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Chapter Text

Does an oracle see the future or summon it with trembling hands? Does prophecy birth ruin or merely bear witness to it? The malady of fate gnaws, the chains of destiny drag.

Yue Jiejie’s lilting words echoes— Do not borrow grief from the future. But how could he not, when the future has already wed itself to his bones, when its wretched hymn hums beneath his skin?

He has seen the end. 

It hums in his ears like the dirge of a thousand unseen bells, tolling for all he loves. His family, his sisters, his sect, his people—they will die. All of them.

To live alone, to be the only survivor—the undeserving survivor, was that his fate? Survival is not mercy; it is punishment. Loneliness is not an absence but a beast with endless jaws.

If fate is the blade pressed to his throat, then he will be the hand that turns it back. If the gods demand sacrifice, then he will stand as both lamb and butcher.

Take me, he thinks, wild and raw. Let the blade fall on me.

The humming in his bones does not stop. The dreams do not stop either. They twist through his nights, knotting around his throat, and when he wakes, he is still drowning in them.

Mad, he thinks. I must’ve gone mad from the whipping.

But madness doesn’t feel this sharp. Madness doesn’t sink teeth into bone and leave certainty in its place.

And Jiang Cheng is certain—just as certain as the sun rising from the east, as tides rolling backward to devour the land. He dreamt of the future.

He dreamt of war.

He dreamt of a wasteland of broken bodies. He saw their faces—the ones he was supposed to protect. His people, twisted into unnatural stillness, their blood seeping into the hungry earth.

And his parents—

His parents' dying breaths. They lay sprawled on the blood-slick pier, surrounded by corpses piled high like offerings to some merciless god.

No.

No. He thinks again. Grief claws at his chest, wild and merciless, and he cannot breathe for the weight of it.

This cannot happen. It will not happen.

But the dream clings to him, seeping into his waking hours until he can no longer tell where it ends and reality begins.

Perhaps he has gone mad.

But madness doesn't matter. Grief doesn't matter. Fear doesn't matter.

He grips the edge of certainty like a blade and bleeds himself dry on its edge.

If this is the future, then he will destroy it. If fate has written war and death into their story, then he will tear that story apart, line by line, until there is nothing left of it but ash.

Does an oracle see the future or make it?

Chapter Text

Sing for me.

The voice is smooth, familiar, so deeply rooted in his bones that its echo blooms like sickness inside him.

He’s heard it too many times—heard it in screams torn from his throat. His gut twists instinctively, panic threading through his veins like fire.

There’s blood.

Everywhere.

It’s in water, staining silk crimson as it unfurls like ribbons through the air. His hands are slick with it, shaking, trembling from what they’ve done—what they’ve touched.

He remembers the sharp bite of sticks and stones under his bare feet as he ran, ran until his lungs were full of knives, until burning heat pulsed through his body like a fever that wouldn’t break.

His body, betraying him. Always betraying him.

He wakes clawing at his own skin, nails dragging down his arms in frantic desperation. The sheets are tangled around him like ropes, binding him.

Scars pull taut across his back as he jerks upright, the stretch biting into wounds that are still healing. The chill of the room seeps into his skin, making it worse, always worse.

He opens his mouth, but his voice—

No. No, no, no.

Not again. Never again.

The door creaks open.

His body jolts, every nerve on fire, expecting him.

But it’s not.

It’s just A’Jie. His sister, soft and familiar, standing in the doorway with a bowl in her hands and concern etched into every line of her face.

Relief crashes through him, sudden and overwhelming. He sags back, breath hitching as the tension bleeds out of his body.

The room smells of ginger and herbs, steam rises from the broth in lazy spirals. Jiang Cheng stares into the bowl, unmoving.

“Eat a little,” Jiang Yanli urges softly. “It’ll help.”

Help.

The word drifts hollow through the air. His hands feel wrong—like they belong to someone else. Like they shouldn't be here. His sister waits. She always waits.

But he can’t look at her, not properly. Not when her face is still whole, not when he can still hear her dying breath in his head.

“I’m glad you’re up,” she says after a beat.

And then, carefully, like testing the edges of a wound, “Remember when we spent that day at the market? It started raining, and we got soaked, but we didn’t want to go home yet.”

He remembers.

“You got sick the next day,” she continues. “I made this soup for the first time then. Do you remember?”

He was seven, maybe. He thinks. He isn’t sure anymore. But some parts are sharp—too sharp. The crush of bodies in the market, the blinding panic when he got lost, the rough grip of a man’s hand on his arm.

And Yue Jiejie. Her voice cutting, sharp as a sword as she saved him for the first time.

He should say something. Anything. But the words don’t come. Jiang Yanli shifts, setting the bowl aside. Her hands flutter—like she wants to touch him but doesn’t know if she should.

“A-Cheng,” she says softly, “are you—”

“I’m fine,” he cuts in, too fast. His throat aches from disuse. A pause. Then, gently, "You don’t have to be.”

He swallows hard. His mind keeps drifting—back to the dream, back to them, their bodies broken, the rot of death so potent he could taste it.

He clenches his jaw, forcing himself to focus on the present. On her. But his voice comes out hoarse when he finally speaks.

"You shouldn’t be here.”

Jiang Yanli blinks. “A-Cheng—”

"You should—" He stops himself, breath shuddering. You should run. You should leave before it happens. Before I fail you again.

“Mother will be mad if she finds you here,” He says instead.

Jiang Yanli doesn’t move. She just watches him, eyes full of something he doesn’t have a name for.

“She’s away,” she says in response.

And then quietly, carefully, reaches for the bowl again.

"At least drink something," she says. "You don’t have to talk. Just… let me stay.”

Jiang Cheng exhales, slow and shaky. He picks up the bowl. The broth is warm when he sips it. Jiang Yanli says something else—something soft, something kind—but he barely hears it.

The scent of sandalwood reaches him before the sound of footsteps. Even before she speaks, Jiang Cheng already knows.

His mother is here.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t answer. He can’t. His mind keeps slipping, caught between what is real and what he knows is real—the vision of her lifeless body, the blood-streaked pier.

But she is alive. Alive.

She stops a few feet away, but he doesn’t lift his head. The last time they were in a room together, he was on his knees, blood pooling beneath him.

Madam Yu lets the silence stretch, assessing him like she’s waiting for him to break it. When he doesn’t, she exhales sharply.

“You’ve had time to think,” she says coolly. “Tell me. What have you learned?”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t answer immediately. He knows what she wants. Some admission of wrongdoing, of failure. An apology.

He meets her gaze instead.

Her face is unreadable.

The silence lingers too long.

"You had everything," she continues. "A respected teacher, the best training we could afford—"and yet," her tone sharpens like a blade, "this is what you choose to do with it?”

His hands tremble where they rest on the blanket. Not with fear. With anger.

A respected teacher?

A bestowment of honor?

Jiang Cheng lets out a slow breath and meets her gaze. "Are you going to ask me why?" His voice is hoarse from disuse.

Her expression doesn’t change. "Does it matter?”

"You’ve been acting out for months," she says. "Fighting with your sect brothers, skipping lessons, picking pointless arguments." A pause. "I should have seen this coming.”

Something sharp twists in his chest.

I wanted you to see.

She sighs and folds her arms behind her back. "You’ll be leaving for the Yu Sect once you’ve recovered enough to travel.”

Jiang Cheng knew this was coming. He saw it in his visions.

He should resist. Should fight, should rage, as he would have before. But—

“…Alright.”

Madam Yu's expression flickers—so quick he almost doesn’t catch it.

"No complaints?" she asks.

"No," he says, voice flat. "I understand.”

She watches him for a moment longer. “Good."

Turning toward the door, she stops only once. Doesn’t look back when she speaks.

"Your teacher is merciful," she says, as if she believes it. "Be grateful for that.”

She watches him for a moment longer. Then, in a quieter, sharper voice—one that cuts beneath his skin—she adds,

"At least try to act like a Jiang. You already have enough working against you."

Jiang Cheng doesn't flinch. He knows what she means.

A weak core. A disgraceful outburst. And, most damning of all—born an omega in a sect that values strength above all.

Madam Yu doesn’t say it outright. She never has to.

Then, she leaves.

Jiang Cheng stares at the ceiling, his breath slow and steady.

Alive. She's still alive. His sect still stands.

For now.

And he will make sure she stays that way.

Chapter Text

The Yu Sect lives by a simple truth: Strength is born from discipline, precision, and control.

Every strike must be calculated.

Every movement efficient.

There are no unnecessary flourishes—only lethality.

Even the disciples and teachers—regardless of rank—are required to wear scent blockers. This special cream, crafted by the Yu Sect, is known only to a select few, not just for its effectiveness, but because it serves as the perfect tool for assassination.

It is a philosophy that stands in brutal contrast to Yunmeng’s wild, flowing strength—the chaos of water that bends but never breaks.

Here, nothing bends. Nothing flows. Everything is rigid, contained, sharpened to a deadly point. 

Jiang Cheng is watched closely.

It prickles beneath his skin, crawling like a fever. A raw, relentless itch that never fades.

He realised it quickly after arriving: there are only communal baths. No private spaces for heirs or sect leaders' bloodlines. In the Yu Sect, discipline flattens all distinctions. He is not special here.

He never was, not really.

