of the night, but only because he kept getting distracted. There were just so many differences in these old imperial kitchens than what Wèi Wúxiàn was used to, and he was endlessly fascinated by their creative alternatives. He’d crowed in delight upon seeing the ice cellars dug deep underneath the kitchens, and had been endlessly fascinated by the array baked into the mud bricks of the ovens.⁵

When everyone started sleeping around him, Wèi Wúxiàn had paused his work on the dish for the Grand Empress Dowager and had followed Jiāng Wǎnyín’s sleepy instructions on what to prepare for breakfast. Luckily, most people in Búyètiān Chéng ate congee and pickled vegetables for breakfast, and it didn't take Wèi Wúxiàn long to make enough congee for the entire imperial palace and an entirely new dish from scratch.

He’d originally wanted to do a thicker, heavier cream sauce to go with the light, fluffy gnocchi but quickly found out how rare of a resource milk was during this time period and promptly improvised. While Italian had never been his favorite cuisine to make, he had spent a lot of time during Dr. Jiāng’s study learning techniques from the other participants. One of them had been a sweet, older Italian woman who spoke broken English but was still able to teach him how to make the best handmade pasta he’d ever eaten.

“Food is a universal language,” Wèi Wúxiàn stated. “If the Grand Empress Dowager doesn’t fall in love with me from this dish, I’ll bury my head into the muddy remnants of the lake.”

“Oh, please, don’t,” Miánmian moaned. “Your Imperial Highness, can we go back to the Palace of Earthly Tranquility yet? You’re still in your clothes from yesterday.”

“Not yet,” Wèi Wúxiàn replied absently as he finalized the plating and carefully topped the plate with a matching bronze cover. He gestured for one of the few awake servants to take the plate. “Take this to Grand Empress Dowager Jīn and tell her that I apologize for the late breakfast.”

The servant gave him a hasty bow before fleeing the kitchens, still rubbing at his sleep-crusted eyes. Wèi Wúxiàn turned around and began filling bowls of congee for everyone awake, being generous with the toppings. To his own, he added an entire jar of chili oil, much to Miánmian’s abject horror and Jiāng Wǎnyín’s quiet amusement. He took his time finishing his bowl, waiting rather impatiently for the Grand Empress Dowager’s platter to be returned.

Soon enough, the servant came back to the kitchens with wide eyes.

“Your Imperial Highness, the Grand Empress Dowager demands an audience,” they said with a shaky voice.

As Miánmian and Jiāng Wǎnyín both froze in fear, Wèi Wúxiàn grinned wildly.

“Ah, she wants to give compliments to the chef personally? Fine, fine.” He rolled his shoulders back confidently. “Come on, Miánmian, let’s go!” When Miánmian didn’t move, he turned to her with a playful scowl. “Quickly,” he whispered theatrically, “before Court Lady Lí wakes and sees I have flour on the hems of my robes.”

With that, the Empress swept out of the kitchen and towards the Palace of Eternal Longevity, her retinue scrambling behind her. Jiāng Wǎnyín watched her leave with a pale, worried face. He quietly said a prayer to the heavens before turning around to take in the disaster that struck his kitchen. After taking a few moments to steady himself, Jiāng Wǎnyín turned to his subordinates, still lazing about at the edges.

“Lunch is in a shíchén!⁶ What are you doing just standing there? Start cleaning!”

The servants hurried to follow his orders, and Jiāng Wǎnyín headed to the dry storage to begin making lunch. He had an idea for a new dish that he was eager to try out, inspired by the Empress’ strange techniques.

Wèi Wúxiàn bowed—properly this time—to Grand Empress Dowager Jīn, hiding his smirk behind his long sleeves. The apron and sleeve ties had shielded his robes from most of the backsplash from cooking all night, but his silk robes were still slightly rumpled, much to Miánmian’s dismay. After going through the necessary pleasantries, Jīn Guāngyáo impatiently dismissed the maids until it was just her, Wèi Wúxiàn, and her blinded personal servant.

“Xuányǔ,” Jīn Guāngyáo began, “I had no idea our Xiǎoyīng was so talented in the kitchens!”

Wèi Wúxiàn had to bite his tongue to keep from smiling.

“Ah, this one is flattered by the Grand Empress Dowager’s praise.”

“Please, we are family, Xiǎoyīng. When it is just the two of us, there is no need for such things.”

“As you wish, tángjiě,” Wèi Wúxiàn replied amicably, ignoring the sour feeling in his gut.

Somehow, he knew that Jīn Guāngyáo had never called Jīn Xuányǔ ‘Xiǎoyīng’ so sweetly before; she had always used it mockingly, a way to belittle and demean her tángmèi rather than show affection. The more time he spent in this body, the more Jīn Xuányǔ’s memories and feelings started to trickle in. He had to get out of here before he was assimilated completely!

“Xiǎoyīng, I haven’t eaten such a good meal in a long time,” Jīn Guāngyáo continued, unaware of Wèi Wúxiàn’s inner turmoil. “I must insist that my talented tángmèi continue to cook for her tángjiě. That is, as long as it doesn’t interfere with Xiǎoyīng’s busy schedule as Empress.”

Wèi Wúxiàn clenched his hands beneath his sleeves at the tonal stress on ‘busy,’ knowing full well that Jīn Guāngyáo had appropriated all of the work and power normally held by the Empress for herself. Jīn Guāngyáo knew Jīn Xuányǔ wasn’t busy, because she was the true Empress of Búyètiān Chéng.

“I would be honored,” Wèi Wúxiàn accepted with a small, pleased smile. He hesitated a moment before deciding, fuck it. “While it is an honor itself to cook for the Grand Empress Dowager, I have a small request to ask of Her Highness in return.”

Jīn Guāngyáo looked at him with thinly veiled surprise before smiling with full dimples.

“Of course! Xiǎoyīng should know she can ask anything of her tángjiě.”

“If Xiǎoyīng can impress Her Highness for a full week, would Her Highness reconsider filling the lakes in Búyètiān Chéng?” Upon Jīn Guāngyáo’s suspicious look, Wèi Wúxiàn scrambled to continue. “There is a lack of yīn energy that has been making Xiǎoyīng’s marital duties harder. While Xiǎoyīng appreciates her tángjiě’s thoughtful gift, there is still an imbalance in Búyètiān Chéng that could negatively affect such an important task.”

Jīn Guāngyáo paused to consider his words, and Wèi Wúxiàn couldn’t help the twitch of his lips. Hook, line, and sinker. The Wēn Dynasty was known for its intense superstitions around energy balances, which was why there were so many lakes in Búyètiān Chéng to begin with. Draining the lakes must have been a very controversial order, despite it being a response to the future Empress nearly drowning.

“My tángmèi shows much wisdom and dedication to her duties,” Jīn Guāngyáo said with a bland smile. “I will consider refilling the lakes after one week, and after the Imperial Physician reports there are no further yīn imbalances with our Empress.”

“Thank you, Grand Empress Dowager,” Wèi Wúxiàn said, touching his head to the floor to hide his wide grin.

Oh, this is too easy.

A group of maids cluttered around one of the water wells, big basins full of washing water and twine drying lines put up around the courtyard. They gossiped while scrubbing the cheaper ramie sheets of the scholar class, having already carefully washed the luxurious silk sheets of the palace gentry and hung them to dry in the shade.⁷

“Have you heard? The Empress has been having strange outbursts ever since the Lake Incident. Ā-Yān was there the day the Empress woke from her strange sleep, and she said the Empress ran through five gardens and two palaces, shouting all sorts of nonsense and obscenities, before running straight into the Emperor himself!”

“I heard from Ā-Tōng—”

“Ooh, Ā-Dīng, have you been flirting with poor Ā-Tōng again?” the first maid, Ā-Huì, interrupted with a teasing giggle. “You know he’s going to be a eunuch servant once his apprenticeship with Eunuch Zhōu is done, right?”

“He told me that’s only what his father wants! Ā-Tōng thinks he should be able to pass the imperial examination and become a scholar-official, especially after all the training he’s been doing,” Ā-Dīng said, indignant.

“Whatever you say!” the other maids giggled.

Ā-Dīng scoffed at them, scrubbing the sheets with more vigor than necessary. “Anyways, that’s not important. According to Eunuch Zhōu, the Jīn and Lán Imperial Ministers are insistent that it wasn’t an accident! The Empress was pushed into the water!”

“Oh, I heard about this too! Some are saying it was Niè Míngxiá!”

“That’s right,” Ā-Dīng said. “Everyone knows she’s going to be the next Patroness in Virtue, but I guess such a title isn’t enough for a Niè warrior like herself.⁸ She must be after the title of Empress, especially considering the current Empress’ lack of—”

“Ā-Dīng!” Ā-Huì hissed, stopping her from uttering any more blasphemous words.

“That’s not true!” One of the maids off to the side erupted, her face murderous. “My mistress would never resort to something so underhanded! You want to know the truth? The truth is, the Empress jumped into the lake herself and is framing my mistress for her weakness!”

Everyone stared at Ā-Shàn, Niè Míngxiá’s lady-in-waiting. Some of the maids were shocked by the outburst, others worried, while most—including Ā-Dīng—were nearly salivating at this new, juicy bit of gossip. Ā-Shàn returned to herself, face turning red and hand going up to press her lips, but the words had already fallen out. She dropped her washing and fled the courtyard, leaving behind a tittering group of maids. One of the eunuchs, a lower ranked secretary to Jīn Zichǎn, the Minister of Revenue, quietly walked away from the courtyard to report the new gossip—likely to spread as fast as a forest fire—to Jīn Zichǎn.

Twenty Third day of the Sixth Month; Day 16

After a week of toiling away in the imperial kitchens, Grand Empress Dowager Jīn finally ordered for the lakes in Búyètiān Chéng to be refilled.

“My tángmèi has worked very hard to please me,” Jīn Guāngyáo said with a placid smile. “I will only demand a single meal cooked by Xiǎoyīng’s talented hands thrice a week.”

“Thank you for your benevolence, Grand Empress Dowager,” Wèi Wúxiàn bowed. “I will continue to work hard.”

“Not too hard, I hope,” Jīn Guāngyáo said, her voice light but her eyes holding a darker tone. “Afterall, the Empress’ first and most important job for the nation is in her husband’s bed.”

Wèi Wúxiàn kept in his bow for a moment longer to hide his disgusted scowl. “Of course, Grand Empress Dowager.”

“As such, I order you to spend at least two nights with the Emperor every week, and four during the full moon.⁹ You will not be required to cook for me during that time, of course.”

“It will be done, Grand Empress Dowager. Thank you, Grand Empress Dowager.”

Wèi Wúxiàn refused to have Grand Empress Dowager Jīn’s new edict bring him down, however. With the refilling of the lakes ordered to start immediately, it was likely only a couple of days before Wèi Wúxiàn would be back in the 21st century and he could leave all the “marital duties” to Jīn Xuányǔ. Beyond the fact that Wèi Wúxiàn didn’t want to have sex with some random man, he also felt very weird doing something so intimate and violating with someone else’s body, without their consent.

For three whole days, Wèi Wúxiàn categorically Refused to Worry About It. He spent most of his time idly painting in the Palace of Earthly Tranquility’s gardens and only took over Jiāng Wǎnyín’s kitchen once. The Emperor was off dealing with some trade negotiations or something on the eastern coast, so Wèi Wúxiàn was also off the hook there. His third week after waking in this time period passed smoothly.

Four days after the Grand Empress Dowager allowed the lake to be refilled, Wèi Wúxiàn decided to check on the progress. He and his retinue of maids walked serenely to the lake, enjoying the mild fall breeze. When he arrived, he was intensely disappointed to see it was still nothing more than a mud pit. He watched in horror as menial workers lugged buckets of water from the nearby well to empty into the lake one at a time. At the rate they were going, the lake would take over a year to be filled!

“Is there not a better way to refill it?” Wèi Wúxiàn asked Court Lady Lí, completely baffled. “Don’t you guys have irrigation or plumbing in this era?”

“It was easy to drain the lake as it is uphill, Your Imperial Highness,” Court Lady Lí replied solemnly, “and the serfs do not have access to such advanced techniques.”

“This is bullshit!” Wèi Wúxiàn exclaimed.

Court Lady Lí’s expression soured. Just as she was about to open her mouth—no doubt to give him yet another lecture on what constituted ‘lady-like language’—Wèi Wúxiàn turned around and started marching back to the Palace of Earthly Tranquility.

“Let’s go back,” he huffed. “I have some ideas.”

“The rumors are running rampant,” Niè Bóchéng reported dismally. “While half of the palace believes the Empress jumped, the other half firmly believe Míngxiá pushed her.”

“I have it on good authority that the Lán, no doubt backed and fueled by the Jīn, are going to launch an official investigation,” Niè Zōnghuī said. “Empress Dowager, it is highly unlikely that Míngxiá will qualify for the role of Patroness of Virtue, much less any place in the imperial harem.”

Empress Dowager Niè nodded regally to both men, fluttering her fan—boned with silver with an ornate landscape expertly painted upon thin, fine silk—nervously in front of her face. While her eyes were round with forced confusion and helplessness, her mouth was snarled into a mean sneer.

“Oh, dear…” she murmured. “Oh, what will poor Míngxiá do? Is there really nothing to be done? I had so hoped…”

“We will attempt to squash the rumors with as much force as we can muster,” Niè Bóchéng earnestly replied.

Niè Zōnghuī cast a judgemental look at his cousin before reluctantly nodding his agreement. “They have no proof of her supposed wrongdoings, so the accusations won’t hold up much merit in court. The gossip is worrying, yes, but it lacks a single kernel of truth.”

“This is how the Jīn like to play,” another Niè cousin chimed in. “Through rumors and hearsay. We will not give in to their ploys.”

“Very well,” Niè Huáisāng said nervously. “I will leave this in your capable hands, then.”

“Of course, Empress Dowager.”

She curtsied to her family and sect members before leaving the private pavilion, her retinue of twelve maids flocking behind her. Once alone in the entrance hall of the Palace of Compassion and Tranquility, Niè Huáisāng turned to the large portrait of her former husband that loomed above a gilded shrine lit with nearly a hundred candles. She knelt before the altar, setting her fan next to one of the gold plates filled with tangerines.

“I’m doing everything I can,” she whispered. “That Taoist monk must have been a charlatan, because whatever spirit was called that night in the lake is not one of pure chaos and ill omen. All it’s done is speak nonsense and lightly terrorize the kitchens!”
She huffed angrily, nearly blowing out several of the candles nearby.

“But don’t worry, dàgē,” she said, looking at the painting of her former husband and imagining she was really gazing into her brother’s eyes. The portrait she’d once painted of Niè Míngjué, former Minister of War, was cleverly hidden behind the gilded official portrait of Emperor Xùzōng, ensuring all of Niè Huáisāng’s prayers and venerations for her former husband were actually received by her brother.

“I’ll get our bloody revenge on Jīn Guāngyáo.”

When the Emperor returned from his diplomatic envoy to the eastern coast, he was once again turned away from the Palace of Earthly Tranquility, this time by the Empress’ lady-in-waiting.

“This one apologizes,” the woman said, her voice trembling with fear. “This one’s mistress refuses all visitors to the Palace of Earthly Tranquility. This one was ordered to turn everyone away. When this one begged for reconsideration due to His Imperial Majesty’s highest esteem, this one was rebuked.”

Wēn Qiónglín frowned at her words, but only sighed wearily.

“Very well. Tell Our wife We wish to see her as soon as she is accepting visitors.” He turned to walk away, but paused. “Is she ill?” he asked.

“No, Your Imperial Majesty,” the lady-in-waiting explained. “Her Imperial Highness has shut herself in her study and refuses everything—food, drink, entertainment. Everything but more ink and more talisman papers.”

Something dark and heavy settled in Wēn Qiónglín’s gut as he walked away from the Palace of Earthly Tranquility. Ink and talisman papers? Refusing even food and drink?

“She’s up to something,” Wēn Qiónglín subtly murmured to Sòng Zǐchēn.

Sòng Zǐchēn nodded once before peeling off, silently replying, I will find out what.

When the Imperial Investigator reported to the Emperor about the Empress’ suspicious behavior, even he seemed stumped as to what exactly she was up to.

“According to everyone—the maids, the eunuchs, the imperial physician that was eventually called last night when she fainted, supposedly from dehydration—the Empress was…” he trailed off, shocked by his own findings. “She was inventing a talisman that could somehow summon rain from thin air.”

There was a pause.

“At least, that is what Eunuch Cáo theorized. Even he admitted he couldn’t quite discern what she was actually inventing, much less how.”

“Do these talismans work?” Xiǎo Xīngchén asked.

“No,” Sòng Zǐchēn admitted, “though Eunuch Cáo insisted there was a real possibility they could. He was quite adamant about their potential, and has been requesting an audience with Her Imperial Highness all morning. Her maids keep turning him away, as Her Imperial Highness has yet to wake from her exhausted faint in the early morning today. Eunuch Cáo has taken to kneeling outside the Palace of Earthly Tranquility, refusing to move until the Empress wakes and allows an audience.”

“Did you sense any resentful qì with these talismans?” Wēn Qiónglín asked, his face solemn. “Around her study, on the maids…”

“No, Your Excellency. There is nothing but yáng qì being used, unless she has some previously unheard of concealment array.”

“We won’t be able to get anywhere without directly confronting her,” Xiǎo Xīngchén gently reminded.

“Dismissed,” Wēn Qiónglín sighed, waving the two away. “Summon Eunuch Lǐ.”

The two bowed before leaving the Hall of Knowledge, their exit followed close behind by Eunuch Lǐ, Wēn Qiónglín’s personal attendant. The Emperor didn’t look up from the document he was ‘reading,’ though the scroll was upside down. Eunuch Lǐ bit back a snigger at the Illiterate Emperor, though Wēn Qiónglín quietly caught the action. He had known for a while that Eunuch Lǐ was in the pockets of the Jīn, and that the servant reported everything he saw directly to Jīn Guāngyáo and Jīn Mǐnshàn. He should have been the Emperor’s closest and most trusted servant, but the Jīn made sure to isolate Wēn Qiónglín as thoroughly as possible.

“Send a summons to the Empress, demanding her presence in the Palace of Heavenly Purity tonight,” he ordered.

“Of course, Your Imperial Majesty. It will be done.”

Eunuch Lǐ left the hall. Wēn Qiónglín put down the scroll and pulled out the most recent letter from his sister from his tea pouch.

He smiled at his sister’s coded message. Her warnings prepared him for his next council meeting, which would likely center around the rebellion leader Sāndú Shèngshǒu’s new movements through the southern reaches of the empire. Wēn Qiónglín would send out the Nánjīn Army to search for the rebellion leader in Jiānglíng, though it would be in vain as Sāndú Shèngshǒu was already downriver in Bālíng.¹¹ He carefully refolded the message and placed it back in his bag of tea.

Later that night, as he waited for Jīn Xuányǔ to arrive at the Palace of Heavenly Purity, Wēn Qiónglín carefully burned the letter in the brazier warming his tea. With the vial his sister had sent with his tea carefully hidden in the sleeves of his robes, he prepared the pot of tea with his typical medicinal blend. All of the servants knew that the Emperor preferred to brew his own tea, though it was still required to be tested for poison before it touched his lips.

“The Empress has arrived!”

Wēn Qiónglín glanced up as Jīn Xuányǔ entered one of the twenty bedrooms in the Palace of Heavenly Purity, chosen randomly each night to dissuade assassination attempts. He would not be sleeping in this room tonight, though the Empress would—assuming everything went to plan. Before he could properly greet his wife, or go through any of the proper salutations and greetings, Jīn Xuányǔ plopped herself down across the table from him in an indecent sprawl. Her handmaid blushed with a thin face at her mistress’ impropriety.

“I’ve been told you wanted to see me all week,” Jīn Xuányǔ said, her speech offensively casual.

Wēn Qiónglín had to will himself not to blanch at her blatant disrespect, a twitch in his brow the only thing giving away his offense. By the look of fear the handmaid glanced his way, she had caught it. Jīn Xuányǔ, however, had not.

“Which confused me,” Jīn Xuányǔ blithely continued, “given our agreement to be distant roommates and not sticky lovers.”

He pushed down the urge to question her more about the foreign terms, his curiosity unfortunately piqued by her strange way of speaking.

“Yes,” he said. “Together but separate. Is that not what We are doing now?”

Jīn Xuányǔ rolled her eyes at him, and Wēn Qiónglín clenched his fists in fury. He took a small, calming breath before meekly smiling at her.

“It would please Us greatly if Our wife shared tea with Us.”

The handmaid took this as her cue to pour the first cups, drinking from first his and then her mistress’ before bowing low and scurrying out of the room. Now alone, Wēn Qiónglín fiddled with the vial in his sleeve, subtly loosening the cork.

“I forgot about the use of royal pronouns during this time,” Jīn Xuányǔ muttered to herself.¹² “It just feels so creepy.”

He watched as she took a sip of her tea, patiently waiting for her to divert her attention away from the cup. He didn’t have to wait long. With a big sigh, Jīn Xuányǔ abandoned her cup in favor of peering curiously around his rooms, allowing Wēn Qiónglín to quickly tip the vial into her tea as he refilled their cups.

“Please, drink,” he said with an innocent smile.

Jīn Xuányǔ went to take another sip only to freeze.

“This smells familiar,” she said slowly. Her eyes widened. “It was you!”

Wēn Qiónglín cursed in his head, even as he continued to smile.

“What was me?” he asked, dropping his formal speech.

“At the teahouse! You were drinking this tea—I’d recognize the scent anywhere!” She looked down at the teacup before glaring at him. “You tried to kill me!”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said. “Why would I try to kill my wife? Please, drink; you look pale.”

“You drink it!” she exclaimed, pushing the teacup to his side of the table.

Wēn Qiónglín looked at her, calculating the risk and, deciding it was worth it, quickly drank the entire cup of tea. Lightning fast, he slid across the table and grabbed Jīn Xuányǔ, one hand gripping her shoulder while the other clutched her jaw tightly. Without waiting a moment, he leaned in and sealed their lips together.

Her lips were soft and plush, yielding easily to his. She made a small sound when he lightly bit on the seal of her lips. His hand tightened around her jaw, causing her to gasp. He took advantage of the opening to push the tea still held in his mouth into hers and forced her to swallow it all. Her shock wore off and she pushed him away with renewed force, coughing.

“What did you just give me?” she demanded.

Wēn Qiónglín didn’t reply, silently counting the moments needed for the truth serum to circulate in her system. With her weak jīndān, it would only take a few moments. Soon enough, her eyes unfocused and her tense posture slackened.

“Why were you at the teahouse?” he questioned.

“To—” she hiccuped, the force of it making her lean heavily onto his side. She looked up at him, her silver eyes molten beneath the flutters of her thick eyelashes. “To get away. This place sucks.”

“Why did you enter our room? What did you hear?”

“Ugh, you’re so pushy,” she whined, raising one hand to feebly push his face away from hers. She didn’t get very far. “Everyone here is so—” another hiccup “—serious. Can’t drink, can’t walk anywhere without being followed by at least ten people, can’t wear pants.” Her face pinched into a scarily accurate impression of Court Lady Lí. “Walk slowly, Wèi Wúxiàn, speak mildly, Wèi Wúxiàn. You have to wear more than four layers, Wèi Wúxiàn.” She groaned. “I feel like I’m at high school being hounded by the hall monitors all over again.”

Wēn Qiónglín stared down at her, puzzled over her words. Who was Wèi Wúxiàn? What did she mean by high school and hall monitors?

“And don’t even get me started on you!” she barrelled on. Clearly, the truth serum had loosened her tongue more than he’d expected. “I can’t believe you tried to kill me, and then had the gall to not believe me when I tried to tell you! You’re married to a man from the 21st Century, oh wise Emperor Shòuzōng. Hah! Is gay marriage even legal here? I can’t remember. I wish I’d paid more attention during Professor Xiè’s lectures.”

“Man?” Wēn Qiónglín questioned. “But the Imperial Physician assured me—”

“Gender has nothing to do with—with down there!” she angrily retorted. “Stop being so narrow-minded! If I say I’m a man, then I’m a man! You can’t tell me what to do. Court Lady Lí sure as hell tries.”

She (he?) broke off into angry mumbles that were quickly becoming more and more intelligible. Wēn Qiónglín stared down at her (him?) in complete confusion. Xiǎo Xīngchén’s gentle reminder from earlier replayed in his mind: “We won’t be able to get anywhere without directly confronting her.”

Oh, how wrong Xiǎo Xīngchén was.

Jīn Xuányǔ suddenly stood up, wavering slightly on her (his?) weak knees.

“Miánmian!” she (he?) called, surprisingly loud.

The maid scrambled into the room. “Your Imperial Highness?”

“I’m tired, and I want instant noodles.”

Instant noodles, Wēn Qiónglín mouthed the words, slightly more familiar than roommate had felt. Miánmian seemed unphased by the strange word, as she simply nodded. She cast a fearful glance at the Emperor, but saw nothing except blank propriety on his face.

“Chef Jiāng should still be awake,” Miánmian said soothingly. “I know he’s been experimenting with the recipe to surprise you. Come along, Your Imperial Highness.”

With a soft swish, the doors to the chamber closed, leaving Wēn Qiónglín sitting alone in front of lukewarm tea. He lifted a hand to gingerly press his lips, still tingling with the sensations of Jīn Xuányǔ’s plush and pliant ones, mind attempting to detangle the confusing confrontation but getting stuck on the sound and feeling of her (him?) yielding so softly.

1. 齐胸襦裙 - Qíxiōng Rúqún: “chest high rúqún.” ^{go back⤴}
   Source: Lin. “4 Tips You Should Know about Ruqun.“ NewHanfu, 19 May 2019.
2. Dragon robe: 袞龙袍 - gǔn lóng páo; an everyday yellow robe worn by emperors, decorated with dragon motifs to denote superiority and status. ^{go back⤴}
   Source: Cammann, Schuyler. “The Making of Dragon Robes.” T’oung Pao, vol. 40, no. 4/5, 1951, pp. 297–321.
3. Milk was a rare resource enjoyed only by nobility in ancient China, and nobles enjoyed a sort of ice cream in the summer. There is even evidence of kefir grains from Xinjiang China that date as far back as 3,500 years ago. The history of different foods interests me a lot, for some reason. ^{go back⤴}
   Sources:
   Shaunak, Aran. "The History of Ice Cream: From Milk Ice to Magnums." FoodUnfolded, 18 July 2020, updated 29 Dec. 2023.
   Hendy, Jessica, et al. "The Ancient History of Yoghurt." Fermentology, 12 Jan. 2022.
4. Listen. Yes, I know potatoes weren’t brought to China until after the colonization of South America. But if MXTX can ignore it, then so can I! Let WWX Keep His Potatoes! ^{go back⤴}
5. Ice cellars were a type of storage used as far back as the Zhou Dynasty (1046 BCE–256 BCE). They would cut ice in the winter and transport it to ice cellars, mostly owned by nobles. One archeological study of such a site showed remnants of cattle and sheep bones, suggesting it was used for storing refrigerated or frozen meat. ^{go back⤴}
   Source: Li, Haiying. “Study on the Ice Cellar Ruins in Early Ancient China.” Proceedings of the 4th International Conference on Architecture: Heritage, Traditions and Innovations (AHTI 2022), Jan. 2023, pp. 81–85.
6. 时辰 - shíchén: 2 hours; measurement of time; one of the 12 two-hour periods of the day. ^{go back⤴}
   waffles_4_breakfast. “Waffle's Glossary of Chinese Terms.” ArchiveofOurOwn, 22 April 2022.
7. Ramie is a type of plant native to Eastern China. A bast fiber similar to linen and hemp, it was a cheap but nicer alternative to rougher hemp cloth, known for a luster similar to silk, light in weight, and quick drying in humidity. ^{go back⤴}
   Source: Ouyang. “Tang Dynasty Textiles.” The Eastern Gate, 10 Feb. 2016.
8. 贊德 - zàn dé: literally ‘to support/praise virtue.’ Patroness in Virtue was a title given to the highest lady (second to the Empress and the Dowager) in the Imperial harem, also called consort. I’m using the titles that were in use from 662 CE-670 CE during the Táng Dynasty, partly because I find them prettier but mostly because they were introduced by Empress Wǔ to be “devoid of feminine and superficial quality,” which I find interesting and felt fit this AU particularly. ^{go back⤴}
   Source: “Imperial Chinese Harem System.” Wikipedia.
9. There were a lot of rules regarding the Emperor’s sex life, believe it or not. There used to be a meticulously kept “sex schedule” for the Emperor and his harem that followed the moon’s cycle, as it was believed women were most likely to conceive during a full moon. As I’ve said, I am playing very fast and loose with historical accuracy; I have very purposefully not given Wēn Níng a harem, mainly because it’s too many characters for me to keep track of, but also because I think such practices would be heavily impacted by cultivation and the aging stopgap it gives to those powerful enough. ^{go back⤴}
   Source: Robles, Pablo. “Life Inside the Forbidden City: How Women Were Selected for Service.” South China Morning Post.
10. I am using this map from the MDZS wiki for my reference on names and places. ^{go back⤴}
11. Nánjīn Army: [南 - nán: south; 金 - jīn: gold]; the Lánlíng Jīn Army occupying Yúnmèng after the Yúnmèng Jiāng Executions. Originally placed by Emperor Ránzōng, Wēn Ruòhán, as a temporary measure but became permanent after Jīn Guāngyáo’s rise to power as Grand Empress Dowager. It is a mix of cultivators and common soldiers and makes up one-half of the Nánxiān Imperial Army [南 - nán: south; 仙 - xiān: immortal]. ^{go back⤴}
12. “According to the earliest Shang oracle-bone inscriptions, there were three royal first person pronouns, namely, yu 余, wo 我 and zhen 朕，each having a fairly distinctive grammatical function: yu is singular, wo plural, and zhen possessive. In the surviving documents of the Shang and early Zhou period, these pronouns are being used extensively only by kings. In fact it was a royal masculine monopoly since queens, too, were excluded from using them.”
    The restrictions on these pronouns fluctuate, as they were originally more archaic pronouns used before the Chinese language adopted writing. While [yu] and [wo] were still used by common people and other nobles, the First Emperor of Qín (221 BCE – 210 BCE) had to remind his people that the pronoun [zhen] was reserved solely for the Emperor. ^{go back⤴}
    Source: Yau, Shun-chiu, and 游顺钊. “Restricted Use Of First Person Pronouns In Archaic Chinese And Its Consequences In Chinese Rhetoric And Syntax / 商代第一人称代词的御用化对日后汉语在语法和修辞上的影响.” Journal of Chinese Linguistics, vol. 32, no. 2, 2004, pp. 334–48. JSTOR.

Chapter Text

On the morning of her tenth birthday, her mother pulled her hair into elaborate coils so tight Niè Míngxiá cried. Her mother slapped her shoulder hard and tugged at her hair even tighter.

“A lady handles pain with grace, but an Empress shows she’s never felt pain,” she hissed into her ear.

When her mother died, Niè Míngxiá’s maid took over coiling her hair. Ā-Shàn had light, delicate hands that never pulled too tightly, and Niè Míngxiá found herself missing her mother’s harsh hands even as she appreciated Ā-Shàn’s gentle ones.

Niè Míngxiá’s father, Niè Hào​rán, was the second cousin to Niè Míngjué—former General of the Běixiān Imperial Army who was promoted to Left Vice Director by Emperor Xīzōng—and had served under Niè Míngjué as Vice Commander before taking over his seat as General.¹ While her father wasn’t as rich as some of the other lords in Búyètiān Chéng’s court, he was known for his righteousness and dedication to the nation’s safety, and has earned many titles over the years from his bravery.

But her father wasn’t the reason Niè Míngxiá was raised with the expectation of becoming Empress. Her mother insisted until her grave that the night Niè Míngxiá was born she heard a fènghuáng cry outside her window, and that the Firmiana tree planted in her honor at their manor in Qīnghé grew into the shape of a fènghuáng.² She always said that Niè Míngxiá was meant to be the Empress that united the nation. Her father allowed his wife her fantasies and never spoke a word otherwise, leaving Niè Míngxiá to dutifully accept her mother’s expectations out of filial piety.

Niè Míngxiá had resigned herself to the future her mother had planned, but couldn’t help the guilty relief she felt when she was not chosen as Empress in the selections. Her family all insisted that she should’ve been selected, that she had far outstripped Jīn Xuányǔ in everything but was snubbed her birthright by nepotism and corruption. Once Jīn Xuányǔ entered Búyètiān Chéng, everyone from the maids to the civil officials whispered that she paid her way to the Emperor’s side, as there was nothing heavenly about her. So when Empress Dowager Niè summoned Niè Míngxiá to the Palace of Compassion and Tranquility, Niè Míngxiá already knew what her family expected of her next.

Despite her family’s aspirations, Niè Míngxiá doubted her role in Búyètiān Chéng. All her life, Niè Míngxiá had strived to be the gentle, poised, and regal woman everyone said a good Empress was to be, but she had always fallen short. While her mother pushed her to embroider and learn the fèngshǒu kōnghóu, Niè Míngxiá couldn’t escape the call of the Niè saber.³

As her mother groomed her to be Empress, her father quietly and secretly trained her to be a warrior. Niè Míngxiá grew to only know true peace when she methodically drilled through sword forms and meditated on her jīndān. She acquiesced to her family’s aspirations with a heavy heart, concealing her longing gaze for her saber from everyone but dear Ā-Shàn, the only person who truly knew Niè Míngxiá.

Wiping the sweat from her brow, Niè Míngxiá sheathed her saber and walked from her private courtyard into her rooms, placing her saber on the ornamental sword rack as she stripped off her outer robes.

“Ā-Shàn, prepare a bath, please,” she called out, her gaze focused on untying her arm bracers.

After untying both bracers and not hearing a response, she looked up and called again.

“Ā-Shàn? The bath?”

A floorboard creaked, but Ā-Shàn didn’t answer. Niè Míngxiá immediately went to grab her saber, but was stopped by a knife to her throat.

“Now, now,” a playful voice sang in her ear. “Don’t be so hasty, Little Lady. I’m just here to talk.”

“What do you want?” Niè Míngxiá growled. “Where is Ā-Shàn?”

“My, you care a lot about that loudmouth maid of yours. Don’t you know the amount of trouble she’s caused with that loose tongue? Perhaps I should cut it out, save everyone the trouble.”

Niè Míngxiá stiffened.

“Don’t—”

Her assailant laughed, sharp and mocking. “Your little maid is safe. For now, at least. I can’t promise any more than that, not until you agree to do something for me.”

“What do you want,” she gritted out.

“It’s not what I want, but what the Jīn want.”

Niè Míngxiá’s stomach plummeted.

“Ah, you know what they want already, don’t you? That makes this very easy. You will tell the ‘truth’ about the lake, and I will make sure your maid’s throat isn’t ripped out by her tongue.”

“Jīn Guāngyáo,” she hissed, blood boiling in her veins.

The person cackled. “Oh, you’re smart, Little Lady. Be careful—too smart can get you killed. But I suppose that won’t matter when you are hung for conspiring against the heavens.”

Niè Míngxiá didn’t reply.

“Ā-Shàn isn’t enough? Fine, if you’re going to be so difficult.” They sighed. “I guess I’ll have to let my friends know to carry on with the sad, tragic accident that will unfortunately kill your father. Ah, so sad.”

“Wait!” Niè Míngxiá shouted, causing the knife to press into her throat. A dribble of blood trickled down her neck. “I’ll do it!”

“Do what?” they pressed teasingly.

“I’ll confess to conspiring the Empress’ murder,” she whispered, her heart already hardened.

Niè Míngxiá would sacrifice her life to save her family’s and die with honor. Her father would know the truth and could get revenge on the Jīn for her death, something Niè Míngxiá wouldn’t be able to do if her father was the one dead. She was never truly a soldier, after all, and her mother had trained her for harem politics—not the dirty Jīn dealings that corrupted every corner of Búyètiān Chéng.

“Ah, you made that too easy, Little Lady,” the person said with a very put upon sigh. “Make good on that promise by the next full moon, or I’ll get to play.”

The knife disappeared from her throat as the person suddenly slipped away with a teleportation talisman, but not before Niè Míngxiá caught sight of the person’s left hand, curiously missing the littlest finger.

Jīn Guāngyáo smiled at the note in her hand before carelessly tossing it into a nearby brazier, not waiting to watch it catch fire as she called out to the maids waiting beyond the screen door.

“Summon my half-sister,” she ordered.

A muffled agreement sounded beyond the paper as she began reading the most recent reports from the Nánjīn Army. She tossed the dossier to the side with a sneer upon reading nothing new.

“Incompetent fools,” she hissed to herself.

Despite getting tipped off on Sāndú Shèngshǒu’s movements, the Nánjīn Army still had yet to even catch sight of the rebellion leader, much less make any worthwhile attempts to subdue him. Their failure made the Jīn look foolish, which agitated her to no end. At least her friend was making headway on their plans within Búyètiān Chéng. Oh, Jīn Guāngyáo couldn’t wait to see Niè Huáisāng’s face when the Emperor was forced to order Niè Míngxiá’s execution. She would be merciful and keep her promises, of course, sparing dimwitted Niè Hào​rán and that blabbermouth maid—at least for a while.

She quickly plastered a smile on her face as the servants announced Jīn Zixuān’s arrival.

“Zixuān,” she warmly welcomed.

Jīn Zixuān greeted her with a bow, the depth of it reminiscent of her half-sister’s time as a servant in her own father’s house. She never got a true education, even after her legitimization in the Jīn family records, as Jīn Guāngyáo hadn’t seen the point. The girl was mediocre at best, truly too awkward and shy to make it very long in Lánlíng politics, much less in Búyètiān Chéng. Her background as a maid would still be useful, however—as would her friendship with Jīn Xuányǔ.

“Our Empress has been heavy on my mind, as I’m sure she is on yours,” Jīn Guāngyáo began. “I have fretted my nights away, trying to figure out how to keep our cousin safe from the malicious lies being spun about her. I mentioned your return to Búyètiān Chéng to Mǐnshàn the other day, and he made a worthwhile suggestion.”

He hadn’t—Jīn Guāngyáo had made the suggestion after hearing of Jīn Zixuān and Lán Wàngjī’s meeting in Lánlíng from a spy, followed closely behind by Jīn Zixuān’s sudden residence in Búyètiān Chéng—but all the better for her adopted brother to take the fall for this, should Jīn Zixuān hold any resentment for the task Jīn Guāngyáo had for her.

“I worried about asking you this, as I feared it may bring up some unsavory memories for you, but he insisted you would want to do everything to help our dear cousin.”

Jīn Zixuān didn’t reply beyond a nod of her head, so Jīn Guāngyáo continued.

“Zixuān, we would like for you to take Court Lady Lí’s place as lady-in-waiting of Xiǎoyīng’s retinue. I think everyone would feel more at ease having family close to Her Imperial Highness’ side during these turbulent times. You would receive pay, of course, double what Court Lady Lí currently makes, and it would please me greatly if you would take tea with me once a month to discuss your duties.”

They both knew the tea was an order, not an invitation; Jīn Zixuān wasn’t really going to be Jīn Xuányǔ’s head maid—she was going to be Jīn Guāngyáo’s spy. To her credit, Jīn Zixuān barely reacted beyond a couple of quick blinks before she bowed deeply.

“It would be my honor to serve the Empress,” she intoned.

“Good.” Jīn Guāngyáo smiled, her dimples accenting the smile lines on her face, before dismissing her half-sister from her rooms.

Jīn Zixuān went about her day as usual after the summons, hyper aware of the fact that she was being watched very closely by her family’s spies. Luckily, she already had an appointment to meet Lán Wàngjī for a walk that afternoon, so she didn’t have to think of a way to arrange a meeting with him without arousing suspicion. She was pretty sure some of her family thought they were courting, or, more likely, that she was Lán Wàngjī’s mistress. She didn’t particularly care what the rumors said, as long as she was able to meet with her friend without much fuss.

They met in one of the private gardens in the inner courtyards of the palace, public enough for it to be proper but private enough for them to talk relatively freely. The garden mimicked the simple beauty of Yúnshēn Bùzhīchù, with plain white gravel, meticulously pruned pine trees, carved stone lanterns, and low shrubs lining the pathways.

“Lady Jīn,” Lán Wàngjī politely greeted, one hand resting on his sword pommel and the other clasped behind his back.

He was wearing his new military uniform that designated his position as the new Chief Commander. The upper garment was made in a dark blue silk with a rounded collar embroidered with silver clouds and small hawks, a nod to his home in Gūsū. Across his chest was his new rank badge, the delicate brocade depicting a regal qílín amidst pine trees.⁵ Underneath his surcoat was a simple white robe with a crossed collar that had no decorations. It was strange to see him in such dark colors, as the darkest color Jīn Zixuān had ever seen him wear was a pale blue, but she couldn’t deny he rather suited his new robes.

“Chief Commander Lán,” Jīn Zixuān greeted back with a curtsy. “Congratulations on your new appointment.”

“Thank you,” he replied with a nod.

They walked in relative silence for a while, their shoes crunching on the gravel path. Jīn Zixuān heightened her hearing using her jīndān, and once she was certain they couldn’t be overheard she began to speak.

“Grand Empress Dowager Jīn called upon me today,” she said in a low murmur. “I am to replace Court Lady Lí in the Empress’ retinue as her new lady-in-waiting.”

Lán Wàngjī looked at her. While his face appeared placid, his eyes burned with righteous fury on Jīn Zixuān’s behalf. His fury was not about Jīn Zixuān being socially lowered in the imperial palace’s social caste. No, his anger was directed at the fact that Jīn Guāngyáo and Jīn Mǐnshàn had single-handedly destroyed Jīn Zixuān’s marital prospects.

She was getting closer to becoming a spinster with every year, already considered on the older side for a potential bride. Once she became Jīn Xuányǔ’s lady-in-waiting, she was being formally added to the Emperor’s harem despite his disinterest in said harem, given his refusal so far to promote anyone to consort or concubine. Thus, she was not allowed to marry until she was released from her new station. She had always held out some hope that her family would eventually arrange a good match for her—even as a second wife to a lord would be better than living as a spinster. But this new appointment solidified her standing—rather, her lack thereof—within the Jīn family.

“That is not what bothers me most,” she said, dismissing the deep hurt. She couldn’t linger on it, not now.

“It should,” Lán Wàngjī hissed. “How dare she?”

“Wàngjī,” Jīn Zixuān said seriously, “I am not to be Xuányǔ’s servant, or even the Emperor’s concubine.” A promotion to concubine would give her too much social standing for Jīn Guāngyáo to control her reliably, afterall. “I am to be Jīn Guāngyáo’s spy.”

Lán Wàngjī’s fury became a roaring flame. His knuckles were white around Bìchén’s grip.

“I see,” he said, tone clipped.

Jīn Zixuān paused, allowing someone to be mad at this situation on her behalf. If she acknowledged her anger, she wouldn’t be able to keep it from her face.

“Xiǎoyīng is going to be devastated if she is told,” Jīn Zixuān finally whispered. “She always talks so fondly of Jīn Guāngyáo.”

Lán Wàngjī didn’t say anything for a long while. Eventually, his grip on Bìchén loosened.

“Are you still in contact with your friend?” he asked, his voice even.

“Yes,” Jīn Zixuān replied. “I haven’t heard much from her yet, but she should be aware that I am back in the palace now.”

“Good.” Lán Wàngjī nodded tightly. “Xiǎoyīng will be safer with you by her side than anyone else,” he offered, his eyes soft with an unnecessary apology.

“I agree,” Jīn Zixuān said, not allowing him to feel any more guilt. “I will give Jīn Guāngyáo just enough information to keep me at Xuányǔ’s side, but keep you more informed.” She paused to briefly place a hand on Lán Wàngjī’s arm. “This is not a hardship for me, Wàngjī. When Jīn Guāngyáo gave me the Jīn name, I understood that my new place was as a pawn. I will always be a servant and bastard first, and I’ve long made my peace with that. At least this way I am not helpless.”

“I understand,” Lán Wàngjī replied quietly, but his eyes still burned bright.

Wēn Qiónglín took out the empty vial from his sleeve, rubbing at the opaque glass with his thumb as he fell into deep contemplation. He didn’t doubt the efficacy of his sister’s brew—she was the best doctor and alchemist of this age—but nothing Jīn Xuányǔ said under its compulsions made any sense.

Sòng Zǐchēn and Xiǎo Xīngchén hadn’t been able to find any records of a ‘Wèi Wúxiàn’ in Búyètiān Chéng, and neither of them had heard of the terms ‘high school,’ ‘hall monitor,’ or ‘21st Century’ anywhere. The title Emperor Shòuzōng made more sense, but was still foreign. There have been no emperor’s with the temple name Shòuzōng in any of the records. ‘Gay marriage’ was also foreign; individually, the words made sense, but strung together they meant nothing. What could Jīn Xuányǔ possibly mean by same marriage being legal or not?⁷

The only thing Jīn Xuányǔ had said under the influence of the truth serum that any of them could make sense of was the term ‘instant noodles.’ Sòng Zǐchēn talked with the imperial chef and was able to learn that ‘instant noodles’ was a kind of dish the Empress had concocted while visiting the imperial kitchens. Chef Jiāng was insistent that he’d never seen such techniques used before and that the Empress may very well be a revolutionary in the world of cooking.

In the end, even Sòng Zǐchēn had admitted that the Empress likely hadn’t heard anything and wasn’t part of the Jīn’s schemes, if only because Jīn Xuányǔ was clearly insane.

Eunuch Lǐ cleared his throat, interrupting Wēn Qiónglín’s musings.

“Your Imperial Majesty, the Imperial Court awaits your presence.”

Internally, Wēn Qiónglín cursed every single minister of the Imperial Court. They did not need the presence of the Emperor every time they had another squabble, and yet.

“Very well.”

He stood from his desk, the beads of his miǎnliú guān swaying as he slipped the empty flask back into his sleeves and left the Hall of Knowledge. Tonight, I will visit the Palace of Earthly Tranquility and beg for Jīn Xuányǔ’s forgiveness for my improper actions, he promised himself.

Sixth day of the Seventh Month; Day 28

Wèi Wúxiàn woke up with another pounding headache, only this time it wasn’t his fault he felt hungover.

“Can’t believe he drugged me,” he grumbled to himself. “I didn’t think truth serums were a real thing.”

The feeling of Emperor Shòuzōng’s warm, slightly chapped lips pressed against his resurfaced in his mind, and his face heated up as he remembered how small and helpless he’d felt in the Emperor’s arms. Wèi Wúxiàn immediately shut down the memory hard.

“Nope!” he exclaimed, ignoring the flush growing on his cheeks and likely traveling down his neck. “Absolutely not!”

After kicking the entire memory of that night into a box, wrapping that box in two layers of Duct Tape, and shoving it into one of the many dark, forgotten corners of his mind, Wèi Wúxiàn was finally able to eat his breakfast in peace.

He ignored Miánmian’s worried glances; she might have been able to tell something was off about him last night, but Wèi Wúxiàn was very good at forgetting things he didn’t want to remember. In college, he’d gone on a date with a girl majoring in psychology and she had asked to write a paper for her class about his “unique” coping methods after a throwaway comment about his memory. He’d refused and promptly ghosted her (not his best moment, he’d admit, but seriously—who asks that of someone they first met, let alone a date).

After breakfast, Wèi Wúxiàn once again locked himself into the room he’d officially repurposed to be his study/experiment lab/mancave and began working on the rain talisman. The room was now properly warded, after a close call with one of his beginning drafts nearly flooding the entire palace, and he’d even added a locking talisman that made it impossible for anyone but himself and Miánmian to enter the room.

Miánmian was forbidden from entering unless in a true emergency, something she had been very reluctant to agree to. She hated that his definition of ‘true emergency’ didn’t include break periods or meals, but she still followed his orders. Miánmian was very loyal to Jīn Xuányǔ, and Wèi Wúxiàn only felt a little bad about using it to his advantage.

Four failed talisman drafts later, and only a little damp this time, Wèi Wúxiàn left his study for a late lunch, much to Miánmian’s relief. It was after lunch that he was officially informed that Court Lady Lí was being reassigned to another position, and that his half-cousin Jīn Zixuān would be taking her place as his lady-in-waiting. Wèi Wúxiàn bit back the first four remarks that came to his mind, all of them saying some variation of “what the fuck, why are you making my cousin my servant?” In the end, he had simply smiled and agreed, pretending that nothing was wrong. He admitted to Miánmian that he wasn’t sorry to see Court Lady Lí go, which earned him a hissed reprimand, though he caught her stifling a giggle behind her sleeve as he said “heartfelt” farewells to Court Lady Lí.

His Empress duties fulfilled for the day, Wèi Wúxiàn locked himself back in his study. He resurfaced hours later, catching himself squinting in the low light as the sun dipped beneath the horizon. Beyond the screen door, he heard muffled conversation. He stood up and stretched, groaning as his hips and back cracked, before lazily throwing open the door. Miánmian and a woman he recognized from Jīn Xuányǔ’s memory startled at his abrupt entrance.

“Your Imperial Highness!” they both said, quickly dropping into low bows.

“No need, no need,” Wèi Wúxiàn said with a lazy wave of his ink-stained hand. “You must be Jīn Zixuān, right?”

Miánmian winced as the woman looked at him with hurt-filled eyes.

Ah. Shit.

“I mean—” he looked at Miánmian, who mouthed ‘tángjiě.’ “Tángjiě, it’s very nice to see you again.” He curtsied properly, one of the few things Court Lady Lí had been able to drill into his head.

“Oh, Xiǎoyīng,” Jīn Zixuān breathed, tears welling up in her eyes. Wèi Wúxiàn winced. He really hated everyone’s earnestness in this place. “So the rumors…?”

“Her Imperial Highness doesn’t remember anything from before the lake,” Miánmian whispered to Jīn Zixuān, as though Wèi Wúxiàn wasn’t standing right there and could hear everything they were saying. He chose to ignore it, and instead shut the doors to his study and began to walk away towards his bathroom to take a hot bath in that awfully gaudy bathtub. He wasn’t sure what he hated more—that it was a passive aggressive insult, or that the thing was actually very useful.

Neither of them noticed him leaving until their whispering was interrupted by a loud clang, followed closely by an equally loud “Motherfucker!” as Wèi Wúxiàn banged his head on a shelf while attempting to find the soap.

The next morning, Wèi Wúxiàn formally recognized Jīn Zixuān as his new lady-in-waiting after breakfast. He rushed through the formal proceedings as much as he could—there were formal proceedings for everything in this place and he was sick of it. Once done, he turned to Jīn Zixuān with a wide grin.

“So, tángjiě,” he said, looking Jīn Zixuān over. He saw calluses on her fingers, the type of calluses one gets from holding something like a bat or a sword, and his grin grew wider. “First things first! I was told I can’t go to the training grounds, something about it being ‘unseemly’ for the Empress to be seen sweating or whatever, which is very, very stupid, so I’ve been going through sword forms in my gardens. But it’s boring to workout alone, so go grab your sword! I want to see what you know.”

Jīn Zixuān gave him a weird look before slowly replying. “This one would be honored, Your Imperial Highness.”

They walked into the gardens and Wèi Wúxiàn haphazardly threw his first four layers onto the steps leading from the back porch of the Palace of Earthly Tranquility into the private garden. There were tall stone walls barricading the palace from the rest of Búyètiān Chéng, but trees and shrubbery had been strategically placed around the gardens to turn the walls into a backdrop rather than an oppressive monument.

Overall, the garden was exquisite; Wèi Wúxiàn’s favorite part was the small lotus pond in the back corner, golden carp swimming between the green stems. But what he really liked best about the gardens was the stretch of pure white sand that formed a white river separating the palace structure from the rest of the garden, perfect for cushioning his falls as he attempted to build some much-needed muscle on Jīn Xuányǔ’s slight frame.

As Miánmian and another maid hurried to pick up his discarded layers and properly fold them, Wèi Wúxiàn began the warm-up routine one of his physical therapists had taught him after his nighthunting accident. Once done, he turned around to grab a practice sword Miánmian had acquired (read: stolen) for him at his request. Jīn Zixuān was watching him with confusion and shock clear on her face.

Suddenly, Wèi Wúxiàn was hit with a barrage of memories about how much Jīn Zixuān had always wanted to be a cultivator but was never granted the opportunity to formally learn. Lán Wàngjī had tried to teach her as best he could, but there was only so much he could do, especially with what little time he had available to spend tutoring Jīn Zixuān.

He grinned and beckoned his new lady-in-waiting over with a friendly wave. While he didn’t want to meddle with the course of history too much, he figured that teaching a Jīn bastard how to properly cultivate a jīndān and sword forms from the future wouldn’t mess up too much. He firmly ignored everything he’d ever read about the butterfly effect—it was just a theory, anyway, and how could Wèi Wúxiàn refuse the opportunity to test said theory?

Jīn Zixuān proved to be a dedicated student. She wasn’t the quickest learner Wèi Wúxiàn had ever seen, but she made up for it with her intense diligence. Miánmian had to practically drag both of them out of the garden and onto the porch to break for lunch, which Wèi Wúxiàn of course responded to by dragging her into joining their training session.

By the time they were done, Miánmian collapsed onto her back in the sand, chest heaving. Wèi Wúxiàn sat next to her, just as out of breath. Only Jīn Zixuān remained upright, but even she was visibly haggard. She looked at Wèi Wúxiàn with delight and wonder, but the confusion from earlier hadn’t left. He knew she wanted to ask him questions about why and how he knew intricate, advanced sword forms and martial art moves when Jīn Xuányǔ had always been too weak to even lift her sword, but propriety stopped her for asking. For once, Wèi Wúxiàn was glad for it; he wouldn’t have been able to give her any answers.

Miánmian looked longingly at the little lotus pond, and Wèi Wúxiàn understood. It had been abnormally hot the past few days, hotter than early autumn should be; even his underwear felt sticky with sweat. He groaned as he stood, his legs shaking like jelly beneath his weight.

“Good work!” he said, grinning as he patted Jīn Zixuān’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here, tángjiě, despite the circumstances. You’re the best swolemate a person could ask for!”⁸

He walked to the porch, gratefully accepting a cup of tea from one of the maids. With his back turned to them, he missed Jīn Zixuān’s confused glance to Miánmian as she whispered the foreign word ‘swolemate’ and Miánmian’s replying shrug.

From then on, Wèi Wúxiàn’s days developed somewhat of a routine. Miánmian woke him up at an outrageously early hour, bullying him into too many layers of robes and keeping a close eye as he ate to stop him from face planting into his breakfast and ruining her hard work. Then, Wèi Wúxiàn shut himself up in his study and tinker with his talisman and array work. He was getting very, very close to finishing the water summoning array—all he needed was to adjust a few radicals and include a remote function that would allow him to turn the array off and on without directly touching it.

After leaving his study for lunch, he, Miánmian, and Jīn Zixuān head into the private gardens to train. A week into their training, Wèi Wúxiàn was already seeing drastic improvements to all three of them. Miánmian, despite having never formed a jīndān, was proving to be a natural at cultivation and would catch up in no time. Jīn Zixuān probably had the most drastic improvements of the three of them, now that she was able to dedicate herself to training on a regular, stable schedule.

And Wèi Wúxiàn… Well, Jīn Xuányǔ’s jīndān wasn’t growing as fast as his did when he was first forming his jīndān, but it was growing. Each day, he was able to keep standing for a little longer, able to hold the practice sword a little firmer. It was slower progress than he was used to, but it was progress.

Once all three of them could barely stand up anymore, Wèi Wúxiàn briefly retired to his rooms for midafternoon refreshments before going to the imperial kitchens to cook dinner for the Grand Empress Dowager. He stayed in the imperial kitchens to eat dinner with the rest of the kitchen staff, something that Court Lady Lí had always chided him about. But Jīn Zixuān hadn’t said a word the first time Wèi Wúxiàn sat next to Chef Jiāng on a barrel, bowl of rice with stir fried tofu and vegetables balancing on his knees.

They didn’t return to the Palace of Earthly Tranquility until long after sunset, and Wèi Wúxiàn always waved off Eunuch Píng’s panicked blabberings—something about the Emperor requesting his presence or attempting to visit, which Wèi Wúxiàn absolutely did not care about—in favor of ripping off his clothes and passing out on his bed, body aching and tired in a particularly satisfying way.

Twenty Eighth day of the Seventh Month; Day 50

Almost three weeks after Jīn Zixuān’s appointment as lady-in-waiting to the Empress, one of the maids interrupted their afternoon training session, face red and chest heaving.

“Niè Míngxiá is to be executed!” she exclaimed.

Jīn Zixuān dropped her sword. “What?!”

“She confessed to—to—” the maid stuttered, her eyes wide and frenetic.

“To what?” Miánmian demanded.

“She confessed to drowning Her Imperial Highness in the lake! She’s been kneeling outside the Palace of Eternal Longevity for six hours, waiting for the Grand Empress Dowager’s sentence!”

Jīn Zixuān and Miánmian walked up to question the maid further, but Wèi Wúxiàn could no longer hear their conversation. Instead, he was staring across inky black water, reflecting only the faintest glimmers of stars on its surface. The moon was not out tonight.

Someone else, at another time:

The feeling of sadness that overcame him was so strong he felt as though he were drowning in the air.

He looked at the lake for a long time. Slowly, mechanically, he removed his shoes and set them neatly by the edge of the wooden pier. He reached up and took the gold hairpin from his hair, delicate fingers gently grazing the peony carved from white jade affixed to the end, and set it atop his slippers. His hands were trembling as they retied his robes, meticulously crossing all his collars to the left. He stared at the messy characters on his right forearm for a moment, the wounds still dripping blood. Then, he stepped off the pier and into the lake. The heavy gold and pink silks swirled around him, pulling him down quickly, and all he could think was, good.

Wèi Wúxiàn gasped for breath, raising a hand to where his chest ached. Ignoring Miánmian and Jīn Zixuān’s questions, Wèi Wúxiàn ran from the Palace of Earthly Tranquility. Fuck the butterfly, fuck propriety, and most of all, fuck this place. He refused to let innocent people die needlessly, not when there was something he could yet do.

When he arrived at the Palace of Eternal Longevity, there were already throngs of people standing outside the gates, gawking at the scene before them. They parted at Wèi Wúxiàn’s arrival, going hush at first before erupting into even more whispers as the Empress walked up and stared down the Grand Empress Dowager in sweat-drenched robes, shoulders rolled back and chin tilted ever so slightly up.

“You cannot execute her,” Wèi Wúxiàn said, his voice loud and sure in a way no one had ever heard Jīn Xuányǔ speak. “She has done nothing wrong. She was not at the lake that night.”

Silence washed over the courtyard. It was then that Emperor Shòuzōng arrived, flanked by the Captain of the Imperial Guard and the Imperial Investigator. Jīn Guāngyáo’s eyes slid over the Empress to address the Emperor.

“Your Excellency, Niè Míngxiá has admitted to drowning the Empress in the lake and has asked for my judgment to be passed upon her,” she said with a bland smile.

“You cannot,” Wèi Wúxiàn repeated firmly. “She was not at the lake.”

The Emperor turned from the Grand Empress Dowager to look at the Empress. Still kneeling in the courtyard, Niè Míngxiá kept her eyes on the ground, her shoulders taught. Before Emperor Shòuzōng could speak, the Grand Empress Dowager let out a little laugh.

“And how would the Empress know?” she asked. “Did Her Imperial Highness not lose all her memory from the assassination attempt?”

Wèi Wúxiàn rolled up his right sleeve and dismissed the glamor spell someone had placed over his skin there, baring the wretched scars for the entire courtyard to see. He spoke the words aloud, his voice strong and steady.

“Sister of Nǚ​wá, let my revenge as Jīng​wèi not be in vain / After I drown, may the pebbles and twigs I drop turn into mountains and trees / And fill the ocean that so cruelly took my life as I was still living.”⁹

The courtyard fell silent as he finished reading the words carved upon his skin. After seeing the memory of Jīn Xuányǔ’s last moments in this world, Wèi Wúxiàn had remembered the hum of energy he’d noticed on his right arm that very first day and promptly drew some conclusions. Whoever had given Jīn Xuányǔ the ritual to summon whatever spirit she’d been trying to reach had obviously covered up their tracks with a surprisingly strong glamor spell. Luckily, Wèi Wúxiàn was almost as good at breaking spells and arrays as he was breaking wards.

He kept his gaze on the Grand Empress Dowager, who looked slightly surprised by his reveal but not surprised enough. Bitterly, Wèi Wúxiàn confirmed to himself that the first voice in the memory was Jīn Guāngyáo’s, the one who told Jīn Xuányǔ she wouldn’t leave Búyètiān Chéng unless in a casket. With his gaze challenging Jīn Guāngyáo, he failed to notice Lán Wàngjī’s heartbroken expression and the Emperor’s wide-eyed surprise. Silence reigned as the Empress and the Grand Empress Dowager quietly faced off, only broken by Emperor Shòuzōng stepping forward to address the entire courtyard.

“Niè Míngxiá,” the Emperor began, his voice quiet but firm, “is released of all charges against her. As punishment for lying to the heavens, Niè Míngxiá, daughter of Niè Hào​rán, will be stripped of her noble titles and assigned to the Fēilóng Guard, where she will work for four years with no pay.”¹⁰

Emperor Shòuzōng nodded to Imperial Inspector Sòng Zǐchēn, the one commanding the Fēilóng Guard, who stepped forward to escort Niè Míngxiá out of the courtyard and prepare for her new role as a servant of the Emperor. The Grand Empress Dowager watched with a bland expression on her face, her displeasure only showing in the tight creases around her eyes. Wèi Wúxiàn watched Niè Míngxiá leave with her life still intact and felt dizzy with relief. He swayed on his feet, and suddenly he was actually dizzy.

Miánmian and Jīn Zixuān rushed into the courtyard just as Wèi Wúxiàn’s knees buckled beneath him. They cried out as he fell. Both Lán Wàngjī and Emperor Shòuzōng lurched forward to catch him, but Lán Wàngjī was quicker. With a heated glare at the Emperor, Lán Wàngjī swept the Empress’ limp form into his arms and marched out of the courtyard without a single word, Jīn Zixuān and Miánmian following close behind.

The Emperor watched them leave with a tight expression on his face, fists clenched inside his robes. By the time he turned around to face Jīn Guāngyáo, his face was completely blank.

“Apologies for the disturbance, Grand Empress Dowager,” he quietly said.

“An Emperor doesn’t make apologies,” Jīn Guāngyáo blandly replied.

“Of course.” He bowed his head slightly. “This one thanks you for your wisdom.”

Jīn Guāngyáo didn’t reply, turning around with a swish of silks and entering her palace once more. Jīn Mǐnshàn sneered at him as he followed his sister into the Palace of Eternal Longevity, but the Emperor didn’t react to their irreverence.

“Her Imperial Highness, Daughter of Heaven, the Empress has arrived!”

Jīn Xuányǔ glided regally into the Palace of Eternal Longevity, her silk skirts swishing gently with each step. She bowed to the elders of her family with perfect poise.

“I am glad to hear of your improved health,” Jīn Guāngyáo said once the greetings were done. “Your sudden faint worried everyone.”

“I apologize for causing such strain on my elders,” Jīn Xuányǔ said with another respectful bow.

Jīn Guāngyáo didn’t respond beyond a pointed sip of her tea, sending Jīn Mǐnshàn a quelling look when he started to open his mouth. She grimaced at the taste and called over her blind maid.

“This needs more honey,” she demanded.

The maid obliged, carefully stirring a spoonful of honey into the steaming cup before shuffling away again to wait on the outskirts of the room.

“We called you here to discuss the events from the courtyard,” Jīn Guangayo said. “Your claims have deeply shamed our family. We have always been very soft on you, Xuányǔ, due to your fragile constitution. When you were announced as the next Empress, it was with the conviction that you would bear us an heir, no matter the cost.”

She emphasized the last phrase, no matter the cost, and the implication was so heavy it was no longer an implication but a demand. Jīn Xuányǔ was to birth a son for the Jīn family to groom as their perfect Emperor, even if doing so killed her.

“If you are deemed too unstable, you will no longer be of any value to the family,” Jīn Mǐnshàn chimed in, “and we will be forced to consider deposition.”

There was a heavy silence before Jīn Xuányǔ replied.

“This one understands,” she said softly.

She bowed low one last time before leaving the Palace of Eternal Longevity without waiting for a dismissal, leaving her cousins seething at her back.

1. The Běixiān Imperial Army: [北 - běi: north; 仙 - xiān: immortal] is situated across Qīnghé and Lánlíng. It is the largest of the three, as they encounter near-constant skirmishes with the Turkic Khans and the steppe nomads. ^{go back⤴}
2. 凤凰 - fèng​huáng: a mythological bird, said to “have the head of a cock, the beak of a swallow, the neck of a snake, the back of a tortoise, and the tail of a fish” with a myriad of colors for its plumages, “including black, red, green, white, and yellow.” It represented the five virtues of “uprightness, humanity, virtue, honesty, and sincerity.” The fèng​huáng often gets mistranslated as phoenix, when it is actually a completely different mythological creature that just so happens to “look” similar to a Western phoenix.
   Overtime, the fèng​huáng became a major symbol of the Empress’ divine power, much like dragons for the Emperor. Empress Wǔ Zétiān was the first empress consort of the Táng dynasty and later founded her own dynasty, the Wǔ Zhōu dynasty, becoming the only female sovereign in the history of China widely regarded as legitimate. She described herself as the incarnation of the fèng​huáng, and the memorials of later generations also regarded her as a fèng​huáng.
   Firmiana is a genus of flowering plant, called the “parasol tree” in Western culture and known as the “phoenix tree.” “There is a saying in The Book of Songs that the “phoenix tree grows luxuriantly, causing the phoenix to sing.” ^{go back⤴}
   Sources:
   Lyujie, Zhu. “Fenghuang and Phoenix: Translation of Culture.” International Journal of Languages Literature and Linguistics, vol. 6, no. 3, Sept. 2020. (Very interesting, I actually highly recommend at least skimming this paper)
   Zhiwen, Wu, et al. “Phoenix Tree, Phoenix and Empress: Empress Historical-Cultural Symbol of Phoenix Tree and Its Good Environmental Civilized Value.” American Journal of BioScience, vol. 10, no. 1, Jan. 2022. (Also fascinating, and made me fall at least a little in love with Empress Wǔ Zétiān)
3. 鳳首箜篌 - fèngshǒu kōnghóu: phoenix-headed konghou (Burmese harp, Arched Harp). ^{go back⤴}
   Source: “The Phoenix-Headed Konghou: China’S Lost Stringed Instrument.” China Underground, 23 Nov. 2023.
4. Nánjīn Army: [南 - nán: south; 金 - jīn: gold]; the Lánlíng Jīn Army occupying Yúnmèng after the Yúnmèng Jiāng Executions. Originally placed by Emperor Ránzōng, Wēn Ruòhán, as a temporary measure but became permanent after Jīn Guāngyáo’s rise to power as Grand Empress Dowager. It is a mix of cultivators and common soldiers and makes up one-half of the Nánxiān Imperial Army [南 - nán: south; 仙 - xiān: immortal]. ^{go back⤴}
5. Qílín: a legendary creature depicted in Chinese mythology. It is described as chimerical in nature, with Chinese dragon-like features, cloven hooves, thick manes, and antlers. Sometimes incorrectly referred to as a unicorn. ^{go back⤴}
6. ’Lady-in-waiting’ is the closest term I could find that was similar to the Chinese terms [宫女 - gōng​nǚ​, 宫人 - gōng​rén —both synonyms of each other], which also translate to ‘palace maid,’ ‘court lady,’ ‘imperial secretary,’ or even ‘imperial concubine.’ In the Han dynasty, ladies-in-waiting were all formally part of the imperial harem, if not in practice, regardless of their tasks or assignments. The Emperor could promote any court lady to concubine, consort, or even Empress. By the Song dynasty, there were some differentiations: imperial women, consisting of the concubines and consorts; imperial daughters, the daughters and sisters of the Empress; and the female officials/assistants, who performed a wide range of tasks and could be promoted by the Emperor. Typically, women from elite and noble families were chosen as Empress and higher-ranked consorts.
   Because I have ‘gū​niang’ translated as ‘Lady,’ I decided to go with the appellation ‘Court Lady’ to distinguish the maids from the gentry women, especially since I’m not leaning too hard into the imperial harem. ^{go back⤴}
   Source: “Lady-In-Waiting.” Wikipedia.
7. Same-sex marriage in Chinese translates to 同婚 - tónghūn, with [同 - tóng: same, similar; together with] and [婚 - hūn: get married; marriage, wedding]. The term is a neologism or ‘newly coined term.’ I know there were ways of saying ‘same-sex marriage’ that were more culturally relevant during this ~ambiguously-in-the-past~ time period, but I don’t think Wèi Wúxiàn of the Modern World with Internet Access would use those terms. ^{go back⤴}
8. While trying to find out whether the Mandarin term "gym buddy" was more modern or if it would've made sense in ancient China (yes, I’ve done this with all of Wèi Wúxiàn’s anachronistic phrases), I came across this term and literally blurted out “Yes!” to my computer. Since I am not proficient enough to make a similar pun in Mandarin, I'm using this because Wèi Wúxiàn would. He would use ‘swolemate’ instead of gym buddy. Modern AU Wèi Wúxiàn would call Jiāng Chéng his ‘best swolemate’ and get decked in the face (deservedly, tbh). Modern AU Wèi Wúxiàn would call Lán Wàngjī his ‘swolemate’ and cause Lán Wàngjī to have a mental breakdown. ^{go back⤴}
9. Nüwa is the Flame Emperor’s daughter who drowned in the ocean and was turned into the mythological spirit guardian Jīngwèi, who carried twigs and stones in an attempt to fill up the ocean as revenge for killing her. From this myth is the four-character idiom [精卫填海 - Jīng​wèi​tián​hǎi]: literally ‘Jingwei Tries To Fill the Sea’ (idiom); futile ambition / task of Sisyphus / determination in the face of impossible odds. ^{go back⤴}
10. 飞龙 - fēilóng: wyvern, literally ‘flying dragon.’
    Fēilóng Guard: a group of highly trained cultivators that work as the Emperor’s will, often called ‘The Emperor’s Dogs’ as they do the Emperor’s dirty work. (Yes, this is shamelessly borrowed from Golden Terrace by Cang Wu Bin Bai. If you haven’t read it, literally stop everything and go read it right now. I’m not kidding.) ^{go back⤴}

Chapter Text

Wèi Wúxiàn was ordered to five days of bedrest by the physician following his fainting spell in the courtyard, but he knew he couldn’t refuse the summons to the Palace of Eternal Longevity even if he had a valid excuse. Miánmian and Jīn Zixuān fussed over him during both palanquin rides, complaining about the abnormally hot autumn weather and Wèi Wúxiàn’s supposedly “pale” complexion. In his private opinion, his complexion was pale because everyone refused to have him so much as spend a single second in direct sunlight and not an indicator on his health, but he wisely kept that opinion to himself.

In addition to his usual shadows, Lán Wàngjī had begun hovering as near to Wèi Wúxiàn as he could whenever his schedule allowed. Jīn Zixuān often held silent conversations with the stoic soldier while Miánmian eyed him with righteous fury. She had pointedly reminded Lán Wàngjī more than once about how improper it was for him, an eligible bachelor, to continue hanging around a married woman, especially the Empress. Lán Wàngjī responded to each reminder with a neutral hum and a slight incline of his head while not doing anything to change his actions, which seemed to just further antagonize poor Miánmian.

She was backed up by Jīn Zixuān, who eventually put her foot down and insisted that the closest he could get while still being proper was to guard outside Wèi Wúxiàn’s door. He took this as blanket permission to replace the regular Imperial Guards with his presence entirely, something Captain Xiǎo Xīngchén clearly did not appreciate but was too nice to say anything directly.

Naturally, Wèi Wúxiàn responded to all of this attention by simultaneously shying away from it and milking it for all it was worth. Jīn Zixuān seemed particularly puzzled by his mercurial mood swings, but Miánmian was a seasoned veteran by now and barely batted an eyelash. If he wasn’t dramatically whining at whoever was close about the injustices being done to him and begging to be allowed out of his bedroom, then he was sternly ordering everyone out of his rooms to, ostensibly, take a nap and that he was not to be bothered. Of course, Wèi Wúxiàn was not taking a nap; he had smuggled his talisman supplies from his study and stashed them under his mattress so that he could continue working through his mandated bedrest.

When he got bored working on his talismans, he began writing a journal. Well, technically it was a journal—at least, one that contained every single breakthrough in cultivation that has yet to be invented yet, much of it the controversial-yet-genius work of the Yílíng Lǎozǔ. His first entry was his personal favorite: “The Theory of Balance.” It wasn’t really a theory, more of a half-finished thought scribbled on a scrap piece of paper. All the original note said was, “Too much yáng essence in qì leads to an imbalance—potential cause of qì deviations? Is immortality possible with solely yáng?”¹

Many scholars argued about the Yílíng Lǎozǔ’s true meaning behind the note, and the popular consensus was that the Yílíng Lǎozǔ was attempting to find a balance of yáng essence in qì using outside yīn essence. This school of thought argued that in order to reach harmony of excess internal yáng, one must overcompensate by having an excess of external yīn. Cooling yīn foods like green tea and melon, as well as cold baths or ice meditation became very popular in modern cultivation practices.²

In Wèi Wúxiàn’s senior thesis, he argued that the Yílíng Lǎozǔ hadn’t intended to use external yīn essence to create a balance. Given the Yílíng Lǎozǔ’s controversial cultivation practices, from dabbling in guǐdào to his creation of the Empathy spell, Wèi Wúxiàn said it was more likely the Yílíng Lǎozǔ was discussing an internal balance of both yīn and yáng within the dāntián. His professors had nearly failed him for the mere proposal, but none of them had been able to provide a counterargument that stood up to his rebuttals. He had been attempting to prove his version of “The Theory of Balance” right before his nighthunting accident, stopping all further experimentation.

Wèi Wúxiàn contemplated the theory further as he wrote down everything he could remember of his thesis research in his journal, and soon he began writing down new theories and experiments. He’d never get to try them, of course. He may be building Jīn Xuányǔ’s jīndān for her, but he wasn’t about to try some untested, experimental cultivation practice with a body and jīndān that wasn’t even his. He had some manners, though Court Lady Lí likely wouldn’t believe it.

The Emperor attempted to visit him twice through his confinement, but was turned away each time as Wèi Wúxiàn’s “fragile disposition” prohibited him from entertaining anyone, even his husband.

Wèi Wúxiàn was so absorbed in his journal and talisman theory that he didn’t notice the icy stand down between Lán Wàngjī and Emperor Shòuzōng happening just outside his door. Not that Wèi Wúxiàn would have intervened, however. He was still pretty pissed off with the whole non-consensual-drugging-kissing incident, which he thought was a pretty normal and completely rational reaction to have.

He definitely did not think or dream about the kiss. He didn’t, because that would be silly. Definitely.

On the last day of his confinement, Wèi Wúxiàn finally made a breakthrough on the water summoning array. It was rather weak, as he wanted it to draw from ambient qì instead of putting too much strain on Jīn Xuányǔ’s still-budding jīndān, but it would still be much faster than filling the lake buckets at a time. He could barely wait until the next day to put it to work, but dutifully carried out the physician’s full recommendations lest he be ordered more bedrest.

After scarfing down his breakfast in record time, Wèi Wúxiàn declared his intentions to visit the lake. Miánmian eyed him with suspicion, while Jīn Zixuān simply looked worried. But Wèi Wúxiàn refused to be swayed, and soon enough the Empress’ entourage was seen walking along the paths towards the lake. There was a thin layer of water across most of the lakebed. It was much more than there had been a month ago, but it was clear that at the rate the menial workers were going the lake would take over a year to be filled back up.

“Stop working!” Wèi Wúxiàn ordered as he climbed out of the palanquin, causing the servants to startle into deep bows, thinking they had made some grave mistake. Wèi Wúxiàn sucked air between his teeth at the gesture but otherwise ignored it in favor of hiking up his skirts and walking straight into the muddy water, much to everyone’s horror.

Once he was about halfway across the muddy lakebed, Lán Wàngjī appeared at the lake’s edge, along with several rows of palace secretaries and Eunuch Cáo. Wèi Wúxiàn ignored all the calls for his attention as he painstakingly drew the array directly into the mud. It took a while, but once he was done he slapped a modified version of the heating talismans used on the imperial brick ovens, causing the entire stretch of mud to be instantly baked into brick. Now that the array was permanent, Wèi Wúxiàn pushed a tiny amount of qì into the power radicals, causing the array to light up with reddish-pink light.

The peanut gallery on the lake edge gasped and exclaimed with shock and wonderment as a large dome of sparkling pink energy suddenly materialized around the lake. Wèi Wúxiàn looked at the color with a slight grimace. His qì hadn’t been such a diluted color since he was first forming his jīndān, and while it was far more saturated than it was when he first arrived, it still wasn’t the bright, blood red he was used to seeing. The pink was pretty, he supposed.

He waited for a minute, then another, watching the sky closely. Eventually, the pink energy faded, and all that was left was a slightly fuzzy mirage. Wèi Wúxiàn nodded to himself and trugged back to the shore. Immediately, he was confronted with a cacophony of questions. He ignored all of them in favor of addressing the servants still hanging around.

“I want you to start planting as many plants in this area as you can, with an emphasis on aquatic plants. This whole area should look green by the time you are done, understand?”

“It will be done, Your Imperial Highness,” one of the eunuchs in charge of this chore intoned, head kept low in a reverent bow.

Finally, Eunuch Cáo ran out of patience. “Imperial Highness!” he shouted, his face flushed red. “What have you done?!”

“Nothing dangerous,” Wèi Wúxiàn replied, fanning himself with his hand. “Damn, it’s so hot.”

Eunuch Cáo reeled at his crass language, but rallied himself quickly enough to continue his questioning. “Your Imperial Highness,” he said through clenched teeth, “please enlighten this one as to what—what magics were used just now.”

Wèi Wúxiàn looked at his face, now nearly purple, and took pity on him. He heaved a theatrical sigh before turning to look at the eunuch and line of court secretaries, all of them ready with charcoal and paper to begin writing down his every word. Wèi Wúxiàn couldn’t help but smirk at the attention he was getting. Life may suck in general during this time period, but there was a heady sort of power that came from being viewed as godly by the majority of a population.

“In essence, it is a containment array,” Wèi Wúxiàn began. “It is more complex than that, of course, but what it does is contain everything—the dirt, water, and air—within the warded area. Now, I’ve modified it to allow living things—us, animals, insects and the like—to pass freely through, but everything else will stay sealed inside.”

“But that will disrupt the flow of qì and slowly kill everything inside!” Eunuch Cáo exclaimed.

“Wrong!” Wèi Wúxiàn smiled. “It will contain all the qì and energy inside, allowing it to be recycled again and again. The plants will release energy, which will go into the air and condense before falling back to the ground, which the plants will absorb. Given enough plants, there will be an excess of energy, which will—”

“This is impossible!”

“—end up filling the empty yīn of the lake. I’ve made it so water can get into the wards so that if it rains the lake will fill up, but once the lake is full the wards will stop allowing water in.”

Really, all Wèi Wúxiàn had created was a magical terrarium array in order to speed up the water cycle of this particular area. It would be slow going, but it wouldn’t take years. He didn’t think any of the scholars here could appreciate the simple ingenuity of this invention, and Wèi Wúxiàn couldn’t wait to publish a paper on the array once he was back home. He’d even included radicals to control the temperature so the terrarium didn’t get too hot or too cold! In his infinite wisdom, Wèi Wúxiàn had created an oasis that would stay self-sufficient for many, many years to come.

“I must see this array!” Eunuch Cáo demanded.

“Sure.”

Wèi Wúxiàn shrugged and handed him a copy he’d already made of the array. Of the eight maids assigned to him, not including Jīn Zixuān and Miánmian, he knew that two of them were directly in the hands of the Jīn, two were employed by Empress Dowager Niè, and the other four were paid to spy by other families, eunuchs, and court officials. They weren’t very subtle, and he knew that the moment he asked to visit the lake again there would be a swarm of spectators, especially after the confrontation at the courtyard. So, he had prepared appropriately.

Eunuch Cáo looked at the array on the paper, his face cycling through a myriad of emotions before settling on indignant disbelief.’ But Wèi Wúxiàn had no time for haters. He bowed a proper greeting to Lán Wàngjī, who was staring at him with a look Wèi Wúxiàn couldn’t quite discern, before stepping into his palanquin and demanding to be brought to the imperial kitchens.

He deserved a cup of green tea or maybe some cooled melon after his hard work.

Sixth day of the Eighth Month; Day 59

Two days after he put up his ‘magical terrarium array’ over the lake, Wèi Wúxiàn was hanging around the imperial kitchens during the later evening hours, watching as Jiāng Wǎnyín prepared ingredients for the next day. He was idly eating a bowl of dried loquats when he noticed a familiar spark to Jiāng Wǎnyín’s movements. Pausing the rambling monologue he’d been speaking—somehow, he’d gotten from explaining why autumn was his favorite season to discussing the weird sea worm he’d learned about in a nature documentary—he walked up to get a closer look at the chef’s actions.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, leaning on the counter to grin up at Jiāng Wǎnyín. “How did you know to funnel out the residual resentment essence from the meat?”

Jiāng Wǎnyín startled at his question, his eyes wide with shock and cheeks slightly flushed. “I just… Well, I heard that too much red meat can create imbalances in qì, since it carries resentment in it despite being a yáng food, so I thought… This one apologizes, Your Imperial Majesty, for being impertinent. I will stop—”

“No, no! You’re right!”

Jiāng Wǎnyín paused. “I am?”

“Yes!” Wèi Wúxiàn toned down his grin to a soft smile. “Well, mostly. It’s true that meat—all meat, and sometimes even plants—hold onto resentment after being killed, which can influence how it impacts a cultivator’s qì flow. But that’s not why it’s important to take out the resentment. Here, try poking at the energy in this piece you just manipulated and compare it to this one you haven’t.”

Jiāng Wǎnyín obeyed, his eyes furrowing in concentration.

“Do you see the difference?” Wèi Wúxiàn asked.

“The one without resentment seems… calmer?”

“Yeah. By taking out the resentful essence, you’ve balanced the natural energies within the meat. Such a small amount of resentful essence wouldn’t really impact a cultivator’s qì all that much, but by removing it entirely you’ve allowed for the meat to balance. This slice will provide better nutrients than the other one because the energy is not fighting for purchase with resentment.”

Wèi Wúxiàn paused to make sure Jiāng Wǎnyín was understanding before he continued.

“Now, since meat is a heating food, it will naturally carry more yáng essence. Say you had someone with a yīn imbalance;³ after funneling out the resentful essence, you could imbue the meat with more yáng essence, creating a new imbalance of energy within this meat so that the already dominant yáng completely takes over.”

“Oh!” Jiāng Wǎnyín exclaimed. “By creating an imbalance in the natural energies, you could indirectly influence the internal qì of the consumer!”

“Exactly!” Wèi Wúxiàn said.

He patted Jiāng Wǎnyín on the shoulder before walking back over to his bowl of dried fruit. As he snacked, a thought came to him. He once had a classmate from college who used to complain about having to take his testosterone shots every week whenever he was drunk, complaining about how unfair it was that he needed to give himself a shot each week to get the hormone concoction he wanted when Wèi Wúxiàn was just Like That without any effort. If he could influence the essence within a piece of poultry or a stalk of green onion, why couldn’t he influence the essence within the body of a person?

“Hey, Jiāng Wǎnyín,” he called out. “Say you have someone who wants more yáng than yīn.” He popped another dried loquat into his mouth, oblivious to the way Jiāng Wǎnyín tensed at his hypothetical. “Do you think it would be possible to influence that through your cooking cultivation?”

Jiāng Wǎnyín’s knife clattered to the table as he stared at Wèi Wúxiàn in shock. “Would it be?” he asked, his voice strangely insistent. “Is that possible?”

“Uh.” Wèi Wúxiàn froze at the intensity in Chef Jiāng’s voice. “I think so? I mean, I’ve never tried it, but it seems sound in theory? We know that yīn and yáng essence influences the qì and that each person has their own version of balance within them, so it shouldn’t be all that hard to force an imbalance. The problem would be making sure they didn’t qì deviate, but that should be mitigated through meditation and taking it very slowly.”

Wèi Wúxiàn looked at Jiāng Wǎnyín and had to look away from the sheer awe on the chef’s face, feeling his cheeks burn with embarrassment.

“It might just be easier to make an array that you can paint onto your skin, now that I think about it,” he said, trying to move the subject along. “More potent that way.”

“If you—when—” Jiāng Wǎnyín stumbled over his words, something very uncharacteristic for the man. He took a deep breath before trying again. “If Her Highness invents such an array, please let this one know. I might—I know someone who may benefit from—from more yáng than yīn.”⁴

Wèi Wúxiàn looked at Jiāng Wǎnyín, trying to figure out which person would benefit from a synthetic imbalance in their qì, but quickly gave up as he decided it was none of his business.

“Sure! You’ll be the first one I tell, Chef Jiāng.”

Seventh day of the Eighth Month; Day 60

The morning after his conversation with Jiāng Wǎnyín, Wèi Wúxiàn was summoned to the Palace of Compassion and Tranquility to have tea with Empress Dowager Niè. He approached the visit with an appropriate amount of wariness, given the last time he was summoned by one of the dowagers he had been threatened with deposition. Jīn Zixuān and Miánmian put him in delicate peach and pink robes and layers of gold jewelry, leaving Wèi Wúxiàn feeling more like a dressed pig ready for roasting than someone about to meet with their technical mother-in-law.

Artwork by Ace

He doesn’t know how long he will be able to stand wearing the layers of light silk and tight band of the qíxiōng rúqún for much longer without losing his mind. They were pretty, and overall very high quality, but the rúqún was too constricting and often made him feel claustrophobic, especially when combined with the tight bra-like-thing he was expected to wear.⁵ Jīn Xuányǔ’s breasts weren’t even that big, barely a handful each, but being wrapped so tightly all the time made Wèi Wúxiàn itch within his own skin. Not to mention the light, flowy fabrics and all the scarves and accessories that made it very hard for him to move freely.

Once arrived, Wèi Wúxiàn bowed through the appropriate greetings and set a stick of incense out at Emperor Xīzōng’s altar alongside Empress Dowager Niè, who looked at her husband’s portrait with watery eyes.

“He would’ve loved your quiet disposition,” she said with a mournful sigh. “My Ā-Xù was always so quiet and reticent, preferring to sit and read in the shade than entertain guests. It’s why we worked so well together, him and I.”

Empress Dowager Niè glanced at Wèi Wúxiàn from above her fluttering fan which depicted a lonely tiger amidst a forest of bamboo, its eyes glinting with gold leaf.

“But I suppose you aren’t so quiet lately, especially since your—incident at the lake.”

There was something about the way Empress Dowager Niè said ‘lake’ that caught Wèi Wúxiàn’s attention, but he didn’t have time to think about it further as the dowager continued.

“You know, I heard from a little bird that something happened to the Empress’ spirit in the lake that night. You were there just a few days ago, were you not? Did you notice anything amiss amongst all the muck?”

“I’m afraid not, Empress Dowager,” Wèi Wúxiàn said with false calmness.

Fuck fuck fuckity fuck he chanted to himself. She knows, she fucking knows—how does she know? Suddenly, it hit him. The second voice! Wèi Wúxiàn looked at the Empress Dowager again, and this time he saw the cold, calculating look in her eyes.

“You know, your behavior afterwards—the random outbursts, all the running around—it reminded me a lot of my brother, just before his… disappearance. Qì deviations are nasty business. I was told they found parts of him to bury afterwards, but his casket seemed so light that I wonder…” she trailed off, keeping eye contact for a moment longer before her facade went back up and she looked at her husband’s portrait with weepy eyes. “Oh, my Ā-Xù would know what to do. I’m afraid I’ve babbled at you for too long. Thank you for humoring this old woman with her silly ramblings.”

“Of course, Empress Dowager.”

Wèi Wúxiàn bowed low in respect to his elder and left the Palace of Compassion and Tranquility with fear pounding in his chest. Jīn Xuányǔ hadn’t gotten that ritual by accident. Someone had knowingly led her to the lake, preying upon her fragile mental state after being betrayed by those she thought were family. What would Empress Dowager Niè gain from such a ritual?

Revenge, most likely. If Wèi Wúxiàn was inferring correctly, the Empress Dowager likely thinks her brother’s death wasn’t an accident. Given the Niè and Jīn families political tension, he wouldn’t be surprised if the Grand Empress Dowager had something to do with his death. What better way for a petty dowager to get revenge on another but by ruining their reputation with a crazed, insane Empress they can’t control and end up being forced to depose?

For all their talk, Wèi Wúxiàn knew Jīn Mǐnshàn and the Grand Empress Dowager would never depose Jīn Xuányǔ. The social ramifications would be too great. No, Jīn Xuányǔ would be poisoned or led to a noose in her rooms, a quiet death easy to turn into an assassination attempt and pin to one of their enemies. But if the court was forced to intervene before they could orchestrate her death…

Wèi Wúxiàn’s musings were interrupted by the sound of something hitting the top of the palanquin. He pushed back the curtains to look outside and stuck his hand out just in time to catch a fat raindrop in his palm.

“Halt!” he ordered, barely waiting for the servants to stop walking before he climbed out of the palanquin.

He spread his arms out and grinned as the heavens opened up into a downpour, rain pelting his face and plastering his hair and fine silk robes to his skin.

“Your Imperial Highness, please get back in the palanquin!” Miánmian begged.

“You’re going to get sick! Xiǎoyīng, please!” Jīn Zixuān cried, tugging at his outstretched arms.

Wèi Wúxiàn ignored them and broke out into a victory dance, humming along to the fragments of a song that had been viral on Douyin before he ended up in this world. Miánmian and Jīn Zixuān dismissed the rest of the retinue, who had started gawking at the Empress rather than attempting to help, and tried to corral Wèi Wúxiàn towards the Palace of Earthly Tranquility. They were so busy fretting over Wèi Wúxiàn’s “indecent” dance moves and refusal to get out of the rain that they failed to notice the Emperor’s approach.

“My Empress,” he greeted.

Wèi Wúxiàn stopped dancing to bow properly to him. “Your Imperial Majesty. What lovely weather we’re having!”

Emperor Shòuzōng looked at the raining sky from beneath the waxed paper umbrella and looked back at Wèi Wúxiàn.

“Indeed,” he said, the confusion in his voice making it more of a question than an agreement. “My Empress, I’ve tried to see you many times since that night. I wanted to apologize—”

“Ah, no need,” Wèi Wúxiàn interrupted. Jīn Zixuān’s face blanched and Miánmian’s knees nearly buckled with fear. “I don’t care about that any more.”

“You… don’t care… anymore?” The Emperor asked.

“Nah. Water under the bridge and into the lake! There’s no need for your apology, as I’ve forgotten already.”

Wèi Wúxiàn smiled at him through the rain, his usually impeccable hair falling out of its tight coils and plastering to his cheeks and neck in an unruly, inky mess. Emperor Shòuzōng seemed to look at him as if enchanted, something only Miánmian noticed.

“Don’t you worry, husband of mine!” Wèi Wúxiàn announced, spinning away to shimmy his shoulders and dance away towards his palace. “Starting tomorrow, everything will be back to the way it used to be!”

He left the Emperor standing in the rain, an apology still on his lips.

The rain continued all throughout the night. Wèi Wúxiàn pretended to go to bed, and once he was certain Jīn Zixuān and Miánmian were asleep he got out of bed and looked around the study. He piled his papers into neat stacks and set a heavy envelope on top of it, addressed to ‘Jīn Xuányǔ’ in his lazy scrawl. Throwing on a surcoat, Wèi Wúxiàn grabbed a pair of slippers and tiptoed around the sleeping figures of Jīn Zixuān and Miánmian, arranged near the door in an attempt to catch him leaving. He smiled sadly at the two of them but pushed down the sad feeling welling in his chest.

He didn’t belong here. After sixty days in this place, it was finally time for him to go home.

Wèi Wúxiàn arrived at the lake just as the sun began to peek over the horizon, sky lighting up in the gradient of blue that preceded the fiery sunrise. A fog settled over the water, the terrarium array already hiking up the humidity and making the lake much warmer than it should on a cold autumn morning. He couldn’t help but smile at the paradise he’d created, a permanent little snowglobe dedicated to his short time here. He walked along the bridge to the floating pavilion in the middle of the lake and stopped to stare at the water for a little longer.

Carefully, he went over to the water’s edge and took off his slippers, setting them on a large rock. Getting an idea, Wèi Wúxiàn pulled out one of the pins in his hair and began to scratch into the rock. Once done, he nodded to himself before taking off his surcoat and folding it next to the slippers.

With one last glance at the beautiful lake, the sky already a little brighter above him, Wèi Wúxiàn took a running start and hurled himself into the lake. He sank rather quickly, and soon the warm, murky lake water turned into the clear, cool, endless expanse he remembered from before. The exact same image played over again as Jīn Xuányǔ’s floating body turned to him and pressed their lips together once more.

Wèi Wúxiàn opened his eyes to see his body in a hospital room, his parents crying at his bedside. Days passed like this as he was unable to do anything but watch. He saw himself eventually wake up, only it wasn’t him. The doctors ruled it as amnesia, but Wèi Wúxiàn knew better. Jīn Xuányǔ’s spirit had to have gone somewhere, afterall. He watched as his parents stopped traveling and halted all their other activities to take care of Jīn Xuányǔ. They doted on her in ways they never did for Wèi Wúxiàn, making her breakfast in the mornings, taking her out to fancy dinners, taking time out of their days to watch shows with her.

Slowly, Jīn Xuányǔ regained Wèi Wúxiàn’s memories and began to settle in this new life. They started wearing more feminine clothing and grew their hair longer, and Wèi Wúxiàn watched as his parents supported Jīn Xuányǔ through each new step, just happy to have their only child alive and with them. Eventually, they move away from the big city and find a small town on the seaside. They never make Jīn Xuányǔ hold a job again, happy to live off the enormous amounts of money they won after suing NCB and Sū Shè in a huge lawsuit.

He watched as Jīn Xuányǔ fell in love with a rogue cultivator that was traveling through the area, the two eventually getting married and living just a few blocks away from his parents. His chest began to ache, and he realized he was drowning. There was no way back home. Even if he did return, he would once again be a stranger in a life that wasn’t his. He couldn’t even blame Jīn Xuányǔ; how were they to know this would happen, what they were taking? All they did was make the best of what they had. It wasn’t their fault that in doing so they had taken everything Wèi Wúxiàn had ever wished to be his.

It should be mine.

Wèi Wúxiàn was drowning, watching a vision of an alternative timeline whose gates were forever closed to him, and couldn’t help but think, What is the point?

There’s nothing for him to return to, but there was nothing for him here, either. Wèi Wúxiàn’s chest burned. He pulled away from the vision of Jīn Xuányǔ’s new life and allowed himself to sink. He began to cry, eyes stinging from the salt and mouth clenched shut to keep out the sob that wanted to release from his throat. It wasn’t fair.

The only time you will ever leave Búyètiān Chéng again is in your casket, Jīn Guāngyáo had said, and Wèi Wúxiàn bitterly thought, Well, looks like you’re getting your wish then, Grand Empress Dowager.

He closed his eyes and allowed the water to drag him down.

Wēn Qiónglín stood in the rain, watching as the Empress was ushered away by her maids, his apology still hanging unsaid in the air between them. He turned away and headed towards the Hall of Knowledge, preparing for another long day at court and an even longer night of secret plans. He sat in the imperial barracks, dressed in plain clothes and huddled around a table set up with a game of chūpú set out as a cover story.⁶ Sòng Zǐchēn and Xiǎo Xīngchén were known to be gambling buddies throughout the imperial barracks, so stumbling upon such a scene would not provoke any further questions.

Of course, none of them actually gambled, instead pouring over new intel from their spies and tracking all the places they’ve searched for the Yīnhǔfú. While Xiǎo Xīngchén gave his report about the goings of the palace, Wēn Qiónglín couldn’t help but think back to the odd conversation with the Empress from earlier. As he replayed her words in his mind once more, he suddenly came to a harrowing conclusion.

“She’s going to the lake again!” he exclaimed, standing up from the table and immediately rushing out of the barracks.

Sòng Zǐchēn and Xiǎo Xīngchén rushed after him, but Wēn Qiónglín had already taken to the skies on Shǔ​guāng. It was just their luck that Lán Wàngjī happened to be on patrol nearby, being an earlier riser than most of the palace. Upon seeing the Emperor, the Captain of the Imperial Guard, and the Imperial Inspector all flying across the palace grounds, the Chief Commander promptly took to his sword and followed.

Wēn Qiónglín arrived at the lake first. He immediately dismounted near the center pavilion and began looking around. He stopped at a large rock. On it was a folded surcoat, a pair of slippers, and a hairpin lying next to a phrase carved into the rock.

死而无悔 无羡。⁷

He didn’t wait a moment before diving into the lake, just as Sòng Zǐchēn and Xiǎo Xīngchén arrived at the pavilion. Frantic in his search, Wēn Qiónglín nearly missed the faint fluttering fabric that blended in with the swaying lotus stalks in the water. He returned to the surface to take a deeper breath before diving back down. Pulling Jīn Xuányǔ to his chest, he wrapped his arms tightly around her before using a spark of qì to propel them to the surface.

He pulled the both of them to the shore before frantically checking the Empress for signs of life. Just as he was beginning to despair he was too late, Jīn Xuányǔ turned to her side and coughed up a mouthful of water. He sighed in relief and turned to his wife. But before he could say anything, Jīn Xuányǔ glared at him.

“Why did you do that?” she demanded, pushing herself up on shaky feet and pointing angrily at him. “How dare you—after everything—”

Apparently giving up on talking further, Jīn Xuányǔ turned around to face the water’s edge and took a step. Wēn Qiónglín immediately shot up, ignoring the burning ache in his leg, and pulled her back. He kept one arm around her shoulders and another on her waist, pressing her back firmly to his chest.

“Let go of me!” she roared, thrashing violently in his hold. “I have to go back! It has to be wrong, a lie! It can’t—”

She managed to kick at his injury, causing him to let go of her with a pained gasp. Jīn Xuányǔ immediately took the opportunity to run towards the lake once more, but Wēn Qiónglín was able to recover quickly and grab her once more, this time making her face him.

“You do not have to do this,” he pleaded with her, but her eyes were manic and far away from him.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” she snarled. “You tried to kill me before, but now that I’m trying to die you won’t let me?”

“I was wrong!” he said. “Please, I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

She paused at his words, but she shook her head again and the clarity was clouded back over. “No!”

Managing to escape again, she took another step towards the lake before Wēn Qiónglín wrestled her down to the ground, pinning her down with his weight.

“I was wrong. I’m sorry. Please, let’s be roommates,” he said, mouth tripping over the foreign word. “I’ll do everything to earn your forgiveness, but not this.”

Jīn Xuányǔ stared up at him, finally calming her frantic escape attempts. In the quiet pause that followed, Wēn Qiónglín recognized another set of footsteps emerging on the pavilion, likely Lán Wàngjī finally arriving.

“I don’t belong here,” she whispered, her voice broken and raw. “I don’t belong anywhere.”

“That is not true, niáng​zǐ,” Wēn Qiónglín quietly but firmly replied.⁸ “You are the Empress, Daughter of Heaven. You belong here, with me. I will make a space for you to belong if I have to.”

White appeared in his periphery as Lán Wàngjī knelt beside them. Wēn Qiónglín slowly eased off of Jīn Xuányǔ, watching carefully for any signs of renewed motions to escape. Instead, Jīn Xuányǔ began to sob. Deep, ugly, heaving sobs that shook her entire body. Lán Wàngjī made a small sound of distress at the scene that Wēn Qiónglín mirrored, frozen in the face of such pure devastation.

“I can’t go back!” she wailed. “There’s no—I can’t—home—”

“You belong here,” Wēn Qiónglín repeated, wrapping a strong arm behind her shoulders, hand gently cradling her neck as he pulled her close to him. “So stay.”

“Xiǎoyīng,” Lán Wàngjī murmured, a hand hovering over her shoulder. He pulled back, hands clenching where they rested on his knees.

They shared a look above her head. Lán Wàngjī met his eyes and saw the mess of guilt and regret and fierce determination in the Emperor’s eyes. Wēn Qiónglín saw the heartbreak on the Chief Commander’s normally ice-cold face, the helplessness that twisted the corners of his mouth, the love that softened his eyes, and took pity.

“Chief Commander Lán,” Wēn Qiónglín softly began, “go ahead to the Palace of Earthly Tranquility and wake Lady Jīn. Have her prepare a warm bath and new robes.”

Lán Wàngjī nodded, grateful for orders, a clear line of action to take, and took to his sword. Wēn Qiónglín looked down at Jīn Xuányǔ, whose cries had softened to sniffles. He adjusted his hold on her so her face was gently tucked into his neck and made to stand. His left leg twinged, nearly causing him to collapse back to the dirt, but Xiǎo Xīngchén was there to stabilize him.

“Your Excellency, please—” he held out his arms to take Jīn Xuányǔ, but Wēn Qiónglín shook his head.

“I will carry my wife back to bed. Please inform Eunuch Lǐ that I will be staying at the Palace of Earthly Tranquility tonight.”
“As you command.”

Xiǎo Xīngchén and Sòng Zǐchēn saluted him before walking away from the lake, heads bowed close together in quiet discussion. Wēn Qiónglín used some qì to take Shǔ​guāng from its sheath and hover in front of him. Favoring his right leg, he stepped on his sword and flew back towards the inner courtyard. Jīn Xuányǔ didn’t stir from the deep, exhausted sleep she’d fallen into. Pausing for a moment, Wēn Qiónglín took the time to appreciate how serene and calm she looked like this, normally so spirited and exuberant even in anger and sorrow.

“I will carve out a place for both of us to belong,” he promised her.

1. I still don’t fully understand the Taoist roots of wuxia/xanxia cultivation, nor do I really fully grasp the differences between qì, jīng, and yīn-yáng. So, for this fic I have decided to base most of my theory and personal interpretations on this excerpt from chapter 3.1 “Celestial Patterns” of The Essential Huainanzi (a collection of essays written by the cartographer, monarch, and philosopher Liu An sometime before 139 BCE, which influenced the philosophical roots of qi and qigong):
   “When Heaven and Earth were yet unformed, all was
      ascending and flying,
      diving and delving.
   Thus was called the Grand Inception.
      The Grand Inception produced the Nebulous Void,
      The Nebulous Void produced space-time;
      space-time produced the original qi.
   A boundary [divided] the original qi.
      That which was pure and bright spread out to form Heaven;
      that which was heavy and turbid congealed to form Earth.
      It is easy for that which is pure and subtle to converge
      but difficult for the heavy and turbid to congeal.
   Therefore
      Heaven was completed first;
      Earth was fixed afterward.
      The conjoined essences of Heaven and Earth produced yin and yang.
      The supersessive essences of yin and yang caused the four seasons.
      The scattered essences of the four seasons created the myriad of things.
      The hot qi of accumulated yang produced fire; the essence of fiery qi became the sun.
      The cold qi of accumulated yin produced water; the essence of qi became the moon.
   The overflowing qi of the essences of the sun and the moon made the stars and planets.
      To Heaven belong the sun, moon, stars, and planets;
      to Earth belong waters and floods, dust and soil.”
   ^{go back⤴}
   Source: Major, John S., et al. The Essential Huainanzi. Columbia University Press, 2012.
2. Jumping off my earlier footnote, I’ve mashed that with my (limited) knowledge of traditional Chinese medicine and food, especially the classifications of cooling/heating foods. There is absolutely a connection between heat and yang, cool and yin. I’m kind of obsessed with the idea of cooking as a form of cultivation. I just think it would be so cool! ^{go back⤴}
3. ‘Heating food’ refers to the characteristics and health benefits applied to foods in traditional Chinese medicine. ^{go back⤴}
   Source: “Warming and Cooling Characteristics of Common Foods.” Ping Ming Health, 23 Aug. 2021.
4. While yin is associated with femininity and yang is associated with masculinity, from my understanding everyone has both, regardless of gender, but “women” tend to have more yin and “men” have more yang. I couldn’t stop myself from making the obvious estrogen-testosterone connection, so here we are! No, I’m never going to stop making magical HRT (hormone replacement therapy) in the canon MDZS universe. If they can have flying swords and magical organs, then I can give my trans characters gender-affirming care! ^{go back⤴}
5. Wèi Wúxiàn is referring to a [抹胸 - mò​xiōng] which is a type of chest undergarment (also called a [诃子 - hē​zǐ]) that was popular in the Táng dynasty. It is strapless and generally rectangular, sometimes with a slight curve in the front, that is wrapped around the chest and tied with straps at the back, similar to a corset or stay. With the modern Hàn​fú revival, the hē​zǐ is worn over garments as a statement piece, but historically it was typically worn beneath as an undergarment. Wèi Wúxiàn doesn’t know shit about women, so he doesn’t know what this is LMAO. ^{go back⤴}
   Source: ziseviolet. “Do You Have Any Info On The Hezi Undergarment Worn.” Tumblr, 6 Aug. 2017.
6. Chūpú is a type of dice game that was often used to gamble in ancient times. ^{go back⤴}
   Source: Sun, Jiahui. “Dice, Dominoes, and Deadly Games of Chance: Gambling in Ancient China.” The World of Chinese, 5 May 2023.
7. 死而无悔 - sǐ'érwúhuǐ: to die without regret (idiom from Analects); 无羡 - wúxiàn: to have no envy; “To Die Without Regret, To Have No Envy.” ^{go back⤴}
8. 娘子 - niáng​zǐ: (archaic) wife / polite form of address for a woman. ^{go back⤴}

Chapter Text

Following his second ‘incident’ at the lake, Wèi Wúxiàn was not left alone for even a moment. Miánmian and Jīn Zixuān rotated shifts with each other, one of them always by his side. Wèi Wúxiàn didn’t complain. In fact, he hardly talked much at all. He spent most of his days either scribbling frantically in his journal or quietly training in the private garden. For an entire week, Wèi Wúxiàn didn’t leave the Palace of Earthly Tranquility. When Miánmian suggested the Empress might like to spend some time in the imperial kitchens, Wèi Wúxiàn had given her a small shake of his head and a wan smile.