The first time he saw the rows of stone tubs, steam rising like ghosts in the dim lantern light, his breath caught in his throat.

Bodies moved through the haze, bare skin gleaming, muscles taut from training. Laughter echoed—too loud, too sharp.

His chest tightened, breath fraying into ragged threads.

It clawed up his throat, razor-sharp and merciless.

But panic wasn’t the worst of it.

No.

Worse was the water.

It gleamed under the lanterns, dark and shimmering like something alive. Beckoning.

He couldn’t risk it.

The disciples whispered. Of course, they did.

“Too good to bathe with the rest of us?”

The words slid over him like dull knives, barely breaking the surface. They didn’t understand. How could they?

He washed with a rag and a basin in his room, water cold and bracing against his skin. He scrubbed until his muscles ached, until the faint sting of raw flesh became something grounding.

It wasn’t enough.

He wasn’t disgusting, but he never felt clean.

His grandmother said nothing.

She always watched, eyes like knives, sharp enough to flay a man down to his marrow. But she never spoke of the baths.

Jiang Cheng didn’t know if her silence was approval or indifference.

It didn’t matter.

The training grounds feel suffocating despite being open to the sky.

Rigid lines of disciples cut through the courtyard like stiff wooden soldiers, feet striking the earth in perfect, synchronised rhythm.

Sword drills, again and again, until movement becomes machine-like repetition. No sounds other than the drills. No wasted energy. No flourishes. Just execution.

Jiang Cheng stands at the edge, not blending in, never blending in. He doesn’t belong here—whether as the disgrace of the Jiang Sect or the Violet Spider’s son. Either title is a curse.

One whispered behind cupped hands, sharpened into pointed glances. He doesn’t need to hear the words to know what they think. He feels it in how they watch him.

Eyes follow his every breath, every shift of his stance. Like wolves circling a wounded animal. The exits are few, even here in the open air. His pulse thrums, restless, counting the angles of escape.

He can't stop himself from mapping it out—the fastest route over the wall, the blind spots near the weapon racks. He breathes in. Out. Forces the instinct down, but it lingers.

The Jiang Sect’s swordsmanship lives in his bones. He grew up with its rhythm, learned its language before he could speak properly.

It’s reactive, fluid—a river twisting through cracks in stone. Wide, sweeping arcs designed to fend off multiple opponents at once. It was made for chaos. For survival when you are outnumbered.

But the Yu Sect?

The Yu Sect fights differently. Every strike is deliberate, razor-sharp, leaving no room for error. Blades move like needles threading silk—precise, silent, efficient.

There is no endurance here, no prolonged battle. Only swift, decisive kills. They don’t fight wars; they end them before they begin.

Their footwork is aerial, full of feints and misdirection, requiring mastery over balance and deception. Poison seeps into their techniques, just as it defines their reputation.

Their swordsmanship doesn’t rely on brute force—it cripples, paralyses, finishes without warning. The Yu Sect may be considered minor compared to the great sects, but even Wen Ruohan once offered praise (backhanded it may be) for their skill.

Jiang Cheng watches their rigid drills. Every strike, every pivot, every seamless parry. Precision above all.

He can work with that.

His body moves differently than theirs, though. He knows it—feels it in the way his muscles instinctively reach for arcs too wide, too fluid.

The Jiang Sect’s style is bred into his marrow, its sweeping grace something he cannot unlearn.

But precision?

Precision is something he can forge. 

Yu Shuren introduces himself with a curt nod.

Jiang Cheng bows shallowly, eyes downcast—but he’s already assessing. It’s instinct, ingrained through years of being under him. Mapping escape routes. Measuring weaknesses.

He can’t help it.

The body speaks louder than words if you know how to listen. Jiang Cheng always listens.

Crow’s feet frame Yu Shuren’s eyes—a man accustomed to smiles or perhaps just long days under the sun.

His build is thicker than most Yu disciples Jiang Cheng has seen, muscle layered over precision. Likely favours brute strength despite the sect's emphasis on finesse.

There’s no tension in his stance. His gaze unfocused, casual.

Perhaps he’ll go easy on Jiang Cheng.

He notes it all in a heartbeat. Then forces himself still. He grips the hilt of his sword just tight enough to ground himself.

Yu Shuren steps forward. The evaluation begins.

The first lunge is slow. Measured. Yu Shuren aims for Jiang Cheng's left side—controlled yet predictable.

Jiang Cheng sidesteps too smoothly, barely shifting his weight. His body moves without hesitation, flowing through muscle memory.

He counters before thought catches up. An angle Yu Shuren doesn’t expect, swift and precise. The older boy stumbles, adjusting too late.

There’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes. Then aggression.

Yu Shuren comes harder now, strikes landing faster, sharper. His footwork shifts into something practiced but forceful.

But Jiang Cheng is faster.

He moves like water, slipping through every opening, never where Yu Shuren expects him to be. Every block melts into a counter, every dodge twists into a threat.

His sword arcs and pivots, fluid but deadly. It’s not a conscious effort. His body reacts before thought can interfere.

There’s no room for anything else—not fear, not pride, not pain. Yu Shuren falters. His strikes grow erratic, frustration bleeding into his stance. Sweat beads on his brow.

But then—

Yu Shuren stops attacking.

He stares.

Confused. Mesmerised.

There’s something wrong in his gaze—something wide-eyed and uncertain, like the last witness watching before the wave hits. Jiang Cheng's chest tightens. Panic claws up his throat.

His movements falter. The smooth rhythm he’s maintained shatters into something jagged. His next strike isn’t graceful—it’s harsh, brutal, a raw jerk of muscle and blade.

The blow lands hard. Yu Shuren stumbles back, dazed.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t think. He surges forward, driving the older man to the ground, pinning him with a knee against his chest. His blade presses against Yu Shuren’s throat, trembling slightly under his grip.

Silence.

Harsh breathing fills the space between them.

Yu Shuren blinks up at him, stunned.

Jiang Cheng's pulse thrums in his ears, drowning everything else out. His grip tightens instinctively, a predator cornered, unsure whether to retreat or finish the kill.

Then Yu Shuren speaks.

“…Impressive.”

The word is breathless.

Jiang Cheng jerks back as if burned. The sword lowers. He steps away quickly, too quickly, putting distance between them before he does something he can’t take back.

Yu Shuren rubs his throat where the blade had pressed but doesn’t rise immediately. He watches Jiang Cheng with the same unsettled expression—half wary, half intrigued.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t meet his gaze.

His breaths are shallow, strained. His body hums with tension that won’t ease.

He won.

But it doesn’t feel like a victory. It feels like exposure. Like standing naked beneath the weight of too many eyes.

Yu Shuren climbs to his feet, brushing dust from his robes. He smiles faintly. “You fight like a wild thing.”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t respond. Doesn’t trust himself to.

He bows stiffly and walks away without waiting to be dismissed, his footsteps sharp and uneven against the stone.

The whispers will start soon. He can already hear them forming in the spaces between breaths.

But Jiang Cheng doesn’t look back. He never does.

Thinking back, his swordsmanship has sharpened. Leaned into something harder, more precise. Muscle memory honed to a brutal edge.

Curious.

This is the first time Jiang Cheng’s sparred with someone since the whipping.

Very curious.

But Jiang Cheng doesn’t dwell on it. He never does. Blood flows in strange currents, and his? His has always been different. Stained with things he refuses to name.

It doesn’t stop him from carving seals into his flesh—meticulous, exacting, as if the body were nothing but parchment waiting for ruin.

Seals to suppress.

Seals to deny.

He’s seen his future self burn them into again and again, each time the sacred flesh defiled anew in desperate ritual. It doesn’t matter. He carves them anyway. The lines bite deep.

They hold.

For now.

He wakes before dawn.

The nightmares are punctual, better than any rooster call. Sweat clings cold to his back. He pulls himself up without hesitation. His limbs ache, tight with the memory of restless sleep. He ignores it.

Discipline is survival.

He takes to the forest, sword in hand.

The Yu Sect grounds are shrouded in green shadow, hidden deep within thick woods where the air is rich with damp earth and the hum of unseen life.

It’s a prime location—ideal for cultivating rare herbs, poisons, venoms. The sect thrives here, shielded by layers of intricate seals and wards.

To outsiders, it’s a fortress masked by nature’s wild embrace. But Jiang Cheng has always known how to slip through cracks.

He finds a weak spot in the wards within a week. Quiet, unnoticed. Slips past the boundaries without raising alarm.

Old habits die hard. He’s learned well from competing against a warding prodigy and learning under the best scholastic minds in the cultivation world.

Sing for me, and I’ll teach you how to ward.

(He doesn't think about them. Doesn’t think about him.)

And that’s how he finds it—the river.

It cuts through the forest like silver under moonlight, water gleaming cold and pure. Hidden, untouched.

The first time he stumbles upon it, his breath catches sharp in his throat. Relief slams into him with the force of a blow, so fierce it nearly brings him to his knees.

A river.

A place to bathe. Properly.

Not the half-hearted, frigid scrubbing with rags and basins he’s forced himself to endure in secret. Not the suffocating presence of communal baths.

No risk.

He strips without ceremony, body marked by scars and fresh seal carvings, and steps into the river’s embrace.