During his two weeks of self-imposed isolation, the Emperor visited the Palace of Earthly Tranquility every other night after spending all day at the Imperial Court for a late dinner. The first night, Emperor Shòuzōng attempted to talk with Wèi Wúxiàn, but his attempts at starting a conversation were met with polite but short answers, the Empress’ gaze faraway from the present room. He stopped pushing after that, and the two ate in companionable but melancholic silence.

Every night, once dinner was done, the Emperor poured tea for the Empress, a special blend he received with his own medicinal blend that was meant to soothe Wèi Wúxiàn’s spirit and invigorate his senses. After watching Wèi Wúxiàn drink one cup, Emperor Shòuzōng took his hand to place a whisper of a kiss to the palm of Wèi Wúxiàn’s hand and said, “Good night, niáng​zǐ,” before leaving the palace for his own rooms.

Every night, once the Emperor had left, Wèi Wúxiàn pressed the palm of his hand to his own lips, and whispered, “Good night, lǎo​gōng,” before heading to his lonely bed.¹

Miánmian let Wèi Wúxiàn mope for two weeks before she finally had enough.

“Is this really so bad?” she questioned one afternoon.

The weather had remained chilly after the storm blew past, but that didn’t stop Jīn Zixuān from bundling Wèi Wúxiàn up in warm silk layers and forcing him to eat lunch outside in one of the pavilions—far from any lake—every day, refusing to let the Empress waste away in the palace.

“Is what so bad?” Wèi Wúxiàn asked absently, staring down at the dredges of his now-cold tea.

“Your life here.” Miánmian gestured at Wèi Wúxiàn and then at the scenery around them.

Wèi Wúxiàn looked around, and for the first time he really stopped to look. The trees were flames of red and orange, bathing the entire palace in auspicious colors. There was a crisp autumn breeze that brushed past his face but the rest of him stayed warm under his heavy silks robes, a scarf carefully wrapped around his neck to further keep out the chill.

He glanced down at his cold tea, seeing the remnants of his extravagant mid-afternoon meal scattered across the table. A bowl of sliced mangoes, an expensive delicacy imported from the south, had been set out for him to snack on. For this time, he really was living at the height of opulence.

“I don’t think I deserve it,” he finally replied, the words brutal in their honesty.

Miánmian visibly softened.

“Of course you deserve it,” she said. “You’re the Empress, the Daughter of Heaven. All of this belongs to you, and you alone.”

“It doesn’t feel like mine.”

“Then make it yours,” Miánmian said simply.

Wèi Wúxiàn blinked at her, then looked away to watch as a heron flew overhead.

“Make it mine,” he whispered to himself.

He nodded slowly. Ever since seeing the visions of Jīn Xuányǔ’s future in his former body, he had been getting trickles of their memories passing over to him. It had been hard for him to separate who he was with who Jīn Xuányǔ was, but something seemed to click in place following Miánmian’s simple advice. The fact of the matter was that this was Wèi Wúxiàn’s life now. There was no return to his former life, so trying to keep himself and Jīn Xuányǔ separate was pointless.

That didn’t mean he had to be Jīn Xuányǔ, though. Wèi Wúxiàn didn’t think he could ever be Jīn Xuányǔ, even if he tried. If he was honest with himself, he hadn’t been happy in his former life. That was part of why seeing Jīn Xuányǔ happy in his former body had been so hard for him. But the past few weeks have been fun, despite all the drama and politics.

He had friends for the first time since his accident (he refused to think of Miánmian and Jīn Zixuān as anything but his equals), he was getting three free meals a day, he didn’t have to go to work, he could cook whatever he wanted whenever he wanted. Sure, there were limits on his life, but those were stupid rules posed and enforced by even stupider men. Wèi Wúxiàn had never followed the rules, and he wasn’t about to start now.

“You’re right.”

Wèi Wúxiàn turned to smile at Miánmian, the first real smile since his second fall into the lake. Miánmian returned his smile, her eyes glassy with unshed tears of relief.

“This is my life, and I’m the motherfucking Empress!”

Miánmian gave a startled laugh at his crude words but didn’t scold him.

“Let’s go to the kitchens,” Wèi Wúxiàn said, standing up and hiking up his skirts. “I just had a spark of inspiration.”

Niè Huáisāng shut her fan with a snap and sighed, turning away from her correspondence to look at her gray parrot.

“Something happened at the lake again,” she mused, “but no one is sure exactly what.”

“What!” Ā-Xù repeated.

“Exactly. What is that spirit up to? It hasn’t made any other moves so far.” She gently chided Ā-Xù when he started nibbling at her fingers. “It must be trying to get out of the contract. I knew I shouldn’t have trusted that silly girl to write good enough demands. ‘Sister of Nǚ​wá, let my revenge as Jīng​wèi not be in vain,’ what kind of contract is that?!”

Ā-Xù squawked.

“Ah, what a pity. I had really hoped to just stand back and watch, but I guess if you want something done you must do it yourself.”

Niè Huáisāng set Ā-Xù back on his perch and burned the letter she’d been reading. Dusting off her skirts, she walked out of her aviary and pulled her lady-in-waiting close.

“Tell our bird in the Earth Palace to start planting,” Niè Huáisāng murmured.

“Your Highness.” She bowed before hurrying off to complete her orders.

“What a pity,” Niè Huáisāng sighed again.

Lán Wàngjī waited two and a half weeks before giving into his desires and requesting an audience with the Empress. Jīn Zixuān had kept him updated, but he couldn’t shake the urge to see the Empress’ condition for himself. He knew the Empress had suffered a bout of melancholy, but Jīn Zixuān said the Empress had largely recovered from it and was more or less back to her usual self.

As he sat in awkward silence across from Jīn Xuányǔ in one of the public pavilions, he couldn’t help but wonder what Jīn Zixuān meant by ‘usual self.’ The Xiǎoyīng he remembered never would have fidgeted as she drank her tea, tapping her nails on the sides of the cup and bouncing her leg in time with an unheard melody. Lán Wàngjī was used to Jīn Xuányǔ’s calm and quiet conversation, not the stream of exuberant babbling he was listening to now.

He tried to convince himself that he missed the old Xiǎoyīng, but he couldn’t deny the way his heart skipped a beat at the Empress’ unrestrained and boisterous laughter that seemed to light up the room.

It’s a relief she is feeling better, he said to himself, ignoring the twinge of suspicion and focusing instead on how good laughter looked on Jīn Xuányǔ’s delicate face.
He paused.

“Everything alright there, Lán èrgē​ge?” Jīn Xuányǔ said, her voice fondly teasing.

His ears burned, and he hoped it didn’t show on his face.

“I have to go,” he said, nearly stammering over the words. “I am glad Her Imperial Highness is feeling better. To your continued good health.”

He stiffly bowed before quickly taking his leave. If running wasn’t against the rules, he would be bolting through the garden by now.

I can’t fall in love with the Empress, he told himself, ignoring the sinking feeling in his gut that told him it was far too late for that. I can’t be in love with the Empress.

Ignoring the confused calls from Jīn Zixuān as he left the Palace of Earthly Tranquility, Lán Wàngjī didn’t have a destination in mind other than simply getting away. He didn’t notice the strange looks sent his way as he barged across the palace grounds, ears burning. Before he knew it, he was swinging open a door and stepping inside.

“Wàngjī?” His brother looked up from his desk, concerned. “Is everything okay?”

“Brother.” Lán Wàngjī stared, unsure why his legs had led him to his brother’s office and not his own near the barracks.

“Your ears are red,” Lán Xīchén noted, a mischievous smile playing at the edges of his lips. “Were you meeting with someone just now?”

His tone was knowing—too knowing for Lán Wàngjī’s comfort. Lán Wàngjī didn’t respond, instead turning on his heel and marching out of the room. Lán Xīchén laughed at his back with full intention to tease his younger brother about his first crush.

“It’s about time,” he murmured to himself. “He and Lady Jīn have been circling around each other for so long…” He sighed. “I’ll have to talk to Ā-Yáo about releasing Zixuān from her duties soon.”

Twenty Fourth day of the Eighth Month; Day 77

Wèi Wúxiàn frowned at himself in the mirror. It had taken some cajoling (and only a little bribery) for Jīn Zixuān and Miánmian to leave him unattended in his room. They had compromised with both maids standing right outside the screen door and the bathtub completely drained of water, but after nearly three weeks of constant supervision, Wèi Wúxiàn finally had a moment to himself.

He didn’t really want to do this, but if he was going to be staying here, in this body, indefinitely, then he needed to get comfortable with it. So far, he has been avoiding looking, touching, or even thinking about this—his—body out of respect for Jīn Xuányǔ. But Jīn Xuányǔ wasn’t returning.

Taking a deep breath, Wèi Wúxiàn slowly unpeeled his robes. He hesitated on the bra before he carefully undid the ties in the back. He stared at his bare chest in the mirror. There were so many things different about this body compared to his last one. He had been taller before, though probably just as skinny. His chest had definitely been different, his pectorals clearly defined with lean muscle. Now he had what he guessed was A cup breasts. They were small, as was the beauty standard during this time, which Wèi Wúxiàn was grateful for. He’d heard about people binding their chest to make it flat, and doing something like that here would be pretty easy.

Overall, there wasn’t a lot he didn’t like about this body. Mostly, he felt rather indifferent to it. Not having a penis kind of sucked, if only because it made peeing much more inconvenient, and Wèi Wúxiàn couldn’t remember all the differences he’d learned in sex-ed at school. He knew that he’d probably get his period soon, which he was not looking forward to, but Wèi Wúxiàn couldn’t remember any of the specifics. Empress Dowager Niè’s wedding gift to him had at least come in handy for some of that—it was surprisingly informational for a porn book.

The list of things he really missed about his former body was surprisingly short once he laid them all out: his height, his muscles, his larger hands, and his dick. The biggest upside to this new body was his jīndān, specifically his undamaged meridians. Everything else were things he could learn to live with.

He wondered if Jīn Xuányǔ experienced the same uncomfortable feeling he was, the itching sensation of not quite fitting right within his own skin. From the vision he saw, Jīn Xuányǔ had settled into the new body fairly easily once they got over the whole different-era thing. He remembered seeing them experiment with clothes, changing Wèi Wúxiàn’s basic t-shirt-and-jeans style for flowy pants, cropped shirts, and soft sweaters. During the summer they had even worn a sundress, pale yellow with white stripes and a pale pink cardigan to protect their arms. It hadn’t looked bad, even with their flat chest and broader shoulders.

Though they dressed more feminine, Jīn Xuányǔ hadn’t cut their hair, keeping Wèi Wúxiàn’s undercut and curtain bangs, and they hadn’t changed much else besides their clothes. They hadn’t even dressed feminine all the time, choosing to be more in-between than one way over the other.

Wèi Wúxiàn remembered how he felt when putting on the lánshān for his escapade outside the palace, how comfortable and right it had felt. Clothes to Wèi Wúxiàn had always just been a necessity. He’d experimented as a teenager with more alternative styles, playing around with heavy eyeliner and wearing all black, but he’d stopped once he got an adult job. Wèi Wúxiàn wasn’t an introspective person; he didn’t like stopping to think about himself, contemplate why he did things. He kept himself busy so he didn’t have to stop and think. But now he had to stop and think, because not doing so was making him miserable.

Maybe… Wèi Wúxiàn reluctantly admitted, Maybe Jīn Xuányǔ and I are alike in that way.

Wèi Wúxiàn didn’t like the qíxiōng rúqún that currently filled the wardrobe because it was too restricting. The lánshān had been nice and flowy, allowing for the ease of movement that Wèi Wúxiàn was used to in modern clothes. Admittedly, Wèi Wúxiàn actually loved wearing skirts. There were too many layers required with the usual qíxiōng rúqún, but the overall freedom was something Wèi Wúxiàn rather liked. Jīn Zixuān wore a lot of the same colors Wèi Wúxiàn had been wearing but cut in styles that allowed for easier movement. Wèi Wúxiàn stared at the mirror for a moment longer before redressing and opening the screen door to address the anxiously waiting Miánmian and Jīn Zixuān.

“I don’t like my clothes,” Wèi Wúxiàn said.

“Oh!” Miánmian immediately scurried into action, running over to the wardrobe and opening it. “Which outfit would you prefer today, Your Imperial Highness?”

“None of them.”

Miánmian paused.

“None of them?”

“I don’t like any of my clothes,” Wèi Wúxiàn emphasized, “and I want to get new ones.”

“I’ll call for the tailor,” Jīn Zixuān said.

She bowed before leaving to do just that while Miánmian began pulling silk from the wardrobe. Occasionally, she would hold something up and ask if Wèi Wúxiàn wanted to keep that one, citing some reason Jīn Xuányǔ had once liked about it. Most of the time Wèi Wúxiàn insisted she get rid of it, but did end up keeping a few pieces. By the time Jīn Zixuān returned with the tailor, Wèi Wúxiàn had developed a pretty solid idea of what the Empress’ new wardrobe would look like.

“More reds,” Wèi Wúxiàn explained to the tailor, “and less gold. I would like some blues, maybe some greens as well. I want darker, richer colors.” Wèi Wúxiàn held up a pink skirt and made a face in the mirror. “These are more fit for a young lady than an Empress, don’t you think?”

“Of course, Your Imperial Highness,” the tailor agreed.

“And I want them in that style.” Wèi Wúxiàn turned to gesture at Jīn Zixuān’s robes, who startled at the sudden attention. The tailor blanched.

“What Her Imperial Highness means,” Miánmian hurried to explain, “is that she wants more traditional cross-collars and—” She gave Wèi Wúxiàn a glance. “—a few rounded collars as well.”

“Ah,” the tailor sighed, color returning to her cheeks. “Of course. Very sophisticated choices, Your Imperial Highness.”

“Yes, exactly,” Wèi Wúxiàn agreed. “In fact, include more rounded collars. Let’s say… half-and-half. And include some with tapered sleeves, alongside some arm bracers.”

“Her Imperial Highness is trying out archery,” Miánmian blurted out when the tailor raised an eyebrow at the request.

“Yeah,” Wèi Wúxiàn nodded.

“Any specific motifs Her Imperial Highness wishes to be included?” the tailor asked.

“Rabbits,” Wèi Wúxiàn said, thinking about the Emperor’s startled rabbit eyes from their first meeting. “And herons. Maybe some lotus as well. Oh! Tángjiě, go get my journal—I think it’s in the study?”

Jīn Zixuān nodded and went to retrieve the book while Miánmian added more motif requests of the tailor. Wèi Wúxiàn ran a hand over one of the samples of silk the tailor had brought. It was a dark green with silver waves woven through the strands. Jīn Zixuān returned shortly, and Wèi Wúxiàn thumbed through the journal before eventually finding the correct page and ripping it out.

“Here,” Wèi Wúxiàn said, handing the tailor the loose page. “Include this array on the inside hem of each garment.”

The tailor took the page with some suspicion, and Wèi Wúxiàn explained.

“It’s a modified version of the cleaning array that was included in my previous rúqún. This one will also moderate temperature, making sure I’m not too hot or too cold, in addition to extending the efficiency of the cleaning radicals so that even if I jump in a puddle of mud the cloth won’t be stained. Pretty neat, eh?”

The tailor smiled politely, clearly not believing Wèi Wúxiàn’s claims but unwilling to say so to the Empress. Wèi Wúxiàn shrugged it off; as long as she embroidered it onto the silk, Wèi Wúxiàn didn’t care if she believed it or not. Eventually, the tailor left to begin constructing the Empress’ new wardrobe, promising to have two new pieces sent to the Palace of Earthly Tranquility each day. Wèi Wúxiàn had given her the pile of discarded silks with the instructions to put them to good use, and the woman had reacted as though Wèi Wúxiàn had handed her a bucket of gold.

“Come on,” Wèi Wúxiàn said to Miánmian and Jīn Zixuān. “Time for afternoon training!”

Jīn Zixuān shared a fond look with Miánmian behind Wèi Wúxiàn’s back as they followed to the back garden, both of them inordinately relieved to finally have their Empress back.

A man in white silk robes, trimmed with gold embroidery, stepped into the grain storeroom, his fine brows furrowed. He looked around the barrels of grain with narrowed eyes and a sneer twisting his thin lips. A few moments passed before a figure dressed in cheap, homespun black robes slipped through a passageway hidden within a false barrel, his red lips pulled back in a smile that bared his canine teeth.

“You’re late,” the man in white hissed.

“Apologies, My lord.” The other man said, his tone mocking as he rolled his eyes. “I got held up doing all your dirty work.”
“Get on with it!”

“Fine! Man, you’re such a bore.” He lifted his right hand to inspect his nail beds. “I need more corpses to experiment on, especially since you told me I can’t make my own—which is stupid, by the way.”

“Your idea of ‘making your own’ included the mass extermination of an entire sect!” the other man growled. “Do you know what a pain that was to cover up?”

“I don’t really care.”

The other man tightened his hand around the grip of his sword.

“No need to get testy!” the other man taunted, putting up both hands in a faux-placating gesture. His left hand was covered in a black leather glove. “I think I’m getting pretty close, though without much to test it on I can’t say for sure. Give me ten—no, twenty more corpses, then I’ll have more to say.”

“Fine,” the man spat. “You’ll get them in a week. I expect to hear actual results by the first frost.”

“But that only gives me two months!”

“First frost, or I turn you in for the Yuèyáng Cháng Massacre. I’m sure Hánguāng Jūn will be more than happy to carry out your execution himself.”

The man in white turned around and left the storeroom, leaving the other man pouting childishly.

“Oh, go fuck your mother,” he said to the man’s back.

He looked around the storeroom for a moment longer before slipping back through the hidden passageway.

Prying open a crate with the hilt of his sword, Wēn Qiónglín leaned over and rifled through the contents. When all he found were bolts of silk, he quietly cursed under his breath and shoved the crate aside.

“Find anything?” Sòng Zǐchēn asked quietly as he walked over from where he was inspecting one of the shelves in the room.

While the Fēilóng Guard continued to search Búyètiān Chéng but kept coming up empty-handed, they decided to continue searching as many Jīn-owned buildings throughout the empire for any clues about the Yīnhǔfú.

“No,” Wēn Qiónglín admitted. “You?”

“No,” Sòng Zǐchēn repeated, his tone clipped with frustration.
The two men left the room, a study in Lord Jīn Zixūn’s summer manor, just as guards raised the alarm.

“Thieves!” they heard someone shout in the distance.

Immediately, Wēn Qiónglín and Sòng Zǐchēn bolted through the manor. Sòng Zǐchēn managed to jump onto the roof and began running towards the eastern wall while Wēn Qiónglín went west through the manor’s inner courtyard garden.

“Stop right there!”

Wēn Qiónglín ignored the guard and continued running, only to have his path blocked by two more guards. He quickly looked around, noticing a nearby pavilion. Footsteps light, he pushed off a column of the covered walkway and vaulted to the top of the pavilion. From there, he kicked off the roof, ceramic shingles shattering from the force as he flipped over the outer wall. He summoned Shǔ​guāng just before he hit the ground and took off into the late evening, flying low through the forests that stretched along the manor’s northern face.

Once he was far enough away, he angled Shǔ​guāng sharply up and shot into the sky. He continued going north towards Qīnghé for a while longer before eventually bending west back towards Qíshān. It was already hàishí when he surfaced from the underground passageway hidden in the floorboards of the Hall of Knowledge.²

Wēn Qiónglín slipped along the quiet hallways towards the Palace of Heavenly Purity, entering through a window Xiǎo Xīngchén had left cracked open for him. Just as he started taking off his arm bracers, he heard the screen door to the room being slid open.

As Miánmian started setting out the dishes for dinner, Wèi Wúxiàn noticed that there was only enough for one person again.

“Is the Emperor not coming?” they asked, trying to sound nonchalant.³

During the first two weeks after the lake, Emperor Shòuzōng had dutifully eaten every other dinner at the Palace of Earthly Tranquility. Wèi Wúxiàn had eventually started to look forward to their time together, but a week after Wèi Wúxiàn made the decision to start living their own life here, the Emperor stopped showing up for their meals together. The first two times he had personally sent a written apology addressed to Wèi Wúxiàn, but this was the third time he had canceled without any word.

“The Imperial Court has been taking longer hours the past week, Your Imperial Highness,” Jīn Zixuān said. “Chief Commander Lán has also been quite busy. They have been arguing day and night about what to do with the rebellion that has been spreading across the southern reaches of the empire.”

Wèi Wúxiàn furrowed their brows at this.

“I hope he’s eating,” they mumbled to themself as they took a bite of blanched bok choy.

Twenty Seventh day of the Eighth Month; Day 80

After going a full week without seeing the Emperor even once, Wèi Wúxiàn decided that if their husband was too busy to come to them, then they would go to him. That was how Wèi Wúxiàn found themself back in the imperial kitchens, once again making instant noodles.

“Instant noodles always cheered me up when I was stressed,” Wèi Wúxiàn explained to Miánmian.

“I’m sure His Imperial Majesty will appreciate your efforts, Your Imperial Highness,” Miánmian said earnestly, causing Wèi Wúxiàn to blush and wave her off.

Once they were satisfied with their work, Wèi Wúxiàn decided to take the entire pot with them to the Palace of Heavenly Purity, warming talismans slapped onto the sides. They allowed a servant to transport it alongside their palanquin, but insisted that they be the one to carry it inside.

Wèi Wúxiàn refused to wait for the servants to announce their arrival and slipped past the guards. They remembered the way to the room where Emperor Shòuzōng had slipped that truth serum into their tea, so they went there first. When that room came up empty, they began peeking into each room. Vaguely, they remembered learning on a school trip once that the Palace of Heavenly Purity once held nine rooms, each with three beds. For security, the Emperor would choose one of the beds at random each night in an attempt to discourage assassination attempts.⁴

With a very put-upon sigh, Wèi Wúxiàn continued their search. Eventually, they entered one of the smaller rooms and stumbled upon Emperor Shòuzōng. He was dressed in all black, a scarf tied around his head and covering his mouth. His short surcoat ended just above his waist, giving Wèi Wúxiàn a full vision of his long legs clad in comfortable pants, his lower shins wrapped with black strips of cloth to keep the fabric from swishing around his ankles.

The Emperor was untying the bracers on his wrists when Wèi Wúxiàn squeaked, causing him to look up in alarm. Wèi Wúxiàn immediately turned around, shut the screen door behind them with their foot, and desperately ignored the heat rising to their cheeks.

Why is he dressed like a hot ninja?! Wèi Wúxiàn inwardly screamed. That’s not fair!

The screen door slid open.

“Niáng​zǐ?”

Wèi Wúxiàn turned around, nearly sighing in relief upon seeing Emperor Shòuzōng in something more befitting his station, a rounded collar red robe with golden dragons across each shoulder.

“I brought dinner,” Wèi Wúxiàn said, helplessly holding out the pot. It was getting heavier with every second they kept holding it.

The Emperor blinked in surprise.

“It’s heavy,” Wèi Wúxiàn whined when he seemed to freeze up.

“Ah.”

He reached out, his rough, calloused hands brushing against theirs as he took the pot from Wèi Wúxiàn and led them inside. Emperor Shòuzōng set the pot down on a low table and motioned for Wèi Wúxiàn to sit on one of the cushioned stools positioned around the mahogany table. Wèi Wúxiàn watched their husband brew a pot of tea as they portioned out two bowls of instant noodles. They set one bowl across from them and fiddled with their chopsticks as they waited for the Emperor to join them.

“Thank you for the meal,” Emperor Shòuzōng said, voice low. He glanced up from pouring tea to smile shyly at Wèi Wúxiàn, who blushed and looked away.

“It’s nothing,” they mumbled before shoving a huge bite of noodles into their mouth.

Wèi Wúxiàn pretended not to be anxiously watching the Emperor’s reaction to the noodles. They had toned down the spice from what they usually preferred, unsure if Emperor Shòuzōng liked his spice or not. The Emperor took a small bite, feeling self conscious at the Empress’ rapt attention, but he soon forgot himself once the flavors melted on his tongue. His brown eyes widened and he made a small sound of surprise before taking a bigger bite of the noodle soup. Wèi Wúxiàn silently preened at his positive reaction.

There was a comfortable silence as they both enjoyed the meal.

“What is this? I’ve never tasted anything like it in my life,” Emperor Shòuzōng finally said after eating half his bowl.

“Instant noodles,” Wèi Wúxiàn replied proudly. “Where I’m from, you can make this in less than fifteen minutes.”

“Impossible!” the Emperor exclaimed.

“It’s called ‘instant’ noodles for a reason,” Wèi Wúxiàn said with a smug grin. “Here, it took me several hours to make—I had to grind all the spices by myself!—but I’m used to just buying a packet at the store, boiling some water, and dumping it all in.”

“This sounds like a fairytale,” Emperor Shòuzōng dubiously replied.

“I’m not lying, I swear!”

The Emperor took another bite, looking thoughtful. “Tell me more about this… place you come from.”

“Alright…” they slowly said, eyes narrowed at him in suspicion. They knew he didn’t really believe them, but decided to humor him anyway. “Well, to start off, there is no imperial rule anymore—no emperor, no empress. The nation belongs to all, and is not the private property of a single family.”⁵

They talked long into the night. Wèi Wúxiàn reminisced about their home, and though the reminder that they would never return there was still an open wound, it was nice to finally have someone to talk about it with. Even though Emperor Shòuzōng clearly didn’t believe them, he still proved to be an excellent listener. He was particularly fascinated by the politics of the modern world, though Wèi Wúxiàn had embarrassingly admitted that they didn’t know all that much about how the politics worked.

In the morning, Miánmian arrived to collect Wèi Wúxiàn and found the two of them both slumped over the table, the empty pot of instant noodles moved to the floor to make room for the notes the Emperor had started taking. Wèi Wúxiàn had ink stains on their face, and the Emperor’s fingers looked as though he’d dipped them in his ink pot. She hid a smile behind her hand and quietly left the room, leaving them to their slumber.

“Report,” Grand Empress Dowager Jīn ordered, her face ever-smiling.

“T-This one has d-done as asked,” the trembling maid said, still facing the ground in a reverent bow. “The Empress ordered to never step into her study, and placed some sort of locking mechanism on it, barring entry. But t-this one was able to sneak in while the Empress wasn’t looking.”

Gāo Bìcǎo handed over a sheaf of papers and a plain journal to the lady-in-waiting, who handed it to Jīn Guāngyáo.⁶ The Grand Empress Dowager said nothing and waited in pointed silence.

“T-The Empress has begun taking dinner with the Emperor every second night,” Gāo Bìcǎo added, glancing frantically at the lady-in-waiting. “This one hates to presume, but they seem—um—closer.”

“Well done, Court Lady Gāo,” Jīn Guāngyáo said pleasantly.
She nodded to her lady-in-waiting, who handed Gāo Bìcǎo a small pouch heavy with silver.

“You are all dismissed.”

The maids shuffled out, and once she was alone she took out the papers. She perused the journal first, at first simply skimming the contents but soon she found herself engrossed.

“Xiǎoyīng has been busy,” she murmured to herself, her carefully manicured eyebrows furrowing as she read on.

Eventually, she snapped the journal shut and set it aside. Jīn Guangayo stood up and paced the room, deep in thought. Once she got to a decision, she sat back down and picked up the loose papers. She immediately recognized the contents, her eyes going wide with shock before igniting with fury.

“That little—!”

She took a deep, calming breath before opening the doors to her sitting room.

“Summon my brother,” she ordered and slammed the doors back shut.

As she waited, Jīn Guāngyáo reread the journal, her eyes darkening with each flip of the page. When Jīn Mǐnshàn finally entered the sitting room, Jīn Guāngyáo was calmly sipping on some tea, her blinded maid Sīsi massaging her neck. She batted Sīsi away upon his arrival, and the maid slunk to a corner of the room. After taking one last sip of tea, Jīn Guāngyáo stood up and threw the pile of loose papers at Jīn Mǐnshàn.

“You said you had him handled!” she hissed.

Jīn Mǐnshàn spluttered, his face turning red with anger. He looked down and saw a drawing of the Yīnhǔfú, annotated in a familiar, nearly illegible scrawl. His face blanched white as a corpse.

“Where—”

“One of our spies found them in the Empress’ study, alongside this.”

She tossed the journal at him, and it was only his cultivator training that allowed him to catch it before it hit his face.

“She’s up to something. There’s things in there that I’ve never even heard of!”

“We’ll,” Jīn Mǐnshàn stuttered. “We’ll summon her again and—”

“No! We tried it your way and look where that got us! I heard she jumped in the lake again, no doubt carrying out some forbidden ritual. Have you read Eunuch Cáo’s notes on her—her little display at the lake? ‘An array of the likes I’ve never seen,’ he said. Even the tailors are talking about the new laundry spell she created!”

She fell silent, her chest heaving with anger. Jīn Mǐnshàn picked up the scattered schematics of the Yīnhǔfú off the floor and walked over to pour his adoptive sister a new cup of tea.

“I have contacts with some Dōngyáng traders,” he said quietly.⁷ “There’s been talks of a new and deadly poison, called ‘Air Eating Demon,’ that will slowly destroy the victim’s jīndān. It is tasteless, odorless, and nearly impossible to cure. Our tángmèi will simply think she is sick again, like she always was as a child, until it is far too late.”

Jīn Guāngyáo drank her fresh cup of tea with a contemplative look. Without their notice, Sīsi tilted the left side of her head towards them, fingers slightly twitching.

“How soon can you get this ‘Air Eating Demon?’”

Jīn Mǐnshàn smiled.

1. 老公 - lǎo​gōng​: (colloquial) husband; (Internet slang, ACG [Anime, Comics, and Games], neologism) husbando. ^{go back⤴}
2. 亥时 - hàishí: 9 pm – 11 pm (in the system of two-hour subdivisions, called shíchén, used in former times). ^{go back⤴}
   Source: waffles_4_breakfast. “Waffle's Glossary of Chinese Terms.” ArchiveofOurOwn, 22 April 2022.
3. Technically, there is only one pronoun used in Mandarin, tā; there are different written characters to designate gender (他 - he, 她 - she, and 它 - it) but they are all pronounced the exact same. I am using they/them pronouns here for Wèi Wúxiàn’s POV because this is in English; for other character’s POVs, I am going to keep using she/her pronouns. Wèi Wúxiàn’s preferences on gendered terms (not pronouns) will be elaborated on further in the fic, but I am generally not going to mention Wèi Wúxiàn’s ‘preferred pronouns’ because that particular distinction (especially the ‘gender neutral’ aspect of it) just doesn’t translate very well from English to Mandarin. ^{go back⤴}
4. This is a practice that actually happened. During the Ming dynasty, the palace was divided into nine rooms on two levels with 27 beds. One bed was chosen at random by the Emperor each night. Since most of the palaces before the Ming dynasty were destroyed at some point, I am basing Búyètiān Chéng’s palace structure on the Forbidden City, which wasn’t built until the early 1400s. ^{go back⤴}
   Source: “Palace of Heavenly Purity.” Wikipedia.
5. This is a direct quote from Golden Terrace because this theme felt better coming from someone who is Chinese rather than me (I also couldn’t think of a better way to say it). ^{go back⤴}
   Source: Cang Wu Bin Bai. Golden Terrace, translated by E. Danglars, edited by Molly Rabbitt, Peach Flower House, 2022.
6. 高 - gāo: high / tall; 碧 bì - green; 草 cǎo - grass. I don't think it's a very good name, but I kind of like it. ^{go back⤴}
7. 东洋 - Dōngyáng: Japan (old).
   ‘Air’ here is referencing [氣 (traditional), 气 (simplified) - qì] which means ‘air’ or ‘vital energy’ (among many other definitions). This is the ‘spiritual’ or ‘vital’ energy referenced in MDZS and other wuxia/xianxia works. A lot of the martial arts depicted in this genre have roots in qìgōng [氣功 (traditional), 气功 (simplified): literally ‘air cultivation’], which uses that same character. In Japanese kanji, [氣 - kì] also translates to air (one of the definitions). However, Japanese modern kanji uses the simplified character [気] instead of the traditional character [氣] (they do use it in Jinmeiyō or ‘name’ kanji). ^{go back⤴}

Chapter Text

Wēn Qiónglín headed to the Palace of Earthly Tranquility earlier than usual for dinner with Jīn Xuányǔ. After the initial uproar about the southern rebellion somehow eluding the Nánjīn Army yet again, the Imperial Ministers eventually lost their momentum and turned their attention towards the influx of tributes and tithings as the autumn harvests began.

“Her Imperial Highness is not here,” Eunuch Píng said from his low, reverent bow.

“Where is she?” Wēn Qiónglín asked, keeping his tone as neutral as possible.

“I-In the kitchens, Your Excellency.” Eunuch Píng clearly had more to say about that, but Wēn Qiónglín nodded and walked away, Xiǎo Xīngchén in his shadow.

When Wēn Qiónglín entered the kitchen, he was met with a sight that nearly took his breath. Quietly, he pressed his finger to his lips at the startled servants, stopping them from announcing his presence. He stepped out of the doorway to lean against the wall and watch the scene before him.

Jīn Xuányǔ had taken off her outer decorated surcoat and tied up her sleeves, a plain apron fastened around her slim waist. Her hair was pulled back in a simple tail, tied with a red ribbon at the crown of her head. She looked comfortable, completely at ease as she rolled out dough on the table into perfect flat circles. Nimble fingers stuffed the filling into the wrapper before twisting the bāo​zi closed. She worked fast and efficiently, clearly very experienced with her task.

Smears of flour decorated her face, especially her nose. Wēn Qiónglín quickly found out the reason why as she absently raised a finger to rub the bridge of her nose in thought as she evaluated the veritable army of bāo​zi she’d made. Nodding to herself in satisfaction, Jīn Xuányǔ began loading the bāo​zi into steamer baskets and set them over a boiling pot. Before Wēn Qiónglín even realized he was moving, he stepped up to Jīn Xuányǔ had carefully wiped at the flour smears with his thumb.

“I see you have been very busy,” he said, his voice soft and fond.

Jīn Xuányǔ startled, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“Oh!” She wiped her hands on her apron, her cheeks slightly flushed. “Ah, Your Imperial Majesty, I wasn’t aware—I didn’t—it’s not time for dinner yet!”

Wēn Qiónglín couldn’t help but smile at her flustered reply. He was so used to being the one caught off guard in their relationship that it was beyond satisfying to be the instigator for once.

“I was done earlier than I anticipated,” he replied, “so I came to see you.”

“Well.” Jīn Xuányǔ cleared her throat and stepped away. Her flushed cheeks were hidden from view, but Wēn Qiónglín saw the flush traveling down the back of her neck. “If you’re going to be here, you might as well be useful.”

She tossed an apron at him, ignoring the mortified gasp from Chef Jiāng and the aborted wails from her retinue. Wēn Qiónglín blinked in surprise, looking down at the apron with confusion.

“So? Don’t you know how to wear an apron?” she asked, one hand poised on her cocked hip.

Xiǎo Xīngchén barely stifled a chuckle behind him. Wēn Qiónglín turned around to give him a look.

“I will take your surcoat, Your Excellency,” Xiǎo Xīngchén said with a bland smile that did nothing to hide the amusement in his eyes.

Wēn Qiónglín glanced at Jīn Xuányǔ, who was pretending to not be impatiently waiting for him, and gave a small sigh. He shrugged off his surcoat and quickly put the apron on, gratefully taking some ties from Xiǎo Xīngchén to tie back his sleeves before joining his wife.

“Have you stuffed bāo​zi before?” Jīn Xuányǔ asked as she made room for him at her station.

“As a child,” Wēn Qiónglín replied, trying hard not to remember the bittersweet memories of making bāo​zi with his mother to sell at the market in Yílíng. Back then, they had barely enough money to buy meat for the filling.

“Let’s see what you remember, then,” she said.

Jīn Xuányǔ rolled out the dough into perfectly circular wrappers before handing them to Wēn Qiónglín, who portioned out the filling, folded the bāo​zi, and set it in a waiting steamer basket. After making six or seven lopsided, overstuffed bāo​zi, Jīn Xuányǔ clucked at him.

“Ah, that’s no good, those will burst. Here.” She put a hand on his waist and pulled him towards her, slipping behind him so that their places were switched. He willed his face not to flush at the bold touch. “You roll, I’ll fold.”

She demonstrated how to roll out the dough, indicating how much dough to grab and how thick each wrapper needed to be. Once it was his turn to try, she watched him like a hawk, hands crossed over her chest and her eyes more serious than he’d ever seen. It was surprisingly intimidating, so it was no wonder that his first several tries were a mess. Wēn Qiónglín always cracked under the pressure of an audience.

“No, not like that. Here.”

Jīn Xuányǔ uncrossed her arms and stepped behind him, both of her hands going to cover his. She had to step onto her toes and lean over his shoulder to see, even when Wēn Qiónglín bent his knees to make it easier. Like that, she instructed him on how much pressure to use when rolling and how to pick up the wrapper to avoid tearing it. He was very grateful his back was to her; judging by Xiǎo Xīngchén’s muffled laughter, his face was probably bright red. Once she was satisfied with his progress, she stepped away and began filling the wrappers again.

The Emperor continued rolling out bāo​zi wrappers for the Empress to fill. He sometimes stopped moving, watching Jīn Xuányǔ work with a soft, smitten smile that made all the maids quietly swoon. He would startle back into working whenever Jīn Xuányǔ caught him staring, but he continued watching her from the corner of his eye. This way, he caught her subtle glances towards him, the way she would bite her lip and look away when she caught herself unconsciously staring at him, a determined set to her jaw that Wēn Qiónglín found very endearing.

With each basket she filled, one of the servants would replace it with an empty one after placing the newly full one to steam over the stove. Once he was out of dough, the Emperor wiped his sticky hands on his apron and turned his full attention to the Empress as she folded the last bāo​zi. She placed it in the steamer basket and turned to give him a proud grin.

“Not too bad, Your Excellency,” she said.

Behind her, Lady Jīn’s face paled at her irreverent words.

“Such honored praise,” he said with a soft chuckle.

“Yeah, well.” Jīn Xuányǔ blushed and cleared her throat. She turned around and busied herself with the leftover filling, instructing one of the servants to add it to a stir fry so it didn’t go to waste.

“Your Imperial Highness,” Court Lady Luó stepped forward with a curtsy and gestured to a small stack of steamer baskets arranged on a serving platter. “Here are the ones you requested to be set aside. Would you like them delivered to the Palace of Earthly Tranquility?”

Jīn Xuányǔ glanced at Wēn Qiónglín before focusing her attention on her maid. “Yeah. Yes, take them to my palace. Miánmian, tángjiě, make sure the rest of these are divided up between yourselves and the others.”

All the servants’ eyes widened at her words before falling into revenant bows.

“Thank you for your generosity, Your Imperial Majesty!” they all cried.

“Ah,” Jīn Xuányǔ cringed, rubbing the bridge of her nose; there was still flour on it. “That’s really not—it’s fine. You’re welcome.”

She took off her apron and held out an expectant hand towards Wēn Qiónglín. When he didn’t immediately react, she curled her fingers in towards herself and flattened them back out again. He still hesitated, unsure what she was asking for.

“Your apron?” she asked, her lips twitching in amusement.

“Ah.”

Wēn Qiónglín took off the apron and handed it to her, watching as she placed them both in a basket—likely for laundry—before heading towards the door.

“Come along, lǎo​gōng​,” she said, her voice light and teasing.

Feeling his face burn with the force of his blush, Wēn Qiónglín followed her out of the imperial kitchens, making sure to grab his surcoat from Xiǎo Xīngchén as he left. She refused the palanquin, and the two of them walked through the chilly autumn evening back to her palace, the dinner they had made together waiting for them.

“I wasn’t aware you could cook,” Wēn Qiónglín eventually said.
“There are many things you don’t know about me.”

Jīn Xuányǔ’s reply was surprisingly solemn, bringing a seriousness to the easy, teasing atmosphere that had built between them throughout the evening.

“I hope to learn them all,” he earnestly replied.

“Maybe not all of it,” Jīn Xuányǔ said with a snort. “My head is full of so many holes even I don’t know all there is to know about me.”

The comfortable, contemplative silence that followed her words stretched through the rest of their evening walk. At some point, Wēn Qiónglín realized she had forgotten her surcoat, dressed in fewer layers than was truly proper for the Empress. Worried she was cold, he shrugged off his surcoat and draped it over her shoulders. She looked up at him in surprise even as her hands tugged the fine gold silk close around her. Her mouth opened a few times, but no words came out.

“Thanks,” she eventually managed.

“Of course,” Wēn Qiónglín replied. “I can’t have my wife catch a cold.”

They arrived at the Palace of Earthly Tranquility before Jīn Xuányǔ could muster up a response. She was immediately ushered away by her maids to refresh before dinner, leaving Wēn Qiónglín to wait in her sitting rooms. When she returned, she was still wearing his surcoat hanging off her shoulders.

“Ah,” she stuttered when she realized what he was staring at and took off the surcoat. “Here, you can have this back now.”

Wēn Qiónglín took the yellow silk from her, carefully folding it and setting it beside him.

“These are yours.” Jīn Xuányǔ placed two layers of bamboo baskets in front of him. “And these are mine.”

“Are they different?” he asked before taking a bite of his bāo​zi. He hummed appreciatively at the rich, savory flavors that burst on his tongue.

Jīn Xuányǔ opened her mouth to reply before stopping. Her eyes glinting in the low light, she set one of her bāo​zi in front of him.

“Try it,” she said, smiling innocently at him.

Wēn Qiónglín hesitantly brought the bāo​zi to his mouth and took a bite. His face immediately turned red and he coughed, scrambling for his tea cup. Jīn Xuányǔ laughed, loud and unrestrained, and Wēn Qiónglín found he couldn’t be angry at the way his tongue was literally melting in his mouth from the spice when her laugh sounded so sweet.

A vial passed from one hand, large and soft with no calluses to speak of, to another, small and nimble but rough from years of manual labor.
“Ensure Her Imperial Highness takes this fertility tonic once a day, preferably mixed in tea. And do keep it quiet. We don’t need others finding out the Empress is having trouble bearing an heir.”
“O-Of course, my Lord.”
After the vial was pocketed, a small bag of silver was handed over.
“Make sure to send some of this to your sister. I hear she is ill again. It would be a shame if she could no longer afford her medicines.”
“Yes, my Lord. Thank you, my Lord.”

Jīn Zixuān entered her quarters late, her steps heavy with exhaustion. She loved her tángmèi, but the past two months have been hard. She was beyond happy that her cousin was finally connecting with her husband, but the small fact that her husband was the Emperor of the nation put a lot of pressure on Jīn Zixuān as Jīn Xuányǔ’s lady-in-waiting. She collapsed gratefully into her bed and fell asleep almost instantly.

In the morning, she awoke to a large leaf sitting on the floor beside her slippers. She picked it up and drew in a sharp breath, nearly dropping the leaf in shock. There were droplets of blood splattered across the leaf, still wet. She set the leaf back down with a shaking hand, recognizing the familiar shape. A Firminia leaf. Suddenly, she knew exactly who had put this message in her quarters.

Heart clenched with resolve, Jīn Zixuān burnt the leaf in her brazier as she brewed a pot of tea. She sent a letter to Lán Wàngjī with one of the guards leaving rotation. Once she was ready for the day, she wasted no time and immediately went to the public garden closest to the Palace of Earthly Tranquility, where Lán Wàngjī was already waiting.

“My contact gave me a warning,” she said in low tones, barely a murmur. “The Empress is in danger.”

Lán Wàngjī nodded stiffly.

“I will do what I can. Be on your guard.”

“Understood.”

Lán Wàngjī left first, his hand clenched tightly over Bìchén’s grip. Jīn Zixuān hesitated for the briefest moment before turning to leave the gardens. She needed to talk with Miánmian about inspecting the Empress’ food more closely. As much as she appreciated the warning, she wished her contact could have given her more specifics. How did one prepare for a hidden knife?

Fourteenth day of the Ninth Month; Day 95

Wèi Wúxiàn smiled as one of the maids served a fresh cup of tea once they were done with their training for the day. This maid in particular had been very attentive to them recently and always had a pot of tea steeped and ready for the Empress to sip on post-workout. Wèi Wúxiàn had to admit that they usually didn’t mind it, but something made them pause before sipping today.

They have been very persistent in their training, and in the months since they started their core exercises Wèi Wúxiàn has seen steady progress. Last week their jīndān seemed to stall. Roadblocks and stagnation were common when cultivating a core, especially during the first few years, so Wèi Wúxiàn hadn’t thought much about it. But today, Wèi Wúxiàn swore their jīndān felt smaller than usual. Jīndān stagnation was normal, yes; jīndān shrinking or losing power was not. Combined with the fact that they had begun feeling weaker and sick frequently in the past two days, Wèi Wúxiàn had a feeling something was wrong.

A slight frown on their lips, Wèi Wúxiàn thought about what had changed in their routine that may be the cause. They cooked most of their meals, or ate them right in the kitchen alongside the staff, so it wasn’t anything they were eating. Their training routine hadn’t changed, either. They had kept from experimenting too much with their Theory of Balance, wanting to settle into their new body and gender first before trying hairbrained ideas without backup.

Shrugging to themself, Wèi Wúxiàn took a contemplative sip of their tea. Once they finished, they decided to go and write their observations in their journal. They headed into the study, missing one of the maid’s panicked glance towards the warded room. Five minutes later, Wèi Wúxiàn tumbled back out of the study, a little frantic.

“Miánmian!” they called. “Tángjiě! Have you seen my journal? It’s not in my study.”

“The one with the plain cover? I haven’t, Your Imperial Highness,” Miánmian replied, looking concerned.

“I remember you taking it out on a walk last week,” Jīn Zixuān said thoughtfully. “Perhaps you set it down?”

“Fuck,” Wèi Wúxiàn hissed. “I really need that journal.”

“I’ll send people to look for it immediately,” Miánmian said. “I’m sure we’ll find it soon, Your Imperial Highness.”

“I’ll come with,” Wèi Wúxiàn said, but Jīn Zixuān immediately shut them down.

“It’s already getting late, Your Imperial Highness,” she said soothingly. “Let us find it. You wanted to go to sleep earlier tonight so you can wake up early to prepare a special breakfast for the Emperor, remember?”

“Alright,” Wèi Wúxiàn sighed. “The journal is important to me, that's all.”

“I understand. We will do everything we can to find it,” Miánmian solemnly promised.

With that, Wèi Wúxiàn reluctantly allowed their maids to tuck them into bed and soon their eyes were fluttering closed.

When Jīn Zixuān woke them the next morning at mǎoshí, Wèi Wúxiàn felt as though they hadn’t slept at all.¹ They were grouchier and groggier than usual, snapping irritably at one of the maids when she giggled a little too loudly. Their mood was not helped when Miánmian reported that they hadn’t found the journal yet. Jīn Zixuān sent them worried looks while Miánmian attempted to convince them to go back to bed and make the special breakfast another day, but Wèi Wúxiàn was too stubborn.

Once in the kitchens, Wèi Wúxiàn seemed to feel a little better. Unlike their usual routine in the imperial kitchens, the Empress borrowed two of Jiāng Wǎnyín’s station chefs and began ordering them around rather than doing all the work themself. This seemed to make both Miánmian and Jīn Zixuān relax as they watched Wèi Wúxiàn sit down and boss the two terrified boys around the kitchen.

An hour or so later, Wèi Wúxiàn was satisfied with the final product and allowed the servants to deliver the handmade breakfast to their husband. They were convinced by Miánmian’s pleading eyes to return to the Palace of Earthly Tranquility to eat breakfast, and even allowed Jīn Zixuān to bully them into taking the palanquin for once. Wèi Wúxiàn was just accepting a cup of tea when the Emperor came into their rooms. They stood to greet him, as was proper, before all but bouncing over to him.

“So, what did you think?” they asked, their eyes bright.

“Excellent as always, my Empress,” Emperor Shòuzōng said earnestly.

“Ah, you flatter me, lǎo​gōng​,” Wèi Wúxiàn said, with a slight brush.

They sat back down, gesturing for their husband to join them. The Emperor paused slightly before joining them.

“I’m afraid I can’t stay long,” he regretfully informed them. “I have another court meeting soon.”

“You’re always so busy,” Wèi Wúxiàn whined as they took a swallow of tea. They paused. The taste of iron coated their tongue. “Hm. This is… Miánmian, did we get new tea?”

“No, Your Imperial Highness,” Miánmian said with a concerned frown. “It tasted the same to me.”

Wèi Wúxiàn shook their head. “Ah, must be this cold I caught then, making things taste weird.”

“You are feeling ill?” the Emperor asked with concern.

“Oh, nothing too crazy! Just a bit tired,” Wèi Wúxiàn admitted. “Don’t worry, I’m strong! It’ll take a lot to put me on my ass.”

Emperor Shòuzōng pressed his lips together at their crude language but otherwise didn’t respond.

“Your Excellency…” Xiǎo Xīngchén entered the room and bowed.

“Ah. I must be going, niáng​zǐ. I will see you tonight.”

“Of course!” Wèi Wúxiàn said with a grin.

They stood up to walk their husband out of the palace but stumbled. Immediately, the Emperor was by their side.

“I’m fine,” Wèi Wúxiàn attempted to wave him off, but their face was ashen and their hands clammy. “Miánmian and tángjiě are here. Go to court.”

Miánmian immediately stepped forward and took Wèi Wúxiàn’s other side, gnawing on her lip in worry as she felt Wèi Wúxiàn’s forehead. Her frown deepened when she felt no fever. A maid handed her a cup of tea, which she gratefully took. Miánmian took a sip, testing for poison, before helping Wèi Wúxiàn drink the rest. The Emperor reluctantly let go and walked away. He only made it a few steps before Miánmian cried out.

“Your Imperial Highness!”

He whirled around to see Wèi Wúxiàn slack in Miánmian’s hold. The blood trickling from their qī​qiào was the only sign that something was truly, horribly wrong.² Jīn Zixuān immediately drew out several talismans and sealed all the doors.

“No one leaves until they are cleared,” she ordered, and Emperor Shòuzōng understood immediately.

Someone had poisoned the Empress.

“Xiǎo Xīngchén, inform the court I am unavailable and go to Zǐchēn.”

With a grim nod, Xiǎo Xīngchén turned around and left, Jīn Zixuān begrudgingly stepping aside to allow him to pass. He had understood the order the Emperor hadn’t said aloud.
Bring my sister.

Wēn Qiónglín admired Jīn Zixuān’s loyalty to her cousin. From the moment Jīn Xuányǔ collapsed, she had kept the Palace of Earthly Tranquility tightly locked down. Xiǎo Xīngchén had only been allowed to leave because the Emperor ordered him to, and had he not Jīn Zixuān wouldn’t have let him leave. The only time the doors to the Palace of Earthly Tranquility opened following her initial order was to allow the Imperial Physician entry.

“Poison is highly likely,” the man said, “but I cannot say which one or to what affects. This one apologizes for his incompetence.”

Forcing himself to keep calm, Wēn Qiónglín quietly dismissed the man with strict instructions to keep the Empress’ condition secret until they knew who did it. Jīn Zixuān escorted the Imperial Physician out of the empress’ private rooms with a grim look on her face and refused to let him leave the palace, always keeping one hand on her sword’s pommel. She had fastened her sword to her belt during the initial chaos of the Empress’ collapse and had yet to hide it away again.

Wēn Qiónglín stayed by his wife’s bedside, accompanied only by Luó Qīngyáng. Jīn Zixuān occasionally entered the bedroom, but otherwise she stayed outside with the rest of the servants, quietly interrogating them one by one. At some point, Lán Wàngjī arrived, likely alerted by Jīn Zixuān. Xiǎo Xīngchén had reported on Hánguāng Jūn’s close relationship with both Jīn Zixuān and Jīn Xuányǔ, so Wēn Qiónglín wasn’t surprised by his arrival.

Despite his misgivings, Wēn Qiónglín was impressed by the man. Not only was he an accomplished cultivator, he was also very honorable. He heard stories of Hánguāng Jūn’s good deeds for the common people, going where the chaos was, and found they weren’t all baseless rumors. It was a shame, then, that the man was as filial as he was honorable, and that the Gūsū Lán had made themselves hypocrites of their own motto—Be Righteous—by allying with Lánlíng Jīn.

He looked down at his wife. She was far too still, her normally healthy pink cheeks dull and pale. The guilt he felt at seeing her so lifeless threatened to eat him alive, gnawing relentlessly at his stomach. He had nearly killed her himself, all because she happened to walk into the wrong room. But now he may have gotten her killed anyway. He was under no delusions that Jīn Xuányǔ was being targeted to get to him. He had his suspicions that it was the Empress Dowager finally making her move after decades of feigned incompetence, but that didn’t matter right now.

The screen doors to the bedroom stayed shut, but neither Jīn Zixuān nor Luó Qīngyáng had added silencing talismans, so it was not hard for him to channel his qì and extend his hearing so he could listen in on the other rooms. Almost immediately after Hánguāng Jūn began aiding Jīn Zixuān in her interrogations, one of the maids broke. Her voice didn’t sound familiar to Wēn Qiónglín, but Luó Qīngyáng seemed to recognize the woman as her face slack with shock and guilt.

“I didn’t know!” the woman wailed, her voice carrying through the paper walls. “I was told it was a fertility tonic! Please, you have to believe me!”

It was getting dark, the sun sinking beneath the horizon. Jīn Zixuān had refused all food brought to the palace, something Wēn Qiónglín didn’t refute. He glanced to Luó Qīngyáng, who was pressing her lips tight together and looking over Jīn Xuányǔ with a guilty expression. He put a gentle hand on her shoulder, startling her.

“It is not your fault,” he said quietly.

“But I—”

“It is not your fault,” he repeated, firmer. “She will not die like this. I will not allow it.”

Luó Qīngyáng searched his face. She seemed to find what she was looking for, and she relaxed with a nod. Then, Jīn Zixuān slid open the doors.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” she bowed. “We have the culprit.”

Wēn Qiónglín stood and followed her out of the door, taking one last look at Jīn Xuányǔ’s lifeless figure on the bed before leaving the bedroom. Jīn Zixuān led him to the sitting parlor where Jīn Xuányǔ had first collapsed. There were still drops of blood—now dry and sticky—on the wood floors where a trembling woman was kneeling, head touching the floor. Only Lán Wàngjī remained in the room, looking like a wrathful martial god in his uniform.

“I didn’t know,” she cried. “I swear, I didn’t know.”

“Court Lady Gāo,” Lán Wàngjī coldly addressed her. “Explain your actions to the Son of Heaven.”

She and stayed bowing low. “I was summoned by the Grand Empress Dowager,” Court Lady Gāo began to explain, stuttering over her words. “She wanted me to look after the Empress and report back to her, saying how worried she was. So I did, and then—then—”

She broke off with a sob.

“Gāo Bìcǎo, please,” Jīn Zixuān said. “Stop wasting our time!”

“I’m sorry!” Gāo Bìcǎo took a gasping breath before continuing. “I only did as I was told! She—she asked me to look at the Empress’ study and bring her anything strange or unusual. I don’t know anything about what the Empress does there, so it is all strange for me, but the Grand Empress Dowager insisted. So, when the Empress was—occupied, I took a stack of papers and a book. The papers were about some object, I couldn’t understand, and the journal—” she broke off.

“You brought these papers and a journal to the Grand Empress Dowager?” Wēn Qiónglín pressed, a sinking feeling in his gut. Did Jīn Xuányǔ really have it all this time?

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty,” Gāo Bìcǎo sobbed. “And then I was told to give the Empress a fertility tonic and that I was to not tell anyone for fear of shaming the Empress and—”

“Who gave you the tonic?” Lán Wàngjī demanded.

“O-one of the minor Jīn lords, I’m not sure, he wore gold,” she babbled. “Please, kill me for my incompetence!”

That made Wēn Qiónglín pause. It didn’t make any sense. If Jīn Xuányǔ was working on the Yīnhǔfú, the Grand Empress Dowager would have known. There would have been no point in tasking a maid to bring her anything ‘strange or unusual’ from Jīn Xuányǔ’s personal quarters. And why would they try to assassinate Jīn Xuányǔ?

Nothing was clear, and Wēn Qiónglín felt lost. The warning talisman in his sleeves heated up, and the tension in his shoulders eased. His sister was here.

“Lady Jīn.” Wēn Qiónglín turned to address Jīn Zixuān. “You have done well ensuring this news does not spread. Please, return to the Empress’ side.”

She curtsied and left the room. Wēn Qiónglín ignored Lán Wàngjī’s burning gaze and focused back on Gāo Bìcǎo. If he ordered her execution, as he had every right to, they would have to reveal the assassination attempt to the public. Jīn Zixuān had been very careful to keep things quiet, playing it off as the Empress simply falling ill, in order to prevent the attempt from becoming public knowledge. The Jīn would spin the assassination in their favor and likely try again.

No, he thought to himself. Better they think she is unaware and that the maid simply choked with the pressure.

“For taking bribes, aiding an assassination attempt, and conspiring against the heavens,” Wēn Qiónglín said, “We should order your execution. But We believe that you did not know the tonic was poison. Gāo Bìcǎo, We end your service to Us and the Empress. You will leave the palace tonight with your wages and your life. Should you ever speak of this night, We will not be so generous again.”

“Thank you, Your Imperial Majesty!” Gāo Bìcǎo cried. “Thank you!”

“Commander Lán, please escort her out of the palace.”

Lán Wàngjī stared at him. He knew Wēn Qiónglín was asking him to leave on purpose, getting him out of the way. His suspicions were not unfounded; however, Lán Wàngjī needed to be careful about his suspicions of the Emperor. Even a puppet emperor still held power. Lán Wàngjī nodded stiffly and silently gestured for Gāo Bìcǎo to follow as he reluctantly left the room. Wēn Qiónglín watched the two leave the Palace of Earthly Tranquility before heading towards the back gardens.

“Ājiě​,” he breathed out, nearly sighing with relief.

The short figure standing between Xiǎo Xīngchén and Sòng Zǐchēn immediately ran to him. Wēn Qiónglín folded into his sister’s embrace, making himself smaller so he could fit in Wēn Qíng’s small, strong arms.

“Ā-Níng,” she whispered, throat thick with tears. The sound of his taboo name falling from his sister’s lips snapped the thin string holding him together, and Wēn Qiónglín shivered with soft sobs.³ “Oh, Ā-Níng.”

“Ājiě​.”

Wēn Qíng clutched him tighter to her chest.

“Ājiě​,” he said, clenching his eyes shut and allowing his tears to fall on her shoulder. “Ājiě​, I g-got married. I got married, a-a-and you weren’t t-there. I t-tried—”

“Hush, Ā-Níng. I’m here now. Jiě​jie’s here now.”

Wēn Qiónglín stayed in his sister’s arms for a moment longer. He wiped his eyes dry and stepped away to stand at his full height, nearly a full head taller than Wēn Qíng.

“The Empress has been poisoned,” he said, his voice calm and level, if a bit thick from his earlier tears. “Likely by someone in her family.”

His sister nodded, wiping tears from her face. “Take me to her and tell me her symptoms,” she said, her voice familiarly strict.

Wēn Qiónglín nodded and led his sister into the palace, describing Jīn Xuányǔ’s symptoms as accurately as he could. Upon entering the Empress’ bedroom, Jīn Zixuān immediately stood up and prepared to draw her sword.

“At ease, Lady Jīn,” Wēn Qiónglín said. “This is my sister and a renowned doctor. I called her here to help.”

Jīn Zixuān pressed her lips into a displeased line but greeted Wēn Qíng with a respectful curtsy.

“Wēn dài​fu, thank you for arriving on such short notice,” Luó Qīngyáng said after bowing in greeting.⁴

Wēn Qíng nodded briskly as she pulled out her travel bag and began unloading her supplies.

“Ā-Ni—” She barely caught herself. “The Emperor has told me of her symptoms, but I would appreciate another account.”

“The Empress has been acting strange since last night,” Luó Qīngyáng began. “She was particularly cranky this morning, but I thought she just hadn’t slept well. It seemed rather sudden. One moment she was standing and talking, then before I knew it she was collapsing and bleeding and—” she cut herself off with an aborted sob. “I checked everything for poison! I don’t know how Bìcǎo was able to slip it past my notice!”

“Has anything changed in her daily habits?” Wēn Qíng asked as she pressed her fingers to Jīn Xuányǔ’s temples.

Luó Qīngyáng looked at her in confusion. Wēn Qíng sighed and sat up to look at her.

“Has she started eating more or less of one thing, ate her meals earlier or later than usual, anything in absence or excess?”

Both Luó Qīngyáng and Jīn Zixuān paused to think. Finally, Luó Qīngyáng’s eyes widened.

“Bìcǎo has been serving Her Imperial Highness a lot of tea recently,” she said. “I noticed it was odd but didn’t think much of it.”

“How frequent?” Wēn Qíng demanded.

“Um.” Luó Qīngyáng looked at Jīn Zixuān.

“At least once a day,” Jīn Zixuān said, her brows furrowed in thought. “She started serving the Empress a cup of tea after her daily training in the garden, and occasionally at breakfast.”

“It was likely a slow-acting poison, then. Something that built up in her system over time,” Wēn Qíng said.

She pressed her fingers to Jīn Xuányǔ’s pulse, sending a diagnostic pulse of qì through her meridians. Everyone waited with baited breath.

“Fuck,” Wēn Qíng quietly cursed. Her movements became urgently fast as she pulled out her acupuncture needles. “I need her stripped from the top up,” she ordered.

“Out,” Jīn Zixuān ordered.

Sòng Zǐchēn and Xiǎo Xīngchén complied wordlessly. She turned to Wēn Qiónglín when he didn’t follow and raised an eyebrow.

“She is my wife,” he said, quiet but firm, “and this is my sister. I will stay.”

“Behind a privacy screen,” Jīn Zixuān countered, and Wēn Qiónglín acquiesced with a nod.

“Based on the symptoms,” Wēn Qíng said as she worked, “it is likely a qì draining poison. They are very, very illegal and therefore nearly impossible to come by. I have heard rumors of one coming out of Dōng​yíng that expels a person’s qì with every breath.”

Luó Qīngyáng’s breath stuttered and she pressed a hand to her own chest.

“You are likely fine because you didn’t take very much,” Wēn Qíng assured, “but I will check your meridians later to be sure. The Empress is very lucky she has a remarkably strong jīndān, or else she would be dead already.”

The entire room froze.

“The Empress has only been building her jīndān for less than a month,” Luó Qīngyáng said in confusion.

“What?!” Wēn Qíng snapped her head towards her. “That can’t be right.”

“It’s true,” Jīn Zixuān said. “Her Imperial Highness couldn’t even create the base formation until shortly after her wedding, and she has only recently started training with her jīndān.”
Wēn Qíng’s brows furrowed. She shook her head. “I will figure that out later. For now, I need these ingredients.” She handed Luó Qīngyáng a list. “And boiling water. Lady Jīn, if you think your jīndān can handle it, I need you to give Her Imperial Highness a steady stream of qì. Not too much—try to keep it at a trickle. It will keep the poison from further corrupting her jīndān.”

While Luó Qīngyáng left to find ingredients, Wēn Qiónglín left the room to fetch water to boil on the brazier. Jīn Zixuān settled next to Jīn Xuányǔ and began feeding her qì while Wēn Qíng worked.

As the sun began to rise, Wēn Qíng finally stepped back from the Empress’ bed and collapsed next to her brother.

“She’s stable,” Wēn Qíng murmured.

Wēn Qiónglín sighed with relief and gave his sister a tremulous smile. “Thank you, ājiě​,” he whispered.

There was a brief moment of silence.

“You care for her,” Wēn Qíng said, her words slow and cautious. “Ā-Níng, are you sure?”

Wēn Qiónglín paused, considering his words carefully. There was so much unsaid behind his sister’s question.

“Yes,” he eventually said. “She’s different, ājiě​.”

Wēn Qíng looked her brother in the eyes, studying him. Eventually, she gave a curt nod and looked away.

“Well. I look forward to meeting my dìmèi, then.”⁵

Wēn Qiónglín tucked his chin down, failing to smother his fond smile.

“Yes, ājiě​.”

Across the room, Jīn Zixuān had finally fallen asleep, her back against the screen door and her sword across her lap. Miánmian was hunched over the Empress’ legs on the bed and softly murmuring in her sleep. He had a nagging feeling at the back of his head that someone was missing, but Wēn Qiónglín was far too tired to think.

“Sāndú sends his regards,” Wēn Qíng said, keeping her voice low. “Bālíng, Wúzhōu, and Méishān have secretly pledged their allegiance to the rebellion, and we suspect Èzhōu will soon follow.”

“Already?” Wēn Qiónglín replied.

“Most of them were allied with Yúnmèng Jiāng before, so they all have their grievances with the empire. He said, ‘The river never forgets, and neither does her people.’ We’re keeping a wide berth of Lánlíng and Qíshān, but there are already whispers of dissatisfaction in the north.”

“Good,” Wēn Qiónglín said firmly. “I will continue the search in the south, then.”

Wēn Qíng nodded and was about to say more when they heard a rustle at the door. Jīn Zixuān immediately jolted awake and stumbled to her feet, sword halfway out of its sheath.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said with relief.

Lán Wàngjī entered the room, giving Wēn Qiónglín a perfectly polite bow before focusing his attention on the Empress.

“How is she?” he asked.

“Stable,” Wēn Qíng replied before Jīn Zixuān could even open her mouth.

Lán Wàngjī glanced over placidly and gave her a terse nod.

“The Guō family have fled to the south,” he said to the room, not bothering to direct his attention to the Emperor despite the report being meant for him. “They will not be causing any further trouble.”

Wēn Qiónglín didn’t reply, feeling a little petty. He ignored his sister’s knowing smirk. Miánmian suddenly jerked up, her eyes bleary and face red with indentations from the sheets. She looked around the room in confusion before snapping her attention back to Jīn Xuányǔ.

“Your Imperial Highness!” she cried out in joy.

Jīn Xuányǔ stirred on the bed, groaning as her eyes flickered open. Her eyes darted back and forth, taking in the five people now hovering around her.

“What the fuck?” she slurred.

1. 卯时 - mǎoshí: 5 am – 7 am (in the system of two-hour subdivisions, called shíchén, used in former times). ^{go back⤴}
   Source: waffles_4_breakfast. “Waffle's Glossary of Chinese Terms.” ArchiveofOurOwn, 22 April 2022.
2. 七竅 - qī​qiào​: the seven apertures of the human head: 2 eyes, 2 ears, 2 nostrils, 1 mouth. ^{go back⤴}
3. There are cultural taboos in China around names of exalted figures, especially surrounding emperors. [國諱 - guóhuì] is the naming taboo of the state, which prohibits the use of the emperor’s given name at all. Wēn Qiónglín’s given name is [宁 - níng: peaceful / to pacify / to visit (one's parents etc)], so the character 宁 is prohibited from being used during his reign. ^{go back⤴}
   Source: Zhou, L., and K. Chen. “Name Taboo in Ancient China: The Role of the Supernatural in Its Origin”. Journal of Student Research, vol. 10, no. 3, Nov. 2021.
4. 大夫 - dài​fu​: doctor / physician. ^{go back⤴}
5. 弟妹 - dìmèi: younger sibling / younger brother's wife. ^{go back⤴}

Chapter Text

“His Excellency has put forth a recess for the court,” Jīn Mǐnshàn said with no small amount of distaste. “Going to the Summer Palace, at a time like this!” He scoffed.

“Something happened that night in the Palace of Earthly Tranquility,” Jīn Guāngyáo mused, ignoring her brother’s complaints. She rubbed absently at the smile lines around her painted lips. “We can’t be certain that they know it was us. That maid, Bìcǎo—have you found her family?”

“No,” Jīn Mǐnshàn reluctantly admitted. “No one knows where they went. There one day, gone the next.”

“If they had discovered the assassination attempt, she would have been publicly executed,” Jīn Guāngyáo said. “So someone must have paid her off before she could succeed. There is no way poor, weak Xiǎoyīng would have survived the full amount of the poison.”

“Her Highness is going separately from the Emperor to the Summer Palace. I could arrange for bandits on the road,” Jīn Mǐnshàn offered. “A tragic accident.”

Jīn Guāngyáo paused, giving the idea some thought, before shaking her head.

“No, too obvious and too many loose threads. We must simply take this failure and continue forward. Perhaps we have been too hasty. Let’s give it some more time. Now that we have the Yīnhǔfú schematics safe,” she paused to give her brother a nasty glare, “our plan can continue smoothly. This was simply a small hiccup, nothing more. Jīn Xuányǔ may prove to be useful to us yet.”

“Of course,” Jīn Mǐnshàn agreed, properly chastised.

Wèi Wúxiàn looked out the carriage window and the slowly passing countryside. They observed the rice paddies and fields stretching beyond the simple dirt roads. The sun peeked out from the clouds above, and Wèi Wúxiàn leaned out to feel its warmth on their face, closing their eyes in contentment.

“Ah, Your Imperial Highness, please stay in the carriage,” Miánmian begged.

Wèi Wúxiàn laughed but complied, pulling their head back in and just narrowly avoiding hitting it on the edge. They kept the curtains open.

“Of course, Court Lady Luó.”

Luó Qīngyáng gasped, her eyes going round in shock. She leaned forward in the carriage to clasp at Wèi Wúxiàn’s hands.

“You—you remember?”

Wèi Wúxiàn smiled at her. Since awaking from their brush with death just two days ago, they had started getting more and more of Jīn Xuányǔ’s memories. One of the first things they remembered was Miánmian’s actual name, but they had waited to reveal that until the most opportune—and dramatic—moment.

“Ah, how could I ever forget my best friend and closest confidant, Luó Qīngyáng! I gave you the nickname Miánmian because you are so soft and sweet!”¹

“Your Imperial Highness…”

“Ah, don’t cry!” Wèi Wúxiàn leaned forward in their seat, hands fluttering nervously. “Don’t cry!”

“I’m just so happy,” Luó Qīngyáng sniffled, wiping at her eyes. “I’ve been so worried.”

Wèi Wúxiàn winced and leaned back, pulling their fur-lined coat closer around them and looking back out the window. It was nearing mid-autumn, the changing leaves casting the entire valley into a sea of flame. Lán Wàngjī came into view, astride a gorgeous white horse.

“Is Her Highness well?” he asked.

At the surface it was a simple question, but Wèi Wúxiàn—no, Jīn Xuányǔ knew to look beneath Lán Wàngjī’s icy surface. They couldn’t help making the distinction, as Wèi Wúxiàn shouldn’t know Lán Wàngjī well enough to know that his question—Is Her Highness well?—meant ‘I am worried about you, are you okay, are you feeling restless, do you need us to stop and rest, can I fetch you some water?’ But Jīn Xuányǔ had known Lán Wàngjī very well, had definitely been in love with him, even, and now Wèi Wúxiàn knew everything Jīn Xuányǔ knew. It was all rather confusing, if they were being completely frank.

The fond, besotted, warm feeling that fluttered in their chest at the question was quickly swatted away.

Those aren’t my feelings, Wèi Wúxiàn reasoned. That’s just this body remembering Jīn Xuányǔ’s feelings.

Feelings belong to the soul, not the body, a quiet voice said in the back of their mind, but Wèi Wúxiàn stubbornly ignored it.

They refused to think any further on the subject, nor ponder any further on the obvious fallacies in their reasoning.

“I’m fine,” Wèi Wúxiàn replied, and meant ‘You don’t have to worry, I’m okay now.”

Lán Wàngjī nodded and urged his horse forward, disappearing from Wèi Wúxiàn’s limited view. They wished they could be out in the crisp, clear autumn day.

When Emperor Shòuzōng suggested Wèi Wúxiàn recover from the poison outside Búyètiān Chéng, they hadn’t expected him to take them out of Qíshān entirely. The Summer Palace was located on the coast, not too far from Yúnshēn Bùzhīchù in Gūsū—something Lán Wàngjī took advantage of. When the Emperor said he would be flying ahead to take his sister back to Yílíng and arranged a decoy palanquin to go with Wèi Wúxiàn in his stead, Lán Wàngjī had taken that as permission to join Wèi Wúxiàn’s envoy. Officially, he was escorting the Empress to the Summer Palace before going to Yúnshēn Bùzhīchù to spend the recess from court with his uncle and brother.

Wèi Wúxiàn had a feeling Lán Wàngjī wouldn’t be simply escorting them, but Jīn Zixuān didn’t object to his presence and the Emperor wasn’t here to say otherwise. Since waking up from being poisoned, Wèi Wúxiàn had watched the two men have stare downs with each other far too frequently to be simple disagreements. It was quite entertaining, but Wèi Wúxiàn wasn’t really sure why they seemed so at odds with each other.

“Miánmian,” Wèi Wúxiàn suddenly said, “why do Chief Commander Lán and the Emperor not get along?”

Luó Qīngyáng furrowed her brows in thought. “I’m not sure, Your Imperial Highness. Lady Jīn may have more insight than I, but from what I’ve observed they seem to be…” She trailed off, giving Wèi Wúxiàn a shrewd look. “Well. For lack of a better term, fighting over you.”

Wèi Wúxiàn paused for a moment. Fighting over me? A disbelieving laugh escaped their throat before they could stop it, and they nearly collapsed with the force of it.

“Ah, good one, Miánmian! You almost got me!” Their full-hearted laughter trickled off into giggles. “Fighting over me! Hah!”

Luó Qīngyáng gave them a long-suffering look before looking out the window.

Wèi Wúxiàn continued to periodically giggle for the rest of the journey. Lán Wàngjī and the Emperor both being in love with them and fighting each other over it? The entire thought was ridiculous! The Emperor just decided he wasn’t going to kill them, there was no way he was in love already. And don’t even get them started on Lán Wàngjī! Wèi Wúxiàn was pretty certain he only hung around their envoy because he had a crush on one of the maids. Jīn Zixuān, maybe? Or possibly Miánmian… They ignored the sour feeling in their stomach at the thought.

Upon arriving at the Summer Palace, Wèi Wúxiàn was not given much time to appreciate the beautiful scenery before they were shuffled into an airy room and bundled into a warm daybed that looked out onto the sea. They grumbled about it the entire time, ignoring the warm, fluttery feeling in their chest at Jīn Zixuān’s quiet insistence that they be nothing less than completely comfortable and Luó Qīngyáng’s stubborn refusal to let Wèi Wúxiàn lift even a finger.

The screen door shuffled shut for a while before it was slid back open. Wèi Wúxiàn looked back, and wasn’t surprised at all to see Lán Wàngjī coldly staring down the Emperor from where he was guarding the door.

“We thought Chief Commander Lán was headed home,” Emperor Shòuzōng said with a faux-innocent tilt to his head. “Are Duke Lán and Marquess Lán not expecting you?”

Lán Wàngjī’s face gave nothing away as he ignored the question.

“Lán Wàngjī!” Jīn Zixuān hissed, appalled by his irreverent behavior.

His jaw clenched, just a little bit. Wèi Wúxiàn wished they had a bowl of popcorn to go along with this show.

“This one is expected home at xūshí,” he finally replied, his voice glacial but his eyes burning.²

“The journey here must have been taxing. Chief Commander Lán should make sure he doesn’t overtax himself.”

Emperor Shòuzōng swept past him, his face showing nothing but benign contentment. Wèi Wúxiàn looked at his hands, clenched into trembling fists, and had to bite back a snort. These two were such bad actors; how they got away with anything in the brutal politics of Búyètiān Chéng was a miracle.

“How are you feeling?” the Emperor asked.

An awkward pause followed until Wèi Wúxiàn realized he was talking to them.

“Oh, me? I’m fine!”

“Are you sure?” he pressed. “Aji—Wēn dài​fu said to alert her immediately if you experience any of the—”

“Ah, yes, yes, I’m sure! Everyone needs to stop fussing so much, really. It was just a little poison!”

A charged silence followed those words, and Wèi Wúxiàn winced. Before they could open their mouth to dig themselves into a deeper hole, multiple people began talking over each other.

“It was not—”

“Your Imperial Highness—”

“Just a little—?!”

While everyone clamored to scold Wèi Wúxiàn, Emperor Shòuzōng simply pressed his lips into a thin, displeased line and waited for the room to go quiet again.

“You nearly died.” He was quiet but firm. “Niáng​zǐ, you cannot be so careless with your health.”

Wèi Wúxiàn looked at him with wide eyes that threatened to tear up. They couldn’t remember the last time someone had scolded them so gently, so full of love. Somehow, it felt both better and worse. Part of them cringed away, wishing he would yell like the others, but a larger part of them preened under the clear affection. Wèi Wúxiàn dropped their broad smile for something gentler.

“Ah, this poor wife has made her husband worry.” Emperor Shòuzōng took a deep breath, and Wèi Wúxiàn only heard the slight hitch to it because they were so close. “I’m sorry, lǎo​gōng​,” they murmured, just for his ears.

He leaned forward and put his forehead to theirs. “I promised to make a space in this world for the both of us,” he whispered. “Promise me you won’t leave me alone in that new space.”

“I promise,” Wèi Wúxiàn said, and they meant it.

The Empress was put on strict bed rest for the first three days of the week-long stay at the Summer Palace, and she let everyone know how much she hated it. Despite her whining and dramatic fits about ‘wasting away from too much bland congee,’ she didn’t truly put up a fight about any of her restrictions.

“I could really use some Emperor’s Smile right now,” she groaned to Luó Qīngyáng one evening.

“What?”

Jīn Xuányǔ sighed. “Oh, only the best liquor I’ve ever tasted. So light and fresh!”

“You are not allowed alcohol for another week,” Jīn Zixuān ruthlessly said. “Don’t even think about it.”

The Empress pouted, and this time it looked far more genuine than before. “You wound me, tángjiě.”

She opened her mouth to continue when no response came but was interrupted by Lán Wàngjī delivering her lunch.

“Ah, let me guess—more plain congee. Yay.”

By the fourth day, even Jīn Zixuān and Luó Qīngyáng were getting restless, feeding off the Empress’ frenetic energy. So, the two of them decided to take the Empress on a walk along the beach to celebrate the end of her bed rest.

“Look!” Jīn Xuányǔ shouted with glee before dunking her hand into the water and holding out an angry, snapping crab by the back of its shell. “A crab!”

“Please be careful, Your Imperial Highness!” Luó Qīngyáng shouted, her voice strained from lack of air. “How is she already so fast?” she grumbled to Jīn Zixuān, who was stepping very delicately on the algae-crusted rocks and trying very hard not to wrinkle her nose at the briny smell of the ocean. “Not even four days ago she was fighting off poison, but you wouldn’t think so now.”

“It’s her unnatural jīndān,” Jīn Zixuān said. “I don’t know what she’s doing, but she’s already almost caught up to me despite the poison attempting to eat it out of her dāntián. Everytime I try to ask her about it she just says she can’t tell me yet.”

“That’s not ominous,” Luó Qīngyáng said sarcastically. “Oh, she’s going to give me gray hairs, and I’m not even thirty! YOUR IMPERIAL HIGHNESS, SLOW DOWN! YOU’RE GOING TO FALL!”

Jīn Xuányǔ stumbled just as Luó Qīngyáng finished shouting, causing both women to jolt in fear. The Empress caught herself before she could fall and looked up at them with a big grin.

“All good!” she shouted back before continuing to half-jog along the rocky shore as if she hadn’t slipped and nearly cracked her head open just a second before.

“What did I just say,” Luó Qīngyáng moaned.

Jīn Zixuān finally gave in and brought a perfumed handkerchief up to cover her nose. The two of them watched Jīn Xuányǔ traipse across the rocks, exclaiming over every little creature she came across like a small child. They couldn’t help but smile at her exuberance. As much as they complained, they would rather their Empress be this happy and unrestrained than the hollowed ghost she had been following the Second Lake Incident.

“Oh! Your Imperial Majesty!”

Luó Qīngyáng and Jīn Zixuān scrambled to bow as the Emperor walked up to them.

“She is very…” he trailed off as Jīn Xuányǔ scared off a flock of sandpipers and began cackling wildly. “Loud, today.”

Luó Qīngyáng pressed her lips together and nodded while Jīn Zixuān simply sighed into her handkerchief.

“Oh! Lǎo​gōng​!” Jīn Xuányǔ looked up from where she was poking at something in one of the tidepools. “Come here!”

The Emperor visibly hesitated and glanced at the two next to him for back-up, but both maids were suddenly very interested in the rocks below them. He took a stabilizing breath before carefully walking over to where Jīn Xuányǔ was trying to grab something in the shallow pool. Luó Qīngyáng prayed to every god she knew that whatever had caught the Empress’ attention wasn’t venomous.

Later that day, Luó Qīngyáng and Jīn Zixuān were attempting to cook dinner. Neither one of them were very skilled chefs, but the Emperor had ordered that only them, Xiǎo Xīngchén, Sòng Zǐchēn, and (rather begrudgingly) Lán Wàngjī were allowed to staff the Summer Palace in an attempt to limit the amount of contact the Jīn and others had with the Empress as she recovered from the poison. It had seemed like a great idea at the time, until it came time to cook meals for the Emperor and Empress.

When Jīn Xuányǔ was on bedrest they had a strict list of foods allowed and so had mostly just been making congee, much to the Empress’ chagrin. But now that the doctor’s restrictions were lifted, they were panicking at what to make.

Xiǎo Xīngchén had gone out for supplies but hadn’t known what to get and had brought back a strange variety. He claimed to know how to make a stew, but when Jīn Zixuān had walked in on him making it for himself she had gagged at the stench of burnt fish and curdled milk and had promptly banned him from the kitchen. The only thing Sòng Zǐchēn knew how to cook was stir fry, and everyone felt strange about serving the Emperor and Empress such a simple and lowly dish.

Lán Wàngjī had already gone back to Gūsū for the day, as part of his negotiations with the Emperor; he was allowed to guard the Empress during the day or at night as long as he had one meal with his family. He acted like it was a prison sentence with the way he glared at the Emperor every time he was told to go home for dinner. Besides, Jīn Xuányǔ had wailed and moaned about how bland and tasteless his congee had been on her second morning in the Summer Palace, and while Lán Wàngjī had seemed to take that as a challenge to improve his cooking skills, he was rather reluctant to leave the Empress’ side during the hours he was allowed to.

Which left Luó Qīngyáng and Jīn Zixuān to cobble something edible and nice together for the Empress’ first day not bedridden. They were only slightly panicking when the doors to the kitchen burst open in the familiar way they had begun to associate with the Empress. Luó Qīngyáng would never admit it, but the relief she felt made her weak at the knees.

“Look at these guys I found! Don’t they just look delicious?” she exclaimed as she reached into the qiánkūn sleeves of her surcoat and pulled out two very alive and very large crabs.

“Have you had those in there all day?” Jīn Zixuān asked faintly.

“Where else was I going to put them?” the Empress said as she grabbed one of the crabs and quickly but firmly cracked its shell open.

Luó Qīngyáng couldn’t help the impressed sound she made. For all she knew, Jīn Xuányǔ had never spent much time near the ocean at all. How had she learned to prepare a crab like that?

“Miánmian, can you get me the flour? Tángjiě, I know we have ginger somewhere—it was the only thing I could taste in that godawful congee—but do we have any scallions?”

They scurried off to complete their various tasks as the Empress ordered them around the kitchen, both maids too relieved to not be the one making the decision to remember to worry about Jīn Xuányǔ being too active. Once Jīn Xuányǔ was done searing the crab in the wok, she had Luó Qīngyáng clean it out while Jīn Zixuān chopped the ginger and scallions while she sat on a stool and sipped some tea.

At some point, Xiǎo Xīngchén wandered into the kitchen by accident and was promptly recruited into making rice, though Jīn Zixuān kept a very close eye on him. Sòng Zǐchēn predictably arrived soon after, looking for Xiǎo Xīngchén, and the Empress ordered him to start shucking the clams she had collected. Jīn Zixuān stared intently at her qiánkūn sleeves for a good minute before she decided she didn’t want to know and turned back to chopping.

Eventually, the Emperor arrived to a storm with his wife at the eye, sipping her tea and calmly ordering people around. It took her a while to notice him, and he regretted the moment she did.

“Ah, lǎo​gōng​, perfect timing!” she smiled sweetly at him. “Some mackerel would go well with those clams, don’t you think?”

This was a trick question, though the Emperor didn’t know that.

“Oh. Yes, I think it would.”

“Great! Go out and get some, would you?”

Everyone froze and turned to stare at the absolutely incredulous look the Emperor gave Jīn Xuányǔ, who simply sipped her tea like she hadn’t just ordered the Emperor to go out and catch a fish for her.

“I—I—” he stuttered and looked pleadingly at Xiǎo Xīngchén and Sòng Zǐchēn, but both of them avoided his eyes and turned back to their assigned job, unwilling to risk the Empress’ tyrannical fury. Luó Qīngyáng and Jīn Zixuān quickly followed suit. The Emperor swallowed thickly. “I’ll try?”

“Perfect!” Jīn Xuányǔ beamed at him and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek, causing him to stumble on his way out of the kitchen. If he had looked back, he would’ve seen Jīn Xuányǔ’s bright red, shocked face watching him leave, fingertips pressed to her lips.

Some time later, the Emperor returned with soaking wet hair, new robes, and two medium-sized mackerel. He handed them over to Jīn Xuányǔ, who appraised the fish with a discerning nod.

“Not too bad,” she said before turning around and instructing Luó Qīngyáng how she wanted it prepared.

Xiǎo Xīngchén, simply watching the rice to ensure it didn’t bubble over, leaned over to the Emperor and whispered, “How did you catch them?”

“I took Shǔ​guāng out over the water and dove in when I saw something shiny,” he murmured. “Took a few tries but I eventually got them.”

Xiǎo Xīngchén nodded, visibly impressed, and turned back to his rice.

Dinner that night was a veritable feast, and no one found it in themselves to complain about the Empress’ tyrannical tendencies in the kitchen when the food was just that good.

After dinner, the Emperor invited Wèi Wúxiàn up to his rooms with a nervous smile.

“What for?” Wèi Wúxiàn asked with suspicion.

Emperor Shòuzōng didn’t reply beyond a twitch to his mouth, which only made Wèi Wúxiàn more suspicious but also helplessly curious. They followed him to his rooms, which were a little larger than theirs but generally looked the same, all fancy mahogany wood furniture and gilded detailing. He gestured to the low table that was set next to a screen door that opened to a breathtaking view of the ocean. They enjoyed the scenery as the Emperor bustled around the room before setting two porcelain bowls and a very familiar jar on the table as he joined them.

“Is that…” Wèi Wúxiàn’s hands twitched.

“I heard you say it was the best liquor you’ve ever tasted,” Emperor Shòuzōng said with an earnest grin. “So I had Xiǎo Xīngchén get some to celebrate. Ājiě​ said it would be okay as long as you paced yourself.”

Wèi Wúxiàn’s eyes sparkled as he poured them each a bowl of Emperor’s Smile. They couldn’t help but remember a very similar scene from their wedding night nearly two months earlier.

“To a long and happy marriage,” Wèi Wúxiàn said, parroting the Emperor’s toast from that night.

“To getting through this with limited casualties,” their husband mimicked in return, an amused smile playing on the edges of his lips.

Wèi Wúxiàn resisted the urge to down their entire bowl in one gulp and instead sipped with their eyes closed, savoring the clean and fresh flavor of the bái​jiǔ. When they opened their eyes, they saw Emperor Shòuzōng looking at them intently, his face slightly pink.

Hah! He’s a lightweight! they thought, trying to keep a conniving grin off their face.

“So, what do you think?” Wèi Wúxiàn asked, finger twirling some of the hair that had fallen loose from their ponytail. “Isn’t it the best wine you’ve ever had?”

“It is quite good,” Emperor Shòuzōng agreed with a little nod.
Wèi Wúxiàn refused to call it cute. This was the Emperor! He wasn’t cute, he was strong and powerful!

(He was so fucking cute.)

They fell into companionable silence, both of them savoring the light aroma bái​jiǔ and watching the horizon slowly go dark as the sun set behind them in the west. After a while, Wèi Wúxiàn began to shiver as a cold breeze wafted in from the cooling sea. The Emperor stood up to drape his surcoat over their shoulders, the silk still warm from his body heat.

“What a gentleman!” Wèi Wúxiàn poured them both another bowl. “I know, I know,” they said to his pointed look. “This is my last one, I promise. I don’t want to invoke Wēn dài​fu’s wrath. Your sister is terrifying, do you know that?”

Emperor Shòuzōng smiled but it was stiff with melancholy. “She learned how to be. Yílíng wasn’t kind to either of us, and she always shielded me from the worst of it.”

Wèi Wúxiàn nodded. “That’s what older siblings do—or so I’m told. I wouldn’t know.”

Their eyes unfocused as they remembered their own childhood. They had always felt lonely as a child. Their parents hadn’t included a kid into their life plans and instead of putting them on hold they’d decided to simply take Wèi Wúxiàn with them. They often left them behind in hotel rooms with a nanny to be homeschooled as they filmed their travel show, sometimes going days without seeing their child. Once Wèi Wúxiàn was old enough to fend for themself, their parents had purchased a nice apartment near a good school, sent them a weekly allowance, and hired a maid, a driver, and a chef. Wèi Wúxiàn never lacked for anything material growing up, and they were always grateful for it.

“Isn’t Lady Jīn like a sister to you? I heard you were close from childhood.”

“Ah.” Wèi Wúxiàn smiled, remembering Jīn Xuányǔ’s childhood. Theirs had been rather similar to Wèi Wúxiàn’s, but their isolation had been continually interrupted by Jīn Zixuān and later Lán Wàngjī. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Though your sister is far more terrifying!”

Emperor Shòuzōng ducked his head to hide his smile.

“Are you laughing at me?!” Wèi Wúxiàn demanded with mock-fury. “How dare you! She threatened me with needles, lǎo​gōng​!”

They stood up with a huff and went to stomp around the table to continue scolding him, but their skirt caught on the table’s edge and they stumbled. One moment Wèi Wúxiàn was pinwheeling forward and the next their cheek was pressed to something warm and firm. They looked up at the Emperor and hoped the blush they felt heat their cheeks could be blamed on the alcohol, despite the fact they were barely tipsy.

Wèi Wúxiàn opened their mouth to say something, but caught Emperor Shòuzōng’s gaze flickering to their lips. Their eyes met as a warm hand came up to cradle Wèi Wúxiàn’s cheek. There was a question in his soft brown eyes, and Wèi Wúxiàn answered it by leaning into his hand and fluttering their eyes closed. Warm, slightly chapped lips that tasted of sea salt and bái​jiǔ met theirs, and Wèi Wúxiàn couldn’t help the shiver that ran up their spine. They parted far too soon.

“Ah, lǎo​gōng​, Your Excellency—”

“Wēn Níng,” he interrupted, nearly breathless. “With you, I am only Wēn Níng, nothing else.”

“Wēn Níng,” they breathed, curling a hand into the hair at the base of his neck and pressing their lips back together.

Layers fell to the floor as they stumbled towards the bed, refusing to be parted. Entranced by each other, neither noticed the flutter of white robes that darted away from the open doorway.

“Xiōngzhǎng.”³ The word came out in a gasp of pain. “I must be punished.”

Lán Xīchén put down the letter he was reading and rubbed at his eyes. It was past curfew and he should be asleep, but even with a recess in the court there was still so much work to be done.

“Wàngjī, what are you talking about?”

He tried to keep his tone even, but he was so tired. Lán Wàngjī pressed his lips together and looked away. Lán Xīchén sighed.

“Is this about Lady Jīn?” he coaxed.

“No.” Lán Wàngjī shook his head, still refusing to look at his brother. “Do not hold grudges. Destroy the three poisons.”⁴ Softly, almost too quiet for Lán Xīchén to hear, “Do not covet what is others.”

“Wàngjī, what…” Lán Xīchén trailed off as he remembered where his brother had been going—rather, who his brother had been going to see, someone who already belonged to someone else. “Oh, Wàngjī. It’s not Lady Jīn, is it?”

“I must be punished.”

“Very well.” Lán Xīchén sighed. “Copy Virtues three times.”

“Xiōngzhǎng—” Lán Wàngjī tried to protest.

“I’m not going to punish you for falling in love,” Lán Xīchén said firmly.

He didn’t add how hypocritical it would be of him to punish his brother for something he himself had done as well. They were truly twins, though perhaps not of jade— falling in love with women they could never have.

1. The character [青 - qīng] in Luó Qīngyáng’s name translates to “green” in Modern Chinese, but was more commonly used to mean “black” or “blue” in ancient times. [羊 - yáng] translates to “sheep,” so her name means “black sheep.” [绵羊 - miányáng] is another word for “sheep,” with [绵 - mián] meaning “wool” as well as “continuous,” “soft,” and “mild-mannered (dialect).” I think her nickname probably derives from the word 绵羊 since 羊 is part of her name. I have chosen to lean into the “soft” and “mild-mannered” meanings for the nickname, though the actual combination [绵绵 - miánmian] means “continuous.” ^{go back⤴}
2. 戌时 - xūshí: 7 pm – 9 pm (in the system of two-hour subdivisions, called shíchén, used in former times). ^{go back⤴}
   Source: Waffle's Glossary of Chinese Terms on AO3, second chapter ‘Distance and Time.’
3. 兄長 - xiōngzhǎng: (literary) term of respect for one's older brother. ^{go back⤴}
4. The three poisons in Buddhism are the three kleshas—mental/spiritual blocks—that are thought to lead to all negative states of being. They are ignorance (Avidyā), greed or sensual attachment (Raga), and hatred or aversion (Dvesha). This is what Jiāng Wǎnyín named his sword, Sāndú, after. Lán Wàngjī is specifically referencing Raga (towards Wèi Wúxiàn) and Dvesha (towards Wēn Níng) in this moment (poor guy… he really makes himself suffer huh). ^{go back⤴}
   Source: Wikipedia article on the Three poisons.

Chapter Text

“Ah, lǎo​gōng​, Your Excellency—”

“Wēn Níng,” he interrupted, nearly breathless. “With you, I am only Wēn Níng, nothing else.”

“Wēn Níng,” they whispered, curling a hand into the hair at the base of his neck and pressing their lips back together.

Wēn Níng groaned as Wèi Wúxiàn sucked on his bottom lip, grazing it with their teeth before slipping their tongue inside. It was a little awkward at first as Wēn Níng figured out what to do with his own tongue, and Wèi Wúxiàn felt no small amount of smug pride that they were his first kiss.

He was not theirs—that honor went to Fēng Yí​rán, one of their freshman year classmates that they had drunkenly—and sloppily—made out with at a party. Wèi Wúxiàn may have never dated someone seriously, but Drunk Wèi Wúxiàn loved to makeout, so they at least had some experience. More than the Emperor, which was something they would never forget. Wēn Níng proved to be a quick learner, though, and soon Wèi Wúxiàn was feeling far too hot in their layers of silk.

“Off,” they mumbled, slick lips sliding against Wēn Níng’s with every syllable as they struggled to untie their belt.

Wēn Níng rested his forehead against Wèi Wúxiàn’s for a breath. Warm, calloused hands moved to Wèi Wúxiàn’s waist, trembling slightly as he ran them across their belt. His hands could almost touch, nearly engulfing Wèi Wúxiàn’s entire waist within their span. A shiver went down Wèi Wúxiàn’s spine and they had to bite back the obscene moan that threatened to bubble up their throat.

Since when do I have a size kink?!

Their thoughts were interrupted by the impatient growl from Wēn Níng’s chest as he struggled to untie the straps of their bra (mò​xiōng, Jīn Xuányǔ’s memories helpfully supplied). Wèi Wúxiàn couldn’t help the amused huff from their nose as Wēn Níng blindly tugged at the ties on their back. They turned around in his arms and the mò​xiōng quickly fell, joining their surcoat and undershirt in a pile on the ground.

Wèi Wúxiàn paused as they realized they were bare from the waist up. This felt different than the times Luó Qīngyáng or another maid helped them get dressed in the morning. Though Wèi Wúxiàn had been trying to give themself exposure therapy by looking at their new body at least once a day in the mirror, they couldn’t help the sour feeling in their stomach at the thought of Wēn Níng seeing this body.

It sounded silly even in their head, but Wèi Wúxiàn had forgotten the differences between their modern body and Jīn Xuányǔ’s. When this all started, they had subconsciously been working on the idea that there would be two dicks involved here. But Wèi Wúxiàn very obviously did not have a dick, and the wetness in their pants was not precome. Their spiral was interrupted by a soft kiss to their bare shoulder. A warm hand settled over their stomach, not moving to their waistband but remaining a heavy, comforting weight on their body. It was grounding.

“Niáng​zǐ?” Wēn Níng murmured.

The endearment normally made Wèi Wúxiàn feel light and fizzly, but now it stung. He didn’t want to be a wife right now.

“Ā-Xiàn,” Wèi Wúxiàn whispered, voice hoarse with emotion. He cleared his throat and repeated it louder. “Call me Ā-Xiàn.”

Wēn Níng stilled behind him, and Wèi Wúxiàn braced himself to be pushed away. The moment passed, and Wēn Níng pulled him closer, pressing Wèi Wúxiàn’s back to his chest.

“Ā-Xiàn, tell me what’s wrong,” he said into his ear.

Wèi Wúxiàn shuddered and let out a whimper. Yes, that felt right. That was good. He muddled through his mind to pin down what else could give him that feeling.

“I want—” he gasped as Wēn Níng nibbled on his ear. “I want the—the mò​xiōng back on. You can take everything else off, but I want to keep that on.”

“Alright,” Wēn Níng replied, so gentle and understanding that Wèi Wúxiàn wanted to cry. “Do you want me to help you?” he asked, keeping his hands on his waist and not going up or below, and Wèi Wúxiàn felt so safe and so loved he could barely breathe.

“Yes, please,” he said, voice thick with suppressed tears.

Wēn Níng leaned down and picked back up the mò​xiōng, allowing Wèi Wúxiàn to position the garment over his chest before lacing it up in the back. He pressed two fingers between Wèi Wúxiàn’s back and the silk, making sure it wasn’t too tight, before placing one last kiss, right between Wèi Wúxiàn’s shoulder blades, and turning him around.

“Ā-Xiàn,” Wēn Níng breathed out, taking in the tear tracks Wèi Wúxiàn hadn’t managed to keep back with a concerned frown. He rubbed them away with his thumbs as he cupped his face, forcing Wèi Wúxiàn to meet his eyes. “We don’t—you don’t have to…”

He trailed off when Wèi Wúxiàn firmly shook his head.

“I want to. It’s just… I’ve never done this before, and there are some—things that I don’t, um, that don’t feel good to remember I have them. I don’t…” they trailed off, trying to find a way to put everything into words Wēn Níng could understand. “I don’t feel like a woman right now, and I don’t want to feel like one. That feels bad. It doesn’t most of the time, but right now…”

“Okay,” Wēn Níng said. “Alright, that’s alright. Do you—do you feel like, like a man?”

“Not really,” Wèi Wúxiàn said, their tone petulant this time. “Ugh, it’s too confusing. Just kiss me?”

Wēn Níng couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up.

“I can do that,” he said, and pressed their lips together again.

This time, when Wēn Níng’s hands went to their waist ties, Wèi Wúxiàn felt nothing but burning desire. Their hands went up to clutch at Wēn Níng’s surcoat before they began pushing it off his broad shoulders with urgency. Wēn Níng chuckled, deep and melodic, as Wèi Wúxiàn struggled to multitask. He stepped back and shucked off both his surcoat and his undershirt, leaving him in a white chest cover that did things to Wèi Wúxiàn.¹

As he began untying his skirts, Wèi Wúxiàn finally stepped out of their underskirts, leaving them in their white pants and the mò​xiōng. They watched with rapt attention as Wēn Níng reached back to untie his chest cover and nearly began drooling as his arms and shoulders flexed with the motion. He noticed their gaze and flushed a pretty pink. Wèi Wúxiàn’s resolve broke and within moments their hands were pulling at the waistband of his shorts, the white fabric around his bulge almost sheer from his precome.

“Wait, Ā-Xiàn,” he gasped, chest cover fluttering to the ground as he grabbed at their wrists. They seemed so small and delicate in his strong hold, and Wèi Wúxiàn felt something trickle down their thighs. “Wait,” he repeated, firmer this time, and held their wrists up to his chest, stopping their descent.

Wèi Wúxiàn looked up at him, impatience bubbling beneath their skin. Their neck hurt as they craned their head up to look at him, and they cursed his tall height even as it made their thighs clench.

“I want to do this right,” he said, so earnestly it made Wèi Wúxiàn’s chest burn with the force of their adoration. “We don’t have to do anything that would make you…” he trailed off, uncertainty clouding his warm eyes.

Wèi Wúxiàn was suddenly struck with the realization that they had more experience—and likely more knowledge—about all of this than he did. Having a doctor as a sister, Wēn Níng likely understood the mechanics of sex, but Wèi Wúxiàn had nearly a decade of porn under their belt. Sure, sex in real life was different than porn, whatever; it still somewhat applied, though.

With a salacious grin, Wèi Wúxiàn pushed Wēn Níng onto the bed and climbed on top of him, lining up their hips so they could grind their ass onto Wēn Níng’s dick with ease. They both groaned at the contact. Wēn Níng settled his hands to rest on their hips with a tight grip and looked up at them, plush lips slightly parted and eyes so dilated they were nearly black.

Wèi Wúxiàn looked down at him, their ponytail swaying to rest on one shoulder, and bit down on their lip as they moved back and ground down harder. They watched as Wēn Níng’s eyes fluttered close, the muscles in his neck tensing as he groaned. Repeating the action, Wèi Wúxiàn took in every reaction from their husband, from the almost bruising grip on their hips to the way his blush traveled down his chest. Wèi Wúxiàn sat up on their heels, taking the pressure off completely, and trailed their fingers down the fine, slightly darker hairs beneath his navel and teasingly dipped beneath the waistband of his pants before fluttering back up.

“Ā-Xiàn, please,” Wēn Níng begged, voice strained as he bucked his hips.

“Patience, lǎo​gōng​,” Wèi Wúxiàn purred and patted his chest consolingly with one hand while the other finally tugged the waistband ties loose.

They got off Wēn Níng’s lap to pull their own pants down, doing their best to focus on him and not on their body. It worked, somewhat. They straddled him once they were both naked but stayed on their heels to hover over Wēn Níng’s stomach. His hands immediately found purchase on their hips once more. Wèi Wúxiàn took one and trailed it down their own thigh before brushing his calloused fingers over their folds.