The cold is a shock—a blade cutting through muscle and bone. But then it settles, seeping into every inch of him, soothing the rawness beneath skin and sinew.

Jiang Cheng sinks beneath the surface.

The water cradles him, numbs the ache of his wounds, and for the first time in what feels like years, he breathes.

He stays submerged until his lungs burn, unwilling to break the spell. When he finally rises, gasping for air, his hair clings to his face, water trailing down his skin like silver veins.

The scars don’t hurt as much here. The seals etched into his flesh don’t throb with their usual weight.

The river heals.

It soothes the raw places inside him that no salve or tonic ever could.

And Jiang Cheng?

Jiang Cheng lingers.

Longer than he should.

The Yu Sect's swordsmanship doesn’t suit him.

Not when his body is smaller. Not when his strength is thin and brittle like a wick nearing its end. His core leans Yin, a spiritual bias rather than physical.

No one knows he has a Yin core. No one, except the one man who sealed it—locked it away so tightly that no one could transfer qi to him, so no one would ever know the truth. 

Once, Jiang Cheng might have believed it was an act of protection. The thought curdles in his throat like bile, but he swallows it down.

Balance. That is the Yu sect’s creed.

The weight between breath and strike, step and counter. Not the Nie Sect’s brute strength. But precise, methodical.

And Jiang Cheng?

He is nothing clean. Nothing measured.

The strikes they teach him are rigid, mechanical. His muscles rebel against their rigid geometry. Movements that should snap and flow instead tremble, brittle with hesitation.

The timing is wrong. He feels it—like wearing clothes stitched for someone else.

But he practices anyway.

Because he admires the precision.

Because there's something beautiful about it in its own sharp way, this art that carves order out of chaos. He drills each form over and over again, slicing through the humid air until sweat beads cold against his skin.

His blade wavers. He hates that.

Future him—

(No. Past. Present. The future is already shattered. Splintered into paths he’s too afraid to look down.)

He takes this exile as an opportunity this time. 

The Jiang Sect was not always bound by structure.

Before Jiang Fengmian’s forefathers carved rules into its bones, it was a refuge for the discarded, the unwanted, the ones who survived when survival seemed impossible.

Their fighting style mirrored their origins—fluid, adaptive, wild. Unpredictable as a river breaking free of its banks. They fought with instinct, not rigid formations. Motion, not calculation.

Jiang Cheng remembers the stories, told to him in soft, coaxing tones by the man who would later ruin him.

He was seven, sitting on that man’s lap, leaning into a trap he didn’t know was set.

No.

No. Stop thinking about that.

His chest tightens, a raw ache pressing against the cage of his ribs, but he forces it back into the pit where all his unwelcome thoughts fester.

The wildness. The heart of the Jiang Sect. A tradition now forgotten.

It was water once. Untamed.

Surging like rivers in flood. Adapting without apology. Flowing where it willed. The Jiang Sect remembered the wild, and so did he, long before exile had carved this new shape out of him.

And that old, feral instinct still lives in his veins. He doesn't want to acknowledge it, but it surfaces without permission — a rhythm his body keeps without thinking.

The one that fits best. Perhaps it always would, no matter what he’s become (a monster).

Jiang Cheng drills the Yu Sect forms anyway.

Practices until his arms ache and his breath burns sharp in his throat. Precision doesn’t come easily to him, but that’s why he craves it. The discipline. The control.

Something clean to hold onto when everything else inside festers wild. He cuts through the silence of the forest clearing again and again.

A single strike. Again. Faster. Stronger. He forces himself into the shape the Yu Sect demands.

He pushes his body past its limits.

Runs until his lungs seize, until the air in his chest feels like shards of broken glass. Lap after lap, pounding against the earth, the sound of his steps a relentless drumbeat.

Grip drills until the skin on his palms splits and beads of blood blossom like crimson flowers. He wraps them hastily, shoving the sting down deep where it can’t touch him.

Pain is nothing new. Pain is familiar. Pain means he’s still alive. His blade sings through the air in endless, precise arcs. Again. Again. Faster. Sharper.

The dizziness creeps in slowly, curling like a snake around his senses. His vision narrows; the world tilts. He sways, breath ragged—but his stance remains firm. He will not fall. Not yet.

The second week dawns brittle and cold. It’s this week that his grandmother finally calls on him.

The room is severe, orderly. The shelves gleam under dim lantern light, lined with books bound in dark leather.

Vials of venomous compounds glint like trapped stars, and delicate silver instruments lie arranged with surgical precision. Everything is controlled. Calculated. Perfect.

Just like her.

She sits behind her desk, unmoving, her face carved from stone. He bows—offering no more than what is required.

Jiang Cheng stands still, watching as she grinds a fine powder between her fingers. The dust clings to the creases of her skin like pale gold.

She does not look up when she speaks.

"You are used to fighting with strength. That is a weakness.”

Jiang Cheng does not flinch, does not argue. He is learning that in the Yu Sect, silence is often the best response.

She gestures to the table between them. Laid out are vials of powders and oils, delicate blades smeared with black residue.

Some of the poisons are slow, some immediate. Some kill, some cripple.

"Poison is not dishonourable," she says, as if anticipating his thoughts. "It is merely efficiency. It ensures victory without wasted effort. Without risk.”

She dips a needle into a dark liquid, holds it up.

"A single scratch of this will lock the muscles, leaving the victim conscious but paralysed. If you strike at the right moment, the fight ends before it begins.”

She hands it to him. Jiang Cheng studies the glistening tip. It is too easy. Too simple. But he knows better than to dismiss it.

"You’ve used nerve strikes before.”

It is not a question.

Jiang Cheng’s fingers tighten around the needle. For a moment, he remembers hands guiding his, a voice murmuring corrections as he practiced the pressure points along an arm, a wrist, a throat.

“Yes."

She watches him, searching for something in his expression. If she finds it, she does not comment.

"Show me," she orders.

Jiang Cheng sets the needle down. Moves to her side in one fluid step. He does not hesitate—his fingers press just so at the base of her wrist, the side of her throat.

Not enough to injure, but enough that a weaker opponent would falter.

She does not falter. Instead, she hums in approval.

"Not bad. Who taught you?”

He shakes his head. Not a lie, not really.

She lets the question go.

"Your form is imprecise. You rely on instinct more than technique. We will fix that.”

And so the lesson continues.

She teaches him how to snap a wrist without force, only angle.

How to silence a scream with a press behind the jaw.

How to steal breath from an opponent without ever drawing blood.

And Jiang Cheng soaks it all up.

Lunch is served without ceremony—balanced, precise, like everything here. Enough protein, carbs, and nutrients to sustain but not indulge. No excess. No comfort. Just fuel for survival.

He eats in silence, every bite mechanical. Chewing without tasting. His body absorbs what it needs, but his mind remains elsewhere—coiled tight like a spring, ears attuned to every shifting sound in the hall.

A clatter of chopsticks. The scrape of bowls. Whispers carried low across the room like blades hidden under silk.

Even eating is war.

Afterward, lectures.

His grandmother must have seen something in him—enough to remove him from the standard classes and assign a personal tutor.

He doesn’t know whether to be grateful or paranoid. Both, perhaps. 

The study is too small. Too enclosed. One exit. Two windows. No clear escape route. A single table sits between him and the man who will be his tutor—Yu Qiao.

Elder Yu does not look up immediately. Instead, he finishes writing something, sets his brush down with precision, and only then meets Jiang Cheng’s gaze.

His eyes are sharp, measuring, like a hawk watching prey.

“You understand why you are here,” Yu Qiao says, voice clipped and efficient. Not a question.

Jiang Cheng straightens. “To learn.”

Yu Qiao hums, unimpressed. “A vague answer.” He gestures to the chair across from him. “Sit.”

Jiang Cheng obeys.

Yu Qiao picks up a scroll and unrolls it, revealing a map of the cultivation sects. Every major power is marked, their borders drawn with crisp, deliberate strokes.

“War is inevitable,” Yu Qiao states.

“The question is not if it will happen, but when and how it will be fought. You are a sect heir. You will be expected to make decisions that may save or doom your people.”

He taps a finger on the map. “Tell me—who is Yunmeng Jiang’s greatest political threat?”

Jiang Cheng exhales slowly. It’s a test. A simple one.

“The Qishan Wen Sect,” he answers. “They have the largest army, the most aggressive expansion, and Wen Ruohan is unpredictable.”

Yu Qiao shakes his head. “A surface-level answer. Short-sighted. Try again.”

Jiang Cheng frowns, eyes flicking back to the map. “The Lanling Jin Sect,” he says after a pause.

“They have wealth, resources, and they thrive on control. If Wen Ruohan is aggression, then Jin Guangshan is erosion. The kind of man who smiles while pulling strings behind the scenes.”

Yu Qiao’s lips twitch. It is not quite approval, but it is not dismissal either.

“Better,” he says. “And now—if you were the head of Yunmeng Jiang, how would you maneuver against them both?”

Jiang Cheng swallows. The answer rises to his lips too quickly. He’s seen it. So vividly it feels as though he’s lived it.

His dreams—the war, the alliances, the betrayals, the destruction.

He breathes past it.

“I would strengthen ties with the Lan Sect,” he says.