“This is my dick,” they said, brushing his fingers over the sensitive nub that was throbbing with need. They had to bite back a moan at the light sensation and continued moving his fingers down. “And this is my hole.”

Wēn Níng bucked his hips up with a loud moan, eyes nearly rolling back as his fingers dipped into Wèi Wúxiàn’s slick hole. He refocused on Wèi Wúxiàn and hesitated, asking them a silent question. Wèi Wúxiàn responded by grinding their hips onto his fingers, and he slipped a finger inside. It was tight despite how wet Wèi Wúxiàn was, and the slight sting made them hiss. Wēn Níng was so gentle as he stretched them open, and before Wèi Wúxiàn even realized it he had fit three of his larger fingers in them.

It felt very different from when Wèi Wúxiàn had masterbated with his cock or the few times he’d been adventurous and stretched himself open on two fingers. It felt fine, he guessed, but it wasn’t amazing. Then, Wēn Níng rubbed his thumb over the base of his dick just as his fingers crooked inside him to scratch at something deep inside him and Wèi Wúxiàn nearly came.

“Oh, fuck!” he cried, his hips twitching at the new sensation. “Right there! Ā-Níng, do that again—”

Wēn Níng obeyed, and Wèi Wúxiàn’s eyes rolled back as he attempted not to come undone so prematurely. A rational part of his mind said that he could probably come multiple times, but Wèi Wúxiàn wanted more first. He planted his palms on Wēn Níng’s chest and lifted his hips up, forcing Wēn Níng’s fingers out of his hole. Moving one hand back, Wèi Wúxiàn gathered some of the slick glistening his pubic hair and grabbed Wēn Níng’s hard, weeping cock.

Wēn Níng cried out and bucked up, nearly dislodging Wèi Wúxiàn from their precarious perch above him. They pinched his nipple in punishment, pulling a guttural moan from their husband. Once they were stable again, Wèi Wúxiàn carefully lined up their hole to his cock and began to sink down. They whimpered as it burned despite the prep, but they kept going. Their eyes fluttered close and they finally bottomed out, thighs clutching at Wēn Níng’s hips and toes digging into the sheets for better purchase.

When they opened their eyes again, they looked down to see their husband almost whimpering, jaw clenched tight and chest heaving with breaths as he held himself back from thrusting up into them.

“Oh, you’re doing so good,” Wèi Wúxiàn breathed, and they missed the way Wēn Níng nearly came just from those words.

Wèi Wúxiàn leaned down and pressed a butterfly kiss to his nose before engaging their thighs, lifting themself off his dick, and falling back down.

“Oh, fuck,” they groaned, hips jolting and grinding their dick against Wēn Níng’s pelvis.

“Ā-Xiàn, please,” Wēn Níng begged again, panting with effort. “I need—let me—”

Wèi Wúxiàn planted both hands on his chest and began moving. They ground down on his cock, eyelids fluttering at the pleasure of feeling him so deep, before lifting up and slamming back down. The slapping sound of their sweat-slick skin filled the room as Wèi Wúxiàn tried to remember what the women did when riding their partners in all the porn they had watched.

They opened their eyes to look back at their husband and came to the decision that this wasn’t all that bad. In fact, Wèi Wúxiàn could almost say with full confidence that this was better than any masturbation they had done before. They more than liked the feeling of his cock filling up their hole, their wet walls clenching and pulsing around him every time their dick rubbed against his coarse hair.

While they were distracted, Wēn Níng bent his knees and planted his feet on the bed so that he could thrust up in time with Wèi Wúxiàn’s motions. Wèi Wúxiàn wailed, nails scratching at his chest as they lost purchase and collapsed forward. Wēn Níng took advantage of their surprise and flipped them over. The show of strength and agility made Wèi Wúxiàn moan and clench around him as they stared up with dazed eyes.

“Call me husband,” Wèi Wúxiàn whispered.

“So good,” Wēn Níng moaned as he thrust in. “My husband is so good to me.”

Sparks traveled up Wèi Wúxiàn’s spine, causing them to arch up and grasp uselessly at the sheets.

“Yeah,” they sighed. “That’s good.”

Wēn Níng bent down and clashed their teeth together in an uncoordinated kiss that seemed to deepen with his every thrust into their squelching wet hole. Wèi Wúxiàn moved their hands to scratch and clutch at his muscled shoulders. He bent their legs up with his large hands and pinned them up near their chest, hips continuing to thrust into them. Wèi Wúxiàn arched up with a cry when his cock brushed against something in their walls that sent sparks through them.

“Touch me,” Wèi Wúxiàn cried. “Please! I need—”

They cut off with a choked moan as Wēn Níng moved a hand down to circle at their dick.

“Harder, tigh—tighter circles,” they instructed through pants. “Yeah, right there. Fuck, that feels—I’m—”

“So handsome,” Wēn Níng gasped. “Come for me, Ā-Xiàn. So good, such a good husband—”

Wèi Wúxiàn cried out, their entire body stiffening up and eyes rolling back as a pleasure unlike anything they’ve ever felt overcame them. They spasmed as Wēn Níng continued his thrusts, messy and uncoordinated until he stilled and something hot filled them up. Wèi Wúxiàn shuddered, another warm wave of pleasure overtaking them at the feeling of being filled.

They collapsed onto the bed, chest heaving as they gasped for breath. Wēn Níng stumbled forward, pressing his face into their sweaty neck as he tried to avoid putting all his weight on them. Wèi Wúxiàn wriggled their hands up and pulled him fully onto them, sighing at the comforting pressure. They knew they would feel sticky and gross as all the cum and slick started to dry, but for now they wanted to enjoy the afterglow.

“Thank you,” they whispered into Wēn Níng’s hair and pressed a kiss there.

“‘S good?” he mumbled into the skin of their neck.

“Yeah,” they sighed happily. “So good. My perfect husband.”

Wēn Níng’s arms tightened around them and Wèi Wúxiàn laughed, heart full.

1. It’s just really important to me that everyone sees My Vision of Wēn Níng in this historical men’s underwear set.
   
   Thanks. You can go back to the porn now. ^{go back⤴}

Chapter Text

“Chief Commander Lán,” Jīn Zixuān greeted with a polite nod.

“Lady Jīn.”

They stood side by side on the porch, watching on as the Emperor and Empress sipped tea and chatted in the gardens. This was their last day in the Summer Palace, and Lán Wàngjī was grateful for it. He hated this place, though he reluctantly admitted most of that hatred was due to the harsh reality he was forced to face in these halls and less the actual place.

Ever since that night, the Emperor and Empress had become much closer than before, both physically and emotionally. The mean, petty part of him thought that this development wouldn’t last once they returned to Búyètiān Chéng, but the part of him that cared for Jīn Xuányǔ worried about her heart if this did come to pass.

“Is she happy?” Lán Wàngjī asked quietly.

Jīn Zixuān paused, and they both watched Jīn Xuányǔ nearly fall off her cushion as she laughed with her whole body at something the Emperor had said.

“Yes,” she eventually replied. “I think she is. Far happier than I’ve ever seen her, in fact.”

His heart sank.

“But there’s something different about her,” Jīn Zixuān continued, her brows furrowed in thought. “Luó Qīngyáng sees it as well. Ever since that night before the wedding, she has been different. Her mood swings in ways it never did, and the cousin I knew as quiet and predictable became loud and temperamental. Something changed—perhaps even broke—that first night at the lake.” She shook her head as if to swat away the thoughts. “But it doesn’t matter. None of it does, as long as she’s happy.”

Lán Wàngjī couldn’t find it in himself to agree, but stayed silent. From the guards’ accounts of that night, there had been blood on Jīn Xuányǔ’s robes yet they hadn’t found any wounds. At the courtyard, Jīn Xuányǔ claimed she tried to take her own life, carving her last words into her own forearm. Something wasn’t right.

As he watched Jīn Xuányǔ playfully lean her head on the Emperor’s shoulder and seductively bat her eyelashes up at him, he remembered seeing a dark ritual in the Forbidden Library at Yúnshēn Bùzhīchù that involved water to summon a malevolent spirit or demon to do the caster’s bidding. His knuckles creaked with the force of his hold around Bìchén’s grip.

Later that night, Lán Wàngjī was finally able to corner the Empress alone. The Emperor and his lackeys left after dinner to finish preparations for their trip back to Qíshān in the morning; Jīn Zixuān and Luó Qīngyáng were doing the same, leaving Lán Wàngjī to entertain the Empress’ ever-fleeting attention span. Jīn Xuányǔ used to be able to sit perfectly still and embroider for hours. Now, she couldn’t seem to stop moving for even a moment, always in motion in some way.

Lán Wàngjī tried to convince himself he didn’t find it endearing. This wasn’t Jīn Xuányǔ, he was certain of it now. He would find out who—or what—had taken over Xiǎoyīng’s body by whatever means necessary. One hand resting on Bìchén’s pommel, Lán Wàngjī walked up to the Empress as she was attempting to skip rocks over the water (it wasn’t going well, thanks to the tide).

“You are not Jīn Xuányǔ,” he stated, and watched as the Empress stiffened.

“What are you talking about?” she asked, keeping her gaze on the ocean. “Of course I am.”

“No, you are not. You came from the lake that night.”

The Empress remained silent.

“You took what is not yours; you continue to take. Where is Xiǎoyīng?”

“I—”

Lán Wàngjī refused to let this demon speak. “No. I do not care what your intentions are. Leave this place, or I will force you to.”

“I can’t!”

He huffed and slid Bìchén several fingers width from its sheath. “Ignorant, lustful demon,” he spat.¹ “Leave!”

“I didn’t ask to be here!” the Empress shouted, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Your precious Xiǎoyīng was ready to kill herself to leave this wretched place, and instead she forced me to take her place! She’s out there in my body, in my world, in my life taking what should have been mine, and left me here to scramble my way through all this bullshit completely alone! She took everything from me! So don’t you fucking dare call me the demon.”

She heaved, the collar of her robes wet from tears and snot and spit. Her eyes were shiny with tears and hid none of the heartbreak and betrayal that warped her normally-smiling face. Despite it all, Lán Wàngjī felt his heart ache at her obvious pain.

“I didn’t take anything,” she whispered, voice hoarse. “There was nothing for me to fucking take. You claim you love your Xiǎoyīng so much, yet she was so miserable here she would have rather died than continue on. What were you doing when she tried to kill herself the night before her fucking wedding? Where were you when she actually needed you, Lán Wàngjī?”

She spat his name like a curse, and he couldn’t help but flinch back.

“Fuck you.”

The Empress turned sharply and left without another word, leaving Lán Wàngjī behind.

His wife was unusually quiet as they climbed into the palanquin together. The past week they spent in the Summer Palace already felt like a sweet dream to Wēn Qiónglín now that they were leaving, and he wished it never had to end.

Their first night together was… admittedly not what Wēn Qiónglín initially expected, but it was magical all the same; as were the times after that. He had especially enjoyed that morning, when—

“I know you’re working with the rebellion,” Jīn Xuányǔ broke the silence, and Wēn Qiónglín froze.

“Ah, niáng​zǐ, I’m afraid I—”

“Don’t lie to me, lǎo​gōng​,” she said, the words fond but tinged with an exhaustion that made his chest clench with concern. “I heard you talking with your sister about leading the court away from Sāndú Shèngshǒu. I didn’t understand at the time, but I’ve put the pieces together.”

“I see,” Wēn Qiónglín said. A month ago, this admittance would have immediately proved all of his worries about his wife being his enemy. Now, Wēn Qiónglín waited to hear what else she had to say before casting judgment.

“I want to help,” Jīn Xuányǔ firmly stated, her shoulders set with determination.

There wasn’t a hint of fear on her face as she resolved to work directly against her family, who had just tried to kill her little more than a week ago. Wēn Qiónglín felt an abundance of pride at his wife’s courage and struggled to keep his face from appearing too elated.

“Of course,” he said, perhaps a little too earnestly given the blush quickly rising on Jīn Xuányǔ’s thin face. “I will discuss with Xiǎo Xīngchén and Sòng Zǐchēn at the next meeting and—”

“Meeting? Secret meeting?”

Her eyes gleamed with mischief and curiosity, pushing back the melancholy that had been draped over her. Wēn Qiónglín would do anything to keep her like this—happy and exuberant.

“Yes, secret meetings. Perhaps I will bring you to the next one and we can all discuss the best role for you going forward.”

“Do you wear your sexy ninja outfits to these secret meetings?” she pressed.

“Sexy ninja…?” Wēn Qiónglín tried to make sense of the words.

“Ah, whatever.” She waved her hand. “Yes, I want to come to your super secret meetings. Oh, how fun!”

He wasn’t sure there was anything fun about committing treason and hiding from the Jīn, who wouldn’t hesitate to kill them if they knew, but he couldn't bring himself to dampen his wife’s newly-uplifted mood.

“What’s wrong?” Jīn Guāngyáo murmured as she laid her head on Lán Xīchén’s shoulder.

Lán Xīchén sighed and wrapped an arm around her, holding her close to his side beneath the sheets.

“Nothing,” he said slowly, choosing his words carefully. “I’m just worried about Wàngjī.”

“If this is about Zixuān…”

“No, no, it’s not—this isn’t about Lady Jīn.” He laughed mirthlessly. “Turns out I do not know my brother’s heart as well as I thought, that’s all.”

Jīn Guāngyáo didn’t respond for a moment, quietly putting the puzzle pieces together. “I’m sure there’s no need to worry so much, Ā-Huàn. Chief Commander Lán is a noble and handsome man, and he’s still young. He’ll find a good wife in due time.”

“Láns only love once,” he whispered, voice breaking over the last word. “Ah, but you’re probably right. I’m just being an overly worried older brother.”

He looked down at her with a tense smile that eased when she soothingly caressed his bare chest with her hand.

“How about I help you relieve some of those worries, hm?” she hummed with a dimpled smile.

As Jīn Guāngyáo moved to straddle him, she began mentally shifting her plan. Lán Wàngjī wasn’t in love with Jīn Zixuān, but someone else, someone even more unattainable than her bastard sister. With Lán Wàngjī’s rather small pool of friends, it didn’t take much for Jīn Guāngyáo to accurately guess the situation without any more information from Lán Xīchén.

These Lán brothers truly were like twins, but perhaps weren’t as pure and cold like the jade everyone thought they were. It was almost too easy, Jīn Guāngyáo thought to herself with a slight smirk that disappeared as she leaned down to Lán Xīchén’s quivering lips.

Twenty Fourth day of the Ninth Month; Day 107

Wèi Wúxiàn turned in the mirror, admiring his figure at different angles. After getting a written note alongside their morning tea about two days after returning from the Summer Palace, which only gave him a time and place—the evening of the full moon, about three days away, at the old warehouse that was used to store weapons for the common army—Wèi Wúxiàn had immediately sent Luó Qīngyáng to get him a new set of robes.

These ones had a black surcoat with red inner layers that created a layering effect with the crossed collars that Wèi Wúxiàn really liked. He had Jīn Zixuān tie his mò​xiōng tighter than usual, compressing his small breasts even further. With the layered collars, tight waist tie, and the square cut around his shoulders, Wèi Wúxiàn almost felt like he was in his old body. Without the makeup and his hair pulled back into a masculine top knot, his new face even looked more handsome than delicate. He couldn’t help the satisfied smile that stretched his lips, rolling his shoulders back and attaching his sword to his belt. When he turned around, Jīn Zixuān and Luó Qīngyáng were gaping at him.

“Wow,” Luó Qīngyáng breathed out. “You look—”

She cut herself off, seeming to struggle with finding the right words.

“Dashing? Handsome?” Wèi Wúxiàn smirked and crossed his hands across his chest, admiring how flat it felt. “Mysterious, perhaps? Ready for a super secret meeting about—”

“You should get going, Your Imperial Highness,” Jīn Zixuān cut him off before he could say anything blasphemous.

“Yes,” Wèi Wúxiàn said, bouncing on his toes in excitement. “Alright, you know the drill. If anyone asks, I'm in my study and have demanded not to be bothered.”

He slipped out the window of his bedroom and pulled himself up to the roof, disappearing into the night.

“So no different than usual,” Luó Qīngyáng mumbled under her breath as she watched him go. Jīn Zixuān slapped her arm but didn’t disagree.

When Wèi Wúxiàn slipped into the warehouse there were already three figures huddled around a low table. There was a game of chūpú set out on the table, though no one was currently playing. Using his qì to lighten his footsteps, Wèi Wúxiàn walked over to the group as silently as possible. He got about one zhàng away before all three men startled and pulled their swords, making Wèi Wúxiàn laugh.² They visibly stuttered for a long moment as they initially failed to recognize him.

“...Niáng​zǐ?” Wēn Níng said, his voice threaded with disbelief.

“Can’t recognize your own wife?” Wèi Wúxiàn teased, still grinning wide as he settled at the table next to Wēn Níng.

It was clear all three of them truly hadn’t recognized him at first. Xiǎo Xīngchén was gaping like a fish and Sòng Zǐchēn looked as though his brain was overheating like an old computer attempting to run Sims 4; the longer Wēn Níng stared at Wèi Wúxiàn, the redder his face became. Wèi Wúxiàn silently preened at their reactions.

“So,” he said brightly, snapping them out of their dazes. “What exactly are we planning?”

Wēn Níng stumbled on his words as he tried to focus back on the topic he had been discussing before Wèi Wúxiàn’s arrival.

“Well, we are currently waiting on more intel to arrive from Sāndú Shèngshǒu about the rebellion’s movements,” he explained. “So until then, we can’t do much but talk in theoreticals.”

“How long until we get that information?” Wèi Wúxiàn asked.

“Depends,” Xiǎo Xīngchén replied. “Anything from four days to several weeks.”

“That long?!” Wèi Wúxiàn blanched.

Oh, how he missed cell phones. As he bemoaned the lack of instant messaging, he remembered a spell he’d read about in a textbook, developed about a hundred years after the Yílíng Lǎozǔ by a descendent of one of his pupils.

“Have any of you met Sāndú Shèngshǒu?” he asked.

“I have,” Wēn Níng said. “He is an upstanding man, if a little—rash.”

Wèi Wúxiàn wasn’t listening to his response beyond the first two words, however. He patted down his robes, muttering to himself.

“Any of you have a piece of copper wire?” he asked.

He was met with confused silence, which he ignored in favor of looking around the room. Eventually, he was able to peel off a small strand of copper wire from the pommel of a sword. He scribbled on a talisman and set it down on the table in front of Wēn Níng, placing the copper wire on top.

“Alright, you have twenty-five characters to say something to Sāndú Shèngshǒu.³ Place two fingers on the radical for ‘speak’ and think of him before channeling your qì into the talisman and speak aloud your twenty-five characters.”

Wēn Níng looked at the talisman curiously before hesitantly placing his fingers on the radical.

“Sāndú Shèngshǒu, this is Wēn Qiónglín. Where are you heading and what are your—”

The talisman and the copper wire burnt up, having reached the character limit. Almost instantly, Wēn Qiónglín received a response in his mind.

“What the fuck!? What kind of sorcery is this? Is this a demonic trick? I will find you and—”

The message cut off abruptly, but Wēn Níng had no doubt in his mind that the voice belonged to Sāndú Shèngshǒu. He stared at Wèi Wúxiàn in wonder.

“Can this work for anyone?” he asked, still in awe at the implications of such a spell.

“Technically yes, though you have to be familiar with the person you are trying to speak to,” Wèi Wúxiàn said.

“And you can speak to them anywhere?”

“I mean, it takes more qì the further you are away, but yeah, you could talk to anyone you know no matter where they are. The only downside is that you have to speak in order to cast it,” Wèi Wúxiàn broke off into mumbles at the end.

“Amazing,” Wēn Níng breathed out. “Show me how to make it.”

Startled out of his reverie, Wèi Wúxiàn obliged. Soon, Xiǎo Xīngchén and Sòng Zǐchēn were standing at opposite ends of the room sending each other messages in their minds. By zǐshí, they already had plans on distributing the SMS talisman (named by Wèi Wúxiàn, who giggled to himself at the reference) to the rest of the rebellion.⁴

“This will change everything,” Xiǎo Xīngchén had said with amazement.

“Yes,” Sòng Zǐchēn agreed.

Wèi Wúxiàn refrained from making any commentary. To be honest, he didn’t know if this would change very much. Was this even the same timeline he was from? Would anything change, or would history as he remembered it continue on exactly the same?

He wasn’t sure.

Twenty Ninth day of the Ninth Month; Day 112

As their fourth month since arriving in the past came to an end, Wèi Wúxiàn felt an intense homesickness overcome them. It didn’t click as to why until Luó Qīngyáng mentioned the potential for frost in the coming weeks. After some quick math, Wèi Wúxiàn found the reason for their melancholy.

“Ah,” they whispered to themself as they watched brown leaves crumble to the ground, autumn coming to an end. “It’s my birthday today.”⁵

Or, it would be.

Jīn Xuányǔ’s birthday was actually in the spring, but Wèi Wúxiàn of the modern world had been born in the early morning on Halloween, not that their family had ever celebrated it. In the past, their parents had always strived to be home for Wèi Wúxiàn’s birthday. There were a few years where they hadn’t made it in time, but for the most part Wèi Wúxiàn had spent their birthdays with their parents.

Wèi Wúxiàn had been allowed to pick what activity they did that day—the zoo, aquarium, play gyms, vacations; nothing was off limits for their birthday. But even as a kid, Wèi Wúxiàn had always chosen to stay home with their parents. They requested breakfast in bed without fail, specifically their father’s sesame paste bāo​zi, and would wake up early to snuggle in between their parents until they woke up. For the rest of the day, Wèi Wúxiàn chose to do small activities nearby that they saw their friends do with their parents regularly. Some years they went to the park or the movies, others they stayed home and played video games. For dinner they would eat longevity noodles at home and eat a small birthday cake from a local bakery. Their mother always joked that Wèi Wúxiàn was an easy kid to please.

As Wèi Wúxiàn got older, their parents still spent at least an evening with them on their birthday. Sometimes they would go out to eat, but most of the time Wèi Wúxiàn had their parents come to their apartment and cook dinner together. This would be their first year not celebrating with their parents in over ten years, Wèi Wúxiàn realized. The one thing Wèi Wúxiàn looked forward to every year, taken from them so easily.

Luó Qīngyáng and Jīn Zixuān noticed their suddenly melancholic mood but couldn’t figure out the reason as to why. They tried to lift their spirits but visibly struggled without knowing the cause. In the end, Luó Qīngyáng brought Wèi Wúxiàn to the kitchens and threw the problem at Jiāng Wǎnyín.

“Her Imperial Highness is rather moody today,” she hissed. “Do something about it!”

“Me?!” Jiāng Wǎnyín replied, looking startled and a little afraid. “What am I supposed to do about it?”

“I don’t know! She’s always in a better mood when she’s cooking with you. I can’t look at her sad puppy eyes anymore. Please, Chef Jiāng.”

Jiāng Wǎnyín glanced at Wèi Wúxiàn, who was morosely stirring a pot of congee, and sighed.

“Alright, fine. I’ll think of something.”

Jīn Zixuān hovered nervously around Wèi Wúxiàn, worried that their melancholic haze could lead to a terrible kitchen accident. When Jiāng Wǎnyín walked up to the Empress, Jīn Zixuān startled at his presence and flushed pink.

“Ah, Chef Jiāng,” she awkwardly greeted.

“Lady Jīn,” Jiāng Wǎnyín said with a respectful bow that Jīn Zixuān hurried to replicate. “Your Imperial Highness.”

Wèi Wúxiàn hummed absently. Jiāng Wǎnyín visibly stuttered at the uncharacteristically absent greeting, but rallied himself quickly.

“Your Imperial Highness, we just received the last of the osmanthus blooms for the season. I intended to make osmanthus sweet rice wine with the remaining blossoms, if Her Imperial Highness was interested.”

Wèi Wúxiàn visibly perked up.

“Wine? You’re making wine?”

Jiāng Wǎnyín nodded.

“Lead the way, kind sir!” Wèi Wúxiàn said, a smile tugging on their lips.

Luó Qīngyáng breathed a sigh of relief, while Jīn Zixuān stared at Jiāng Wǎnyín in awe. Jiāng Wǎnyín accidentally met Jīn Zixuān’s eyes and quickly looked away, his ears and the back of his neck flushing red. The Empress ignored all of them in favor of asking Jiāng Wǎnyín rapid-fire questions about his wine-making techniques.

“I have already soaked the sweet rice for two nights,” he explained and gestured to a large clay pot set in the corner of the kitchen. “We had some black rice imported from the south that I used, though there wasn’t enough so I substituted half with regular white sweet rice. Black rice is harder so it needs to soak longer, so I soaked it for a day longer before adding the white rice.”⁶

Wèi Wúxiàn nodded along seriously. “You’ll need to steam in next, correct?”

“Yes, Your Imperial Highness,” Jiāng Wǎnyín confirmed. He had long stopped being surprised by Wèi Wúxiàn’s uncharacteristically vast knowledge of cooking. “I already have some of the staff cleaning the fermenting jar and have fresh boiled water cooling.”

“I’ll steam the rice,” Wèi Wúxiàn said, already moving to the stove. “You add the blossoms towards the end, right?”

“That is correct, Your Imperial Highness.”

“Just watch, Chef Jiāng! This will be the best wine you’ll ever taste!”

Jiāng Wǎnyín smiled at Wèi Wúxiàn before leaving them to manage the dinner preparations. Jīn Zixuān watched him leave for a long moment before going to join Luó Qīngyáng on the outskirts of the kitchen, watching as the Empress moved around the kitchen and focused on their assigned task, their previously sad expression replaced with one of contentment.

Soon enough, the cooked rice, osmanthus flowers, and sterilized water were placed into the fermentation jar and set into the cellar to ferment.

“Ah, I want to drink it now,” Wèi Wúxiàn mournfully whined as the servants carried the jar away. “How terrible!”

“It will be ready in a week, Your Imperial Highness,” Luó Qīngyáng consoled. “You can drink to your heart's content then.”

“You promise?” Wèi Wúxiàn cajoled.

Luó Qīngyáng had a feeling she would regret making this promise, but she wouldn’t be able to bear it if the Empress’ melancholic mood returned. “Yes, I promise.”

Wèi Wúxiàn heaved a deep sigh before taking off their apron. “Fine, I’ll try to be patient. But I expect to have at least eight cups of that wine, Miánmian! No less!”

“As you wish, Your Imperial Highness.”

Luó Qīngyáng turned to follow Wèi Wúxiàn out of the kitchens but stopped when Jīn Zixuān wasn’t moving.

“Lady Jīn?” she called.

Jīn Zixuān startled from where she’d been watching Jiāng Wǎnyín, who was trying very hard not to notice her obvious staring, and flushed bright red.

“Ah, yes. Um. Goodbye, Chef Jiāng.”

She hurriedly bowed and rushed away before Jiāng Wǎnyín could respond.

Kneeling in front of this house was familiar to Lán Wàngjī. Before, it had been out of naive stubbornness and pointless hope. As Lán Wàngjī grew older, he continued to kneel outside his mother’s house as a form of self-reflection and meditation. His uncle and brother both gave up trying to dissuade his habit long ago.

This time, Lán Wàngjī stared at the Gentian House that had imprisoned his mother for nearly a decade and failed to get the Empress’ betrayed expression from his mind. He thought seeing his mother’s house would be comforting, relieving his worries about following this righteous path forward. Instead, the sight of the overgrown garden, its blooms long-wilted, made the guilt in his chest sink down to his gut.⁷

Lán Wàngjī closed his eyes and attempted to meditate on the feeling, hoping to ease it, but found he couldn’t clear his mind. Meditation usually came rather easy to him, so it was abnormal that his mind was unable to quiet. The bell for the midday meal rang, but Lán Wàngjī ignored it. After several long minutes of failed meditation, Lán Wàngjī finally stood up and began to walk away from the Gentian House when he felt the sudden, intense urge to enter his mother’s house for the first time since her death.

He paused. Everyone would be at the grand hall eating lunch, so there wouldn’t be anyone walking about at this time to stop him—most disciples were instructed to avoid this area anyway. Lán Wàngjī, rather uncharacteristically, surrendered to the urge and stepped up onto the rotting porch of his mother’s cottage. The wards that once surrounded the house had long been dismantled, so there was nothing to stop Lán Wàngjī from sliding the door open and stepping inside.

The screen door made a terrible grinding noise as it got stuck on the dust and dirt in the tracks, but Lán Wàngjī was patient and used his strength to force it open enough to step inside. A thick layer of dust covered the interior like white mourning sheets. There was very little furniture in the room; a chest of drawers and a broken bookshelf on one wall, a narrow and low wooden bed with rotted bedding in the corner, and a single, familiar low table in the center of the room.

He quietly took in the cottage that he hadn’t seen since he was barely nine years old. It was so much smaller than he remembered it being; there was barely enough room for one person to move around comfortably, much less entertain two children. Lán Wàngjī carefully stepped away from the door and walked towards the low table.

One of the floorboards creaked under his weight, and he was struck with a vivid memory of his mother teaching him and his brother a song to avoid the creaking floorboard. She had spun a wild tale about a family of mice that lived beneath it but were scared of loud noises, so they needed to step around the floorboard so the mice could continue to live happily. He had all but forgotten the song and the story until now.

He looked down at the floor, where his foot was still pressed onto a wooden board that was looser than the rest. Kneeling down in the dust, Lán Wàngjī pressed his nails into a divot near a corner of the wood plank and pulled. The board came up easily—too easily. Unaware of the tremor in his hands, Lán Wàngjī set the wooden board aside.

There, covered in dirt and cobwebs, was a tarnished silver box, not much larger than his hand. He numbly picked it up, wiping the surface clean with his sleeves. The box was locked tightly shut. When Lán Wàngjī touched the lid with his hand and channeled a spark of qì into the silver to investigate the nature of the lock, the box clicked open, recognizing his qì. He took a shuddering breath before delicately lifting the lid.

Inside was a thick stack of papers tied with a white ribbon, perfectly preserved. Atop the papers was a simple silver hairpin with a là​méi flower embossed with gold leaf on the decorative end.⁸ Lán Wàngjī stared at the contents for a long moment before he was startled by rustling leaves outside the open door. He closed the lid with extreme care and made sure it was locked before placing it into his qiánkūn sleeve. Placing the floorboard back, he messed up the footprints he’d made in the dust.

Heart beating in his ears, Lán Wàngjī slipped from the Gentian House and returned to his rooms. He waited until curfew to pull the box back out, carefully arranging the contents on his desk. Overcoming his hesitation of disrupting the last remaining personal effects of his mother not touched by the elders of his sect, he untied the ribbon and began to read.

Multiple sheaves of paper with faded graphite scribbles on the backs. The calligraphy is fine and precise, if a little shaky. There are dried water spots in some places but luckily didn’t cause any ink to bleed. It is dated on the evening of Lán Wàngjī’s sixth birthday.

A note on fine paper with gold leaf embossing along the edges, dated six months before Wēn Mùhuŏ’s public execution.

A scrap of paper torn roughly at the edges. Despite the ragged appearance, it is obvious the paper is of fine make. The beginnings of a royal crest is still visible in the bottom corner—just the barest hint of a golden peony.

A torn page from a book that described a music score meant to disrupt a cultivator’s qì and induce qì deviations. In the corner is a note written in hurried calligraphy.

An official missive from the imperial palace. The fine paper has been violently crumpled before being smoothed out again, creasing the ink in some places.

A half-finished note, the paper crumpled and dotted with ink stains.

A newer slip of paper, dated just three months before Xiè Jiāhuì’s death. It has a dirt mark, likely from a shoe, that has crumpled the fine paper as if it fell from a sleeve or stack without notice.

A letter that had once been folded into a paper crane, the creases still visible.

Layered with protective talismans, the letter shows no wear at all, so preserved it seems to have never been opened.

Ignoring the late hour, Lán Wàngjī stormed out of the Jìngshì and headed immediately to his brother’s residence, knowing Lán Xīchén would likely still be up.¹⁰ He clutched their mother’s letter close to his chest before slipping it into the sleeve of his surcoat. With the night watch schedule memorized, he easily avoided being seen as he approached Lán Xīchén’s residence.

He paused when he noticed the light on in his brother’s bedroom rather than his study. Something in his gut had him refrain from knocking and announcing his presence—that same feeling that had him enter his mother’s house. He pushed down the feeling of guilt from his subterfuge and promised to write lines as punishment before quietly creeping into his brother’s residence.

The study was empty, but there were voices coming from his brother’s bedroom. His chest tightened, and Lán Wàngjī despaired that he’d left Bìchén in his rooms. He kept his footsteps quiet, engaging his jīndān to give him unnatural agileness.

Through the open crack of the screen door, Lán Wàngjī saw his brother in bed, naked from the chest up, with someone curled under the sheets against his side. They were speaking too low for him to discern anything solid, but he recognized the tones of that voice. He took a clumsy step away in shock before fleeing from the house, but not before Jīn Guāngyáo caught the flutter of his robes pass by.

Lán Wàngjī left Yúnshēn Bùzhīchù that night, his mother’s silver box tucked safely away in his sleeve as he raced to Lánlíng. He needed answers.

Just before sunrise, Lán Wàngjī slipped past the guards and scaled the side of one of Jīnlín Tái’s many gilded towers. He entered Jīn Xuányǔ’s room through the window, bitterly grateful that her family had pushed her into one of the furthest towers where the guards rarely patrolled. Before it had enraged him, the clear neglect his friend’s family had towards her, but now he was benefiting from it.

With only a sliver of guilt, Lán Wàngjī searched her room, checking the floors for loose floorboards and the cabinets for false compartments but found nothing. He took a moment to think. Jīn Xuányǔ had to have hid things from her family. She’d returned to Jīnlín Tái a week before her wedding in order to prepare for the royal procession and his friend had always been much smarter than people assumed; Jīn Xuányǔ never would have hid things within the palace, knowing all too well that nothing was private in Búyètiān Chéng, especially not for the Empress.

Lán Wàngjī breathed in a sharp breath and immediately turned to the bed. Jīn Xuányǔ was very, very good at hiding in plain sight. She never would have used floorboards or secret compartments. He felt around the bedding before moving to the pillow. At one edge, he felt a seam that was thicker than the rest. He quickly and carefully pulled the seam apart and pulled out a familiar journal, the yellow silk cover worn with frequent use.¹¹ He’d gifted Jīn Xuányǔ that very journal for her birthday three years prior. A loose piece of paper fell from between the pages.

In place of a signature was a little drawing of an exotic bird, one he instantly recognized. Taking the note and the journal, Lán Wàngjī was far away from Jīnlín Tái before the sun lit up the towers in a blinding, golden glow.

1. Another reference to the three poisons, specifically Avidyā (ignorance) and Raga (sensual attachment). Lán Wàngjī totally isn’t projecting or anything… ^{go back⤴}
2. 丈 - zhàng: one zhàng is 3.33 meters or 3.5 yards. ^{go back⤴}
   Source: waffles_4_breakfast. “Waffle's Glossary of Chinese Terms.” ArchiveofOurOwn, 22 April 2022.
3. This is shamelessly appropriated from the Sending spell in D&D 5E. I’ve adjusted it so that it is 25 characters rather than words, as that makes more sense for the Mandarin-speaking setting. ^{go back⤴}
4. 子时 - zǐshí: 11 pm - 1 am (in the system of two-hour subdivisions, called shíchén, used in former times). ^{go back⤴}
5. All the MDZS character birthdays given to us are in the Gregorian calendar, but I’m using the lunisolar calendar for Reasons which is why the dates don’t align. How does Wèi Wúxiàn know it’s their birthday? They’ve been counting the days, baby. ^{go back⤴}
6. In Mr. Queen they make makgeolli, which is a slightly sparkling white rice wine. I was going to have them make lychee wine, but lychee season is in June-July. Osmanthus, however, bloom through autumn and are often used in Mid-Autumn Festival dishes, especially osmanthus wine. Traditional osmanthus wine takes 1-2 years to ferment, so I decided to kind of combine the two types of wine and found a relevant recipe. I don’t know if this recipe is actually good or not, as I haven’t made it, but it sure sounds delicious! ^{go back⤴}
   Source: Gong, Zoey. “Osmanthus Sweet Rice Wine | 桂花米酒” Zoey Xinyi Gong, 26 Nov. 2022.
7. The only gentians that are native to Asia are Gentiana verna or the spring gentian, which grows in alpine meadows all across Eurasia and blooms in late spring to early summer. ^{go back⤴}
8. 腊梅 - là​méi​: wintersweet / Japanese allspice / Chimonanthus praecox. ^{go back⤴}
9. 解佳慧 - Xiè Jiāhuì
   解 - xiè: to loosen / to open / to emancipate / to explain / to understand / to know; 佳 - jiā​: beautiful / fine / good; 慧 - huì​: intelligent. ^{go back⤴}
10. 静室 - Jìngshì: lit. Quiet Room. The name of Lán Wàngjī’s bedroom. ^{go back⤴}
11. Printing became more widespread around the mid-Táng dynasty, and with it a new way of book binding called “butterfly binding.” Covers were usually made with thick paper (compared to the thin xuān or rice paper used for the pages), but silk was occasionally used for more expensive books.

^{go back⤴}
Source: Edgren, J.S. The History of the Book in China. Oxford University Press eBooks, 2010.

Chapter Text

It took Lán Wàngjī two days to go through Jīn Xuányǔ’s journal. He spent half of the first day wrought with guilt, unable to get himself to flip past the first page. After rereading his mother’s letter, Lán Wàngjī finally pushed through his guilt and unease. The first entry was dated three years prior, on the day Lán Wàngjī had gifted Jīn Xuányǔ the journal.

Lán Wàngjī felt his ears heat and quickly skipped through the journal, unwilling to violate Jīn Xuányǔ’s privacy any further than he had to. All her entries towards the beginning of her stay in Búyètiān Chéng were hopeful. Then, there was a stretch of two weeks where she didn’t write at all. When she picked back up again, the tone shifted dramatically.

The last entry was the night before her wedding and completed the words she had carved upon her arm.

Lán Wàngjī brushed his fingertips over the ink, his heart aching as he remembered the Empress’ words from over a week earlier:

With careful hands that did not show the storm roiling within him, Lán Wàngjī closed the journal and placed it alongside his mother’s letters in her silver box. He slid the box into a qiánkūn bag and tucked it into the lapels of his robes, resting against his heart.

Jīn Xuányǔ was gone. There was only one thing Lán Wàngjī could do for her now. Grabbing Bìchén from the rack beside the door to his quarters at Búyètiān Chéng, Lán Wàngjī stepped out into the night, his cold face giving nothing away. He arrived at the Palace of Earthly Tranquility at hàizhèng, but he didn’t bother with the impropriety of the hour.¹ Just as he was about to announce himself to the Empress, he heard a rustling in the bushes near the side of the palace.

With light footsteps, Lán Wàngjī raced over just in time to catch someone in dark robes slipping out the window of the Empress’ palace. He went to unsheathe Bìchén, but the figure turned to look back at the window, causing the warm light from the room inside to reveal the very person Lán Wàngjī came to speak to.

He debated revealing his presence to the Empress before she left, but he couldn’t tamp down the lingering suspicion about her motives. Lán Wàngjī followed as the disguised Empress slipped away from the Palace of Earthly Tranquility and ran through the palace grounds, flipping onto the roof and using her cultivation to keep her footsteps dead silent. Lán Wàngjī followed suit.

Eventually, they arrived at the old grain warehouse. The Empress looked around before slipping into the building. Lán Wàngjī waited for a long moment, debating with himself. Finally, he gave in and approached the building. He used his jīndān to extend his hearing, but there was likely a privacy talisman up as he heard no sound inside the building. After a quick debate with himself, he pressed the qiánkūn pouch against his chest, reminding himself, and walked into the building.

He kept his footsteps silent, wanting to keep the element of surprise in case this was a trap. When he arrived, the Empress was sitting at a table next to the Imperial Inspector, the Captain of the Imperial Guard, and the Emperor. A game of chūpú was set out on the table, but it was clear none of them were playing. Instead, all three of them were huddled around something on the table, speaking in hushed tones.

He stumbled when he finally realized what the Empress was wearing. Instead of the pinks and golds Jīn Xuányǔ always wore, and more recently the reds and greens the Empress had begun to favor, she was dressed all black. That itself wasn’t too shocking. No, what caused Lán Wàngjī to stutter was the masculine cut of the robes and how her hair was pulled back into a warrior’s knot, making her face seem more handsome than pretty.

His misstep caused the four at the table to look up, finally noticing his presence. Lán Wàngjī stared at the Empress, feeling the violent flush of his ears begin to travel down his neck. He blinked a few times, trying to recenter his thoughts. Right. He. He had come here for a reason. Hadn’t he? Yes.

“Ah, Chief Commander Lán, we were just—” Xiǎo Xīngchén scrambled to explain.

“You are part of the rebellion.” Lán Wàngjī had meant it as a question, but it came out more as a statement, his mind still focused on the Empress.

Just as Sòng Zǐchēn and Xiǎo Xīngchén were about to deny it, the Empress stood up from the table and took a step towards Lán Wàngjī, her eyes dark and unreadable.

“Yes,” she said, her tone sharper than he’d ever heard it.

Lán Wàngjī swallowed thickly, but he couldn’t get any words out of his throat. With a frustrated huff at himself, he grabbed the qiánkūn pouch from the lapel of his surcoat and took out the copy he’d made of his mother’s letter. He silently handed them to the Empress, who took them with a confused and wary glare.

The room was silent as she read, the Emperor finally getting up to stand by her side. He didn’t touch her, but he hovered nearby, keeping his gaze on Lán Wàngjī. His face was unreadable, but Lán Wàngjī had the feeling he was being observed. He met the Emperor’s gaze. The Emperor’s eyes wavered and darted a little away from his eyes and widened at whatever he saw.

Lán Wàngjī realized he was looking at his ears, which were practically steaming they were so red, and had to force down the childish urge to cover them from sight. He could only pray the emotional turmoil happening inside him wasn’t visible on his face. The Emperor gave him a mirthful look but said nothing.

“Oh.” The Empress finished reading the letter and looked up at Lán Wàngjī, the animosity from before deflating into mild suspicion. “Why show me this?”

Finally, Lán Wàngjī’s words returned to him.

“I found it alongside written proof that Jīn Guāngshàn, my f—Qīnghéng Jūn, and the Grand Empress Dowager orchestrated Wēn Mùhuŏ’s death and falsified the evidence that resulted in the Jiāng Extermination in order to bolster their own power.”

The Emperor’s gaze turned from warmly amused to terrifyingly intense.

“Truly?” he asked, unable to hide his desperation.

Lán Wàngjī didn’t respond verbally and instead pulled out the silver box. He brushed the chūpú game away with a swoop of his sleeves before carefully laying out the papers his mother had collected on the table. The room fell silent as they read over the scraps. Finally, the Emperor looked up at Lán Wàngjī.

“What do you want in return?” he asked, his voice carefully tepid.

Lán Wàngjī looked the Empress in the eyes and responded, “To join your fight for justice.”

She seemed to hear his silent apology, and the tension in her shoulders sagged. The Empress smiled at him, a bright, genuine smile. Jīn Xuányǔ had never smiled like this, but she was gone; this was the spirit she chose to take her place. Lán Wàngjī would respect her choices and move forward. He would protect this spirit the way he should have protected Jīn Xuányǔ, love them the way he should have loved Jīn Xuányǔ. It was all he could do, and so he would do it fully.

Nineteenth day of the Tenth Month; Day 131

Rubbing absently at their sore chest, Wèi Wúxiàn paced laps around their garden, deep in thought despite the early morning. They were trying to think of an improved version of their SMS talisman, as they were quite disappointed by the character limit. Their shoes crunched on the frozen gravel with each step. A thin layer of frost had blanketed the palace overnight—the first frost of the season. It was pretty late in the year, at least by Wèi Wúxiàn’s standards.

Wèi Wúxiàn sighed, watching as their breath crystalized into clouds. They rubbed at their chest again, wincing at how sore it was despite their mò​xiōng being rather loose today. Things have been hurting more than usual, especially their chest. Last week they’d spent two entire days in bed, groaning and crying to anyone who would listen about their cramps. Luó Qīngyáng and Jīn Zixuān had called them melodramatic (paraphrased, of course—they would never actually say that to the Empress), saying it was only their period. But their wails and demands for attention never failed to make Wēn Níng smile that small, besotted smile of his, so they continued to play up their dramatics whenever he was within earshot.

Since joining their Super Secret Ninja meetings over two weeks prior, Lán Wàngjī had taken to visiting the Palace of Earthly Tranquility more frequently. Much to Wèi Wúxiàn’s disappointment, the cold rivalry between Chief Commander Lán and the Emperor seemed to be on hold for now, and they instead greeted each other with perfectly amicable manners every time their paths crossed. While it made something deep within Wèi Wúxiàn very, very pleased to see their two favorite people getting along, they did miss watching the petty drama now that they didn’t have access to trashy reality TV shows.

“Ah, I keep getting distracted,” they groaned to themself. “Come on, Wèi Wúxiàn. Think!”

“Your Imperial Highness,” one of the maids called out for them from the porch. “His Imperial Majesty has arrived with breakfast.”

Wèi Wúxiàn’s face brightened and they rushed inside to greet their husband, eager to make the most of what little free time he had to spare.

Huddled around the chūpú table, Xiǎo Xīngchén gave his report.

“There’s been some concerning reports from the south, just northeast of Méishān. It could be nothing, but there are an unusual amount of walking corpses being reported by villagers. One town sent over ten requests for help to both Méishān Yú and the Nánxiān Imperial Army in one month, but there hasn’t been any additional word from them yet.² Neither Méishān Yú or the Nánxiān sent any cultivators to investigate, or if they did none of them returned.”

All five people at the table looked at each other and came to the same silent conclusion. Finally, after weeks of dead ends, they had a lead.

“Zǐchēn, Xīngchén, I want both of you to investigate together. If it’s what we think it is, I will feel better knowing you have each other,” Wēn Qiónglín said.

“As you command, Your Excellency,” Sòng Zǐchēn said with a cursory bow. “We will each take two of our most competent subordinates and head out in the morning.”

“Take some of these,” the Empress said, handing them each a stack of talismans. “New and improved SMS. You can send up to forty characters now, and you only have to murmur your message.”

Both men looked at the talismans and the Empress with reverent awe.

“We would be doomed without you, xīngān,” Wēn Qiónglín said to his wife, his dark eyes sparkling with pride and hungry with desire.³

The Empress blushed bright red and attempted to stammer away his praise, avoiding his heated gaze. Across the table, Lán Wàngjī watched the two of them with a contemplative expression.

Third day of the Eleventh Month; Day 145

Wèi Wúxiàn woke up unusually grumpy. Mornings weren’t their favorite time of day, especially with how early they were forced to wake up in the palace, but they were normally more whiny than irritated. Something felt off in a way they couldn’t pinpoint. Jīn Zixuān and Luó Qīngyáng gave them a wide berth and didn’t push the issue when Wèi Wúxiàn barely picked at their breakfast.

As much as they tried to keep their expressions neutral, neither maid could keep the looks of relief off their faces when the eunuch announced the Emperor’s unplanned visit. Wèi Wúxiàn visibly perked up a little, their bad mood unable to smother their excitement at seeing their husband.

“Lǎo​gōng​!”

Wèi Wúxiàn abandoned their half-eaten breakfast and flung themself at Wēn Níng, who just barely managed to catch them. The Empress smiled and leaned up to kiss their husband but stopped at the last second, their hand going up to press over their mouth.

“Niáng​zǐ?” Wēn Níng asked in concern.

Wèi Wúxiàn pushed away and scrambled for the door, making it onto the porch just in time to vomit over the stone patio.

“Call for the Imperial Physician!” Jīn Zixuān barked as she carefully rubbed Wèi Wúxiàn’s heaving back.

Once it was evident Wèi Wúxiàn had nothing left in their stomach, Luó Qīngyáng pressed a cup of warm water into their hands and instructed them to wash out their mouth.

“Oh, you’re so pale,” she fussed, dabbing at Wèi Wúxiàn’s forehead.

Once the dry heaving subsided, Wēn Níng didn’t hesitate to sweep Wèi Wúxiàn into his arms and carried them to bed.

“My strong husband,” Wèi Wúxiàn mumbled into his neck.

Wēn Níng settled them on the bed and immediately began fussing alongside Jīn Zixuān and Luó Qīngyáng. Wèi Wúxiàn didn’t have the energy to wave them away so they took the hovering silently, which only worried everyone more.

Finally, the Imperial Physician was brought into the room. He felt their pulse through a silk sheet, eyes closed in concentration. After a long moment, the Imperial Physician gasped and immediately bowed to both the Emperor and Empress.

“Congratulations!” he exclaimed, voice choked with emotion. “Her Imperial Highness is with child!”

Wēn Níng’s face lit up in pure joy as both Jīn Zixuān and Luó Qīngyáng began crying with happiness. Wèi Wúxiàn stared at the Imperial Physician in shock, unaware of and unable to join the celebration happening around them.

Eventually, dread and guilt settled like heavy stones in their stomach. They had just begun accepting this reality and their new body. Now, their body was going to change against their will yet again. Wèi Wúxiàn didn’t want to be pregnant, especially not now. The guilt that followed had them dry heaving once more. Everyone began fussing once again, but Wèi Wúxiàn had reached their limit.

“Out,” they ordered. Everyone froze. “Get out.”

“Niáng​zǐ, what—”

“Get lost!” they exclaimed.

Tears blurred their vision, but they didn’t need to see his face to know they had hurt their husband. They didn’t—couldn’t—care at the moment.

“Everyone leave,” they said through shuddering sobs as they curled up in bed and pulled the covers over their head.

Fifth day of the Eleventh Month; Day 157

“Please, Your Imperial Highness. His Excellency has been visiting every morning and night. I can’t bear to see his heartbroken face when I turn him away yet again.”

After spending two entire days moping, having banned everyone but Luó Qīngyáng from his rooms, Wèi Wúxiàn reluctantly gave in to Luó Qīngyáng’s pleas.

“Fine,” he sighed, turning away to look out the window from his bed.

He’d been ordered to bed rest by the Imperial Physician, along with a huge list of things he wasn’t allowed to do or eat now that he was pregnant. Most of it was bullshit—the myth that cultivators couldn’t meditate or use their jīndān during pregnancy had been debunked for over a hundred years by the time Wèi Wúxiàn had been born, but here he was, strictly forbidden from even unsheathing his sword for cleaning, much less using it for sword forms. He hated it.

“My Empress,” Wēn Níng cautiously greeted, standing in the doorway.

When he didn’t move to enter the room, Wèi Wúxiàn huffed and lazily waved him inside.

“You must come to me,” he said with disdain, “as I’m not allowed to lift a single finger. I’m suddenly incompetent now, you know.”

Wēn Níng didn’t say a word as he settled in a chair next to Wèi Wúxiàn’s bed.

“No eating cold foods, no eating foods that are too hot, no meditating for cultivation, no using my jīndān, definitely no training. No walking for too long or with too wide strides, no horse riding, no sweet foods, no spicy foods. I’m not allowed to speak too harshly or say harsh words. They even took away my favorite tea!”

Wèi Wúxiàn realized with horror that he was crying, but he couldn’t stop now that he’d started. Wēn Níng made a punched-out noise and immediately moved to sit on the bed, pulling Wèi Wúxiàn into his warm, strong arms.

“I hate it,” Wèi Wúxiàn whimpered. “I hate this.”

For a while, neither of them said anything. Wēn Níng simply held Wèi Wúxiàn, lightly rocking him in his embrace as he pressed his lips onto the crown of his wife’s head. Once Wèi Wúxiàn had calmed down, Wēn Níng spoke.

“I will be reassigning the Imperial Physician. There is a tincture from Gūsū that I desperately need and only trust him to get.” That earned him a weak, wet chuckle. “I’ve already written to ājiě​ and she has sent a much more reasonable list of things to both avoid and to start taking. Some of them we can negotiate on, like spicy food.”

Wèi Wúxiàn nodded into his chest. Wēn Níng sighed and smoothed a hand through Wèi Wúxiàn’s hair.

“The one thing that is non negotiable is liquor,” Wēn Níng said and promptly braced himself.

“AUGH!” Wèi Wúxiàn wailed, hitting his fist on Wēn Níng’s chest and looking up to glare at his husband. “I can’t believe I let you fuck me pregnant!” he despaired, and then immediately flushed bright red as Wēn Níng choked on air. “Oh,” he whispered to himself. “You fucked me pregnant.”

Wèi Wúxiàn paused for a long moment, his face going through multiple emotions before he looked up at Wēn Níng with a fiery heat in his eyes.

“What if the doctor was wrong?” he hedged, suddenly turning coy as he fluttered his eyelashes. “Maybe you should make sure, or try to put another—”

He cut off with a squeal as Wēn Níng suddenly pushed him to the bed and straddled his hips, leaning down to capture his lips in a vicious, hungry kiss.

Sixth day of the Eleventh Month; Day 158

“Chief Commander Lán Wàngjī is here!” a maid announced from the hallway, causing Wèi Wúxiàn to look up from his painting and set aside his supplies.

“That was fast,” he mumbled.

The official announcement of his pregnancy was proclaimed in court just half a shíchén ago.⁴ They normally would have waited longer, but Wèi Wúxiàn turned out to be further along than originally anticipated. That combined with his strong jīndān significantly diminished the chances of something going wrong during his first trimester.

Luó Qīngyáng giggled. “He’s been Her Imperial Highness’ friend since childhood. Of course he’s excited to congratulate you on the baby!”

Wèi Wúxiàn winced but didn’t verbally disagree with her statement. He wasn’t sure if Lán Wàngjī considered him a friend anymore. An ally, yes, but a friend?

“Chief Commander Lán,” Luó Qīngyáng and Jīn Zixuān greeted, bowing properly.

Lán Wàngjī greeted them before bowing low to Wèi Wúxiàn. “Congratulations, Your Imperial Highness.” His voice was warm and held no disdain, which caused the tension in Wèi Wúxiàn’s shoulders to dissipate.

“Thank you, Chief Commander Lán,” Wèi Wúxiàn replied.

A brief awkward silence followed, neither party sure of what else to say. Finally, Lán Wàngjī awkwardly asked Wèi Wúxiàn a question. “Have you decided what you will tell the Grand Empress Dowager?”

The tension from before immediately came back and Wèi Wúxiàn groaned in despair.

“No, I’d quite honestly forgotten about them. Damn!”

“Her Imperial Highness should not—”

Lán Wàngjī was cut off by Jīn Zixuān’s quick kick to the knee. She widened her eyes at his annoyed glance and discreetly shook her head. He narrowed his brows at her. Jīn Zixuān huffed and leaned over to whisper in his ear. Lán Wàngjī glanced at Wèi Wúxiàn, who was deep in thought and cursing under his breath about the indignities of being related to the Jīn family. Jīn Zixuān tugged his ear and whispered furiously. She smirked when Lán Wàngjī’s face paled.

“So don’t even think about mentioning it,” she hissed.

Lán Wàngjī nodded, properly scolded, and turned his attention back to Wèi Wúxiàn, who had begun a monologue about how much he hated the Jīn family, especially Jīn Guāngyáo.

“I hate her guts! How dare she try to kill me off in the most uncool way possible! Poison? Pah, what a coward’s way out. No way is my baby going to be associated with her or that slimeball—what’s his name again? Jīn Sū? No, Jīn M… It started with an M. Ah, whatever. Point is, Lán Wàngjī, I refuse to be associated with them any longer. You excluded, tángjiě, of course.”

The image of Jīn Guāngyáo laying with his brother appeared in his mind, and Lán Wàngjī viciously agreed with Wèi Wúxiàn, despite not knowing most of the words he was saying.

“That is going to be hard to do when you share a name,” Luó Qīngyáng pointed out.

“Fuck, you’re right, I forgot about that.”

Wèi Wúxiàn paused for a moment. He still struggled answering to the name Jīn Xuányǔ, even after months of being called that. But the name ‘Wèi Wúxiàn’ didn’t feel right either, not how it used to.

“Sit back down, Xiǎoyīng,” Jīn Zixuān urged. “I brewed you some tea; His Imperial Majesty brought more of your favorite.”

Absently, Wèi Wúxiàn sat down at his table and took a sip of the smoky black tea he’d started to prefer.

“Xiǎoyīng,” he murmured. That name felt sort of right. Xiǎoyīng, Wèi Wúxiàn, Jīn Xuányǔ…

“His Excellency will be leaving in four days for Qīnghé,” Lán Wàngjī said, interrupting Wèi Wúxiàn’s train of thought. “If there is anything you may need, please don’t hesitate to come to me in his absence, especially since Imperial Inspector Song and Captain Xiǎo are still away.”

“What? Why is he leaving?” Wèi Wúxiàn demanded.

“Something to do with the Běihóng Army,” Lán Wàngjī reported.⁵ “Nothing worrisome, just routine inspection.”

Wèi Wúxiàn didn’t respond, brows furrowed in thought as a pout tugged at the corners of his lips. Lán Wàngjī didn’t stay for much longer, excusing himself after a single cup of tea. As he was leaving, a maid from the Palace of Eternal Longevity arrived with a message for the Empress from the Grand Empress Dowager. She looked surprised to see Chief Commander Lán leaving the Empress’ private rooms, but he barely gave her a glance as he walked away.

Eunuch Píng took the official summons from the maid and delivered it to the Empress, dismissing the maid before she could attempt to enter the Palace of Earthly Tranquility. She hurried back to her mistress with some interesting information to report.

“His Excellency just announced the conception of his first child with the Empress,” Marquess Niè Bóchéng bitterly said between mouthfuls of tea. “It is making the Jīn insufferable already.”

“Oh?” Empress Dowager Niè Huáisāng hummed, lazily fanning herself with an ornate tuánshàn, the rigid circular fan made of carved ivory and the silk panel embroidered with a delicate mountain scene depicting a tiger on the prowl. “How strange. I know for a fact the Emperor never touched poor Jīn Xuányǔ on their wedding night. She was inconsolable when she came to me for advice, knowing how, ah, passionate me and my dear Ā-Xù were. Oh, but I’m sure I don’t know anything about the Emperor’s bedroom proclivities.”

Both Marquess Niè Bóchéng and Duke Niè Zōnghuī glanced at each other in surprise.

“He didn’t touch her on their wedding night?” Duke Niè Zōnghuī leaned in to confirm.

“Not so much as a finger, I was told. But I suppose maybe he decided to wait, though I can’t imagine why. I’m sure the Empress is pregnant, I mean, why would she lie about such a thing?” Empress Dowager Niè Huáisāng said, hiding a smirk behind her fan as the two Imperial Ministers quickly but respectfully made their excuses and left the pavilion, their tea still hot.

“This is why dàgē always grumbled about doing everything himself,” she murmured. “Everyone is incompetent around here.”

Thirteenth day of the Eleventh Month; Day 165

After the Emperor’s official proclamation at court five days ago, Wèi Wúxiàn was swarmed by visitors from the elite gentry within Búyètiān Chéng looking to ingratiate themselves with the new Empress and the hoped prince-to-be. He lasted about a week of constant tea parties and well-wishes before reaching his limit.

“I don’t care!” he raged, bringing two of his maids to tears with the intensity of his fury (it was not because of the pregnancy mood swings—anyone who tried to suggest otherwise quickly regretted ever opening their mouth). “The next person who insists I entertain one more air-headed, pompous-looking, garbage-spewing, rich asshole will be kicked out of Búyètiān Chéng forever!”

Everyone, including Luó Qīngyáng, paled—with Wèi Wúxiàn’s mood lately, that wasn’t an idle threat. The only person who could quell Wèi Wúxiàn’s new temper, besides Chief Commander Lán and the Emperor himself, was Jīn Zixuān. Lady Jīn had taken a much-needed lunch break and hadn’t returned, leaving the rest of the Empress’ retinue to their own devices.

“W-would Her Imperial Highness like to spend some time in the kitchens?” Luó Qīngyáng suggested, her voice uncharacteristically wavering.

Wèi Wúxiàn paused in his fury at her words before smiling warmly, his mood dramatically shifting in polarity. If the Empress had seemed mercurial before, pregnancy had only made him worse by ten-fold.

“That sounds lovely, Miánmian! I’ve been craving…”

He continued to babble about his strange pregnancy cravings as he got into the palanquin. Once inside, the entire retinue of maids all heaved sighs of pure relief as they made their way to the imperial kitchens. Luó Qīngyáng nearly fainted with joy when she saw Jīn Zixuān already at the imperial kitchens, but her relief was thwarted immediately when Wèi Wúxiàn saw just what Jīn Zixuān was doing.

Lady Jīn and Imperial Chef Jiāng were slouched on stools in a corner of the kitchen with the jar of osmanthus sweet rice wine empty between them. Both of them were so drunk they could barely stand and instead were leaning against each other, cheeks flushed and giggling as they stared into each other’s eyes, both of them completely besotted with each other.

“My wine!” Wèi Wúxiàn wailed, his good mood instantly deteriorated.

To Luó Qīngyáng’s horror, he didn’t start another furious rampage. Instead, the Empress collapsed in the middle of the imperial kitchens and began to sob, chest heaving and tears as big as pearls rolling down his cheeks.

Luó Qīngyáng snapped out of her frozen state of shock and hissed to one of the stricken maids, “Fetch Chief Commander Lán immediately!”

The Emperor was out of the palace at a meeting with the Běihóng Army in Qīnghé, or else she would have requested his presence instead. While Luó Qīngyáng and the other maids attempted to cheer up the Empress, or at least move him out of the way so the servants could begin prepping dinner, two other cooks attempted to help Jīn Zixuān and Jiāng Wǎnyín sober up.

When Lán Wàngjī finally arrived, Wèi Wúxiàn had started loudly sobbing once more after being reminded of his favorite liquor in the world, Emperor’s Smile.

“It’s so fragrant and mellow, just like Ā-Níng’s pretty smile!” he wailed.

To his credit, Chief Commander Lán barely hesitated before sweeping across the room, picking the Empress up, and carrying him out of the kitchens entirely. He ignored Luó Qīngyáng’s panicked questioning as he stepped onto his sword and took off into the late afternoon. Wèi Wúxiàn continued to cry until they landed just outside his favorite pavilion, the one that overlooked the lake he’d filled himself all those months before. He had it renamed to the ‘Snow Globe Pavilion,’ a name that only made sense to him.⁶

Lán Wàngjī carefully shifted Wèi Wúxiàn’s weight as he settled down on a cushion, making sure the Empress was comfortable and warm in his lap. Wèi Wúxiàn sniffed as he laid his head on Lán Wàngjī’s shoulder, tears fading to an occasional hiccup in his chest.

“Being pregnant sucks, Lán Zhàn,” Wèi Wúxiàn finally said, his voice raw and nose clogged with snot.

“Mn,” Lán Wàngjī hummed. “Her Imperial Highness is brave.”

Wèi Wúxiàn snorted. “Do not tell lies.”

“I do not lie. Her Imperial Highness is very brave.”

“If you say so.”

The two of them fell into a comfortable silence as they watched mist rise off the calm waters and dissipate into the air, the stretch of land and water protected by Wèi Wúxiàn’s array and thus unchanged by the cold winter that had fallen upon Qíshān.

Fifteenth day of the Eleventh Month; Day 167

Chief Commander Lán Wàngjī waited at the gates of Búyètiān Chéng alongside the remaining Imperial Guard that didn’t join the mission to Qīnghé as the Emperor returned. Forgoing the palanquin in favor of riding horseback for speed, the Emperor dismounted and brushed some of the road dust off his robes before greeting Chief Commander Lán.

“Your Excellency.” Lán Wàngjī bowed low.

“Rise,” Wēn Qiónglín said. “Chief Commander Lán, walk with me. The rest of you are dismissed.”

Lán Wàngjī walked to Wēn Qiónglín’s right, keeping a step behind the Emperor as was proper but staying closer than most would ever dare.

“Her Imperial Highness has had a rough week,” Lán Wàngjī reported, knowing Wēn Qiónglín wouldn’t care for any other news except that which pertained to his wife. “A combination of the gentry swarms demanding her favor, mood swings that Luó Qīngyáng insists are worse than usual, and the new rumors running rampant throughout the city that her pregnancy is fake.”

“Grand Empress Dowager Jīn?” Wēn Qiónglín guessed the instigator of such rumors.

“No, the Jīn benefit too much from having a Jīn adjacent heir. I reason it to be Empress Dowager Niè.”

“Ah. The Niè have been very quiet as of late.”

Lán Wàngjī tilted his head in agreement.

“Well,” Wēn Qiónglín sighed. “I guess niáng​zǐ and I have some work to do.”

The two of them stopped in front of the Palace of Heavenly Purity where Eunuch Lǐ was waiting to help the Emperor relax after a taxing journey home.

“Eunuch Lǐ, We wish to have afternoon tea with the Empress in the main gardens. Please ensure it is warm and well-cushioned. It wouldn’t do for Her Imperial Highness to catch a cold with her delicate condition.”

“It will be done, Your Excellency.”

Eunuch Lǐ scurried off to make preparations, leaving Wēn Qiónglín and Lán Wàngjī momentarily alone.

“Make sure some of the more talkative ministers happen to walk past the central pavilion this afternoon,” Wēn Qiónglín said with a smirk playing at the edges of his lips. “I will give them something new to talk about, since they’re so bored.”

“As you wish.” Lán Wàngjī bowed low and waited to return upright until the Emperor had disappeared into the Palace of Heavenly Purity.

Later that afternoon, Wèi Wúxiàn was bundled up in layers of thick silks, heavy boots, and thick leather gloves, all lined with the softest, most luxurious furs. They grumbled about the layers being ‘unnecessary’ but notably didn’t refuse the quilted blanket Luó Qīngyáng tucked around their shoulders as they sat down in the pavilion across from their husband.

“I see you’ve finally returned home,” Wèi Wúxiàn sniffed.

“I missed my wife so much I cut the meeting short and came home a day early,” Wēn Qiónglín earnestly said.

Wèi Wúxiàn blushed a violent red and stammered for a reply, their mask of indifference falling in the face of his earnest devotion. Wēn Qiónglín did nothing but smile and refill their tea cup. Once they had calmed a little, he leaned over the table and spoke in hushed tones.

“I’ve heard the new rumor,” he said. “If you’d allow me, I have an idea to quell it rather thoroughly.”

Curiosity piqued, Wèi Wúxiàn leaned closer so Wēn Qiónglín could whisper into their ear. Once he was done, Wèi Wúxiàn leaned back and laughed, bright and warm in the cold winter afternoon.

“You fiend!” they cackled. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

Wēn Qiónglín smiled peacefully.

“You’re full of surprises, Ā-Níng.”

When Wēn Qíng called him Ā-Níng, it was full of fondness and familial affection. When Wèi Wúxiàn used that name, it was teasing and irreverent and obviously, blatantly goading.

Wēn Qiónglín took the bait.

He grabbed Wèi Wúxiàn under their arms and lifted them across the table, causing them to squeal in surprise and delight. Once he had them in his lap, he pushed up both of their skirts in a way that heavily implied many things but revealed absolutely nothing. Wèi Wúxiàn giggled as they leaned forward to playfully nip at his nose, only to gasp in surprise when Wēn Qiónglín latched their lips together.

“Be as loud as you can, xīngān,” Wēn Qiónglín whispered before theatrically groaning and moving Wèi Wúxiàn’s hips down against his.

Wèi Wúxiàn giggled into his throat before throwing their head back and moaning obscenely. The maids and eunuchs waiting at the edges of the pavilion all flushed and turned their backs at the couple just in time to see Lán Wàngjī and a group of Imperial Ministers walk past the pavilion. As they got closer to the pavilion, the Empress let out a truly obscene moan, followed by a pleasured grunt from the Emperor. The Imperial Ministers all stumbled in their tracks, save for Lán Wàngjī who continued on as if nothing was wrong.

Jīn Zixuān scowled at the gawking men, causing them to scramble after Lán Wàngjī with faces as red as the Empress’ now-disheveled robes.

Overnight, the incident in the pavilion had reached even the city that sprawled outside Búyètiān Chéng’s inner gates, and the rumor of the Empress’ fake pregnancy was quickly forgotten.

1. 亥正 - hàizhèng: 10:00 p.m. ^{go back⤴}
   Source: waffles_4_breakfast. “Waffle's Glossary of Chinese Terms.” ArchiveofOurOwn, 22 April 2022.
2. The Nánxiān Imperial Army [南 - nán: south; 仙 - xiān: immortal] is situated across Yúnmèng, Méishān, and Èzhōu. It is the smaller of the three imperial armies and is mostly focused on trade routes and securing passageways along the Cháng River. ^{go back⤴}
3. 心肝 - xīn​gān: (figurative) darling, honey, sweetheart; (literally) heart and liver. ^{go back⤴}
4. In ancient China, one day was divided into twelve [时辰 - shíchén]. One shíchén is equal to two modern hours. ^{go back⤴}
5. Běihóng Army: [北 - běi: north; 鸿 - hóng: eastern bean goose]. The cultivator battalion based in Qīnghé that makes up one-fourth of the Běixiān Imperial Army [北 - běi: north; 仙 - xiān: immortal]. ^{go back⤴}
6. From what I was able to find, ‘snowglobe’ in Mandarin is either [雪花 - xuěhuā: snowflake, 球 - qiú: ball / sphere / globe] or [雪景 - xuějǐng: snowscape, 球 - qiú: ball / sphere / globe]. However, both [xuěhuāqiútíng] and [xuějǐngqiútíng] are too long and wordy, so I decided that [xuěqiútíng] is a better name. [Xuěqiú] is technically ‘snowball’ but I think that works with Wèi Wúxiàn’s humor. ^{go back⤴}
   Source: “Chinese Architectures - Pavilions, Terrace, Storeyed Building, Waterside Pavilion.” China Odyssey Tours.

Chapter Text

Eighteenth day of the Eleventh Month; Day 170

Stepping out of the Palace of Earthly Tranquility, the Empress climbed into the palanquin and was shepherded to the Palace of Eternal Longevity. He had waited nearly two weeks before answering Grand Empress Dowager Jīn’s summons to take tea with her, sending increasingly fake reasons whenever the palanquin came to take him to the Palace of Eternal Longevity—from feeling ill with morning sickness to “not wanting to step a foot outside as it was too cold.”

Wèi Wúxiàn proudly walked into the Grand Empress Dowager’s parlor to see the woman sitting on a cushioned chair as if it was a throne. Very pointedly, he did not sit down on the low cushion across from her, choosing to stand and keep his eyes level with hers.

He wore a central front collar surcoat that he kept open over his loosely tied mò​xiōng, the pale orange collar panels heavily embroidered with silver thread depicting plum blossoms and evergreen sprigs. His surcoat was cinched around his waist with a red belt, gold twined branches embroidered into the silk. Hanging from the belt were two red cords, both woven into endless knots with gold beads that clicked with his every step. The endless knots fell to each side of the brocade panel of his skirt, framing the descending dragon, made of gold and red thread, that curled across the panel. The gold and red accents contrasted with the purples and oranges of the silk robes.

Sitting on his chest was a beautiful gold necklace that displayed a large piece of mutton fat jade carved into a curled lion. Dangling from his ears were large gold earrings with rare, red and pink jade medallions at the center. The jade was carved with plum blossoms to match the red huādiàn painted on his forehead and the gold hairpins inlaid with mother of pearl to form the flower petals.¹

Contrasting with the delicate and regal ornaments, Wèi Wúxiàn’s hair was pulled back into a simple and unruly ponytail, tied with a long red ribbon with gold embroidered ends and small gold bells that chimed with every sway of his head. He looked nothing like Jīn Xuányǔ had when she first entered the palace.

Artwork by Ace

Noticing everyone’s gaze on his robes, specifically the dragon motif, Wèi Wúxiàn smirked.

“Do you like my new robes?” he asked innocently. “My husband requested them himself.”

He cheered internally when Jīn Guāngyáo’s placid customer service smile twitched.

“How lovely,” she said plastically. “It gladdens my heart to see the mother of our future prince so beloved by the Son of Heaven.”

It was Wèi Wúxiàn’s turn to twitch around the mouth as he hummed noncommittally.

Ah, this bitch…

“I called for your presence today to congratulate you on your pregnancy,” Jīn Guāngyáo smoothly continued, “and to remind you of your duty to the nation and to your family.”

“Thank you, Grand Empress Dowager.”

Wèi Wúxiàn bowed respectfully at the praise but did not say anything further as propriety would have him. Clearly unmoored by his recalcitrant behavior, Jīn Guāngyáo smiled that fake smile and waited. Wèi Wúxiàn stared back at her, face completely serene. One of the maids coughed at the tense staredown.

“Very well.” Jīn Guāngyáo broke first. “I am quite busy, so I must sadly cut this visit short. I’m glad to see my tángmèi doing so well in her new position.”

Gritting his teeth at her lack of respect for his position, Wèi Wúxiàn bit back ten poisonous responses and simply bowed.

“Thank you, Grand Empress Dowager,” he repeated.

He quickly left the Palace of Eternal Longevity, a plan forming in his mind. Before getting into the palanquin, Wèi Wúxiàn turned to Jīn Zixuān.

“Invite all the Lánlíng Jīn Imperial Ministers to the Pavilion of Eternal Spring in one shíchén,” he said aloud before leaning over and whispering instructions to Jīn Zixuān.

“B-but Your Imperi—”

“Trust me, tángjiě.” Wèi Wúxiàn smiled.

“It will be done.” Jīn Zixuān curtsied and helped Wèi Wúxiàn into the carriage before running off to make preparations.

Duke Jīn Mǐnshàn led the Lánlíng Jīn Imperial Ministers through the palace grounds at a moderate pace, his face settled in an awkward attempt at placidity that looked more constipated than cold. As they approached the Pavilion of Eternal Spring that overlooked the recently filled lotus lake, Marquess Jīn Zixūn snorted at his left side.

“What are we, women?” he scoffed as he saw the Empress sitting regally in the pavilion with her entourage of maids, delicately sipping tea. “A tea party, of all things? What a waste of time.”

Snickers followed his words from most of the Imperial Ministers.

“I wonder why she summoned us,” Marquess Jīn Zichǎn said.

Jīn Mǐnshàn puffed out his chest. “With the recent pregnancy announcement, she must be trying to emphasize that she is from our family. Let’s play along and appease her. It will only benefit us if the royal prince is associated with the Jīn name first and foremost.”

Everyone nodded and murmured their agreement as they walked up the steps. The Empress sat on the higher platform that overlooked the lake, the table before her laden with nuts, dried fruit, and freshly made pastries. She was sipping a strong black tea that smelled of campfire smoke. The Jīn Imperial Ministers all bowed in greeting to her before sitting at the low tables set out on the lower platform in front of the Empress.

“It has been a while since I became Empress,” she began, her voice light and airy, “but I did not get a chance to treat the elders of our family. A lot of things have happened since then… Please forgive me.”

The Empress bowed reverently from the waist. When she straightened, she waved her hands at the maids waiting on either side of the pavilion. They immediately hurried to place platters in front of each minister, each containing a teapot, cup, and three covered bowls. All the Imperial Ministers huffed and puffed at her flattery.

“It is not much, but I have prepared something for you.” She held her arms out with a charming smile. “Please, enjoy.”

Marquess Jīn Zixūn was the first to pour himself tea, but immediately spit it out.

“This is just boiled water!” he exclaimed, face turning red with rage.

The Empress coyly fluttered her eyelashes. More outbursts filled the pavilion as the Imperial Ministers found plain water in all their teapots and the bowls each containing a single grain of uncooked rice. Jīn Mǐnshàn slammed his cup onto the table, his face twisted with fury.

“You have tricked us, Your Imperial Highness!”

She let them make a scene, calmly drinking her own tea. Once her cup was empty, she loudly set it down on the mahogany wood table.

“Don’t be annoying.” Her tone was cold and rigid, all pretense of geniality falling. “You’re irritating me.”

“Annoying?” Marquess Jīn Zichǎn spluttered. “We weren’t…”

“Just how can you do this to us?” Marquess Jīn Zixūn exclaimed. “Are you looking down on us?”

“I know what kind of people you all are,” she said. “You are the cancer of this world.”

“Cancer?” the Imperial Ministers mumbled to each other, the word foreign to them.

“Ugh.” The Empress rolled her eyes. “In your simpleminded terms, you are the plague of this world.”

Duke Jīn Mǐnshàn was nearly purple with anger, so heated he couldn’t get any words out due to the tension in his throat.

“Why do we have to sit here and be insulted?!” Marquess Jīn Zixūn exploded, shoving the platter to the ground with a loud crash.

All the maids gasped, reminding the men that they had an audience. Only some of them calmed down at the reminder.

“Why on earth are you doing this?” Jīn Mǐnshàn finally demanded.

“Good question!” the Empress exclaimed, a lazy grin stretching her painted face. “That’s a great question. As expected of the Grand Chancellor, you’re pretty sharp.”

Duke Jīn Mǐnshàn spluttered at her patronizing tone. “Why am I doing this, you ask?” She took another sip of her tea as she settled a protective hand over her stomach. She wasn’t showing yet, but everyone understood the gesture. “So none of you can interfere with my child’s future. If you continue to bleed this nation dry with your greed, you will all vanish one by one, starting with the back row.” The Empress stood and walked in front of the table, staring down at the Jīn elders before her. “If you don’t want to see the Imperial Court empty of any Lánlíng Jīn family remaining,” she said, her voice low but her tone sharp, “then keep your mouth shut and be careful.”

“But you are part of the Lánlíng Jīn family too!” Duke Jīn Zichǎn exclaimed.

“That is why from here on, my name is no longer Jīn Xuányǔ of Lánlíng,” the Empress announced. Everyone, including the maids, gasped. “My name is Wèi Yīng, the Daughter of Heaven and rightful Empress of this nation.”

The Empress ignored their burst of outrage and delicately walked out of the pavilion, her entourage dutifully following her.

Nineteenth day of the Eleventh Month; Day 171

Upon hearing about the Empress’ declaration of political war against Lánlíng Jīn just the day before, Wēn Qiónglín requested Lán Wàngjī visit the Empress on his behalf, as he was called into a meeting with the very men Her Imperial Highness had just insulted that was bound to last hours. Lán Wàngjī was more than happy to visit the Empress, as he had many questions as well.

The Empress greeted him with geniality, acting as if nothing was strange at all. She had tea prepared and pushed lotus paste cakes towards Lán Wàngjī, who raised an eyebrow at the pastries. Lotus paste was far out of season and would have been very expensive to procure.

“Pregnancy cravings,” she said with a delicate wave of her hand and a slight grimace. “I know it probably cost a shit-ton to import them here, but I literally couldn’t sleep without them. I even made them with double salted yolks, just the way my father always did.”

“I see.” Lán Wàngjī took a bite and tried to hide his surprise at just how good the cakes were.

When he didn’t say anything further, and even evaded eye contact with her, the Empress narrowed her eyes. “This isn’t a social visit, is it?” she hedged.

Lán Wàngjī tried not to blanch at how quickly she’d caught on.

“Is this about yesterday?”

“His Excellency is concerned,” Lán Wàngjī reluctantly admitted. “The Jīn are… not happy.”

She grimaced. “Ah, well. I guess I could have been a little more tactful.”

To her side, Luó Qīngyáng snorted.

“More tactful?” Once she’d started talking, it seemed as though she couldn’t stop. “Your Imperial Highness, you disowned yourself from your own family! You even changed your name! If I’d known you’d take my comment to heart, I never would have opened my mouth!”

When all the words fell out of her mouth, Luó Qīngyáng gasped and clasped a hand over her lips as if she could shove all her words back inside. Lán Wàngjī gazed at the Empress with a knowing expression.

“What name have you chosen?” he asked.

“Wèi Yīng,” she replied.

“Wèi…” Lán Wàngjī stared at her. “Like the Wèi Rebellion leader, Wèi Chángzé.”

Wèi Yīng startled at the reference to her father’s name before remembering Xiè Jiāhuì’s letters. What a coincidence that someone here had once shared her father’s name, and what a shame he hadn’t been married to her mother; she’d never used the name Cángsè Sànrén before.

“Yes,” Wèi Yīng replied.

“And Yīng as in quintessence,” Lán Wàngjī continued.

“Ah—” Wèi Yīng went to correct him that she’d meant yīng as in baby, like Xiǎoyīng, but became too embarrassed. Yīng as in quintessence was much more fitting for an Empress, afterall.² “Um. Yes, Yīng as in quintessence.”

“A fitting name, Your Imperial Highness,” Lán Wàngjī replied with a firm nod.

“Thank you!” Wèi Yīng grinned.

“It will be written down by scholars for centuries to come,” he continued. “Wèi Yīng, the Empress of Wēn, innovator and rebellion leader.”

Wèi Yīng flushed and waved her hands. “Ah, that’s too much, really! Lán Zhàn, you flatter me!”

“Not flattery,” Lán Wàngjī denied. His ears heated at the casual use of his personal name but he didn’t correct her. He ignored Jīn Zixuān’s knowing glance. “There will be consequences,” he warned.

Wèi Yīng immediately sobered up. “I know. I am prepared to pay them. Believe it or not, I did actually think this through.”

“You will not pay the consequences alone,” Lán Wàngjī promised.

“I know.”

Wèi Yīng smiled at him, and the heat that had subsided in his ears returned with full force. He took another sip of tea and willed his fluttering heart to calm.

As Lán Wàngjī had predicted, the consequences of Wèi Yīng’s decision were quick to strike. Another rumor about the Empress’ pregnancy spread like wildfire through Búyètiān Chéng, this one more dangerous than the one before.

“Have you heard?” the maids tittered to each other. “The Emperor isn’t the father of the new royal baby!”

“What?”

“Then who…?”

“Who else but Chief Commander Lán! They were always close since childhood, and he’s been seen visiting her several times a week, sometimes even late at night!”

“For her adultery, defiance of filial piety, and scorn towards her ancestors, we demand Her Imperial Highness’ immediate deposition!” Grand Chancellor Jīn Mǐnshàn exclaimed to the Imperial Court.

The Emperor’s face paled at his pronouncement. When they’d discussed the possible ways the Jīn may try to get back at Wèi Yīng for her actions, deposition had never been an option they considered.

“No,” Wēn Qiónglín said, firm in a way he never was with the Imperial Court. It shocked the Imperial Ministers into silence. “We will not depose Our Empress based on rumors and hearsay. Bring Us actual evidence, and then We will consider.”

Jīn Mǐnshàn flushed red with embarrassment as some of his colleagues snickered at the Emperor’s blunt refusal.

“We have a headache,” Wēn Qiónglín said, cutting any further discussion short. “Dismissed.”

As he watched the Imperial Ministers walk away, he had a sinking feeling that this was only the beginning.

Twenty-fourth day of the Eleventh Month; Day 176

“Wàngjī…” Lán Xīchén put a hesitant hand on Lán Wàngjī’s shoulder, his face troubled. “Is it true?”

“Xiōngzhǎng!” Lán Wàngjī glared at his brother, betrayed.

“I’m sorry, but I know… I know your feelings, and you have been seen very close to the Empress. If it’s not true, then…”

“It is not,” he insisted, but he could tell Lán Xīchén didn’t quite believe him.

“No matter what is the truth, I won’t let anything happen to you. Ā-Yáo—I mean, the Grand Empress Dowager has been very lenient and agreed to meet with you regarding these… cruel rumors.” Lán Xīchén must have seen something on Lán Wàngjī’s face as his tone turned pleading. “Please, Wàngjī. For me. You can trust Grand Empress Dowager Jīn, she wants the truth as much as I do.”

“...Very well,” Lán Wàngjī relented, unable to deny his brother anything.

“Thank you,” Lán Xīchén said, breathing a sigh of relief. “She’s ready for you now. I will walk you over.”

The two Lán brothers walked to the Palace of Eternal Longevity in tense silence. Lán Xīchén opened his mouth to say something but changed his mind. Instead, he simply gave his younger brother a tight smile and waited at the bottom of the steps to the Grand Empress Dowager’s palace.

The younger Twin Jade entered the parlor, feeling far less hopeful than his brother about this meeting. His gut feeling proved right when he was greeted by not just the Grand Empress Dowager but Duke Jīn Mǐnshàn as well. He bowed to the three Jīn cultivators with perfect politeness.

“Chief Commander Lán, thank you for joining us,” Jīn Guāngyáo said with an amicable smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

Lán Wàngjī nodded but said nothing. Jīn Mǐnshàn scoffed but was quelled by a glare from Jīn Guāngyáo.

“I will not bother with any other pleasantries, as I know you prefer conciseness,” Jīn Guāngyáo said, and Lán Wàngjī tried not to bristle at her attempt to be familiar with him. “Our image has been greatly damaged by this situation, especially with poor Xiǎoyīng’s unusual behavior. We believe that the Emperor is manipulating her, forcing her away from her family and taking advantage of her naivety.”

So that’s the angle they are going for, Lán Wàngjī bitterly thought. He still said nothing, causing Jīn Guāngyáo’s smile to strain at the corners.

“It saddens me to say, but we have proof of your intimate relationship with the Empress. Multiple servants came forward to testify about your improper closeness with the Empress. I understand you were close childhood friends, but that level of intimacy between friends is not appropriate with the Empress in her new station.” Jīn Guāngyáo sighed as if this was all so terribly tragic and not completely orchestrated by her hand. “However, we are willing to bury this behind us and move forward—the call for her deposition will be renounced, those servants will never be heard or seen again, and the unsavory rumors about your true relationship will be stamped out.”

She paused, looking at Lán Wàngjī with a sharp glint in her eye. “What we want from you in return is the Emperor’s head.”

Lán Wàngjī’s heart stuttered in his chest.

“A fair trade, no? The Empress’ head, safe and sound, in return for that fickle, useless Wēn puppet. I’ve heard your relationship with the Emperor is strained, to put it lightly, so I imagine this will not be a problem for you.”

When Lán Wàngjī still said nothing, Jīn Mǐnshàn chimed in.

“You will be escorting His Excellency to deal with rebellion in the east, where he will tragically be killed by the rebellion leader, Sāndú Shèngshǒu. In retaliation, the Chief Commander of the Xiūxiān Armies will declare war on the rebellion and wipe them out for good.”

“And W—” he swallowed the knot in his throat. “Xiǎoyīng will be safe?”

“Of course,” Jīn Guāngyáo said with a knowing smile. “She’ll live to raise the next Emperor. Upon your glorious return from putting down those rebellion dogs, you will be rewarded with the position of the unborn prince’s personal guard, conveniently close to the new Empress Dowager. Whatever happens behind closed doors will never be revealed.”

Until you step out of line. The unheard threat resounded through the room.

“And if it is a princess?” he asked.

“It will not be,” Jīn Guāngyáo confidently replied. “I will personally make sure of that.”

Lán Wàngjī stayed silent for a long moment, staring unabashedly at the Grand Empress Dowager. Finally, he spoke.

“When does His Excellency leave?”

Jīn Guāngyáo smiled, her eyes wrinkling into crescents. “On the last day of the month.”

“We have already arranged for the retinue that will accompany His Imperial Majesty,” Jīn Mǐnshàn said with a sneer. “ I’m sure four days will be ample time for the great Hánguāng Jūn to make a plan.”

Lán Wàngjī didn’t afford Jīn Mǐnshàn a glance. He bowed to the Grand Empress Dowager and left the room, ignoring his brother’s calls as he took to his sword and flew towards the barracks.

Twenty-eighth of the Eleventh Month; Day 180

The Emperor stood outside the Palace of Earthly Tranquility as the sun barely peaked over the horizon, watching as the sun bathed the eastern face of the palace with a soft pink glow. The palace guards posted outside the entrance shuffled nervously as the Emperor watched the building for a full kè, making no move to enter and saying nothing.³ Eventually, Chief Commander Lán strode up to the Emperor and bowed deferentially.

“We are ready, Your Excellency.”

The Emperor didn’t respond for a moment, a complicated look on his face. Finally, he turned around and nodded to the Chief Commander. The two men silently walked away from the palace, each step heavier than the other. Waiting for them at the southern palace gate was a retinue of eleven cultivators—notably, none of them belonged to the Imperial Guard.

“Mount,” the Emperor ordered.

The escort of cultivators all stepped onto their swords and took off into the early morning sky, keeping the Emperor at the center of their formation. They took multiple breaks during the flight from Qíshān to Yǐngchuān in respect of the Emperor’s infamously poor cultivation.

At yǒushí they arrived at Qióngqí Path.⁴ As the sun was soon going to set, the group decided to make camp in the pass and rest. They agreed to leave early in the morning and continue their flight north towards Làolíng, the last place Sāndú Shèngshǒu was reportedly seen.

Feigning their tasks, the cultivators silently surrounded the Emperor, who was still unaware of their intentions. Once surrounded, all twelve pulled out their swords, Chief Commander Lán at their center with a cold face.

“Ah, Chief Commander Lán, what…” the Emperor stuttered, holding his hands up in surrender even as they shook with fear.

“For the good of the nation,” Chief Commander Lán said.

“For the good of the nation!” the cultivators repeated.

Chief Commander Lán lunged. The Emperor swiftly dodged and pulled out his own sword, much to the surprise of the betrayer cultivators. They moved closer.

“Stand back,” Chief Commander Lán ordered. “Let him die with sword in hand.”

The cultivators reluctantly kept their distance, still surrounding the Emperor but not approaching. They all assumed the fight wouldn’t be long, considering the Emperor’s poor cultivation and lack of proper training. Naturally, they were surprised when he matched Chief Commander Lán stroke for stroke.

The twang of their swords clashing echoed throughout the forest, turning darker as the sun sunk deeper beneath the horizon. The Emperor held his ground, but being surrounded by eleven cultivators put him at a severe disadvantage. Before he knew it, Chief Commander Lán was pushing him away from the forest and towards a cliffside that overlooked the rushing waters of the Huáng River.⁵ One of the cultivators sneered over the edge of their sword. The Emperor glanced over at him. Chief Commander Lán capitalized on his brief distraction and lunged.

The Emperor looked up at Chief Commander Lán in shock as a dribble of blood fell from his lips. He dropped his sword with a clatter on the rocks and looked down at where Bìchén had stabbed through his stomach. He took a step back and the sword slid out with a wet squelch. The Emperor took one more step back. As he put his weight on his back foot to take another, the brittle rock crumbled. He fell back into the rushing river, his brown eyes still wide with horror when the freezing water enveloped his body and swept him away.

The cultivators stood at the edge of the cliff face and watched the river for signs of life. The sun was almost completely set by now, and the sky was quickly turning dark. A cold wind rustled the trees, but its song was barely heard over the roaring current beneath them. When nothing emerged, Chief Commander Lán turned to them.

“Split. We must return with the body.”

“Yes, Chief Commander.”

After searching for two days, Chief Commander Lán and his retinue returned from Guǎnglíng on the third day of the Twelfth Month, a body wrapped in white linen held on a stretcher and reverently carried by four cultivators. The Empress ran from her palace at the news of their return, expecting to see her husband who had left without saying goodbye.

Her wails echoed off the stone walls of Búyètiān Chéng.

“You’ve done well,” Jīn Guāngyáo magnanimously said.

Lán Wàngjī’s hands clenched over his knees but otherwise gave nothing away.

“As agreed, you will be promoted to personal guard of the unborn Emperor once the twenty-five days of mourning have passed,” she continued. “The rumors of Her Imperial Majesty’s bastard child have already been quelled.”

An awkward pause as Lán Wàngjī still did not say anything.

“Well.” Jīn Guāngyáo cleared her throat, her amicable smile straining at the edges. “I know your brother will be very relieved to hear you have returned safely.”

“Mn.”

With a formal bow, Lán Wàngjī rose and left the room.

Sixth day of the Twelfth Month; Day 186

For the first three days of the mourning period, Wèi Yīng refused to leave their bed.⁶ They refused to drink, to eat, or to talk to anyone that wasn’t Jīn Zixuān or Luó Qīngyáng.

“Please, Your Imperial Highness,” Luó Qīngyáng pleaded, tears running down her cheeks as she held onto one of Wèi Yīng’s arms. “If not for yourself, or for us, then for the baby. You must eat something!”

At the reminder of their unborn child, Wèi Yīng reluctantly allowed themself to be pulled out of bed and eat a bowl of plain congee. When they didn’t complain about the lack of spices, one of the maids began crying.

“It’s just so sad,” she sobbed to her friend and coworker outside the palace after Jīn Zixuān sent her away until she got ahold of her emotions. “Her Imperial Highness misses His Imperial Majesty so much, and now he’s never coming back!”

Her friend also began sniffling, the two of them overcome with sorrow for the grieving Empress.

Upon hearing the Empress was eating again, Chef Jiāng personally delivered lunch to the Palace of Earthly Tranquility.

“It is lotus root and pork rib soup,” he explained with a kind smile. “Someone very dear to me used to make this when I was a child, so I always make it whenever I need to feel better.”

Wèi Yīng hummed absently as they took a sip of the soup. Light came to their eyes for the first time since Lán Wàngjī’s defeated return from Qióngqí Path.

“Oh,” they whispered, looking up at Jiāng Wǎnyín like they were just seeing him for the first time. “Oh, this is very good.”

Jiāng Wǎnyín smothered a smile at their praise. As the Empress began eating with more fervor, Luó Qīngyáng had to turn her back to wipe away her happy tears.

After that meal, the Empress went back to their mourning with a little more life in their eyes. Jiāng Wǎnyín began visiting the Palace of Earthly Tranquility with soup for every afternoon meal, and each time Wèi Yīng gained more levity in their mood.

Two days later, as Jiāng Wǎnyín packed up the empty dishes and prepared to return to work, the Empress stopped him and held out a sheaf of papers. Looking at them in confusion, the chef looked down.

Artificial Yīn and Yáng Imbalances in Food: A Study by Wèi Yīng, Empress Wēn.

He sat back down with a stunned expression and immediately began reading. Wèi Yīng busied themself with brewing a pot of tea, shooing away any servant that tried to assist them. When they sat back down again, Jiāng Wǎnyín was done and looking at them with tears in his eyes.

“You think this is truly possible?” he whispered.

“Yes,” Wèi Yīng softly replied. “It may take some trial and error, but there’s never been a better chef—a better cultivator—to achieve this.”

“Thank you, Your Imperial Highness,” Jiāng Wǎnyín reverently said, voice choked with emotion as he knelt into a kòutóu before the Empress in gratitude.⁷

“No need for thanks,” the Empress whispered.

Lán Wàngjī visited the Palace of Earthly Tranquility twice a day; once every morning, and once every evening.

He was turned away at the doors each time.

Ninth day of the Twelfth Month; Day 189

Wèi Yīng finally mustered up the courage to visit their husband’s body, which was being held in a smaller room near the Hall of Knowledge. They left in the middle of the night, unable to sleep. It had been so long since they’d last left the Palace of Earthly Tranquility without either Jīn Zixuān or Luó Qīngyáng knowing, and their throat tightened as they remembered the last terrible night they’d snuck away.

With their new cultivation making their footsteps lighter than air, it was all too easy to sneak past the palace guards and servants keeping watch over the room and slip behind the silk panels that hid the Emperor’s corpse from view. As Wèi Yīng stared at their husband’s body, shrouded in white silk, they couldn’t help but cry.

“How am I supposed to belong without you?” Wèi Yīng whispered, their voice breaking over the syllables.

They cried for a while before pulling themself together and taking a closer look at the body.

Something was off.

Wèi Yīng frowned at the body, their tears forgotten in the face of this new puzzle. It was shorter than they remembered their husband being, and the white shroud was awkwardly laid across the body in places. They lifted their hand to feel at the corpse’s arm. Wèi Yīng’s frown deepened at the thin arm that lacked all the muscle they knew their husband had.

Finally, Wèi Yīng moved their hand down the cloth-covered chest and unabashedly felt up the corpse’s groin. They pulled their hand away with a gasp of shock, staring at the body with wide eyes.

“That’s not him,” they whispered, joy and hope rising in their chest.

Someone shuffled in the room beyond. Wèi Yīng slipped out of the room and ran back to the Palace of Earthly Tranquility. They shook Jīn Zixuān and Luó Qīngyáng awake, their eyes wide with manic energy.

“It’s not him!” they cried, a crazed smile stretching their face as they laughed. “The corpse they have—it’s not him! He can’t be dead!”

“She’s lost it,” Luó Qīngyáng whispered, her face white with horror.

“I went and saw the body,” Wèi Yīng said and immediately waved away the bursts of concern and agitation. “It’s not him.”

“Your Imperial Highness,” Luó Qīngyáng said, her voice laden with sorrow.

“Tángmèi,” Jīn Zixuān slowly said. “If it’s not him, then who is it?”

“A eunuch,” Wèi Yīng replied, their smile growing ever wider.

Both women paused.

“A eunuch?” Jīn Zixuān clarified.

“Whatever body they have there isn’t my husband, because it doesn’t have the dick that got me pregnant.”

Luó Qīngyáng flushed bright red at their crass words before gasping in surprise once she registered what Wèi Yīng was saying.

“Then His Imperial Majesty is still out there somewhere! Oh dear, what if he’s hurt?”

Wèi Yīng bit their lip. They opened their mouth to respond but was quickly cut off by Jīn Zixuān.

“No. Don’t even think about it,” she warned. “You are pregnant. You aren’t going anywhere.”

“But he could be hurt,” Wèi Yīng croaked.

Jīn Zixuān shot Luó Qīngyáng a dirty look. The younger maid looked properly regretful of her careless words.

“Even if he was hurt,” Jīn Zixuān carefully said, “His Excellency would not want you unnecessarily endangering yourself or your child. We must have faith in his abilities and not put more pressure on this already delicate situation. Both you and the Emperor are safer with you here in the palace.”

Wèi Yīng deflated.

“Fine,” they mumbled.

Word of the Emperor’s death was sent to Captain Xiǎo Xīngchén and Imperial Inspector Sòng Zǐchēn, recalling them back from their mission in the Red Basin, but the messenger was unable to locate them.⁸ They hadn’t been seen in Méishān for over a month, and neither cultivator had sent any word back to Búyètiān Chéng as to their plans.

Tenth day of the Twelfth Month; Day 190

Wèi Yīng finally ventured out of the Palace of Earthly Tranquility and went on a walk around the palace grounds, as their physician had recommended. Absently, they wondered if anyone had told Wēn Qíng, or if she was still in Yílíng, completely unaware. Did Wēn Níng go to his sister?

That would be too obvious, they decided. Is Lán Wàngjī aware that the body he brought home isn’t the Emperor’s?

All of their thoughts came to a halt as they passed a group of Imperial Ministers talking in hushed tones with each other. Wèi Yīng continued on, pretending not to notice them, but used their cultivation to heighten their hearing.

“I still can’t believe it,” one of them whispered. “That Sāndú Shèngshǒu deserves to be put down like a dog for what he did!”

“I heard Chief Commander Lán is going to declare war against the rebellion,” another murmured back.

“As he should!” another grumbled. “They can’t get away with killing the Emperor in cold blood!”

Wèi Yīng nearly stumbled, bringing the men’s attention to them and halting their conversation, but Wèi Yīng had heard enough.

They’re claiming Sāndú Shèngshǒu killed Ā-Níng?

They wanted to laugh at the hilarity of that claim, but something cold settled in their stomach. This was undoubtedly the work of the Grand Empress Dowager—both the Emperor and the rebellion, all felled in one tidy swoop that was far too convenient, even disregarding the impossibility of the very rebellion Wēn Níng has been aiding suddenly deciding to turn on him. Had Lán Wàngjī betrayed them?

By the time Wèi Yīng had returned to the Palace of Earthly Tranquility, they had a headache from all the overthinking they were doing. They went through the motions of their day, trying and failing to remind themself of Jīn Zixuān’s words. The thought of Wēn Níng and the rebellion leader being blindsided by Jīn Guāngyáo’s army couldn’t leave their mind.

After tossing and turning in bed for hours and not getting a wink of sleep, Wèi Yīng sat up with a huff.⁹ Both Jīn Zixuān and Luó Qīngyáng were asleep in the parlor, going back to old habits after Wèi Yīng had once again snuck out at night, despite the fact that this never worked. The two maids tried to take turns staying up so that one was always awake in case the Empress tried to leave for another midnight dalliance, but both of them were always too exhausted and ended up falling asleep towards the early morning.

Wèi Yīng took out a stack of their SMS talismans and sent one to Wēn Níng. When they didn’t get a response for a full kè, they sent another. After sending four messages with no responses, Wèi Yīng tried to send one to Xiǎo Xīngchén, then to Sòng Zǐchēn. With no responses and their options exhausted, Wèi Yīng sent Luó Qīngyáng and Jīn Zixuān a silent apology.

They quickly dressed in the secret ninja outfit and grabbed a qiánkūn pouch full of supplies they had hidden in the false bottom of a chest several weeks ago when they were still going to the super-secret-late-night-rebellion-planning meetings. With their sword safely stowed in the qiánkūn pouch, Wèi Yīng slipped out of the Palace of Earthly Tranquility just before the sun crested over the horizon to start the new day.

Just as they jumped over the walls surrounding Búyètiān Chéng, Wèi Yīng was surprised to find two figures waiting for them.

“Miánmian? Tángjiě?” they gasped in surprise. “What—”

“You are not as sneaky as you think you are, tángmèi,” Jīn Zixuān smugly says.

“You also take all the long routes,” Luó Qīngyáng said with a smirk.

Wèi Yīng spluttered with embarrassment. “You can’t come with me,” they said, trying to sound stern. “I’m going—”

“You’re going to find the Emperor and join the rebellion,” Jīn Zixuān interrupted.

“Yes, exactly,” Wèi Yīng said. “And it’s too dangerous for you to join me.”

“We’ve spent months training with you every day,” Luó Qīngyáng pointed out, crossing her arms so her spiritual sword—commissioned by Wèi Yīng themself as a gift—was pressed to her chest. “Plus, you’re pregnant. I think out of the three of us, you are the real liability.”

“Fine!” Wèi Yīng relented when no other argument came to them. “But don’t expect any breaks—we’re flying nonstop to Yǐngchuān.”

After half an hour of flying at a rigorous pace, Wèi Yīng called for a break, scowling at both of their maids’ smug expressions.

“Being pregnant sucks,” they grumbled, graciously ignoring the responding snickers from their two friends.

Lán Wàngjī knelt outside the Palace of Earthly Tranquility and waited for the Empress’ word, as he had for the past seven days. One shíchén passed without any word, but Lán Wàngjī thought nothing of it;¹⁰ the Empress had started waking up later and later ever since her pregnancy. Then another shíchén passed, and he was a little concerned. Once the third shíchén passed, Lán Wàngjī couldn’t push back his worry.

Finally, Eunuch Píng scurried out of the palace, anxiously wringing his hands.

“Chief Commander Lán,” he stuttered. Eunuch Píng looked around before leaning over to murmur into Lán Wàngjī’s ear, “Her Imperial Highness cannot be found.”

Lán Wàngjī didn’t let any emotion show on his face despite the cold shiver of fear that immediately washed down his spine.

“Court Lady Luó? Lady Jīn?”

Eunuch Píng shook his head, his entire body trembling.

“Tell no one,” Lán Wàngjī ordered. “Her Imperial Highness likely had some cravings and went to the kitchens early.”

He nodded his head, but Lán Wàngjī could tell the eunuch didn’t believe his words. Hopefully, this would buy him at least a little time. Lán Wàngjī immediately left for his office near the barracks, already planning to go out and find the Empress himself.

Lán Xīchén was waiting for him in his office.

“Grand Empress Dowager Jīn has announced the Empress has fled the palace to join the rebellion,” he grimly stated. “They say she was working with the rebellion all along—that she was never pregnant, and had instead faked her condition to trick the Emperor into falling for the trap at Yǐngchuān.”

Lán Wàngjī bit back a growl. So, he thought, Jīn Guāngyáo has gone back on her word after all.

“I am going after her,” he stated. There was no use hiding his intentions anymore.

“Wàngjī…” Lán Xīchén put a comforting hand on his shoulder. He had to resist the urge to shake it off. “What will you do when you find her?”

Lán Wàngjī didn’t respond, but he didn’t need to—his brother saw the answer in his eyes.

“I will not stop you, but Wàngjī… I can’t protect you if you choose her,” Lán Xīchén said, remorse dripping from his words. “You have a duty to this nation, and that duty is here. If you continue down this path…”

“I am her general,” Lán Wàngjī replied simply. “My duty is with her, always.”

His piece said, Chief Commander Lán gathered the necessary supplies, stepped aboard Bìchén, and flew east.