“They are rigid, but they value honour. A strong alliance could create a counterbalance against the Jin. And if war is inevitable with the Wen Sect, I would prepare early—secure more supply lines, train disciples in guerrilla tactics, cut off Wen Ruohan’s ability to move freely before he can fully mobilise.”

Yu Qiao watches him for a long moment. Then he leans back in his chair.

“You have the instinct,” he says. “But instinct alone is not enough. If you wish to survive in the political arena, you must learn patience, deception, restraint. Power is not won through brute strength alone. It is won through knowing when to strike and when to hold back.”

Jiang Cheng nods, but his hands are tight in his lap. He knows.

He knows too well.

Yu Qiao does not dismiss him yet. Instead, he slides another scroll across the table.

“Your first assignment,” he says. “A theoretical exercise. The Wen Sect has sent an envoy to Lotus Pier, offering an alliance. You will draft three responses—one accepting, one rejecting, and one that stalls for time. Each must serve a purpose.”

Jiang Cheng picks up the brush.

Late afternoon brings training.

Espionage.

Some days, they blindfold him. Expect him to defend himself against things he can’t see.

Other days, he is ambushed without warning, forced to flee, heart pounding like a war drum in his chest.

Sometimes, they give him a task—steal this, retrieve that, slip past guards without being seen.

It would have been fun if not for the ever-watching, judgmental gaze. If not for the punishment that follows failure.

He learns quickly that mistakes are costly.

The lessons carve themselves into his bones—

Be silent. Invisible. Sharp.

Trust nothing. Expect everything.

Even shadows betray.

By the time they leave him alone, the sky bleeds crimson into dusk. His body aches, raw and trembling from relentless drills.

Still, he doesn’t stop.

He spends hours after training honing himself further—pushing his body to the brink. His hands blister against practice blades. His breath stutters from exertion, but he doesn't care.

When his body gives out, he reads until his eyes burn, words blurring into meaningless smudges on the page. The text swims, incomprehensible, but he keeps going because stopping is worse.

Nights are sleepless.

The walls press in. Shadows crawl where they shouldn’t be. His skin prickles with the feel of unseen eyes even when he knows he’s alone.

He paces the room, restless and wild, warding it over and over until the seals overlap in tangled, desperate knots.

The room hums with layers of protection, but it isn’t enough. It will never be enough. Eventually, exhaustion drags him under.

He crawls beneath the bed, blankets and robes dragged around him like a shield.

In the furthest corner, he crunches himself into a small, trembling knot of flesh and bone. His heartbeat thuds loud in his ears, drowning out the world.

There, in that cramped, suffocating space, he waits.

For what, he doesn’t know.

But the waiting never ends.

Someone’s watching him.

Jiang Cheng hasn’t noticed it before—not consciously. But today, the weight of that gaze pierces through his defenses like a blade slipped between ribs.

He has spent too much of his life watching for threats, learning the language of danger in the tilt of a head, the flicker of a glance. His body recognises it before his mind catches up.

There.

A presence. Careful. Constant. Always watching.

Every time he leaves a room, steps into a hall, cuts across the sect grounds—the weight clings to him, thick as fog.

At first, he tells himself it’s paranoia, the ghost of old fears whispering nonsense into his ear. He tries to shake it off. Pretend it’s nothing.

But it keeps happening.

The same eyes. The same measured distance. The same careful rhythm of footsteps just a beat too familiar.

They know.

The thought clamps down on his chest like a vice.

They suspect something.

He’s being hunted.

His pulse thunders in his ears. A thousand possibilities unravel in his mind, each one darker than the last. Had he slipped up? Shown too much? Said something wrong?

No—no, he’s been careful, hasn’t he? But paranoia coils tighter.

He should run.

He should disappear into the shadows, vanish before they have a chance to strike. But Jiang Cheng was never made for waiting. Waiting means weakness. Waiting means death.

So he does the unthinkable.

He stops.

Turns a corner and waits, every muscle tense, coiled for the kill. His breath is shallow, controlled, his hand hovering near his sword hilt.

The footsteps draw closer.

Closer.

They round the bend—

And Jiang Cheng moves.

His sword is out before he thinks, gleaming cold in the afternoon light, slicing through air with brutal precision.

The figure halts.

Xue Yuan.

The prized jewel of the Yu Sect, their flawless head disciple with a face carved from marble and a reputation sharper than any blade.

Jiang Cheng’s blood roars in his veins.

"You," he spits through gritted teeth, his voice low and dangerous. "Why are you following me?”

Xue Yuan blinks, like this is some sort of minor inconvenience rather than a threat to his life. Then—he tilts his head. Amused.

"You noticed?”

The words are light, almost teasing, and Jiang Cheng's pulse spikes.

Of course he noticed. Of course this bastard is confident enough to admit it outright.

His grip tightens on his sword.

"If you're planning something," Jiang Cheng says, voice taut as a drawn bowstring, "do it now.”

A beat of silence. The world narrows to the space between them—their breaths, the tension humming in the air like a storm about to break.

Then—

Xue Yuan laughs.

It’s low, smooth, and infuriating.

"Planning something?" he repeats, smirking like this is some grand joke. "You think I’m trying to kill you?”

Jiang Cheng says nothing. He waits. Every nerve screaming at him to prepare for the inevitable attack. He knows how this goes. He’s seen it before—the games people play before they strike.

And someone like him? A disgraced omega? Easy pickings. His teeth grind together. Sometimes being from a powerful sect offers worse attention than protection.

And someone like him—an omega with a better, more prodigal alpha option waiting in the wings? He’s always prepared to survive.

Xue Yuan watches him with that same infuriating smirk, rolling his shoulders like this is nothing more than a warm-up.

"You’re interesting, Jiang-gongzi," he says, voice laced with arrogance.

Jiang Cheng’s stomach knots. He knows that tone. That game. He is being played with.

"Let’s make it simple, then," Xue Yuan continues, eyes gleaming with challenge. "You think I’m planning something?”

A pause.

"Fine. Then fight me.”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t have time for this.

His schedule is rigid. His days carved into relentless blocks of drills, training, and sleepless nights spent warding every inch of his room until it hums with layered protections only he can unravel.

He is barely surviving as it is—he has no space, no patience for arrogant bastards like Xue Yuan.

But he also knows this type.

Arrogant. Overconfident. The kind who never stops until they get what they want, even if they have to grind you into dust to do it.

If Jiang Cheng refuses, Xue Yuan will take it as a challenge anyway.

If he accepts, maybe he can end it quickly. So Jiang Cheng agrees. The duel happens in a blur.

They move. Fast. Brutal. Relentless.

Xue Yuan strikes with the clean precision of a Yu sect prodigy—measured and efficient, every movement honed to perfection. But Jiang Cheng is faster.

His body remembers before his mind catches up: a twist here, a pivot there, correcting mistakes before they even happen. He shifts between counters seamlessly, the ghost of instinct guiding his steps.

And then—

It happens.

Something buried deep. Something old. Wild. Dangerous.

The siren’s power thrums through his blood. He feels it coil through his limbs, urging him forward—

Finish it. Finish him.

He obeys.

One breath. One step. And it’s over.

Xue Yuan hits the ground hard, the echo of his fall slicing through the tense silence.

Jiang Cheng steps back, blade lowered, chest heaving.

Then—

Xue Yuan laughs.

Soft at first. Then louder, rougher, curling up into something that sinks claws into Jiang Cheng’s nerves.

Jiang Cheng freezes.

What does that mean?

Shit.

His stomach twists. Panic crawls up his throat, bile-wrenching and bitter. He made him angry, didn’t he?

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Why is this his life? He’s just living quietly, minding his business, and somehow even that makes people angry.

But at least—at least—Xue Yuan will leave him alone now.

His ego is probably bruised, sure, but surely he won’t come back.

Right?

Except—

It gets worse. Of course it gets worse.

The panic hits Jiang Cheng in waves, sharp and choking, when it starts with snacks.

Yes. Snacks.

Xue Yuan’s little buddies—those annoyingly cheerful Yu disciples—begin offering him food. Jiang Cheng nearly scoffs the first time. He rejects them without a second thought. But they don’t stop.

They just leave the snacks on his table. Suspicious. Blatantly obvious traps, Jiang Cheng thinks grimly. Do they think he’s stupid?

As if he’d ever fall for something like that. He’s been drugged one too many times not to be wary. His body is immune to most sleep agents by now.

Poison?

No, he’s not fully poison-resistant, but that doesn’t mean he’s dumb. By the fifth time this nonsense happens, Jiang Cheng finally snaps. He tests the snacks for poison or drugs.

Nothing. Not even a trace.

Wait—what?

His eyes narrow. Oh, he gets it now. They’re trying to lull him into a false sense of security. Wow. Yu disciples really are on another level. Such determination.

But it won’t fool him.

He grew up under Madam Yu’s iron rule—the Violet Spider herself. Nothing, not even the best-trained Yu sect prodigies, can outmatch that.

On one hand, Jiang Cheng has Xue Yuan’s little disciples.

They watch him with strange glances, always hovering at the edge of his awareness. It’s like they’re trying to trap him in some game he doesn’t want to play. Snacks left on tables, invitations delivered with too-bright smiles. It’s all wrong. 

Still, they’re not the real problem.

No, that would be Xue Yuan himself.

And he is so much worse.