Thirteenth day of the Twelfth Month; Day 193

In the forests outside of Yǐngchuān and passed through Qióngqí Path, Jīn Zixuān turned to Wèi Yīng as they stopped for a water and snack break (courtesy of Luó Qīngyáng’s smart packing).

“Is she happy?” Jīn Zixuān asked. At Wèi Yīng’s puzzled look, she elaborated, “Jīn Xuányǔ. Is she finally happy, wherever she ended up?”

“She is,” they said with a fond smile. “She’s very happy.”

An arrow whirred past Wèi Yīng’s head, barely missing their ear, as a group of imperial soldiers appeared from the brush. They were wearing the Lánlíng Jīn ‘Spark Amidst Snow’ peony crest, marking them as members of the Běiyān Army.¹¹ Wèi Yīng cursed as they began to run; their spiritual qì drained far faster due to their pregnancy than it normally would, trying to keep them and their baby warm in the freezing temperatures. With their current qì levels, it was impossible for them to escape by sword.

“Fly!” Wèi Yīng ordered their friends, but they knew neither woman would leave them behind.

Jīn Zixuān gestured her head at Luó Qīngyáng, who nodded tersely and moved to cover Wèi Yīng’s back with her sword at the ready. It took Wèi Yīng a while to register that Jīn Zixuān had stayed behind, but when they did, they stumbled while looking over their shoulder, causing Luó Qīngyáng to run into their back.

“Tángjiě? What—”

“Run, Your Imperial Highness!” Luó Qīngyáng cried, pushing at Wèi Yīng’s shoulders.

Just as she was finished speaking, another arrow flew past their heads as another troop of imperial soldiers began surrounding them, this time from one of the common armies.

“Go!” Luó Qīngyáng shouted, stepping forward to cover Wèi Yīng’s escape.

Wèi Yīng pulled out their own sword and paused, not wanting to abandon their friends.

“We’ll find you again,” she promised, raising her sword at the soldiers closing in on their location. “But you need to protect our future.”

With a hand pressed to their stomach, Wèi Yīng bit their lip, nodded, and ran into the forest as Luó Qīngyáng raised her sword with a fearsome shout. Once rationality came back to them, Wèi Yīng used their qì to jump up into the trees, using the canopy as partial cover. Behind them, they heard a shout of pain—Jīn Zixuān—and an agonized wail—Luó Qīngyáng. Tears streaming down their face, Wèi Yīng kept running towards the sound of the river.

Maybe I can fly low over the river, they thought, or find an alcove to hide in until my reserves—

Wèi Yīng screamed as an arrow grazed past their arm. They stumbled, a fatal mistake, and fell. There was no time to think, everything was moving too fast. Flinging their arms out, Wèi Yīng tried to grasp onto a branch and stop or even slow their fall, but found only air. They braced for impact.

It never came.

“Lán Zhàn?” they whispered, looking up at the man who had caught them from their freefall.

“Wèi Yīng—”

“Well, well, well.”

A man in Lánlíng Jīn robes stepped forward with a jeer, lowering his bow. He had a zhūshāzhì at the center of his forehead, marking him as part of the Jīn inner family.¹² Wèi Yīng struggled and failed to place his name.

“Looks like the rumors of the royal bastard are true! The great Hánguāng Jūn, fucking another man’s wife behind his back—and the Empress, no less!”

“Jīn Zixūn,” Lán Wàngjī gritted, holding Wèi Yīng close to his chest as he raised Bìchén at the sneering man. “Leave.”

Balking at his boldness, Jīn Zixūn stuttered at the command; Lán Wàngjī was not of higher rank than him, but the sheer confidence in his tone still caused Jīn Zixūn to pause. Lán Wàngjī quickly set Wèi Yīng down and pushed them behind him, keeping one hand clasped tight in theirs. Jīn Zixūn rallied himself quickly enough.

“You have no power here, Hánguāng Jūn,” he spat, bringing his sword down with a loud clang against Lán Wàngjī’s.

They traded blows, forcing Lán Wàngjī to let go of Wèi Yīng’s hand and fight the man in earnest. They weren’t evenly matched—Lán Wàngjī was far stronger than Jīn Zixūn—but Lán Wàngjī was at a disadvantage as he was forced to stay on defense to protect Wèi Yīng. Jīn Zixūn mercilessly capitulated on his weakness, directing his blows towards Wèi Yīng again and again to thwart any offensive moves Lán Wàngjī might make. With each attack forward he made, Lán Wàngjī and Wèi Yīng were forced back a few steps, unable to do anything but let themselves be led by Jīn Zixūn through the forest.

Wèi Yīng’s fingers itched to grab their blade, but running through the canopy had nearly depleted all that was left of their qì, and they hadn’t thought to bring a bow. They scrambled through their qiánkūn pouch for talisman paper whenever they weren’t the focus of Jīn Zixūn’s ire, which wasn’t very often.

“Especially not with your own brother condemning you!” He laughed when he noticed the slight pause in Lán Wàngjī’s swing. “Oh, you didn’t know?”

He grunted when the next clash was stronger than usual, nearly losing grip of his own sword as he parried.

“How else did we know to follow you, Lán Wàngjī? Your poor brother came to us, begging for help with his wayward brother. He was all too happy to tell us everything in return for your safe return.”

Lán Wàngjī responded with a vicious lunge. Jīn Zixūn barely deflected the blow; Bìchén brushed past his cheek, leaving a short, superficial cut along his cheek. His eyes darkened, losing all the malicious levity from before. Wèi Yīng prayed to every god they knew as they desperately searched for talisman paper, cursing their poor forethought.

“It’s just too bad that he chose to die with the Empress.”

With a nasty grin, Jīn Zixūn swung out his sword in a large arc, letting his qì flare. The resulting sword glare pushed both Lán Wàngjī and Wèi Yīng back, feet scrambling for purchase in the frozen dirt. Wèi Yīng failed to grasp what was happening until it was too late. Lán Wàngjī quickly grabbed them around the waist in an iron-tight grip and spun their bodies so Wèi Yīng was clutched against his chest. He fell back-first off the cliff and into the freezing river below, Jīn Zixūn’s laughter lost amidst the roaring waters.

1. Symbolism in order:
   —Plum blossoms are a symbol of the winter season and represent longevity, wisdom, and feminine charm.
   —Evergreen trees are another symbol of longevity.
   —Endless knots [盘长结 - pánchángjié] are one of the eight symbols of Buddhism and represent the buddhist belief of the never-ending life cycle.
   —Chinese dragons [龙 - lóng] are a symbol of authority, nobleness, honor, luck and success. Historically, they are associated with the Emperor. Wèi Yīng is making a bold statement here, but joke’s on everyone—Wēn Níng commissioned these robes just for him.
   —Mutton fat jade is a translucent white/pale yellow color variant of Nephrite, one of the two mineral species commonly referred to as “jade,” and was most highly prized. Alongside gold, jade was considered to be a symbol of heaven.
   —Lions were admired for their strength and courage, so they were often associated with military and hunting prowess. Another bold statement from Wèi Yīng.
   —Jadeite, the other mineral species referred to as “jade,” comes in a variety of colors, including the very rare black jade as well as pink/red jade.
   —[花钿 - huādiàn] is a type of makeup similar to the Jīn zhūshā, though it wasn’t made using cinnabar. The original was done in the shape of a plum blossom, but many variants came in and out of fashion through time. ^{go back⤴}
   Sources:
   ”Chinese Auspicious Ornaments in Textile and Clothing.”Wikipedia.
   ”List of Chinese Symbols, Designs, and Art Motifs.” Wikipedia.
   ”Nephrite.” Wikipedia.
   ”Jadeite.” Wikipedia.
   Líng. “Huadian - A Special Hanfu Makeup for Female.” NewHanfu, 5 Mar. 2022.
2. In canon, Wèi Wúxiàn’s birth name is [婴 - yīng: infant / baby], but Lán Wàngjī misunderstood and thought [英 - yīng: hero / outstanding / excellent / quintessence]. There are many different characters that have the same pronunciation, but I thought [英] was a good name, especially as everyone is assuming Wèi Wúxiàn is naming himself after a rebellion leader. Combined with his surname, [魏 - wèi: tower over a palace gateway], which is the same character for the State of Wèi during the Warring Periods, [魏英 - Wèi Yīng: palace watchtower hero/excellence] seems like a good rebellion leader name to me.^{go back⤴}
3. 刻 - kè: one kè is about fifteen minutes. There are eight kè in a shíchén. ^{go back⤴}
   Source: waffles_4_breakfast. “Waffle's Glossary of Chinese Terms.” ArchiveofOurOwn, 22 April 2022.
4. 酉时 - yǒushí: 5 pm - 7 pm (in the system of two-hour subdivisions, called shíchén, used in former times). ^{go back⤴}
5. 黄河 - Huáng Hé or Huáng River: (literally) Yellow River; it is the second-longest river in China.
   Since Qióngqí Path isn’t a real place, I’ve made an educated guess as to where it would be located. Given that Qióngqí path was:
   1. Commandeered by the Jīn for their work camp (and MXTX said in an interview that Lánlíng Jīn was located in “Lanling County, Shandong Province”)
   2. Described as “an old road running through a valley between mountains” (MXTX, Chapter 16)
   3. Was likely close to Gānquán, where Wēn Níng was fighting the bat king
   I’ve placed it between irl Xī'ān city in Shǎnxī province and Zhèngzhōu city in Hénán province along the Yellow River, because that makes sense to me and works for this AU’s parameters. ^{go back⤴}
   Sources:
   “Yellow River.” Wikipedia.
   kuiqejenniferwilson. “MXTX interview (4).” Tumblr, 28 Jan. 2019.
   Mo Xiang Tong Xiu. “The Unruly.” Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation, translated by Lianyin Suika, Seven Seas Entertainment, LLC, 2022.
6. Historically upon the death or retirement of an Emperor, his will was read out, which declared who would be the next Emperor. The new Emperor’s reign began immediately. Filial mourning historically lasted 25 to 27 months, but for the Emperor it was only 25 days as he was instrumental to the bureaucracies of the nation.
   For plot reasons, I’ve decided to do a little mash-up of history and some fiction. In this AU, there is a 25 day filial mourning period for the Emperor, during which the usual rules around mourning—wives and children wearing white, avoiding the colors red, yellow, and brown, no banqueting, marriage, official activities, or imperial examinations—are still in place. ^{go back⤴}
   Source: Cang Wu Bin Bai. Golden Terrace, translated by E. Danglars, edited by Molly Rabbitt, Peach Flower House, 2022. (I got most of my palace life inspiration from this book)
7. 叩头 - kòutóu: to kowtow (traditional greeting, esp. to a superior, involving kneeling and pressing one's forehead to the ground). ^{go back⤴}
8. Red Basin, more generally known as the Sìchuān Basin, is a lowland region in southwestern China. Méishān, the prefecture-level city that MXTX used for the Méishān Yú clan, is located in the south of the Sìchuān Basin. ^{go back⤴}
   Source: “Sichuan Basin.” Wikipedia.
9. 刻 - kè: one kè is about fifteen minutes. There are eight kè in a shíchén. ^{go back⤴}
10. In ancient China, one day was divided into twelve [时辰 - shíchén]. One shíchén is equal to two modern hours. ^{go back⤴}
11. Běiyān Army: [北 - běi: north; 燕 - yàn: swallow (family Hirundinidae)]. The cultivator battalion based in Lánlíng that makes up one-fourth of the Běixiān Imperial Army [北 - běi: north; 仙 - xiān: immortal]. ^{go back⤴}
12. 朱砂痣 - zhūshāzhì; 朱砂 - zhūshā: cinnabar / mercuric sulfide HgS; 痣 - zhì: birthmark / mole. ^{go back⤴}

Chapter Text

Gritting his teeth, Sòng Zǐchēn raised Fúxuě and steadied his feet, trusting Xiǎo Xīngchén to take care of the low-level fierce corpses that attempted to swarm him so he could focus all his attention on the crazed man before him. He and Xīngchén had agreed to take the man—Xuē Yáng, he claimed—back to Búyètiān Chéng alive for questioning. Sòng Zǐchēn didn’t like it, but he understood the reasoning.

They had traced the increased levels of fierce corpses and general resentful qì activity from the outskirts of Méishān north towards Qíshān, and had eventually stumbled upon Yì City. The state of the town was grim; a thick fog obscured the entire region and the streets were crowded with walking corpses. Upon further investigation, they were horrified to discover that all the walking corpses had once been the townspeople of Yì City. Most of them showed signs of corpse poisoning before their deaths but none of them were hopping corpses, meaning they had been poisoned and then killed.¹

At the center of the devastation was a young man with a smile that resembled more of a baring of teeth—vicious and primal. In his hands was the Yīnhǔfú, and it was more terrifying than they had ever imagined. While Xuē Yáng was not a good swordsman, he was not above playing dirty. This meant that Xiǎo Xīngchén and Sòng Zǐchēn couldn’t go up against him together as they had to split their attentions between Xuē Yáng, the Yīnhǔfú, and the walking corpses.

With grim resignation, Sòng Zǐchēn surged forward, aiming a dangerous but nonlethal strike towards the hand holding the Yīnhǔfú. Xuē Yáng was quick to dodge, but his lack of training became evident when he made a lethal mistake. Fúxuě sliced through bone and viscera with a sickening squelch. Blood poured from Xuē Yáng’s mouth. He didn’t have time to say anything before he fell back, Fúxuě coming free with a gush of blood. Instead of cutting off the forearm he’d been aiming at, Sòng Zǐchēn grimaced at the massive gaping cavern that stretched from Xuē Yáng’s shoulder to his heart, having sliced cleanly through bone and muscle.

He flicked Fúxuě, blood splattering on the dirt, and turned around to help Xiǎo Xīngchén finish off the remaining walking corpses. With the Yīnhǔfú no longer in use, the corpses ambled aimlessly and without purpose, so they were done quickly. Xiǎo Xīngchén looked at Xuē Yáng’s body with a complicated expression.

“He looks very young,” he said, regret in his eyes. “What a shame.”

“The lengths the Jīn will go prove to have no bounds or morality,” Sòng Zǐchēn sneered.

Xiǎo Xīngchén sighed and knelt into the dirt, gently closing Xuē Yáng’s eyes before reaching for the Yīnhǔfú. The mass of metal reeked of malicious intent and deep corruption, colder and crueler than any energy they had ever felt. His hand stopped before he could touch it, his brows furrowed.

“We will need to be very, very careful with this,” he said. “The amount of malevolence… it could corrupt anyone.”

Carefully, he pulled out a qiánkūn bag layered with multiple protections and suppression arrays and used the tip of his sword to scoop the Yīnhǔfú into it. Immediately, the imposing aura dissipated, and a breath Sòng Zǐchēn did not know he was holding released.

“There is more to do,” Xiǎo Xīngchén said. “I don’t feel comfortable leaving this place like this.”

Sòng Zǐchēn nodded his agreement. “But first, let’s make camp.”

Xiǎo Xīngchén smiled. “I can cook tonight, if you’d wish.”

Barely holding back a shudder, Sòng Zǐchēn grunted, “It’s fine, I don’t mind.”

Later that night, the Empress attempted to reach out to them using the Message Talisman, unaware that the spell did not connect if the receiver was unconscious.

“I heard they’ve shut down the Palace of Earthly Tranquility,” one of the laundry maids whispered to a cook as he was washing rice. “Everyone is being very tightlipped about it, but some are saying the Empress went missing during the night.”

“Have you heard?” the cook whispered to his friend while shredding ginger for the Grand Empress Dowager’s ginger chicken she’d ordered for her stomach ache. “The Empress has gone missing! They’ve shut down the Palace of Earthly Tranquility, no one allowed in or out. I bet it's the Niè, finally getting back at the Jīn for the mess with that one cousin.”

“Shh!” his friend hissed, glancing over at Chef Jiāng in fear.

Jiāng Wǎnyín had strict rules against gossip in his kitchens. The man was generally amiable and hardly ever got angry, but when he did lose his temper… Both cooks shuddered at the memory. When Chef Jiāng didn’t look up from his cooking, they both heaved a sigh of relief.

“The Empress is dead,” Jīn Zixūn reported with a smug grin, “alongside Chief Commander Lán.”

“What?!” Jīn Mǐnshàn shouted, immediately rising to his feet. “Those were not your orders!”

“Mǐnshàn,” Jīn Guāngyáo said, but her tone was enough to take the wind from Jīn Mǐnshàn’s sails. She held in an exasperated sigh as she turned her attention to her cousin. “Zixūn, repeat to me your orders when we allowed you to go after Chief Commander Lán.”

Jīn Zixūn shifted nervously. “‘Bring back the Empress at any cost. Only kill the Chief Commander if necessary.’ But—”

The Grand Empress Dowager held up a hand, stopping his words instantly.

“Yet you return to the palace in glory despite having failed the most important directive given to you.”

There was a long pause.

“So they are dead.” Jīn Guāngyáo met his eyes, her eyes betraying her fury where her face remained amiable. “Bring me the bodies.” Jīn Zixūn paled. Jīn Guāngyáo titled a carefully manicured eyebrow. “You claim they are dead. Where are their bodies, Zixūn?”

“We—I—I didn’t—”

This time, Jīn Guāngyáo couldn’t hold back her sigh of frustration. “Mǐnshàn, escort Zixūn back to Lánlíng so he may learn the consequences of disappointing family.”

“Immediately, Grand Empress Dowager,” Jīn Mǐnshàn bowed, failing to hide his satisfied smirk.

“Return by the end of the week,” she ordered. “We still have work to do.”

“It will be done, Your Highness.”

Wèi Yīng woke to the bitter smell of herbal medicine and the feeling as though they had been run over by a semi truck. Everything hurt. They groaned as they tried to roll over and stand up but were quickly soothed by a warm, firm hand against their shoulder and the brush of something soft against their forehead.

“Stay still, niáng​zǐ.”

Their eyes flew open and immediately filled with tears at the sight of their husband smiling gently down at them.

“Lǎo​gōng​,” they choked out.

“I’m here,” Wēn Níng whispered, visibly holding back his own tears as he comforted his distressed wife. “I’m here, xīngān. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“They said you were dead!” Wèi Yīng keened, pressing their face into his shoulder and clutching him tight in their arms.

Wēn Níng sat on the bed and lifted Wèi Yīng into his arms, tucking their head beneath his chin and holding them close.

“They brought back your body and—and—” They stiffened. “Lán Zhàn! Lán Zhàn, he—”

“It’s okay,” Wēn Níng soothed, one hand wrapping tight around their waist and the other going up to gently pet their hair. “Wàngjī’s here, he’s okay.”

He shifted until Wèi Yīng could look up and see across the room where Lán Wàngjī was sleeping in a cot. They watched until they saw his chest rise and fall with even breaths before relaxing once again in their husband’s arms. To the left of him was a doorway covered with a thick blanket to prevent light from seeping in. By the shadows outside and the orange glow, Wèi Yīng guessed it was closer to sunset than midday.

“Oh,” they whispered, their mouth thick as a sudden wave of lethargy hit them. “Good, that’s…”

“Sleep, xīngān.”

He moved to lay them back down but Wèi Yīng tensed, hands clawing desperately at his robes.

“Don’t—”

“Okay, okay,” he said, tightening his hold and gently swaying them. “I won’t go anywhere.”

“Promise?” Wèi Yīng whispered, voice small in a way it never should be.

“I promise.”

When Wèi Yīng woke again it was dark outside, the blanket serving as the door to the small tent fluttering with the freezing cold air that swept inside. In the center of the room a fire flickered, close to embers but keeping the worst of the cold away. Curiously, there was no vent for the smoke to escape but the tent wasn’t filled with smoke. Wèi Yīng made note to ask about that later as they gingerly sat up in bed. Beside them, Wēn Níng was curled over the side, his hands clutching theirs and his neck bent at an awkward angle so his head could rest on the straw mattress.

Smiling with adoration, Wèi Yīng gently swept some stray pieces of hair out of his face, tucking them behind his ear. His helix was slightly pointed at the tip, something they’d never noticed before; it reminded Wèi Yīng of the elves in the Western fantasy movies they’d loved in their youth. When they looked up from Wēn Níng to check Lán Zhàn, they found him already awake and watching them with a soft expression that melted his usual cold demeanor.

“Hi, Lán Zhàn,” Wèi Yīng whispered.

“Wèi Yīng,” Lán Zhàn replied. “Are you well?”

They nodded and found that it was true. They were a little sore, but nothing hurt too terribly.

“I’m alright. Are you okay? The fall—you—”

Words failed them, something that did not happen often to Wèi Yīng.

“Mn,” Lán Zhàn said fondly. “I am well.”

“Don’t listen to him.” Wēn Níng groggily sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “His leg is broken and he has a mild infection from the water that got in his lungs, which is why he is supposed to be resting.”

Lán Zhàn shot him a glare, but it lacked the rage he normally directed towards the Emperor. Instead, it was almost… fond. Suddenly, Wèi Yīng remembered that Wēn Níng had referred to him earlier as ‘Wàngjī’ and not by any titles.

“When did you two start getting along?” Wèi Yīng narrowed their eyes.

The two men exchanged a charged look that Wèi Yīng had trouble reading.

Eighteen days prior

Lán Wàngjī didn’t afford Jīn Mǐnshàn a glance. He bowed to the Grand Empress Dowager and left the room, ignoring his brother’s calls as he took to his sword and flew towards the barracks.

Once there, he entered his office and shut the door. When he was certain he was alone and unwatched, he sent an SMS talisman.

The Grand Empress Dowager wants your head in exchange for the Empress’ life.

He didn’t have to wait long for a response.

Guō Teahouse, tonight after curfew. Ask for Guǐ Jiāngjūn. ²

After arriving at Guō Teahouse and saying the secret passcode, Lán Wàngjī was led to a small, discreet room near the back of the building. With its lack of windows, the room likely had been a storage room that was appropriated by the Emperor and his men. Lán Wàngjī was first to arrive, so he ordered a pot of White Hair Silver Needle tea while he waited.³ He was somewhat surprised that a teahouse with such shabby exteriors and simple furnishings carried an expensive tea like White Hair Silver Needle, but he had an inkling that had everything to do with the patron who frequented this teahouse rather than the teahouse’s commercial success.

Lán Wàngjī didn’t have to wait long before he was joined by the Emperor—and only him, which surprised him. While Xiǎo Xīngchén and Sòng Zǐchēn were gone in Méishān, Lán Wàngjī had expected to see the Empress by Wēn Qiónglín’s side. The man had a grim look on his face, so different from his usual aloof expression, a careful mask of incompetence that he constantly wore around the palace.

Neither of them talked as the Emperor settled down across Lán Wàngjī at the low table, graciously waiting to be served before taking a sip. He hummed in satisfaction, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as he sighed.

“So, this is their ploy,” he said, voice heavy.

“Mn.”

They each took a mouthful of tea. The room was far enough away from the main room and kitchens that it was largely silent. In any other circumstances, Lán Wàngjī would have found it soothing.

“I do not wish to kill you,” Lán Wàngjī slowly said.

Guilt gnawed at his insides like a starving dog. He forced himself to admit it out loud, prepared to face whatever consequences that followed. Taking a deep breath, he tried to look the Emperor in the eyes but couldn’t stomach it. He focused his attention on refilling their tea cups and tried not to feel like a coward.

“She loves you, and I love her,” Lán Wàngjī admitted, voice tight with grief and fear even as his face gave nothing away.

He did not have to elaborate any further. The Emperor smiled softly. “I know.”

Lán Wàngjī’s ears burned with humiliation. Has he been so obvious? Did everyone know?

The Emperor leaned forward and set a hand over Lán Wàngjī’s. His hands were slimmer than Lán Wàngjī’s but dwarfed his in length.

“I do not fault you for this, Chief Commander Lán. How could I, when I suffer the same affliction?” he said, his voice warm with affection. “If anything, I believe it proves the wealth of your character.”

“Your Excellency, I do not delude myself into thinking it will ever be returned,” Lán Wàngjī stiffly said.

The Emperor gave him a complicated look. He opened his mouth to say something but seemed to change his mind at the last moment and shook his head slightly.

“When we are alone, please call me Qiónglín. We are going to commit treason together; there is no need for titles in this.”

“I return the sentiments, Qiónglín,” Lán Wàngjī said with a shallow nod of his head.

Wēn Qiónglín gave a small laugh. “Ah, what a strange turn of events.”

He took another sip of tea and returned to the problem at hand, the warm atmosphere they’d built up souring.

“Without my presence securing her position, Wèi Yīng is vulnerable; she will be entirely in the hands of the Jīn. However, my presence also paints a target on her back, as we’re seeing.” Wēn Qiónglín gave a bitter laugh. “But I would rather her alive and somewhat protected than deposed or dead.”

“Jīn Guāngyáo assured me that I would be placed close to her and promised her protection, but I am hesitant to believe she will hold up her end of the bargain,” Lán Wàngjī admitted. “There is also the matter of the unborn child. Should it not be the prince they want…”

Wēn Qiónglín slowly nodded. “Then neither option is viable.” He paused, face contemplative. “But if I was thought to be dead, I would be free to join Sāndú Shèngshǒu and finish this political war in one, swift move rather than the slow death we are currently working towards.”

Lán Wàngjī’s already impeccable posture straightened more as he eagerly listened to the Emperor’s plan.

Fourteen days prior

“Stand back,” Lán Wàngjī ordered. “Let him die with sword in hand.”

The cultivators reluctantly kept their distance, still surrounding the Emperor but not approaching. They all assumed the fight wouldn’t be long, considering the Emperor’s poor cultivation and lack of proper training. Naturally, they were surprised when he matched Lán Wàngjī stroke for stroke.

The twang of their swords clashing echoed throughout the forest, turning darker as the sun sunk deeper beneath the horizon. Wēn Qiónglín held his ground, but being surrounded by eleven cultivators put him at a severe disadvantage. Before he knew it, Lán Wàngjī was pushing him away from the forest and towards a cliffside that overlooked the rushing waters of the Huáng River. One of the cultivators sneered over the edge of their sword. Wēn Qiónglín glanced over at him. Lán Wàngjī capitalized on his brief distraction and lunged.

Wēn Qiónglín looked up at Lán Wàngjī and bit into the false blood capsule, allowing a dribble of blood to flow down his face. He leaned close and murmured into Lán Wàngjī’s ear, more of a breath than words, “Take care of her for me.”

He dropped his sword with a clatter on the rocks and looked down at where Bìchén had stabbed through his stomach, missing his integral organs by a hairsbreadth. Wēn Qiónglín took a step back and the sword slid out with a wet squelch. They had practiced this very scene in the dark two days prior on a night trip to Qióngqí Path, choreographing every aspect of their fight—even the position they were to start and end at. They both knew what was coming next, but knowing didn’t help the fear Lán Wàngjī felt when Wēn Qiónglín took one more step back and fell back into the rushing river.

“So you planned all of this without me?!” Wèi Yīng demanded, face heating up with anger at the two men and embarrassment that he hadn’t caught on to the ploy. “Sure, let Wèi Yīng mourn his husband despite him not being dead! Nothing wrong with that!”

Wēn Níng winced. “Niáng​zǐ, that’s not…”

“Don’t you niáng​zǐ me!” Wèi Yīng snapped.

“Tried to explain,” Lán Zhàn quietly said.

“Ah, Lán Zhàn…” Wèi Yīng immediately deflated. “I’m sorry.”

“No need.”

After a comfortable lull in the conversation, Wēn Níng perked up.

“Oh, that’s right!” He stood up from the bed with a small wince as his back cracked from the motion. “There are people waiting to see you.”

Wèi Yīng frowned in confusion before remembering the companions he had traveled with. “Miánmian and tángjiě, did they…”

“They’ve been worried sick,” Wēn Níng said with a small smile.

Wèi Yīng immediately tried to stand up from the bed, only for Wēn Níng to scoop him up in his arms.

“You have a fracture in your ankle,” he explained softly. “Given the bruising, you must have hurt it on a rock when you hit the water. With your jīndān’s energy getting divided between you and the baby, it’s taking longer to heal.”

“Guess my strong husband will just have to carry me everywhere,” Wèi Yīng teased.

Wēn Níng smiled and carried him out of the tent, ignoring his squawks of protest.

“I was only teasing! Ā-Níng, I’m not serious—put me down, I can walk! I’ll use you as a crutch or something! Ugh, this is so embarrassing.”

Gathered around a cooking fire, Luó Qīngyáng and Jīn Zixuān looked up. Both of them gasped and immediately dropped what they were doing in favor of running up to the Empress.

“Your Imperial Highness!”

“Tángmèi!”

Wèi Yīng stopped mid-tirade to give them both beaming smiles, slightly tearing up with his relief.

“I was so worried about you both,” he said, swallowing back tears. “Never do that to me again!”

“We’re fine,” Jīn Zixuān promised, “especially now that you are here.”

“You were worried?! I was worried!” Luó Qīngyáng huffed, fussing with Wèi Yīng’s lazily-tied surcoat. “You’re not wearing enough layers. It’s colder up here than it was in Qíshān, Your Imperial Highness.”

“I’m fine,” Wèi Yīng said as he swatted at her hands, but he lacked any conviction.

“That’s my fault. I’ll be back,” Wēn Níng said.

He set Wèi Yīng down on a log by the fire and ducked back into the tent. Wèi Yīng turned to his friends and leaned forward. “What happened? Tell me everything.”

“Well,” Luó Qīngyáng began. “Lady Jīn fought admirably against her own sect—she took down five of them on her own!” Jīn Zixuān blushed at her praise. “After you left, I was able to keep most of the common soldiers from following you by aiming for their legs. I wasn’t able to stop all of them.”

Luó Qīngyáng stopped and glanced at Wèi Yīng’s arm, which was wrapped tightly. Wèi Yīng took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

“After we were sure you were out of range, Lady Jīn and I ran in opposite directions, forcing the soldiers to split up. That’s when I stumbled upon the rebellion, led by none other than His Imperial Majesty! He was able to send help to Lady Jīn and then immediately set out looking for you. You worried him sick, Your Imperial Highness.”

Wèi Yīng laughed sheepishly as Wēn Níng exited the hut with an arm around Lán Zhàn, who was stiffly limping. Once he settled Lán Zhàn next to Wèi Yīng near the fire, Wēn Níng draped a worn coat over Wèi Yīng’s shoulders. It was simple wool and lined with fur, and while it wasn’t as finely made and expensive as the coats Wèi Yīng had worn in the palace, it was still very warm.

He smiled up at his husband and placed a chaste kiss on his cheek. Wèi Yīng laughed as the affectionate action made his husband blush a pretty pink. The sight of his friends and loved ones all gathered together around the campfire brought him more warmth than both the coat and the fire combined.

As Imperial Chef, Jiāng Wǎnyín was always the first in and first out of the imperial kitchens. His day started early with checking the newest shipments of tithes to the Emperor and planning the daily meals for the nobility in Búyètiān Chéng. Two subordinates took over the servant meals, allowing Jiāng Wǎnyín to focus his entire attention on the fussy palates of the gentry.

At the end of the day, he stayed behind and ensured that the kitchens were cleaned and prepped properly, a habit he learned when he was first promoted to Imperial Chef. This meant that no one was around to see Jiāng Wǎnyín carefully pack several qiánkūn bags full of food from the imperial stores and quietly leave the palace compound.

Heart pounding in his chest, he paid a group of merchants to give him a ride in their caravan headed to Qīnghé. He slept fitfully through the night, huddled between bundles of silk cloth in a wagon. When the caravan stopped in a town just outside the city limits of Bùjìng Shì, Jiāng Wǎnyín thanked the merchants and continued his journey on foot.

Around midafternoon, he stopped to take a break for lunch. As he ate the cold, slightly stale mántou he’d packed the day before and chewed on fish jerky, Jiāng Wǎnyín pulled out a small sachet of tea, a special blend from Yílíng that the Imperial Chef ordered for himself each month.⁴ Inside was a folded piece of paper with directions written down in a barely-legible scrawl. After double checking the directions and his surroundings, Jiāng Wǎnyín continued his trek into the rocky forests that surrounded Qīnghé.

Just as the sun began to set, the Imperial Chef finally reached his destination. Hidden between two cliffs was a small war camp. The animal skin tents had tree branches and other foliage attached to the tops to add further camouflage from those in the sky. It was very difficult to find if one didn’t know what they were looking for. Luckily for Jiāng Wǎnyín, he knew exactly where to go.

As he approached the first tent, he was immediately surrounded by several soldiers, all armed with spiritual swords. None of them were wearing sect colors, marking them as rogue cultivators, but one of them had a purple band tied to their arm.

“Dàshīxiōng?” the one wearing Jiāng purple gasped, lowering their sword.⁵

Jiāng Wǎnyín smiled. “Hello, sānshīdì​.” ⁶

“Chef Jiāng!” Court Lady Luó ran up to greet him, Lady Jīn following close behind. “What are you doing here?”

“Joining the rebellion, of course!” Jiāng Wǎnyín said with a grin. “I brought supplies.”

Sānshīdì​ and another cultivator stepped forward to take his qiánkūn pouches, weighing them in their hands and giving him a surprised look at their heavy weight.

“They’re from the imperial stores,” Jiāng Wǎnyín said.

“Stealing from the Emperor, dàshīxiōng?” sānshīdì​ said with a teasing grin.

“It’s not stealing if I’m returning it to the Emperor,” Jiāng Wǎnyín replied.

“Chef Jiāng,” Lady Jīn stuttered, her cheeks a little flushed. “I-it is very nice to see you again.”

“You as well, Lady Jīn.” Jiāng Wǎnyín bowed and took a step closer. “You look flushed, are you cold? Is there a campfire nearby? It’s important that you stay warm, Lady Jīn.”

Lady Jīn’s cheeks turned from pink to red. “Ah, yes. Right. Um. This way, Chef Jiāng.”

She abruptly turned around and started walking deeper into the camp without waiting to see if he was following. Court Lady Luó bit her lip to hide her grin as she gestured for Jiāng Wǎnyín to follow.

“It’s been a hectic few days,” she said, chatting amiably with the Imperial Chef as they walked past rebellion fighters preparing weapons and supplies. “When we followed Her Imperial Highness out of the palace, I never imagined we’d end up here! Oh, Her Imperial Highness will be so happy to see you.”

“You are too kind,” Jiāng Wǎnyín humbly said. “Is Sāndú Shèngshǒu here?”

“Not yet,” Court Lady Luó said. “He went out on a search party after His Imperial Majesty learned Her Imperial Highness was missing somewhere in the forests. He’s on his way back, I hear.”

Jiāng Wǎnyín nodded, but whatever he was going to say in response never made it past his lips.

“Chef Jiāng!”

Sitting on a log near the campfire was the Empress and Chief Commander Lán. The two of them were sitting very close and sharing a blanket that was draped around both of their shoulders. If Jiāng Wǎnyín didn’t know better, he’d think the rumors about them were true. But he had been one of the very few lucky enough to watch the Empress fall in love with the Emperor, and he knew their marriage had turned from arranged to a love match over the past six months.

“Your Imperial Highness,” he greeted with a bow. “I am relieved to see you healthy and whole.”

“And I you, Chef Jiāng. Let me tell you, I’ve been missing your cooking so desperately. No one will let me near any of the food!”

“I will begin preparing dinner immediately, then.”

“No! No, no need to do that!” The Empress went to stand but was stopped by a gentle hand on her shoulder from Chief Commander Lán, who shot her a look. She settled back down on the log with a pout.

“What Her Imperial Highness neglects to mention is she cannot stand on her fractured ankle, which is why she cannot cook,” Court Lady Luó said with a wry grin.

The Empress muttered mulishly under her breath as Lady Jīn rolled her eyes. When Jiāng Wǎnyín moved towards the charcoal cooking fire, set a little bit away from the wood burning fire people were using for warmth, he was stopped by a delicate hand on his arm. Lady Jīn snatched it away immediately once she realized what she’d done, her face once again flushed red.

“Ah, apologies Chef Jiāng. It’s just.” She floundered for a moment, but Jiāng Wǎnyín waited patiently. After a deep breath, she continued, “You’ve come a long way. Why don’t you rest? Regardless of Her Imperial Highness’ complaints, we are handling the cooking just fine.”

“Thank you, Lady Jīn,” Jiāng Wǎnyín said with a reverent nod. “But I am not too tired yet. I was hoping to wait until San—”

“Gē​ge?!”

Jiāng Wǎnyín immediately turned around to face the shocked man in purple who had just arrived, a huge grin growing on his face.

“Dìdi!”

Without waiting for a response, Jiāng Wǎnyín ran towards the the man in purple, completely missing the Emperor’s presence beside him. The man immediately caught Jiāng Wǎnyín and pulled him into a crushing hug.

“What are you doing here?!” the man harshly demanded, but he was smiling and crying.

“Dàshīxiōng came to join the rebellion.” Sānshīdì​ walked up to the two hugging brothers, followed by several other cultivators wearing purple bands on their arms.

“How did you even find us?”

“You know Wēn Qíng’s informant in the palace?” Jiāng Wǎnyín asked.

The man nodded before his eyes widened in shock.

“You? Gē​ge, do you know how dangerous that is? You could have—”

“Not more dangerous than running around the country recruiting people to commit treason!” Jiāng Wǎnyín snapped, hitting his brother on the arm without any real strength. “Of course I did what I could to help my dìdi.”

“Ah, gē​ge…”

“Wait a second.” The Empress narrowed her eyes at the two brothers. “Why are there two of you? Who are you, taller Jiāng Wǎnyín, and how do you know my favorite chef?”

The man immediately puffed up in anger but the Emperor replied before he could.

“Niáng​zǐ, this is Jiāng Chéng, zōng​zhǔ of the Yúnmèng Jiāng Sect and Sāndú Shèngshǒu, leader of the rebellion.”

“And my younger brother,” Jiāng Wǎnyín added with a proud grin.

“Gē​ge,” Jiāng Chéng groaned.

“But Jiāng Chéng didn’t have an older…” The Empress started to say before she stopped. “Oh!” She turned to Jiāng Wǎnyín with a knowing grin. “A friend, huh?” she asked, referring to the thin excuse Jiāng Wǎnyín had used when they’d talked about artificial yīn and yáng imbalances all those months ago.

Jiāng Wǎnyín blushed with embarrassment. “I’ve been testing your theory, and I’m pretty sure I’m getting close.”

The Empress grinned in delight. “Really? You have to tell me all about it—better yet, let me help you! I came up with some more ideas, but—” She cut herself off to cover her sudden yawn with her sleeve, blinking a little sleepily.

“Wèi Yīng can discuss this later,” Chief Commander Lán said, the first words he’d said since Jiāng Wǎnyín arrived. “The baby needs a nap.”

“That’s one way of saying I need a nap,” she grumbled as the Emperor quickly walked over and picked her up in his arms. “Bye Chef Jiāng and Chef Jiāng’s little brother!”

Jiāng Chéng spluttered as his name was blatantly ignored, and Jiāng Wǎnyín couldn’t help but laugh.

“I’ve missed you, Ā-Chéng.”

Immediately, Jiāng Chéng softened.

“I’ve missed you too, gē​ge.”

Seventeenth day of the Twelfth Month; Day 197

Wèi Yīng didn’t get the chance to truly meet Sāndú Shèngshǒu until two days after his and Jiāng Wǎnyín’s arrival at the rebellion camp. Wēn Níng offered to take him to their ‘war meetings’ in the main tent at the center of the camp, but Wèi Yīng waved off his offers and insisted that Lán Zhàn join him instead. He was thoroughly enjoying the weird friendship that was forming between the two of them, even if he couldn’t quite figure out the meaning behind the expressions they often shared with each other whenever Wèi Yīng was being particularly whiny or dramatic.

As everyone was busy preparing for dinner (Luó Qīngyáng, Jīn Zixuān, and Jiāng Wǎnyín), checking over the supplies (Wēn Níng), or meditating (Lán Zhàn), Wèi Yīng sat by the wood fire, bundled up in three different coats plus a blanket on his lap and a cup of hot tea in his gloved hands. Jiāng Chéng walked towards the campfire and visibly stuttered upon seeing Wèi Yīng sitting alone in its warm glow.

“Sāndú Shèngshǒu,” Wèi Yīng politely greeted.

He bit back a grin as he saw Jiāng Chéng visibly resign himself to properly greeting the Empress as decorum demanded.

“Your Imperial Highness,” he said with a proper bow.

“It’s an honor to meet you,” Wèi Yīng said honestly. “I’ve heard a lot about you and the rebellion, though I imagine it is mostly lies.”

Jiāng Chéng snorted. An awkward silence followed as both of them struggled to find something to say.

“So,” Jiāng Chéng said stiltedly, “how are you enjoying the cold?”

Wèi Yīng gave him a funny look and fluffed the three coats and blanket tucked around him, causing the rebellion leader to flush bright red with embarrassment.

“How the hell am I supposed to know what to say?” Jiāng Chéng snapped without thinking. “Your family is the one who got all mine killed!”

Wèi Yīng felt a pang of sympathy that was immediately overshadowed by smug entertainment at the range of emotions washing over Jiāng Chéng’s face as he realized who he’d just snapped at.

“You have a shitty poker face,” Wèi Yīng teased.

Jiāng Chéng’s reaction was immediate. “Fuck you! What’s a poker face?” He blanched, holding a fist up to cover his mouth. “What’s happening to me?” he murmured with horror.

Wèi Yīng couldn’t help it and immediately broke into loud, joyful laughter.

“Ah, is this the Cain instinct those foreign videos talked about?” Wèi Yīng said through giggles.⁷

“Stop speaking nonsense! How is anyone supposed to know what you’re talking about if you keep saying made-up words?!”

“Hey!” Wèi Yīng said, insulted. “They’re not made-up! You just don’t like it because I make you feel dumber than me.”

“Do not!”

“Do too~”

“Niáng​zǐ.”

Both of them froze and turned to see Wēn Níng, Lán Zhàn, and Wēn Qíng watching them with expressions varying from amused to confused.

“Oh! Wēn Qíng, when did you get here?” Wèi Yīng brightened up at the sight of his sister-in-law. “Also, why are you here?”

His last question was drowned out by Jiāng Chéng’s overly loud greeting. “Ah, Wēn Qíng, you’ve finally arrived. I have something to discuss with you.”

“Sure, something to discuss,” Wèi Yīng said with a smirk.

“Shut up!” Jiāng Chéng hissed.

“Ā-Chéng, be nice,” Jiāng Wǎnyín scolded as he walked up to the group. He was followed by Jīn Zixuān, both of them carrying ceramic soup tureens.

“Yes, gē​ge,” Jiāng Chéng entoned.

He ensured his face was angled away from his older brother when he glared at Wèi Yīng, causing Wèi Yīng to stick out his tongue in response, much to Jiāng Chéng’s disgust. Their little spat was put on hold for food as Jiāng Wǎnyín and Jīn Zixuān began ladling out bowls of soup, a clear broth with pieces of soft white fish and plenty of pickled vegetables, all ingredients easily accessible in the north.⁸ Wèi Yīng was pleased to note the peppercorns floating in his bowl that promised a nice kick.

He looked around at the wide assortment of people gathered around the fire, all of them from different walks of life yet united by one cause, and couldn’t help but feel immensely proud and grateful. Even if he never makes it back to his modern life, he was glad to be here in this moment, no matter the outcome.

1. Corpse poisoning [尸毒 - shī dú] as described in The Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation is an illness that is transmitted through the necrotic blood of walking corpses, either through ingestion or inhalation of the toxic powder emitted by walking corpses. If not treated, the victim can become a [僵尸 - jiāngshī] or hopping corpse (sometimes Chinese vampire) which is an undead creature of Chinese folklore. ^{go back⤴}
2. 鬼将军 - Guǐ Jiāngjūn: Ghost General. ^{go back⤴}
3. 白毫银针 - báiháo yínzhēn: White Hair Silver Needle tea. It is a type of white tea produced in the Fujian province. With a fresh and delicate flavor, White Hair Silver Needle gets its name from the fine white hairs that cover the lightly oxidized leaf buds. (I have more to say about tea; talk to me in the comments pretty please) ^{go back⤴}
4. 馒头 - mántou: steamed bread or bun, a staple food in northern China. ^{go back⤴}
5. 大 - dà: older / eldest; 师兄 - shīxiōng: older male fellow sect disciple. 三 - sān: three / 3; 师弟 - shīdì: younger male fellow sect disciple. ^{go back⤴}
6. 三 - sān: three / 3; 师弟 - shīdì: younger male fellow sect disciple. ^{go back⤴}
7. ‘Cain instinct’ refers to the biblical tale of the two brothers Cain and Abel. In the parable, Cain kills Abel out of jealousy. The modern phrase ‘cain instinct’ refers to “the insatiable urge to hit the fuck out of your siblings” or the overall aggression a lot of siblings display to each other. I couldn’t find a similar phrase/idea that translated better. ^{go back⤴}
   Sources:
   “Cain and Abel.” Wikipedia.
   ”Cain Instict.” Urban Dictionary.
8. They are in Hebei province, which is the IRL province that Qīnghé is based on. Since it’s further north, there is an emphasis on wheat, red meats, and pickled vegetables due to the colder climate. ^{go back⤴}
   Source: Song, Candice. “North China Food, Food Style in Northern China.” China Highlights, 30 July 2024.

Chapter Text

Nineteenth day of the Twelfth Month; Day 199

Wēn Qiónglín was relieved when Sòng Zǐchēn and Xiǎo Xīngchén finally arrived at the rebellion camp. They had been speaking via SMS talisman for weeks now, so he knew their mission had been somewhat successful, but he’d still worried. It was possible, however unlikely, that someone had been impersonating them or that something terrible had happened between their arrival and their last SMS conversation.

“Rest first,” Wēn Qiónglín insisted when both of them tried to give him their reports. “We have time. I would rather the whole group hears this, and it will be easier on you both to tell the story once.”

Xiǎo Xīngchén and Sòng Zǐchēn agreed with some reluctance, but Wēn Qiónglín could see the relief in the exhausted slopes of their shoulders. Smiling to himself, he turned his feet towards one of the larger tents towards the center of the camp. It was early enough that his wife was likely still asleep, as she’d begun sleeping earlier and waking later.

A full lunar cycle had passed since the doctor’s confirmed her pregnancy. His sister said it was likely Wèi Yīng had conceived sometime during the ninth month, so it was normal for her to begin tiring more than usual as she reached her third month. He knew better than to say it aloud, as Wèi Yīng’s temperament had flared worse than ever before, but Wēn Qiónglín rather enjoyed how soft and warm his wife was when he woke her in the late mornings. In fact, he enjoyed it so much he was seriously considering moving her out of the Palace of Earthly Tranquility and into the Palace of Heavenly Purity. Or perhaps he would just sneak into her rooms each night instead.

When he arrived at their shared tent, he was not disappointed. Wèi Yīng was indeed still asleep, lying curled up on her side beneath several layers of quilted blankets and soft furs. Luó Qīngyáng had continued to braid her hair each night, but it still managed to frizz up into an unruly mess each morning. Wēn Qiónglín smiled besottedly as he carefully sat on the wooden frame bed and gently ran his fingers through some of the looser snarls.

The bed was the newest addition to the tent. When he’d told Wēn Qíng via SMS talisman that he was an expecting father, he had anticipated her response to brush past any emotions she may have and focus entirely on prenatal care. So when his sister learned that Wèi Yīng had been sharing a bedroll with himself in a tent after moving out of the infirmary tent, he had fully expected a rant to both himself and his wife. What he hadn’t expected was for Wēn Qíng to turn her ire to everyone but Wèi Yīng.

Needless to say, the bed had been quickly built that very day, much to Wèi Yīng’s amusement as she watched from the sidelines, carefully swaddled in quilts and furs with a new pot of tea every shíchén. Wēn Qiónglín had never seen his sister act so attentive and soft to a patient, but he couldn’t deny how happy it made him to see Wēn Qíng getting along with and caring so deeply for his wife and unborn child.

Wèi Yīng was just barely showing beneath her robes now, a soft curve now ever-present as she walked around the camp. The only person who wasn’t giving Wèi Yīng preferential treatment due to her condition was Jiāng Chéng. Watching the two of them interact was… interesting for both Wēn Qiónglín and Lán Wàngjī, though Wèi Yīng continues to be oblivious to their obvious vinegar-drinking on the sidelines of her spats with Sāndú Shèngshǒu. His sister, Jiāng Wǎnyín, and Luó Qīngyáng both found it hilarious, while Jīn Zixuān always seemed torn whether or not to intercede.

“Xīngān,” he murmured, letting his hand rest heavier in her hair.

When she didn’t wake, he moved his hand from her hair to cup the soft skin of her cheek. She has filled out here, too, her face rounding out with her stomach. Wèi Yīng grumbled, eyelashes fluttering as she finally stirred.

“Good afternoon,” Wēn Qiónglín said with a besotted smile that grew into a bemused grin as Wèi Yīng finally opened her eyes to glare up at him, always so grumpy when first waking.

“Jiāng Wǎnyín has made noodle soup with the pheasants some of the Jiāng boys caught this morning.”

The mention of food did not ease the death glare he was receiving for daring to wake Her Imperial Highness, but Wèi Yīng did begin to sit up in the bed. She slapped away his hands when he tried to help, only to whine wordlessly and make a grabbing motion towards him when the blankets fell off her shoulders and she began to shiver.

Wēn Qiónglín muffled an endeared laugh into his hands before dutifully picking up his wife and carrying her towards the steaming bath he’d already prepared (another requirement of Wèi Yīng’s prenatal care that Wēn Qíng terrifyingly willed into existence alongside the bed).

After the bath, Wèi Yīng was a little more lucid as she joined Wēn Qiónglín at the low table for her breakfast, which Jiāng Wǎnyín had been keeping warm for her since the earlier morning meal. The Imperial Chef had been more than happy to team up with Wēn Qíng and create a prenatal meal plan. Between the two of them, Wèi Yīng was never without some form of food or drink. It made Wēn Qiónglín very happy to see his wife so well cared for.

“Sòng Zǐchēn and Xiǎo Xīngchén arrived this morning,” he said once Wèi Yīng was done with her soup and was now sipping on a warm black tea that smelled of ginger. “We are going to meet at the central tent later this afternoon to hear their report. Depending on how their mission went, we will start planning our next moves.”

Wèi Yīng nodded, still blinking sleepily.

“Why don’t you go back to bed, xīngān? I’ll have Court Lady Luó wake you before the meeting to get you ready.”

She nodded and began walking to the bed. Abruptly, Wèi Yīng turned around and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. Wēn Qiónglín immediately placed a hand on her lower back and deepened the kiss, tasting the ginger on her tongue. When he pulled back, Wèi Yīng seemed a little more awake than before, her intelligent eyes glittering with amusement.

“Catch you later, lǎo​gōng​,” she whispered.

He huffed at her strange use of words and pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek before helping her back into bed and leaving the tent. The cold winter air brought him back to reality, and all the softness Wèi Yīng had imbued into him froze into tense worry. There was work to do.

Jīn Mǐnshàn stepped into the parlor of the Palace of Eternal Longevity with his chest puffed up in self-satisfaction, something his adopted sister did not miss.

“I hope Zixūn isn’t too injured,” she blandly said between sips of a medicinal tea. “Our scouts have confirmed the location of the rebellion camp. I intend to have our family written as the righteous cultivators against anarchy, so Zixūn will get the opportunity to prove himself sooner than expected.”

With a grimace, Jīn Mǐnshàn nodded. “He’ll be fine. Give him a smaller flank of archers.”

“Have you heard from our friend in the west?”

“We rendezvoused on the first of the month,” Jīn Mǐnshàn reported. “He was able to give me half of the original agreement but insisted that the other half was still unstable.”

“But you have half?” Jīn Guāngyáo pressed.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Good,” Grand Empress Dowager Jīn said with a small, dimpled smile. “Have your men found anything in the north?”

“No,” Jīn Mǐnshàn shook his head with a grimace. “And Zixūn wasn’t very helpful. The bastard watched them fall and then left! It didn’t even occur to him that either one of them could survive, given both knew how to swim.”

“Perhaps a squad of archers is too much responsibility,” Jīn Guāngyáo sighed. “Give Zixūn a lower rank within your flank.”

“But—”

“I’d feel better if he had a tighter leash, Mǐnshàn.”

“As you wish, Your Highness.”

“Good. We will set out for Yílíng in three days. I intend to resolve this entire mess before the New Year.”