Xue Yuan starts following him even more obsessively, shadowing his steps through the sect grounds. He watches Jiang Cheng train, eyes fixed on the curve of his strikes, the angle of his stance, as though cataloging every breath he takes.

Jiang Cheng tries to ignore it.

But it presses down harder with each passing day, suffocating, until—

One evening, Jiang Cheng snaps.

He cuts Xue Yuan off near the training fields, heart hammering violently against his ribs.

"Why are you following me?”

The words slip out before he can stop them, low and cold.

Xue Yuan blinks.

Then—

He smiles.

"Because you’re interesting.”

Jiang Cheng’s stomach knots violently.

What kind of answer is that?

Oh gods.

He really hates him, doesn’t he?

He’s so stupid. Why didn’t he just—ugh, lose? Drop his sword, fall flat on his face, anything to avoid this.

Jiang Cheng grits his teeth, voice sharp with suppressed tension.

"What do you want?”

Xue Yuan shrugs like it doesn’t matter.

"Nothing. Just watching.”

Oh, fuck no.

Every instinct in Jiang Cheng’s body screams run, hide, disappear, but he locks it down. Forces his breathing steady.

"So you admit it," he says flatly, keeping his voice unreadable. "You’ve been watching me.”

Xue Yuan nods, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

"Of course.”

Jiang Cheng has never felt more certain of his own death.

That night, Jiang Cheng sits in the dark of his room, sweat cold against his skin.

He’s watching me.

His fingers twitch with the urge to carve wards directly into the stone walls. Instead, he applies seal after seal to the room, layering them with trembling hands until his core strains under the effort.

The energy hums too loud in his veins, buzzing beneath his skin like an open wound.

He doesn’t stop. Can’t stop. Not until his vision blurs. Not until his body gives out completely and he collapses onto the cold floor, breath shallow, unconscious before he hits the ground.

Jiang Cheng just wants to be left alone.

He sits in lectures, keeps his head down, minding his own business like a ghost trapped between walls. The world hums around him, sharp and distant, but Jiang Cheng refuses to be part of it.

Except—

People keep looking at him. Weird glances. Whispered conversations just loud enough for him to catch fragments. He doesn’t want to care, but he hears them anyway.

They talk behind their hands, heads tilted toward each other as though sharing some sacred truth. Jiang Cheng stiffens. His fingers curl into his sleeves. His breathing becomes slow, measured—too controlled. A mechanism honed by years of knowing that being watched always meant danger.

He forces himself to sit still. Forces himself not to react.

But his body knows. Tension coils in his spine, his nerves strung tight like a bow ready to snap.

Why are they looking?

Why are they talking?

And every time he risks glancing up, there he is—

Xue Yuan.

Always watching from the periphery, head tilted with that insufferable smirk like he knows something Jiang Cheng doesn’t.

Which, in Jiang Cheng’s mind, only confirms one thing:

Xue Yuan is planning something.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t need proof. He feels it. In the itch beneath his skin, the pounding in his skull. The kind of paranoia that grips tight and doesn’t let go. He knows how this ends.

He’s not naive. He knows what happens to people like him. So Jiang Cheng does what any reasonable person would do:

He starts planning his own murder investigation.

If it’s going to happen—and gods, it will—then someone needs to know how it went down. He makes mental notes. Who was present. Who had motives. Which lecture halls had the worst escape routes.

He’ll need contingencies. Alibis, maybe. A coded message hidden in his belongings. Something cryptic but poetic enough to make sense posthumously.

But first—

He goes to Yu Qiao.

The old teacher is sitting in his garden, sipping tea like there’s nothing wrong in the world. Like Jiang Cheng isn’t on the brink of being assassinated or worse. Jiang Cheng’s voice is tight, clipped.

“Why is everyone acting weird around me?”

Yu Qiao takes a languid sip of his tea. The porcelain cup clinks softly against the saucer.

“Oh? Are they?”

“Yes.”

Yu Qiao hums thoughtfully, as though contemplating the mysteries of the universe.

“Perhaps,” he says finally, “they sense something.”

Jiang Cheng freezes.

No. No, no, no.

His pulse spikes, erratic and wild. His breath catches in his throat.

“What?”

Yu Qiao smiles faintly, eyes gleaming with some inscrutable wisdom.

“Fate is an interesting thing, Jiang Wanyin.”

Jiang Cheng’s blood turns to ice. Oh gods. The truth is out. They know.

He’ll be caught. Caged in some elaborate bird cage and forced to sing for the highest bidder. They’ll pair him off like livestock, put him on display until his body is ripe—

And then they’ll force him to create more. His skin crawls at the thought. Bile rises in his throat.

I have to get out of here.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t even wait for Yu Qiao to finish his next sentence. He stands abruptly, the world tilting slightly under his feet, and leaves. He needs distance. Air. A plan.

The path down the mountain beckons, steep and treacherous. For one wild, desperate moment, Jiang Cheng contemplates throwing himself off it. It would be easier, wouldn’t it?

But no—Jiang Cheng is nothing if not stubborn. He straightens his shoulders, jaw clenched tight. If they think they can trap him, they’re wrong. He’ll survive this. He has to.

Even if it kills him.

Chapter Text

The fight ends too fast.

One moment, Yu Shuren is attacking—strong, steady, in control. The next, he's on the ground, sword at his throat, staring up at a twelve-year-old who does not look remotely winded.

Jiang Cheng just stands there, stiff and unreadable, like pinning someone twice his size was nothing at all.

The training field is silent.

No one knows how to react.

Because—what the hell just happened?

"Did—did anyone else see that?" someone whispers.

"I saw it," another disciple mutters. "I just don’t understand it.”

"He's twelve.”

“Twelve.”

"I couldn’t even tie my own belt properly when I was twelve.”

“…loser.”

A smack.

And since human logic cannot explain how a twelve-year-old just demolished someone twice his size, the obvious explanation is:

"Jiang-gongzi is not normal.”

A hush falls over the disciples.

"You don’t mean—“

"I do.”

A collective shudder.

"You saw how he fought. How fluid his movements were. No wasted effort. No hesitation. That’s not how normal people move.”

"He doesn’t even blink when fighting. It’s like he’s studied our weaknesses.”

A nervous shift.

"And his voice. Have you noticed his voice?”

"Oh gods, you’re right.”

"It’s too steady. Too nice to listen to. It commands attention. What if—“

A breathless pause.

"What if Jiang Cheng isn’t human?”

Silence.

Then, someone gasps.

"…Oh my gods. Is he a half-demon prince?!"

The rumours start as small embers.

"He keeps his outer robes on during training,” one observes over lunch, voice low but conspiratorial. "Even when it’s sweltering.”

The comment is met with solemn nods. "Suspicious," someone agrees.

The embers catch.

Within an hour, the whispers have grown claws and fangs.

"He never takes his outer robes off because he’s hiding demonic markings on his skin.”

"Of course! It makes perfect sense!" one declares triumphantly, as though they've solved the cultivation world's greatest unsolved crime.

"He’s too graceful,” another adds, narrowing their eyes. "His movements are unnatural.”

Eventually that becomes:

"That’s because he was secretly raised by a hidden sect of assassins who only move in shadows!”

Gasps. Wide eyes. Nervous glances toward Jiang Cheng, who stands at a distance, entirely oblivious to the conspiracy blooming around him.

By the second hour, the rumors have grown teeth sharper than a spirit beast’s bite.

"He wins fights without brute strength," someone announces gravely.

A disciple gulps. "Forbidden assassination techniques," they whisper. "It has to be that.”

Someone else adds, "He’s too good at controlling his emotions.”

An older disciple nods sagely, as though they've seen this before in ancient scrolls. "Clearly cursed as a baby. Probably suppressing his true nature behind centuries of discipline.”

It gets worse.

"He avoids deep water.”

"Oh gods," they whisper hoarsely. "He’s actually a Sea Demon. If he touches water he’ll awaken his true form!”

"He looks at people too intensely," someone insists, as if this is the final nail in Jiang Cheng’s very (not) human coffin.

The disciples lean forward, barely daring to breathe.

"That’s because his real eyes glow in the dark," comes the verdict.

By the end of the afternoon, the story has crystallised into undeniable fact:

Jiang Cheng is not a man but a myth come to life.

The disciples have convinced themselves of the following truths:

1. Jiang Cheng is a half-demon prince, possibly exiled from a forbidden bloodline.

2. He was raised by a secret sect of assassins trained in the dark arts of manipulation and murder.

3. He suppresses his sealed demonic form using ancient cultivation seals, which are probably carved into his very flesh.

4. Under the right conditions, perhaps during a thunderstorm or in the ocean, he might transform into a sea dragon.

The worst part?

They genuinely believe it.

It is a truth universally acknowledged, though rarely spoken aloud, that the Yu Sect disciples possess a level of curiosity rivalled only by a herd of particularly nosy cows.

They have gathered now, a loose congregation of whispers and barely restrained inquisitiveness, just outside the door of the Sect’s most terrifying and perpetually disappointed teacher.

Inside, their latest source of fascination: Jiang Cheng. Still alive. Probably. And if that isn’t proof that reality is stranger than fiction, then nothing is.

“How long has Jiang-gongzi been in there?”

“An hour.”

“An hour?” Someone lets out a low whistle. “And he’s still breathing?”

“Damn, I lost my bet.”

“Shh—wait.” A pause. “Is Yu Laoshi… smiling?”

“No way.”

They all crane their necks, pressing together like particularly judgmental sardines.

And yes, through the smallest crack in the door, there is indeed something on Yu Laoshi’s face that could, in certain lights and from certain angles, be mistaken for a smile. Or indigestion. Hard to say.

“Jiang-gongzi must be incredibly skilled if he impressed Yu Laoshi.”

“Or incredibly mysterious and tragic. I heard he doesn’t even use the sect baths.”

A collective silence follows. This is no small thing. The sect baths are sacred. They are warm, steamy bastions of hygiene and gossip. To avoid them is to invite questions. Too many questions.

“He doesn’t even use the sect baths,” one disciple repeats. “What is he hiding?”

“Maybe he just doesn’t like being perceived.”

“Why is a twelve-year-old cooler than me?” someone wails.

“Even an infant would be cooler than—ow, get your fat ass off me!”

A scuffle ensues, because even in the presence of mystery, human nature prevails. There are shoves, there is indignation, there is the unmistakable sound of someone being forcibly sat on.

Yes, Jiang Cheng is confusing. He is confusing and unnecessarily dramatic, and somehow, he has made Yu Laoshi smile.

Surely, this is either the beginning of something deeply unsettling or the end of their collective sanity. Probably both.

Everyone knew Xue Yuan. The Yu Sect’s golden child. Talented, precise, confident. Head disciple. The sect’s rising star. Doesn’t bother with weaklings. He’s never been knocked down before.

So when Jiang Cheng fights him and wins? The disciples lose their minds.

"Did you see that?"

"Xue-shixiong actually lost?"

"How did a twelve-year-old do that?"

And then. Then.

Xue Yuan starts following him.

And the sect collectively panics.

At first, everyone thinks Xue Yuan is plotting revenge.

"Oh no. Ohhh no. He’s pissed."

"He’s just waiting for the right moment to strike back."

"Poor Young Master Jiang. He doesn’t know what’s coming."

But then, they start noticing things. Xue Yuan isn’t glaring at Jiang Cheng. Xue Yuan isn’t mocking him. Xue Yuan isn’t even acting like he lost. Instead, he just watches him. And the watching doesn’t stop.

There is only one conclusion.

Jiang Wanyin is more than a half-demon prince. He is an immortal banished from his home for punishment and is now stuck in a child’s body.

And Xue Yuan is following Jiang Wanyin because he wants him to teach him.

"What? No! It’s because Jiang Cheng defeated him so badly that Xue Yuan has no choice but to serve him now.”

"Oh my gods. Is this a blood pact?"

Yu Qiao has been at the Yu Sect for decades. He has seen generations of disciples come and go, like leaves swept away by the ever-indifferent tide of time.

He has watched geniuses rise and fall, prodigies burn bright and fizzle out, all with the same detached boredom of a man who has seen it all before.

Until.

Until Jiang Wanyin arrives.

Yu Qiao doesn’t pay much attention at first. Another sect's disciple sent for discipline? Not unusual. Another overconfident young master in desperate need of being knocked down a peg? Happens every year. Nothing special.

Then.

Then Sect Leader Yu refers him to Yu Qiao in under two weeks. That alone is enough to raise an eyebrow. But then—oh, then he sees him train. And. Oh.

Oh.

Yu Qiao knows talent when he sees it. Jiang Cheng isn’t just trained—he’s conditioned. His movements are precise, but too reactive. Too instinctive. The kind of efficiency that isn’t learned from a kind, patient master guiding a student through their forms, but from necessity. From repetition.

From something sharp-edged and relentless hammering at him until his body understands before his mind does. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t second-guess. He just calculates and moves.

He watches people too closely. Maps them. Assesses them. He isn’t just learning how to fight—he’s learning how to fight them. Specifically. Individually.

He doesn’t train. He prepares like he’s going to war. And Yu Qiao thinks, Oh, this one is interesting.

Which, of course, is a gross understatement.

Because 'interesting' is the word one uses when a cat suddenly starts speaking in fluent poetry or when an ancient sword is discovered lodged in a rock, humming ominously.

It is a word too small, too mundane, to describe what Yu Qiao sees.

It all comes around to Xue Yuan.

Xue Yuan, one of their best disciples. Cold. Distant. Arrogant, but unfortunately talented enough to justify it. Has never cared about anyone before. Thinks he’s superior to everyone.

He walks through the sect like a winter storm given human form, untouched, unbothered, and wholly convinced of his own invincibility.

And then—

Then he loses a fight. To a twelve-year-old.

And instead of being angry—

He fixates.

And Yu Qiao just sits back and watches. Because whatever this is, it is far more interesting than the usual sect drama.

This? This is new. The rumours start almost immediately. Jiang Wanyin is secretly a hidden master. Jiang Wanyin is possessed by the vengeful spirit of a long-dead war general.

Jiang Wanyin does not, in fact, exist, and is merely an illusion designed to trick enemies into humiliating themselves. Yu Qiao hears them all. And.

He does.

Nothing.

Nothing to stop them. Nothing to redirect them. In fact, he makes it worse.

When disciples ask him if Jiang Cheng is really hiding his true power, Yu Qiao just tilts his head and hums thoughtfully, like a man contemplating the mysteries of the universe instead of actively fueling nonsense.

When Jiang Cheng comes to him, exasperated, demanding why people are acting weird, Yu Qiao does not help.

“Oh? Are they?” he asks, eyes glinting.

Jiang Cheng scowls. “Yes. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Yu Qiao smiles faintly. “Perhaps they sense something.”

Jiang Cheng’s soul leaves his body. “What.”

Yu Qiao does not elaborate. He sips his tea and looks out the window, the picture of perfect, infuriating serenity.

Jiang Cheng leaves.

Oh. Perhaps he pushed him a bit far.

Oops.

Xue Yuan walks into the dorms with That Look. His friends immediately freeze. Because they know. They just know.

Their cold, untouchable, terrifyingly skilled head disciple is not actually cold and untouchable. He is just a freakishly obsessive little shit.

And when he gets That Look— It means they’re all about to suffer. They exchange glances. No one wants to ask. But eventually, after Li Rong’s urging glances, Yu Shuren sighs.

"Okay. Who is it this time?"

"Jiang Wanyin.”

Silence. Sun Li coughs.

"The Jiang Sect heir?”

“Yes."

They wait.

"...The twelve-year-old?”

“Yes."

They all stare at him. Xue Yuan just shrugs. "He’s interesting.”

His friends look at each other, all thinking the same thing.

Fuck.

They have been here before. They have dealt with this before. And they know exactly how this is going to go. Xue Yuan will hyperfixate. Xue Yuan will analyse Jiang Cheng. Xue Yuan will not leave him alone.

So. They have one goal. Make sure Jiang Cheng does not think he is being stalked by a serial killer.

The first time they leave a snack near Jiang Cheng, he rejects it. By the fifth time he squints at them. Takes it slowly. They do not comment on the fact that he carefully picks it apart like he’s testing for poison.

They just let him have this. Jiang Cheng eats. They feel slightly better about their lives. They keep doing it.

And Jiang Cheng keeps accepting it, but always with that suspicious little look, like he’s waiting for a trap. It’s honestly kind of cute. Like a feral kitten that can gut you before you can blink.

Yu Shuren sighs.

"Okay. We need to give him somewhere to hide.”

"What, like a safehouse?”  Li Rong coughs out.

"Yes. From Xue Yuan.”

So they find the most hidden, quiet place in the sect and tell Jiang Cheng about it.

"If you need space, just go here.” Sun Li’s smile starts to strain.

Jiang Cheng stares at them. Suspicious. But also… like he really wants to believe them. Which is tragic, really. He disappears into the hiding spot later that night. They all pretend not to notice.

The more they watch Jiang Cheng, the more they realise something. He is a feral, traumatised little creature. But. He is also kind of adorable.

Like a tiny, angry stray cat who refuses to admit it needs help. He ticks all the boxes:

Suspicious of kindness? Check.

Takes food but acts like it’s a test? Check.

Watches them like they might attack at any moment? Check.

Secretly appreciates the gestures but refuses to acknowledge it? Check, check, check.

At one point, Li Rong mutters, "We should adopt him."

Sun Li laughs.

"Too late. We already did.”

Jiang Cheng is dangerous. He is also twelve. And he is obviously going through some things. So they just… let him be. They don’t push. They don’t make a big deal out of it.

They just give him snacks and space and let him exist. Because feral kittens bite if you corner them. And Jiang Cheng is already too high-strung to handle anything else.

So instead of trying to tame him, they just let him be his angry little self.

And honestly? He’s fucking adorable.

Chapter Text

The candle burns low. The ink is ready. The brush rests between his fingers. Jiang Cheng stares at the blank page. The paper is too white. The ink is too dark. His hand is too still. He exhales.

He presses the tip of the brush to the page. He should write. He should write to A-Jie at the very least. She worries. He knows she does. But if he writes to her, she will write back.

And if she writes back—

If she tells him she misses him—

If she tells him she still sees him as her little brother—

Then what?

Would he have to tell her that he isn’t that person anymore? That he isn’t human anymore? Would she believe him? He lifts the brush. The ink bleeds into the paper—

A single dot. A mistake. Jiang Cheng sets the brush down.