Wèi Yīng furrowed their brows, staring at the warded pouch Xiǎo Xīngchén had placed on the map spread out on the table before them.

“We should destroy it as soon as it is safe,” Wēn Níng said.

“Mn,” Lán Zhàn agreed. “Such malevolence should not exist.”

Looking at the others, Wèi Yīng saw they were all in agreement. Refusals danced on the tip of Wèi Yīng’s tongue but they held it back. The Yílíng Lǎozǔ had been a controversial figure during this time for a reason; for generations, cultivators and scholars alike viewed resentful qì—and therefore yīn qì—as inherently malevolent. It wasn’t until after the Yílíng Lǎozǔ discovered that yīn qì was separate from resentful qì that cultivators began viewing all qì as it truly was—energy. Just like yáng and spiritual qì could become unstable and dangerous, so could yīn and resentful qì.

If they spoke this aloud, Wèi Yīng was uncertain they would be taken seriously. Suddenly, they were uncomfortably aware of the gender of this body. If they’d been in a body born a penis, perhaps their musings on yīn qì would be at least heard—but only if they were also part of the gentry. As much as they loved and cared for all the people standing with them in this tent, Wèi Yīng could not ignore the inherent faults they held in their hearts.

Everyone here had some form of social standing or upbringing that tinted their worldview. The social etiquette was stricter than Wèi Yīng was used to in the modern world; it was already a miracle they were allowing Wèi Yīng, Jīn Zixuān, and Luó Qīngyáng to be involved at all, not even accounting for Wèi Yīng’s pregnancy. Jiāng Wǎnyín was only being included because of his gentry blood, shared with Jiāng Chéng.

This wasn’t the 21st Century, where classism was shielded as ‘wealth divides’ and ‘nepotism.’ There wasn’t even a pretty lie that anyone could get rich with hard work, not here. Shoving down their frustration, Wèi Yīng kept their thoughts to themself and simply waited.

There were good things about being underestimated, Wèi Yīng firmly told themself, trying to push away the hurt at being so easily dismissed by people they viewed as their equals. For one, none of them would ever anticipate that Wèi Yīng would sneak back into the command tent during dinner, claiming to be feeling ill. (Which wasn’t actually a lie; Wèi Yīng constantly felt nauseous nowadays. Morning sickness was a bitch.)

They pulled out the warded qiánkūn bag they had modified with newer, stronger wards. After ensuring they were alone, Wèi Yīng quickly took out the Yīnhǔfú and placed it into their pouch and placed a decoy into the original. They put a hand over the one now containing a decoy and couldn’t help their smug grin when it felt no different than before, the decoy giving off intense waves of yīn qì—which everyone had identified as malevolent despite it only being a little bit corrupted—while their warded pouch gave off nothing.

Already, small groups of the rebellion soldiers had split off from the main camp and were quietly but quickly making their way towards Yílíng, where Sāndú Shèngshǒu and Wēn Níng had decided to draw out the Jīn. All it would take were some rumors about a rebellion camp being seen at the foot of Luànzànggǎng and the Jīn would come running, expecting to catch a small group of low-level cultivators unaware. Instead, they would be greeted by an entire contingent of trained cultivators, some of them former Jiāng but most of them minor sect leaders who were fed up with being trampled beneath the greedy feet of the Niè, Jīn, and Lán.

Wèi Yīng knew they were going to be left behind. It had never been said, but they weren’t stupid. Not once did their husband—or anyone else, for that matter—ever turn to Wèi Yīng and ask their opinion on the plan, or with which flank they preferred to join. They may be pregnant, but they weren’t helpless. Wèi Yīng refused to be left behind; if the rebellion were to fail and Wēn Níng died… Well, that simply wasn’t a world Wèi Yīng would be willing to raise a child in, much less alone.

So, Wèi Yīng had a plan, along with multiple contingencies. They would take the path of least resistance, giving only a small tantrum about being left behind and pretending to be convinced, only to turn around the moment they were gone and follow them as quickly and stealthily as possible. If they played their cards right, no one would even think about confiscating their sword.

Wèi Yīng left the command tent after slipping the qiánkūn bag into their sleeve and began walking towards the tent they shared with Wēn Níng, ready to play up some dramatics to get pampered by their husband, feeling only a little guilty.

Twenty-fourth day of the Twelfth Month; Day 204

When the Empress approached Jīn Zixuān with her idea, she had admittedly been a little skeptical. Lán Wàngjī has never enjoyed being in the spotlight for anything, much less celebrations held in his honor, and he has always hated surprises. Admittedly, Jīn Zixuān had expected the worst.

Wèi Yīng—or whoever spirit now resided in Jīn Xuányǔ’s body—was not a subtle person, as Jīn Zixuān has forcibly learnt over the past months. When she asked Jīn Zixuān to help her plan a surprise celebration for Lán Wàngjī’s birthday, inauspiciously falling on the day before the remaining rebellion leaders left for Yílíng, Jīn Zixuān had prepared for the worst.

She was privately surprised (and a little guilty for her poor assumptions) when the Empress expressed her intention to cook longevity noodles for the remaining cultivators in the camp, devoid of any spice in deference to the sensitive Lán palette.¹ Recently, however, the Empress has been cutting back on spice due to her bouts of intense nausea. Jīn Zixuān was more than happy to head to Bùjìng Shì to acquire Lán Wàngjī’s favorite tea blend to accompany dinner. Jīn Zixuān was more than happy to go, pleased to see that a little bit of Jīn Xuányǔ still remained in the world, regardless of the form it took.

It was by complete accident that Jīn Zixuān overheard a conversation between two Niè cultivators in the only teahouse in Qīnghé that sold the rare and delicate White Hair Silver Needle tea that Lán Wàngjī had grown to prefer during his time in Búyètiān Chéng.

“I can’t believe we aren’t heading out with the Jīn to Yílíng,” one of the Niè cultivators whined.

At a glance, she seemed younger than her peer, who replied, “It’s better this way. Let the jackals, wolves, tigers and panthers eat each other, and the Niè will rise above their bloodshed to bring peace.” ²

“How boring,” the younger cultivator sulked, ignoring her friend’s responding eyeroll.

Jīn Zixuān thanked the proprietor when he returned with the small sachet of tea before leaving the teahouse. She walked out of the city proper and into the wild forest in the opposite direction of the camp, just to be safe, before stepping atop her sword and circling back, making sure to keep low to the treeline. When she arrived at the camp, she quickly gave the Empress the goods before rushing off to find Lán Wàngjī and tell him the good news—the Niè would not be following the Jīn into Yílíng, leaving them with a greater advantage than they’d hoped.

Later that night, Jīn Zixuān politely pretended she didn’t see the Emperor and Empress pull Lán Wàngjī into their shared tent. Privacy talismans prevented any sound from carrying, but the candles stayed lit far past the Lán bedtime. Afterall, she only saw him on his way to his nighttime dalliance because she was on her way to visit Jiāng Wǎnyín’s tent, so she could hardly judge him. Not teasing him in the morning would be her birthday gift to him, she decided with a grin that was quickly wiped off by Jiāng Wǎnyín’s smart lips.

Twenty-fifth day of the Twelfth Month; Day 205

It was far too early for Wèi Yīng to be awake, but here he was, eyelids still heavy with sleep but his heart racing fast as he watched almost everyone he loved from this time and this world board their swords and leave him behind. Luó Qīngyáng patted his arm consolingly and gently wiped away the tears that were freezing on his cheeks in the cold morning frost. He took a shuddering breath, attempting to pull himself together. By Luó Qīngyáng’s pitying look, it didn’t work.

“I’m going back to bed,” he whispered, and returned to his tent without another word.

He didn’t lie. Wèi Yīng did go back to bed, for at least one kè, and it was anything but restful as he tossed and turned while anxious thoughts carved away at his mind.³ Finally, he gave up all pretenses and began pacing his room. His plan was to wait until nightfall before leaving to join them, but he couldn’t wait that long. With an aggrieved sigh, he pulled out the pack he had prepared and set it on the table, along with his sword, before turning to his closet and changing out of his sleeping robes.

As he was putting on his mò​xiōng, which he’d been bullied into wearing by Wēn Qíng, who insisted he would appreciate it once his milk came in, Luó Qīngyáng entered the tent. She looked at Wèi Yīng, then the table with his supplies, then back at him. Several lies came to Wèi Yīng’s tongue, but he knew Luó Qīngyáng would see through all of them. Instead, he chose the truth.

“I can’t let them leave me behind. I won’t—I’m pregnant, not helpless. I know the risks, but it… this is my body, my life. I don’t appreciate being told what to do with it, no matter their good intentions.”

“But they would never see it like that,” Luó Qīngyáng softly said.

“No, they wouldn’t.”

Wēn Qíng was only going because she was a doctor. Jiāng Wǎnyín was allowed to go because he was a man, despite the fact that he had no martial abilities. Jīn Zixuān was a cultivator from one of the Great Sects, and having her appearance on the side of the rebellion would help separate her from the rest of the Jīn sect in the aftermath. Luó Qīngyáng was left behind because she was a woman—it did not matter that she had improved her cultivation by leaps and bounds in the months she joined Wèi Yīng’s training, it did not matter that she was useful and resourceful off the battlefield.

“Well, Yílíng is warmer than it is here, so you can’t wear that.”

Luó Qīngyáng put the winter robes Wèi Yīng had taken from the chest of clothes and folded them back up. She pulled out a box at the bottom of the chest and set it on the table. Inside was a bundle of gray and black silk with hints of red. Luó Qīngyáng helped Wèi Yīng dress in the layers of silk.

She changed out his usual white mò​xiōng for one made of blood-red silk, the cut of it looking more like the white undershirt Wēn Níng wore than the ones Jīn Xuányǔ seemed to favor. Luó Qīngyáng made sure it wasn’t tied too tightly, as Wèi Yīng’s breasts have been unbearably sensitive recently—even touching them hurt. A matching pair of trousers were tied over his undergarments.

Instead of the usual rúqún, Luó Qīngyáng draped a straight hem robe made of thick but breathable black silk over his shoulders that she tied shut with a red silk belt, tight enough to keep the robe closed but loose enough to not dig into his swelling stomach. Bats and ravens were embroidered in glossy black thread, only visible up close. Wèi Yīng couldn’t help but admire himself in the mirror. With the masculine cut of the robes and the artful way Luó Qīngyáng had fastened it, he looked more like a young master than an Empress.

But it was the outer coat that truly took Wèi Yīng’s breath away. The body of the coat was made of light gray silk and had no embroidery at all, but it was far from plain. Flickering up the hems from the large, sweeping sleeves and up his legs were red flames, the same ones that decorated Wēn Níng’s dragon robes; embroidered in fine gold thread within the flames were coiling dragons and roaring qílín.

Tears came to Wèi Yīng’s eyes as he turned to Luó Qīngyáng, clasping her hand tightly between his. She was the first person he met upon waking in this foreign land, and has stayed constant in her kindness and loyalty.

“I don’t know what I would do, or who I would be, without you,” he whispered.

“Oh, Your Imperial Highness—”

“Wèi Yīng. Please, call me Wèi Yīng,” he pleaded. “You have only ever been my servant in name. In truth, you have always been my dearest friend. This once, I beg of you to use my name, so that we may be equals—if only for this day, but hopefully for many more in the future we will make.”

Luó Qīngyáng smiled as tears dripped down her cheeks. “Wèi Yīng… Ah, how strange that sounds!” They both giggled wetly. “Jīn Xuányǔ was the kindest mistress anyone could ask for. But you… Wèi Yīng, you became more than that. And so, as your—as your friend, I ask that you take me with you. I could not live with myself if I let you enter the fray completely alone.”

“Of course,” Wèi Yīng whispered. “Of course,” he repeated, stronger this time. “If this is what you want, how could I force you to stay behind? What a hypocrite that would make me!”

“I was planning on going whether you allowed me or not,” Luó Qīngyáng admitted with a sly grin as she pulled out her sword and a packed bag that Wèi Yīng was certain contained much of the same supplies he had packed in his.

Wèi Yīng laughed, loud and happy as he wiped his tears with the sleeves of his new robes.

“Ah, Miánmian, I fear I’m rubbing my poor manners off on you!” he chuckled as they exited the tent and prepared for the long flight southwest to Yílíng.

With a heavy heart, Lán Xīchén stepped onto his sword, Shuòyuè, and joined the ranks of soldiers that formed a mass cloud departing Búyètiān Chéng, most of them dressed in Jīn gold. Jīn Guāngyáo had promised that she was looking everywhere for Wàngjī and the Empress, but had solemnly admitted her fears—that they had both joined with the rebellion, the Empress manipulating Wàngjī’s feelings and their unborn child so he would commit treason for her.

Lán Xīchén hadn’t wanted the Lán to participate in the suppression of the rebellion, but he had reluctantly agreed that he and thirty-three of his closest senior disciples would join the imperial ranks. He gave his people strict orders to avoid landing killing blows and focus on their true mission: find Wàngjī and bring him home. If they happened to find the Empress, they were to subdue her and take her straight to Gūsū. No matter her poor character, she was carrying his brother’s child, which took precedence above everything else.

He had argued against surprising the rebellion camp, insisting that such an ambush was dishonorable. Jīn Guāngyáo had agreed to give the rebellion leaders time to surrender before escalating the situation, something Lán Xīchén was beyond grateful for. He hoped that the leaders were level-headed enough to see when they were outnumbered, that this conflict wouldn’t come to bloodshed.

The flight to Yílíng wasn’t long, so Lán Xīchén didn’t have very much time to agonize over when he would tell his brother before Luànzànggǎng came into view. At the bottom of the cursed mountain was indeed a rebellion camp, but not one caught unawares. Instead, rows of cultivators stood armed and ready, clearly expecting an ambush.

Lán Xīchén’s heart dropped to his stomach as his little brother looked up and met his eyes. Even from so far away, Lán Xīchén saw the heartbreak and betrayal. A thousand words came to Lán Xīchén’s tongue, but he was not given time to say any of them when one of the Jīn cultivators set loose an arrow and killed one of the rebellion cultivators. His head whipped to Jīn Guāngyáo, who had promised him they wouldn’t attack first, but there was no time. The rebellion cultivators cried out in anguish and returned fire; the battle began.

Immediately, Lán Xīchén and the other Lán split up from the main flank. They were forced to disembark their swords when the air was filled with a volley of arrows, but the ground was just as treacherous. Lán Xīchén stayed on defense, blocking blows and aiming to disarm, but the battlefield was pure chaos. Many times he found himself dodging swords from the very Jīn cultivators he’d arrived with. A quick glance behind him confirmed that Jīn Guāngyáo had stayed safely away from the battlefield, tucked away in her palanquin and surrounded by her personal guard.

With grim determination, he pushed through the mess of bodies and metal. With every step forward, the ground beneath him grew muddier and muddier as the heat from their bodies and blood melted the frosted ground. A sword glanced off his, and Lán Xīchén stared disbelievingly at the man before him.

“You—” he choked. “Your Excellency! But—we—”

The Emperor regarded him with a surprising amount of sympathy. “Wàngjī is—” he began to say, only for his eyes to widen as he stared in shock at something behind Lán Xīchén. “Niáng​zǐ!” he cried.

Lán Xīchén whirled around to see the Empress aboard her sword, flying at neck-breaking speeds towards the battle. With an impressively skilled twirl, she dodged a barrage of arrows, freefalling through the air for a gut-wrenching moment before gracefully landing on her sword once more. Faintly, Lán Xīchén wondered when the Empress had improved her cultivation to such heights.

He was startled back to the ground when the Emperor blocked a blow that was headed right towards Lán Xīchén’s neck, his eyes wild. Lán Xīchén focused his attention back on the battle, guarding the Emperor’s back despite his confusion at the situation. It was clear that the Emperor was anxious to get to his wife, but at the moment it was impossible for him to get even two steps forward, much less race to her side.

Eventually, Lán Xīchén found himself pushed towards the edge of the battlefield, having long lost sight of the Emperor. Confusion warring within him, he took the moment to frantically search for his brother’s form within the writhing mass of bodies.

Despite their presumed advantage, it soon became clear to Lán Xīchén that the imperial force was losing to the rebellion (Was it truly the imperial force if it was opposing the Emperor? Which was the real rebellion in this situation?). The Jīn soldiers were not nearly as quick or smart with their tactics as the mishmash ranks of rogue cultivators and minor sects that had bonded together under one shared cause. Years of study on the wars of the past made it clear to Lán Xīchén who would leave this battle victorious.

Instead of his brother, Lán Xīchén found the Empress marching away from the battlefield, sword in hand, towards Jīn Guāngyáo’s palanquin. Without thought, Lán Xīchén immediately raced over, choosing to run through the battle rather than around it to save time. He barely noticed who or where his sword landed as he pushed forward.

“You will not win this battle,” the Empress said as Lán Xīchén finally approached the small hill that overlooked the valley of blood and death. “My husband will show mercy if you pull back your rebellion forces now, Jīn Guāngyáo.”

The Grand Empress Dowager laughed cruelly as she stepped out of her palanquin. Lán Xīchén barely recognized the woman who sneered at the Empress with the cruelty of an executioner towards a martyr.

“Mercy? Is that what you call it? You overestimate yourself, tángmèi.” She smiled, but there was no warmth, no affection in the familiar term—only cold, hard apathy.

Lán Xīchén went to open his mouth, but cold screams erupt from the battlefield before he can find his voice. He and the Empress both whirled around to see Jīn Mǐnshàn on his sword, floating above the battlefield with a dark object in his hand. The Empress’ eyes widened, but before she could do anything both the Emperor and Lán Wàngjī broke away from the battlefield and raced up the hill.

“Wèi Yīng!” Wàngjī shouted, his voice tight with more worry than Lán Xīchén has ever heard him express.

He turned to the Empress, ready to discern her feelings to his brother from whatever response she may have. But before he could see or do anything, Jīn Guāngyáo moved fast, faster than he’d ever seen her move. Her wrist was bleeding as she held a gǔ​qín string to the Empress’ neck, her normally kind face twisted into a snarl.

“Don’t step any closer,” she warned.

But Lán Xīchén had already started moving without thought as blood dripped down the Empress’ neck. Shuòyuè came down with a bright blue flare. The only thing in his mind was the sheer horror and terror that Jīn Guāngyáo was about to kill his brother’s unborn child. He had no time to think if she actually would, or if this was all a bluff, or where he was aiming Shuòyuè.

Jīn Guāngyáo’s screams were joined by Jīn Mǐnshàn’s angry shout as her left arm dropped to the grassy knoll in a bloody heap. Lán Xīchén stared in horror at his actions, unseeing as his brother and the Emperor immediately swept in to help the Empress. They were both stopped by a furious Jīn Mǐnshàn, who carelessly dropped from his sword in favor of sending it straight towards the Empress.

There was a sickening squelch as his sword, Nánpíng, drove straight into the Empress’ side and exited out her back. Lán Wàngjī’s screams of agony jolted Lán Xīchén out of his stupor just in time to watch the Empress falter as Jīn Mǐnshàn recalled his blade back. More blood joined the ground where Jīn Guāngyáo was gasping in agony.

The Empress pressed a shaky hand to her stomach, her eyes wide with fear and pain. She gave a strangled yell as she hunched over, and Lán Xīchén could do nothing but watch as more blood splattered on the grass—it wasn’t coming from her wound, but somewhere lower. Something dark fell over the Empress’ eyes as she looked up to meet Jīn Mǐnshàn’s hateful gaze. Her palms slick with blood, she reached into the sleeve of her inner robe and pulled out a small pouch. His confusion at the strange course of action was soon replaced with horror as the object she pulled out released a trembling blast of resentful qì.

Lán Xīchén, the Emperor, and Lán Wàngjī crumbled to their knees from the blast, along with the rest of the battlefield behind them. Jīn Mǐnshàn and the Empress were the only ones who stayed standing under the oppressive force, each of them holding two halves of the Yīnhǔfú.

The Empress spat a mouthful of blood at Jīn Mǐnshàn’s face. As he blinked away the blood seeping into his eyes, the Empress raised her half of the Yīnhǔfú and called to its other half. Jīn Mǐnshàn had no time to resist before both halves collided together.

The first blast of resentful qì had been powerful. The second blast shook the very earth. The last thing Lán Xīchén saw before the entire world went dark was the Empress’ devastated cry as she clutched her swollen stomach, blood trickling down her boots and into the mud.

Luànzànggǎng answered her grieved call.

1. Longevity noodles is a traditional dish often eat on birthdays and during the New Year, meant to represent a long life. “According to tradition, the chef can’t cut the noodle strands, and each strand needs to be eaten whole – no breaking it before you eat it.” Different types of noodles are used by different families, but the most referenced is (伊面 - yīmiàn), a Cantonese egg noodle. ^{go back⤴}
   Source: Wong, Maggie Hiufu. “The complicated story behind longevity noodles, a popular Lunar New Year dish.” CNN, 19 Jan. 2023.
2. Reference to the idiom [豺狼虎豹 - chái​láng​hǔ​bào​], literally jackals, wolves, tigers and panthers, figuratively nasty, cruel people. ^{go back⤴}
3. T刻 - kè: one kè is about fifteen minutes. There are eight kè in a shíchén. ^{go back⤴}
   Source: waffles_4_breakfast. “Waffle's Glossary of Chinese Terms.” ArchiveofOurOwn, 22 April 2022.

Chapter Text

In old Yílíng’s bemired valley,
The Demon Patriarch
Holds aloft the tiger tally
Berobed in blood and breath.

Upon the carrion’s blackened wings,
Within the looming gloom,
That wretched Mound now sings
With grief and rage in bloom.

In gulping breaths the earth entombed
The bastard dynasty;¹
The Sun now rightful King assumed
To rule so righteously.

The tally lost to time, forsake!
The Demon Patriarch,
Dull robes aflame in red daybreak,
Consumed the Mound's eternal dark.

Oh, rejoice the Mound now lushly green!
Oh, rejoice the wealth and luck foreseen!

Wèi Yīng dreams of the future.

Wèi Wúxiàn’s life goes much the same as before. His parents travel, he gets left alone more often than a child should. But before embarking on the nighthunt that would ruin his cultivation and his future, he meets two rogue cultivators, a couple: Píng Nuǎn and Lán Cāng​.² They are strangers, but something tugs at his heart; they feel familiar. He invites them to join his nighthunt, and with their help he narrowly avoids a catastrophic injury to his meridians.

Caught up in similar feelings about him, the two men help Wèi Wúxiàn recover from his injuries, much more minor than they could have been but still severe, and somewhere along the way they fall in love. The three of them nighthunt as cultivation partners, traveling the world, standing for justice, and living without regrets.

Píng Nuǎn and Lán Cāng are there when Wèi Wúxiàn’s parents die in a car accident on their travels, are there when Wèi Wúxiàn decides that his gender is more complicated than just “a man,” are there when Wèi Wúxiàn decides he wants to go back to school and get a job in cultivation academia.

And he is there when Píng Nuǎn breaks his leg during a fight with a yáo, when Lán Cāng’s mother is diagnosed with cancer. The three of them only grow closer over the years, choosing not to cultivate immortality so they can reunite with their loved ones in their next reincarnation cycle. They know their souls are tied together, that they will find each other in the next life and all the others that follow.

Wèi Yīng dreams of a life that has yet to pass.

Standing on a hill above the desecrated valley below, the Emperor Wēn Qiónglín looked over his people with grave sincerity, his wife’s blood staining his robes. The earth still trembled with small shakes from where it split open and consumed the entire Jīn force that had embarked to Yílíng. All that remains of the Jīn are the corpses of the Grand Empress Dowager and the Grand Chancellor, still collapsed in their final defeat at the Emperor’s feet.

Beyond the blood-soaked valley loomed Luànzànggǎng. A storm gathered at the mountain’s peak, dark clouds gathering to block out the weak evening sun in its entirety. The Emperor took a deep breath before speaking to his people in grave tones, not bothering to wipe away the tears streaking through his bloodied, dirtied face.

“We have lost much on this day,” he said. Lightning crackled as it striked down at Luànzànggǎng’s peak. The resounding thunder was quick to follow, but the Emperor’s normally timid voice boomed over the valley. “But We must not let Our losses overshadow the victory We have all fought for. For too long, those in Búyètiān Chéng have treated this nation as their servant, despite claiming to be servants for the nation. The nation belongs to all, and should not be the private property of a single family. The Gods as Our witness, We vow that by the eve of Our sixtieth year, the Great Dynasty of Wēn will step down to make room for a new era.”³

The cheers that followed his words drowned out the thunder rolling over the clouds.

Lán Wàngjī carefully settled next to the Emperor’s hunched form, one hand hovering tentatively over his shoulder. He cautiously allowed his hand to fall heavily on the fine silk, noting that Wēn Qiónglín hadn’t changed out of his robes since the battle ended. Swallowing around the knot in his throat, Lán Wàngjī didn’t say anything for a long moment, searching for the right words.

“She’ll be okay,” Wēn Qiónglín rasped, not looking up from his vigil. It felt less like the statement he meant it to be and more of a question.

“Mn,” Lán Wàngjī quietly hummed his agreement. “She is Wèi Yīng.”

Wēn Qiónglín lifted his hand and placed it over Lán Wàngjī’s. “Thank you, Wàngjī.”

Lán Wàngjī shook his head. “There is no need for thanks between us.”

They both knelt for a long while, taking turns changing the hot water bottle every shíchén that Wēn Qíng had insisted be tucked by Wèi Yīng’s feet.⁴ They didn’t talk much, the two of them both too quiet and reticent to fill the empty air with chatter like Wèi Yīng could. Eventually, Lán Wàngjī succumbed to his exhaustion and the Lán bedtime, slumping forward to rest at an uncomfortable slouch on Wèi Yīng’s bed.

With a fond smile, Wēn Qiónglín readjusted his own position, leaning his back against the bed and stretching his legs out. Once he was comfortable, he gently moved Lán Wàngjī, heavy with sleep, until his head rested on Wēn Qiónglín’s lap. He was reminded of that night in Búyètiān Chéng all those months ago, when he adjusted Lán Wàngjī’s posture after he’d fallen asleep outside the Palace of Heavenly Purity.

“We’ll be okay,” he whispered, urging his heart to believe it.

Twenty-seventh day of the Twelfth Month; Day 207

Wèi Yīng woke with a gasping breath that sounded wrong coming from their mouth. Everything hurt, from their stiff fingers to the stuttered rise and fall of their chest with each rasping breath. Their eyes opened to a ceiling of animal skin, curls of incense smoke dissipating before it brushed the walls of the tent. They didn’t dare try to sit up, not when even breathing ached.

“Your Imperial Highness!”

Luó Qīngyáng entered the tent with a tray holding what seemed to be a bowl of water and some folded washcloths. She hastily set the tray down on the packed dirt floor and immediately kneeled by the wood frame bed. There were clean bandages wrapped around her left wrist and right bicep, but other than that she looked in good health.

“You have worried everyone,” she scolded, but any sternness was melted by her tears of relief.

Wèi Yīng opened their chapped lips to speak, but Luó Qīngyáng hushed them before they could. She supported their neck until they were slightly upright and then fed them a bowl of bitter medicine. Wèi Yīng didn’t complain at the taste, desperate instead to get any sort of pain relief. The medicine was followed by a warm cup of green tea, bitter in a different way. Once Wèi Yīng’s mouth didn’t feel full of cotton, they finally spoke.

“Where is everyone? What happened?”

“His Imperial Majesty and Chief Commander Lán are in a meeting,” Luó Qīngyáng said, keeping her voice low and pleasant. “Until this morning, one of them has always kept vigil by your side. Wēn dài​fu had to threaten them multiple times to get them both to finally meet with Sāndú Shèngshǒu.”⁵ She chuckled. “Oh, she’s never going to hear the end of it once they learn you woke up the one time neither of them were here. Two days have passed since…”

Suddenly, Wèi Yīng remembered what had happened—and why they hurt. They immediately stiffened, hands going up to clutch desperately at their stomach. Luó Qīngyáng immediately put a calming hand over theirs and started running her cool fingers over their forehead.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she whispered. “Your baby is safe. Everything’s okay.”

Wèi Yīng collapsed back on the bed, all the tension leaving their body.

“Jīn Mǐnshàn’s sword went cleanly through you. It was obvious he was aiming for—” Luó Qīngyáng stopped and took a shuddering breath. “You turned, just enough that he missed his mark. It nicked your left lung, which is why you have been struggling to breathe deeply. Wēn dài​fu was able to minimize most of the internal damage. The reason it’s taken so long for you to wake up is because… Wēn dài​fu could explain it better, but from what I understood, the sword missed most of your internal organs but it was angled in such a way that it exited through your spine. Your jīndān worked overtime to keep you alive, but…”

Wèi Yīng wiggled their toes. Their left side felt fuzzier than usual, like it was taking longer to respond.

“We weren’t sure how it would—what would—” Luó Qīngyáng cut herself off. With a sniffle, she grabbed the tray she’d set down and dunked one of the towels in the water and wringed out the excess. She set the cooling towel over Wèi Yīng’s forehead. “I am going to call Wēn dài​fu. I’ll be right back.”

“Hey.” Wèi Yīng grabbed her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. “I’m here, Miánmian. We did it.”

Luó Qīngyáng smiled, wiping her eyes with her sleeves. “Yes. We did it.”

She left the tent, a cold rush of air replacing the warmth of her presence, causing Wèi Yīng to shiver beneath their layers of blankets and furs. They didn’t have to wait long before Wēn Qíng was sweeping into the room, Luó Qīngyáng on her heels.

“Do not tell my brother or the Lán boy yet,” Wēn Qíng sternly said to Luó Qīngyáng as she set down a wooden tiered basket and began pulling out a number of tinctures, bandages, and other medical supplies. “I would like at least a kè without those two hovering in my way.”⁶

Luó Qīngyáng bobbed her head obediently.

“How are you feeling?” Wēn Qíng asked, her tone softening.

“Like I got run over by a truck,” Wèi Yīng replied. When Wēn Qíng’s brow furrowed and she began inspecting Wèi Yīng’s eyes and head for signs of brain injury, Wèi Yīng amended, “Like I got run over by a horse. Everything hurts.”

“Yes, well, that’s what happens when you push your already weak jīndān to fly at ridiculous speeds,” Wēn Qíng placed an acupuncture needle into the side of Wèi Yīng’s neck, “drop into an active battlefield,” another needle on the opposite side, “get yourself stabbed,” a needle in their forehead, the tiniest prick, “and then channel a truly, remarkably stupid amount of yīn qì through an unstable conduit near a mountain of graves while pregnant.”

Wēn Qíng finished her scolding with two more needles in Wèi Yīng’s shoulders. Despite her harsh words, her touch was gentle and the release pattern she’d made with her needles instantly relieved tension Wèi Yīng hadn’t known they’d been holding.

“You’ve worried both the Emperor and the Chief Commander to the point that they can barely function,” she said, her tone wry with humor, “but the baby is fine, and now that you’re awake I can see just how much damage was done to your spine.”

“My left side seems a bit delayed,” Wèi Yīng admitted, worrying their bottom lip between their teeth. “Feels fuzzy.”

Wēn Qíng hummed as she did some more tests, pinching at Wèi Yīng’s feet and checking their reaction times for each limb. After pulling out the acupuncture needles and stripping all but one of the blankets off of Wèi Yīng, she turned to Luó Qīngyáng.

“Come over here and grab the bottom sheet near Her Imperial Highness’ legs like so.”

She demonstrated near Wèi Yīng’s torso, pulling the sheet Wèi Yīng was laying on up and tight like a sling. Once Luó Qīngyáng had the bottom half, the two of them pulled on one side of the sheet while keeping their hands on Wèi Yīng’s side, gently turning Wèi Yīng over in the bed until they were laying on their side, back facing them.

“It would be ideal if you rested on your front,” Wēn Qíng muttered, “but this will have to do.”

Wēn Qíng began unwrapping the bandages around Wèi Yīng’s upper back and chest, sending Luó Qīngyáng out of the tent to get a pot of recently boiled water.

“Not too hot,” Wēn Qíng insisted. “But also hasn’t been sitting out uncovered for longer than a kè.”

Wèi Yīng remained compliant and quiet as the medicine from earlier finally kicked in, dulling their pain to a dull throb. Their thoughts were muddled and hard to parse through, likely from both the pain and the drugs, so they simply drifted in and out of consciousness for a while.

Luó Qīngyáng eventually returned with a basin of warm water. She was helping Wēn Qíng gently wash Wèi Yīng’s back so they could apply the new medicinal paste Wēn Qíng had just made when the tent flap quickly fluttered open, the resulting rush of cold air making Wèi Yīng shiver.

“Niáng​zǐ!”

“Wèi Yīng!”

Both Wēn Níng and Lán Zhàn rushed towards the bed but were stopped in their tracks by Wēn Qíng’s annoyed glare.

“If you’re going to be here, you’re going to be useful,” she snapped. “Someone put more coals in the censor and move it closer to the bed.”

Wèi Yīng heard someone rush off to do so and couldn’t help their endeared grin.

“I’d prefer it if we had a kàng,” Wēn Qíng muttered.⁷

“Ah, but those are so uncomfortable,” Wèi Yīng complained, spoiled by modern mattresses.

Wēn Qíng tsked. “You’re too cold! Your body isn’t regulating temperature well, and your jīndān isn’t replenishing quickly enough to keep you warm.”

Not for the first time, Wèi Yīng wished they had HVAC so they didn’t have to worry about keeping warm during the winter; they knew that the weather was just going to keep getting colder. They remembered the vague overview of a heating array used in the 1800s to heat houses that they’d studied during school and wondered…

Finally, Wēn Qíng was done inspecting and rebandaging their back and Wèi Yīng was allowed to flip over to face the room. Wēn Níng immediately rushed to their side, his soft brown eyes wide and limpid with worry. Lán Zhàn hovered behind him, his face cold but his eyes a furnace of emotion.

“We’re okay,” Wèi Yīng said, giving both of them a smile.

Wēn Níng didn’t respond as he knelt down and clasped their hand in his, carefully burying his face in their stomach as his shoulders hitched with silent sobs. Crooning, Wèi Yīng ran their free hand through his hair, messily tied back in a bun that threatened to fall out at any moment.

They looked up at Lán Zhàn and gave him a small smile, beckoning him forward. He pressed their foreheads together, a few tears escaping his amber eyes. Though they were all emotional, Wèi Yīng couldn’t help the feelings of relief and safety that washed over them from having their two soulmates by their side.

“Your Imperial Highness,” Niè Huáisāng greeted with a respectful nod before returning to kneel in front of the shrine to Emperor Xīzōng.

“Empress Dowager,” Wèi Yīng greeted in return, kneeling down with a labored huff beside Niè Huáisāng and lighting a stick of incense in offering alongside the Empress Dowager.

An uncomfortable silence stretched between them as it became clear the Empress was not going to break first and tell Niè Huáisāng why she’d made this impromptu visit. But the Empress Dowager was very good at waiting out uncomfortable pauses and simply fluttered her circular fan in front of her delicately painted lips. Finally, the Empress gave her a knowing look.

“I wanted to return something of yours,” she said.

Wèi Yīng set down a bundle of papers—the schematics for the Yīnhǔfú that Niè Huáisāng had planted in her rooms, her journal that had conveniently gone missing only to end up in Jīn Guāngyáo’s hands, and a rather damning piece of correspondence addressed to Jīn Xuányǔ before her wedding. Niè Huáisāng briefly stuttered in her lazy fanning as she recognized both pieces of paper and quickly understood the unspoken threat.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what Her Imperial Highness means,” Niè Huáisāng demurred.

The Empress covered up her knowing smirk with a look of feigned surprise. “Oh, my apologies for the error, then.”

She placed the letters back into her sleeve and gave one last bow over her swollen stomach to Emperor Xīzōng’s portrait before standing up with a muffled groan, tightly gripping her simple wooden cane with her right hand.

“It was truly generous of His Imperial Majesty to give both Jīn Mǐnshàn and Jīn Guāngyáo a pardon for their crimes so they could be buried with their ancestors in honor,” Niè Huáisāng casually remarked.

“Yes,” the Empress said, pausing her slow steps but not turning around. “We were told their deaths were rather… slow. His Imperial Majesty decided that the agony they must have faced in their final moments and whatever they may face in the beyond is penance enough for their crimes. Duchess Jīn was particularly grateful for the pardon so she could bury her elders in filial piety without losing face.” She resumed her leisurely pace. “You might want to replace that old portrait, Empress Dowager. There must be something wrong with the paint, for I swore I saw two faces instead of one.”

With that, the Empress left the Palace of Compassion and Tranquility, leaving Niè Huáisāng to stare contemplatively at the portrait of Emperor Xīzōng.

Tenth day of the First Month; Day 219

It was a cold, dreary day, and Wèi Yīng was trying very hard not to mope. Only a week had passed since the Yílíng Rebellion, but so much had changed within Búyètiān Chéng. They were no longer on strict bedrest, but Wēn Qíng had forced them to promise to keep indoors as much as possible.

Tensions were still high within the gentry of Búyètiān Chéng as Wēn Níng and Lán Zhàn spearheaded the massive upheaval of power within the Imperial Court, so Wèi Yīng was advised to stay within their palace, protected by nearly triple their usual guard. They hated it, but they hated the twin looks of fear that had flashed across their partners’ faces at the thought of yet another assassination attempt on them more.

“Wèi Yīng.”

They gasped and whirled around. “Lán Zhàn!”

His eyes softened as they beamed at him and ushered him to the parlor, where Luó Qīngyáng was already waiting with tea. Wèi Yīng had no doubt she had been the one to request either Lán Zhàn or Wēn Níng’s presence in the Palace of Earthly Tranquility, likely sick of Wèi Yīng’s sulking.

“Congratulations on your new appointment, Grand Chancellor Lán,” Wèi Yīng said with a teasing grin. The corners of Lán Zhàn’s mouth hitched down, showing his immense displeasure at the new title and all the pomp that came with it. “Is your new role so displeasing, Grand Chancellor?”

“Boring,” Lán Zhàn said, nearly scoffing with his disdain.

Wèi Yīng laughed, throwing their head back with fond amusement. “Oh, I hope you tell the other ministers that!”

Lán Zhàn hummed neutrally. “Qiónglín misses you.”

Immediately, Wèi Yīng’s joy softened to wistful longing. “How is he?”

He paused for a moment, deciding on his answer. “Busy. He is stressed. The Imperial Court is giving him much grief, but they are only drawing their bows.”⁸

“And how are your brother and uncle?” Wèi Yīng carefully asked.

Following the Yílíng Rebellion, Lán Xīchén pleaded the Emperor to pardon Jīn Guāngyáo so she could be buried with her ancestors in Jīnlín Tái, something Jīn Zixuān hadn’t had the face to do. Once the Emperor issued her pardon and allowed a small funeral to be held for both her and Jīn Mǐnshàn, Lán Xīchén resigned from the Imperial Court and returned to Yúnshēn Bùzhīchù, where he entered seclusion.

With his eldest nephew and the Gūsū Lán sect leader in seclusion, Lán Qǐrén retired from his position as Central Secretariat earlier than he originally planned. Lán Zhàn’s new role as Grand Chancellor did not allow him to also take over his brother’s sect duties, so Lán Qǐrén returned home to assume Lán Xīchén’s duties as Interim Sect Leader.

“Uncle is well,” Lán Zhàn said. He hesitated. “Xiōngzhǎng grieves.”

Wèi Yīng nodded and gave him a sad, knowing smile. “Give him time.”

They picked up a lotus paste cake and bit into the delicate pastry, crumbs clinging to their lips. The sweet was one of their few consistent pregnancy cravings, alongside blanched bok choy with garlic chili sauce, Jiāng Wǎnyín’s pork rib and lotus root soup, and warm soy milk. Lán Zhàn leaned across the table to gently wipe off the remaining pastry crumbs on their face, causing Wèi Yīng to blush furiously.

“Ah, Lán Zhàn,” they whined, squirming on their cushion. “You can’t just look at me like that! All this earnesty is going to give me hives!”

Lán Zhàn gave them an unimpressed look. “Wèi Yīng is not allergic to earnestness.”

They had taught him how to use that word in this particular context, and now they were regretting it. Whatever words were going to fall out of their mouth next were stopped by Wēn Níng’s soft footsteps.

“Niáng​zǐ?” he called, only to stop short upon seeing Lán Zhàn already sitting in their parlor. “Ah.”

So Luó Qīngyáng sent for both of them, Wèi Yīng sighed internally.

Whatever truce or understanding the two men had come to before the rebellion seemed to have dissolved in the recent week. Instead of their previous animosity, they now awkwardly circled each other, both of them acting far too polite to the other even in private.

“Duke Lán,” Wēn Níng greeted with a proper bow.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Lán Zhàn greeted in kind.

This time, Wèi Yīng sighed visibly and loudly. “Stop that,” they ordered.

Wēn Níng and Lán Zhàn looked at them in confusion.

“Stop what?” Wēn Níng asked, still only a half-step in the room.

“Stop being so weird!” Wèi Yīng demanded. “I don’t know why you’re acting all stuffy with each other all of the sudden, and I really don’t need to know why so long as you stop making everything so awkward.”

Lán Zhàn glanced away to stare intently at the wood paneling on the walls. Wēn Níng’s eyes flitted across the room, looking everywhere but at Lán Zhàn. Wèi Yīng groaned.

“Do I have to lock the both of you in a closet until you’ve talked this out?” they threatened, before trailing off to muse, “or maybe you need to fuck it out?”

The responses were immediate. Wēn Níng choked on his tongue, his eyes wide and nervous. Lán Zhàn stiffened straight as a board, his face carefully blank. Luó Qīngyáng gasped and nearly dropped the tray of fresh lotus paste cakes.

“N-niáng​zǐ, w-what—we—” Wēn Níng stuttered, his face quickly turning a matching bright red to Lán Zhàn’s poor ears.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Wèi Yīng grumbled. “Miánmian, cover your ears!”

Luó Qīngyáng set down the tray and scrambled out of the room, making sure to shut the screen behind her and subsequently forcing Wēn Níng to fully enter the room.

“You have two options,” Wèi Yīng said, their annoyed expression slowly giving way to a conniving grin that meant nothing good. “One, you sit and have a nice cup of tea with me now, I leave, and you two fuck this out here. Two, you sit and have tea with me, I leave, you don’t fuck this out, and then I get to make a grand, dramatic plan to lock you both in an enclosed space for an undetermined amount of time until I feel you’ve satisfyingly resolved your issues. The tea is non negotiable, obviously.”

Finally, Wēn Níng and Lán Zhàn looked at each other to have a silent conversation. When it went on too long, Wèi Yīng got bored and interrupted.

“I have at least five different plans already and only two of them don’t include me bursting into the Imperial Court meeting with some sort of emergency or me doing something stupidly reckless like—”

“The first,” both of them said at once, Wēn Níng panicked and Lán Zhàn insistent.

Wèi Yīng couldn’t help their smug grin at the twin looks of alarm on their faces.

“Perfect. Now, come join us at the table, Ā-Níng. Lán Zhàn was getting me caught up on all the shit I’m missing out on.”

“You are not missing out on much,” Wēn Níng sighed as he reluctantly settled onto a cushion beside Wèi Yīng, “but most of it is shitty.”

Wèi Yīng’s amused snort almost covered up Lán Zhàn’s tiny huff of laughter, but Wēn Níng heard it and gave him a shy grin.

“How is tángjiě?” Wèi Yīng asked after letting them have their moment.

“Marquise Jīn is settling into her new role well,” Wēn Níng said. “She is already incredibly competent as Minister of Public Works, but Marquess Jiāng Míngtāo was kind enough to spend some time mentoring her on the new position before he took on his new assignment. With all the losses they sustained, there is not much left of Lánlíng Jīn for her to manage.”

“She has been fighting off many suitors,” Lán Zhàn added.

Wēn Níng winced. “Yes. With her sect so diminished, many are after the infamous Jīn treasury. She is holding firm.”

“Ah,” Wèi Yīng whispered. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have disowned the Jīn name…”

“As Empress, you are expected to be impartial, or at least appear that way,” Wēn Níng gently reminded them. “Your support would have worsened the situation, most likely.”

“Wèi Yīng did the right thing,” Lán Zhàn said.

“Well, if Lán Zhàn believes that then it must be true,” Wèi Yīng replied wryly.

“Ah, niáng​zǐ!” Wēn Níng perked up. “I believe you will like this. From Yílíng to Gūsū, everyone is talking about the hero of the Yílíng Rebellion, who was given immense power by the gods themselves to enact their final judgment upon the Jīn rebellion.” He looked at them reverently, causing Wèi Yīng to flush pink. “They’ve even giving you a title: the Yílíng Lǎozǔ.”

Wèi Yīng paused as the statement hit them. “The Yílíng Lǎozǔ?”

“Mn,” Lán Zhàn confirmed.

Wèi Yīng began to giggle, which then boiled over into gut-wrenching laughter as they collapsed onto their side and laughed until they cried and then laughed some more.

“Me!” they exclaimed between desperate gasps for air. “I’m the Yílíng Lǎozǔ!”

“Niáng​zǐ, is everything alright?” Wēn Níng hesitantly asked.

Both him and Lán Zhàn looked worried at their unusual reaction, but Wèi Yīng was crying and laughing too hard to notice.

Oh, what strange twists of fate!

Eventually, Wèi Yīng was able to calm down, though they kept randomly breaking out into shorter giggling fits whenever they remembered their new title. Lán Zhàn and Wēn Níng ascribed the reaction to pregnancy hormones and trudged forward. Wèi Yīng was pleased to notice that the awkward atmosphere from earlier had dissipated—not all the way, but some.

Once they were finished with tea, Wèi Yīng smiled at their partners. “Well, it’s time for my afternoon nap, which I will be having in the Snow Globe Pavilion. You can come join me later.”

It took them a moment to stand, as they were still getting used to the additional weight of their stomach and they couldn’t put much weight on their left leg. One hand on their walking cane, Wèi Yīng slapped a silencing talisman and warning on the door to the room with a wink that made Wēn Níng flush red before firmly closing the screen door behind them.

Lán Zhàn took a deep, steadying breath before turning to face Wēn Níng, who was still blushing. Neither of them said anything for a long moment, simply watching each other. Finally, Lán Zhàn reached up and untied his forehead ribbon, allowing it to flutter to the table. The action seemed to give Wēn Níng confidence.

“Well,” Wēn Níng said. “Let’s fuck it out, then.”

Fifteenth day of the First Month, First day of Yuánxiāojié; Day 224

Bundled in thick silk robes lined with the softest fur available, Wèi Yīng watched the performance from her padded throne overlooking the large plaza that stretched before the Hall of Knowledge. There were five large lions of different colors, each piloted by two dancers and led on a rope by two other dancers. The large, elaborate masks each expressed a different mood. Accompanying the lion dancers were a large chorus of singers and musicians.

As a child, Wèi Yīng had loved watching the lion dances in the streets during Yuánxiāojié whenever she and her parents were visiting a city that celebrated the festival.⁹ There had been one time that Wèi Yīng’s elementary school class had put on their own performance. She remembered being so excited, unable to talk about anything else for the entire week leading up to the performance. Wèi Yīng smiled at the memory, choosing to focus on how proud she’d felt in that moment and not the crushing disappointment at not finding her parents' faces in the audience.

Luó Qīngyáng placed a cup of hot tea in Wèi Yīng’s gloved hands with a soft smile. “I’m glad to see Your Imperial Highness enjoying the festivities.” She leaned over to whisper, “just wait for the sword dancers! They’re my favorite.”

Wèi Yīng gave her an amused grin, waggling her eyebrows. “Oh, I wonder why?” she teased. “Certainly not because of those bare arms!”

Luó Qīngyáng blushed and giggled. Wēn Qíng shot them an amused glance from her seat of honor as Princess Dàzhì, the new Director of the Three Departments and Six Ministries, to Wèi Yīng’s right.¹⁰ While he couldn’t turn to look at them, Wèi Yīng saw Wēn Níng’s fond smile from the corner of her eye. He was beyond happy at Wēn Qíng’s presence in the palace, and was especially happy that Wēn Qíng and Wèi Yīng got along like true sisters so easily. Wèi Yīng had a feeling that her pregnancy played no small part in endearing Wēn Qíng to her.

The rest of the evening passed with beautiful performances that received mediocre applause, something that grated on Wèi Yīng’s nerves. She always hated the veneer of reticence that the wealthy liked to adopt. By the time Wēn Níng held out his hand to help her out of her seat and down to the plaza, Wèi Yīng was covering her fourth yawn in the span of a few minutes at most. This pregnancy was making her so sleepy.

Wèi Yīng gratefully took her husband’s hand, and Lán Zhàn was quick to leave his guard post to offer his arm on her other side. Her injury had long since healed over, but Wēn Qíng and the Imperial Physician both agreed that her left side would always be slower than the rest of her, particularly her leg and hip, leaving her with a slight limp. For now, it was hard for her to put weight on her left leg, especially with her swollen ankles and the extra weight of her pregnancy.

Large lanterns made of red paper with intricate wood detailing were brought out, with the largest set in the center. A dragon and fèng​huáng were painted on the sides with gold leaf. Wēn Níng smiled at her, his face lit with warm candle light as they lifted the lantern into the air. The rest of the nobles followed suit, and soon the lanterns joined the moon in lighting up the night sky.

On the third and final day of Yuánxiāojié, Wèi Yīng convinced Wēn Níng and Lán Zhàn to take her out of Búyètiān Chéng and join the common people in their festivities. She refused to take a palanquin and insisted they dress down in simpler robes so they wouldn’t stand out, though neither of them would capitulate on the armed guards that escorted their group through the city.

Sitting at a wooden table eating tāngyuán, Wèi Yīng watched as kids ran up and down the streets, solving chūndēngmí and earning prizes while their parents talked and kept half an eye on them.¹¹ Lán Zhàn stood straight as a board nearby, one hand clasped behind his back while the other rested on Bìchén. Wēn Níng was talking and laughing with a group of uncles drinking at the neighboring table.

One day, her child would join in the festivities, laughing and smearing red bean paste on their chubby cheeks. She rubbed her stomach with a fond smile, and found she couldn’t wait to see what the future held.

1. 伪朝 - wěicháo: illegitimate dynasty / pretender dynasty. ^{go back⤴}
2. 平 - Píng: calm / peaceful; 暖 - Nuǎn: warm. 兰 - Lán: orchid / elegant / graceful (different from [蓝 - Lán: blue / indigo plant] in Lán Wàngjī’s name); 苍 - Cāng​: dark blue / deep green. ^{go back⤴}
3. The 60th birthday is one of the most important milestones in Chinese culture, as the traditional Chinese lunisolar calendar observes sexagenary cycles, or cycles of 60 years, so to live past the 60 year mark is considered very auspicious. Some consider it to be the start of a second lifetime, which is why Wēn Níng has chosen this very specific timeframe. ^{go back⤴}
4. In ancient China, one day was divided into twelve [时辰 - shíchén]. One shíchén is equal to two modern hours. go back⤴
   Source: waffles_4_breakfast. “Waffle's Glossary of Chinese Terms.” ArchiveofOurOwn, 22 April 2022.
5. 大夫 - dài​fu​: doctor / physician. ^{go back⤴}
6. 刻 - kè: one kè is about fifteen minutes. There are eight kè in a shíchén. ^{go back⤴}
7. 炕 - kàng: kang (a heatable brick bed). ^{go back⤴}
8. 开弓不放箭 - kāigōngbùfàngjiàn: lit. to draw the bow without shooting the arrow (idiom) / to be all talk and no action. ^{go back⤴}
9. 元宵节 - Yuánxiāojié: Lantern Festival, the final event of the Spring Festival [春节 - Chūnjié], on 15th of first month of the lunar calendar. ^{go back⤴}
10. Wēn Qíng’s title [大智 - dàzhì: great wisdom] comes from the calque or loan translation of the Buddhist Sanskrit phrase महाप्रज्ञा - mahāprajñā, 大智慧 - dàzhìhuì, which means “great wisdom and knowledge.” ^{go back⤴}
11. 汤圆 - tāngyuán: boiled or deep-fried balls of glutinous rice flour, usually eaten during Lantern Festival.
    春灯谜 - chūndēngmí: Spring lantern riddles (guessing game at Lantern Festival [元宵节 - Yuánxiāojié], at the end of Spring festival [春节 - Chūnjié]). ^{go back⤴}