He could write to Wei Wuxian. If only to tell him shut up, I didn’t forget about you. If only to hear him complain in return. But what would he even say?

Should he even? The betrayal from his dreams still stung, the grief of knowing he’s only ever a debt to someone he looked up to, someone he considered his.

Wei Wuxian would act like nothing has changed. Because for Wei Wuxian, nothing has.

Jiang Cheng wonders what that must feel like.

Bells!

Jiang Cheng holds back a startled squeak—because bells.

Weighted, golden, gleaming like drops of molten sunlight caught in motion. The kind given only to seniors for advanced training. Yet here they are, fitted snug against his wrists and ankles.

The weight presses into his bones, sings through his muscles with every shift of movement. Chime. Chime. A warning, a challenge.

They say a true disciple must learn to move without sound. Must glide through the air like a ghost, unseen, unfelt. Most of the juniors groan about it. Complain about sore limbs and ringing ears.

But Jiang Cheng? He doesn't complain. He quite likes them.

The bells force him to refine himself, to strip his movements of excess. No wasted steps. No careless turns.

They remind him of dancer’s bells—the kind worn by performers who float across stages like gods descended to earth, their bodies poetry given form.

There is something poetic about it, isn’t there? Being trained to be silent, graceful, deadly.

And Jiang Cheng, despite himself, quite likes that too. So he wears them even outside of training. The bells weigh heavy on his limbs, grounding him in ways nothing else does.

A longing fierce enough to burn through bone. It aches. Gods, it aches. Jiang Cheng walks, and the chime follows. Each note digging into the raw wound where his sisters should be.

Where they were—grinning, teasing, watching out for him even when he didn’t deserve it. He hadn’t been able to say goodbye. Hadn’t even been given the chance.

They must know of his exile by now. Temporary it may be. But exile is exile, no matter the word you dress it in. They must be sick with worry.

The chime twists something deeper in his memory, dragging him back—

To that small, chaotic room where blankets were strewn across the floor, snacks scattered like offerings to forgotten gods.

The air smoky with the hazy scent of Ru Fen jie’s pipe, sweet and bitter all at once, curling like fog over the warmth of laughter.

And Yue Jiejie.

He still remembers the shock on her face when he asked her—out of nowhere, blurted it like a secret slipping through his teeth—

"Teach me how to dance.”

She’d blinked at him, wide-eyed, before something unreadable flickered across her features. That too-perfect, too-polished to be real expression slipping just enough to show raw amusement underneath.

"What did you say, little heir?”

He remembers how his face had burned with humiliation, but he'd stood his ground.

"Teach me.”

His mother had forbidden it, of course. Too weak, she said. A disgrace for a sect heir. But Jiang Cheng had wanted it. A’Jie had cooking, Wei Wuxian had his talismans and inventions.

And Jiang Cheng?

He had dance. After enough coaxing, begging until pride bled from his voice, Yue Jiejie had relented. And Ru Fen jie. And the others. All of them.

They had taught him everything he knew about dance in that hazy room filled with smoke and laughter and half-eaten pastries.

And now—

Now the bells on his ankles and wrists chime with every step, haunting chimes of those better days. Each sound dragging him back to that bittersweet comfort.

To painted faces and whispered jokes. To grace learned not from tutors, but from fierce, protective women who had made a place for him where no one else had.

The bells sing their song.

And with every chime, he remembers:

There was joy once. There could be joy again.

He’s training when he first sees them.

The world is raw, bruised with the pale hues of dawn, the sun barely lifting its head from sleep. The earth is slick with dew, the air clinging to his skin like a second breath.

Frustration gnaws at his ribs. His breath comes ragged, clouds dissipating into the cool morning air. And that’s when he feels it. A gaze.

Not the casual, intrusive glance of a disciple or Xue Yuan’s watchful eyes. No—this is different. It presses against his skin, ancient and weightless all at once, like the brush of wind that knows too many secrets.

Jiang Cheng stills.

The woods tremble with life—branches quivering under a breeze that doesn’t exist. Birds fall silent. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t run. Instinct tells him to hold his ground.

Then, a flicker at the edge of vision.

White-blue fur glinting in fractured dawn light. Movement between the trees, swift and soundless. Not quite wolf. Not quite spirit.

It vanishes before he can truly see it, leaving only the echo of its presence in his bones. Jiang Cheng inhales sharply, lungs burning. He acknowledges them with a glance—not hostile, not fearful.

Simply knowing. He doesn’t approach. Doesn’t dare. They let him finish. Each movement deliberate now, sharpened by the strange, electric awareness crawling under his skin.

He steps, pivots, slashes—trying, failing, learning. And through it all, that presence lingers at the edges, watching but never interfering.

When he’s done, breath heavy and body trembling, the forest releases him. The gaze fades, dissolving into the morning mist.

They let him leave.

A siren is not just a creature of water.

A siren is a predator.

The first Jiang was a siren.

They say Jiangs belong to the wild—the pulse of rivers, the rise of storm-churned waves, the call of creatures who sing to the moon but devour what comes near.

What he knows from the visions:

He could have stopped his mother from whipping Wei Wuxian. He could have fought in the war. He could have saved lives.

But he didn’t. Because he sealed himself off. He sealed his powers away when they could have been salvation.

Never again.

The thought is a vow forged in iron and rage. But daylight is dangerous. Too many eyes. Too many consequences. So he waits. By nightfall, when shadows stretch long and strange, he slips into the forest. The moon is bright like a glowing eye in the sky, casting silver across leaves slick with dew.

The seals make it difficult—stifling, suffocating—but he presses through. Midnight comes. The seals falter. The power hums beneath his skin like a heady rum. The forest holds its breath.

He does not train to master his siren abilities. He trains to control them. Water sings to him just as he sings to it.

(Pretty bird, won’t you sing for me?)

He’d rather silence that call forever, seal it away until it rots. But he can’t. Not when it’s too much of a risk. Not when the Wens burned his home to ash while he stood by, useless, bound by fear and incompetence.

He moves. Water ripples in response, obeying instinct before thought. He shapes it into precise forms—circles, lines, shimmering blades that gleam under moonlight.

He fails often. More often than not, frustration detonates through him, sending water erupting into chaos—sharp sprays cutting against bark, soaking earth. But he keeps going.

The failures sting, each one a reminder of how far he still has to go. The forest watches, silent and reverent. Sweat slicks his skin, salt mingling with the damp scent of leaves and loam. His breaths come ragged, tearing through his throat.

Again.

Water surges, wild and unyielding.

Again.

This time it holds longer. A blade, shimmering and perfect, suspended between fury and will before it falls a part again, like sand held through loose fingers.

Again.

Frustration hisses through Jiang Cheng’s teeth like steam escaping a kettle on the brink of shattering. Water drips from his fingertips, remnants of another failed attempt at control.

He exhales hard, forces his body still. He hears a soft whimper first. And then—he sees it.

A pup. The smallest one, struggling. Struggling to stay upright, to walk. Its leg—limping, dragging, uneven. The shallow breaths. The way it stumbles, like its body is betraying it, like it can’t go any further.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t hesitate. Not for a second. He feels it before his mind catches up. It’s reckless. It’s stupid. He shouldn’t do this. He knows it. The consequences, the risk—he knows.

But something tugs at him, something pulls him forward, and his feet move before he can stop them. The pup growls, low and feral. Its eyes flash, uncertain, a flicker of fear and wariness.

It’s afraid. Of him. Of whatever this is. Jiang Cheng stops, still. Not a step more. He doesn’t reach out yet. Doesn’t touch. Not yet. His pulse pounds in his ears. His heart hammers in his throat.

He watches. Watches the way its fur bristles, the way its breath comes fast, jagged. Stay still. Stay calm. He doesn’t move, not a muscle, not even a breath. And then—slowly, carefully—he kneels.

He lets his body settle, controlled, measured, a deliberate slowness that speaks louder than words. The pup doesn’t move, but its eyes never leave him. He reaches out, just a little. Tentative. Careful.

His fingers brush the fur on its injured leg, and he feels the trembling start beneath his touch. It hurts. He knows it does. He knows it too well—the bite of injury, the dull throb of something torn, something broken.

He uses what little he knows—Yue jiejie’s teachings, her gentle hands tending to his wounds when he was young, a contrast to her stern voice telling him how to bind what bleeds.

And his mother—her remedies, the bitter herbs and the careful press of her hands when she still had enough love in her to be kind to him.

It’s not much. But it’s enough. The pup’s whine quiets, trembling but still. Its body shudders under his touch, but the harshness begins to fade. Slowly, gradually, the sharpness of its pain recedes.

And then—he lets go.

He doesn’t notice her at first. Doesn’t feel her presence until the ground seems to hum beneath him. The mother wolf. She’s there. Watching. Silent. Her eyes gleam in the darkness, deep pools of caution and something else. Something wild.

She watches the pup, the way it’s breathing easier now, the way it’s stopped shaking. Her gaze shifts to him, and for a moment, he’s caught in the depth of it, her stare heavy, knowing. She sees him. For a second, he thinks he might’ve made a mistake.

But then—she huffs. A short, sharp exhale. Annoyed. But not ungrateful. Not angry. The wolf’s gaze lingers for a moment longer. She looks at her pup. Then back at Jiang Cheng.

Her nostrils flare, and her shoulders lift in a soft, almost imperceptible movement. And then, just like that, she turns. Her pack follows, quiet shadows beneath the moonlight.

They disappear into the dark, a seamless blur of motion, slipping back into the night. Jiang Cheng watches them go.

They don’t turn their backs to him. Not once.

Jiang Cheng gets assigned Yu Shuren to oversee his training.

It’s fine. Fine. Even though Yu Shuren’s gaze makes his skin crawl, even though Xue Yuan has been more open with his stalking ever since.

It’s not threatening, but it’s unrelenting—his presence, his gaze, the way he always seems one step away from speaking to Jiang Cheng. Jiang Cheng ignores it all.

But lately? His skin feels feverish, like fire gnaws at his flesh beneath the surface. He’s restless, teetering on the edge of something he can’t quite name.

He ignores that too.

Until one night, the fire consumes him.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t just wake up—he’s wrenched from sleep, gasping. The air is heavy, clinging to his skin like oil. His sheets are tangled around his legs, damp with sweat.

He blinks through the haze clouding his vision, but it does nothing to clear the fever thrumming through his body. It gnaws at him, searing through his veins like wildfire, relentless and consuming. Cramps twist through his stomach.

A low, bitten-off sound escapes his throat before he can stop it. He curls inward instinctively, teeth clenched, muscles tight against the pain. No, no, this can’t be happening.

His heat—his heat—it’s too soon. It shouldn’t be now. It’s impossible. In the visions, his second heat never came this early.

He was fifteen then, fifteen, and even then, it was manageable. He didn’t even need to use suppressants until he was fifteen.

Why now?

Why like this?

His body twists against itself, muscles locking up as another wave of heat rolls through him. He presses the heel of his palm against his abdomen, as though he could smother the pain with sheer force.

It doesn’t work. Jiang Cheng knows it's too much of a risk.

The brothel suppressants worked before—he remembers watching omegas with eyes dull from exhaustion take the tinctures, the way their trembling eased, their breath evened out. He remembers the bitter scent clinging to them, sharp and acrid, like smoke lingering long after a fire’s gone cold.

He knows the ingredients. He can make something. It’ll be crude, bastardised, unreliable. But it’ll have to do.

He slips out into the night. He ventures out the river clearing for the first time. Further and further, past reeds swaying like silent sentinels, past the comforting murmur of water against stone.

The night presses in around him, dark as ink spilled across the gray stone. Shadows twist at the edges of his vision, strange shapes that dissolve when he looks directly at them.

He tells himself they aren’t real.

His hands shake, fingers clumsy and unsteady as he pushes through tangled brush. His legs threaten to give out beneath him, cramps stabbing deep like knives twisting against his insides.

At least he’s still lucid.

Barely.

That must count for something, right?

(He doesn’t like what that says about him. That he can still function like this, body ravaged by heat and exhaustion. He tells himself it’s not trauma. It’s not. He’s just... strong. Adaptable. That’s all.)

He stumbles once, missing a step he couldn’t see, knees hitting damp earth with a dull thud. Pain jolts through him, sharp and immediate, but he bites down on the sound threatening to escape.

Not yet.

He pushes himself up, trembling but determined, and keeps moving.

Moonflowers.

That’s what he needs.

Their pale petals glow faintly under the moonlight. He follows the faint traces, breath hitching as he spots the delicate blooms nestled among twisting vines.

His fingers fumble as he gathers them, movements clumsy and desperate. The petals are soft against his skin, fragile and fleeting, but he takes as much as he can find.

He’s lost.

The realisation sinks into Jiang Cheng’s gut. The trees are unfamiliar now—tall, gnarled shadows twisting against the sky, their branches clawing like skeletal fingers.

The path is gone, swallowed whole by thick brambles and creeping fog. His breaths are shallow, uneven, catching in his throat as panic claws its way up his spine.

But this isn’t just a forest, is it?

No.

The world tilts on its axis, and for a moment he doesn’t know if he’s here, now—or if he’s somewhere else entirely.

(Running barefoot, lungs burning, legs aching, deeper into the trees—away from that place. Away from him.)

Blood everywhere.

On his hands, still warm. In his hair, matting hair to his scalp. On his clothes, soaking through thin fabric, clinging to his skin. In his mouth. Bitter. Between his legs—

He gasps, stumbling. The trees sway, warped and surreal, as though they too remember.

He wants to cry.

But he won’t.

He won’t.

Crying never helped. Never saved him.

(And it made him worse, didn’t it? The tears always made him more eager, more excited to hurt. Like a predator scenting fresh blood. Oh, be good now, he'd whispered with honeyed cruelty.)

A sharp sob threatens to claw its way out, but Jiang Cheng bites it down, teeth grinding hard enough to ache.

His nails dig into his palms, drawing crescent-shaped marks into his flesh. He forces himself to breathe.

Once.

Twice.

The brush rustles.

A sharp, brittle sound that cuts through the silence like the snap of a bone. Jiang Cheng freezes, every muscle taut, coiled for a fight he knows he can't win. He expects danger. Teeth flashing in the dark. Claws ripping through flesh. Or worse, a man, bigger, stronger than he is.

But instead —

A small tug at his robes.

He blinks through the haze clouding his vision, his heart pounding like a war drum. And there it is. The wolf pup.

The same one he'd healed. Its coat glows faintly under the pale wash of moonlight, soft as the mist curling through the trees. The pup's wide eyes gleam with something curious, familiar, untamed. Behind it, a shadow shifts.

The mother.

Watching from the blackness, more spirit than flesh, her eyes gleaming like shards of ice caught in moonlight. Silent. Still. A predator in every sense of the word — sleek, powerful, ancient.

Fear slithers down Jiang Cheng's spine. She's bigger than him. Stronger than him. If she decides to attack, he won't stand a chance. He won’t be able to run.

But she doesn't.

The wolf does not bare her teeth. Does not snarl.

Instead, she steps forward, slow and deliberate, her movements fluid as water. Her gaze meets his — piercing, unyielding — and then she turns.

Walks ahead. Leading him. The pup tugs at his sleeve again, insistent, urging.

Come. Follow.

Jiang Cheng sways where he stands, his body a frail, burning ruin of itself. He shouldn't trust them. He knows better. But he's too far gone now — half-delirious, barely holding onto reason.

So he follows.

Stumbling through the forest, his breaths shallow and uneven. The trees blur into shadows, the ground shifting beneath his feet like waves. But the wolves are steady, moving with purpose.

The pup at his side, guiding him. The mother a silver wraith ahead. He doesn't know how long they walk.

And then —

The river clearing.

The familiar hum of water, gentle and soothing, cuts through the fog in his mind. The air here is different— cool, crisp. Jiang Cheng nearly sinks to his knees.

When he looks back, the wolves are gone. Vanished into the night as though they'd never been there.

With shaking hands, Jiang Cheng bows toward the emptiness where they had stood.

The forest watches but does not answer.

Jiang Wanyin is late.

This, in itself, is unusual.

Jiang Wanyin is not the type to slack. Jiang Wanyin is not the type to forget. Jiang Wanyin is the type to wake up before the sun, to grind himself into the dust long before actual training begins.

So when he walks into the courtyard at the mandated time, right when training is supposed to begin—not before— everyone is flabbergasted.

Some stop mid-stretch. Others freeze mid-conversation. One particularly dedicated individual nearly drops the practice sword they were twirling.

A few glance at each other, expressions unreadable, before the whispers begin. The boy who never takes a break… took a break?

Sun Li, completely serious, says, "We should celebrate."

Li Rong, equally serious, grins. "A toast—to our dear junior who has finally seen the light."

Someone else, worriedly asks, ”Is he sick?”

Yu Shuren, calm as ever, does not even bother to glance up. "If he was dying, he’d still show up early."

Xue Yuan, arms crossed, watching the entrance with faint, thoughtful concern, just lets out a slow “…Huh.”

There is no dramatic reaction from Jiang Wanyin himself. He does not sigh, does not roll his eyes, does not even bother acknowledging the disaster that is the sect members’ entire mental process.

He simply stops beside the weapons rack, adjusting his stance, like nothing is out of the ordinary at all. But the thing is—this is out of the ordinary.

So, naturally, Sun Li is having the absolute time of her life.

She throws an arm around Jiang Wanyin's shoulders, grinning like she’s just won a bet. "Does this mean you’re actually human, Jiang Gongzi?"

Then, with mock horror, "Will you join us for dinner next? Maybe even—gasp—socialise?”

Jiang Wanyin—who has suffered greatly in his life but, in this moment, is suffering particularly—just shoves her off and grumbles something incoherent but undoubtedly rude.

Li Rong laughs, watching him with a mix of amusement and something vaguely resembling pity. Not too much pity, of course.

If Jiang Wanyin insists on presenting himself as an overachieving perfectionist, then what does he expect?

Taking the suppressant did not go well.

He blames the timing. Blames the sap, so very stubborn, refusing to be coaxed free. Blames himself for not preparing better.  By the time he drinks it, bitter as regret on his tongue, the pre-heat phase is gone. He’s hurtled straight into full-on heat.

Intense nausea grips his stomach, twisting it into knots. His head spins, dizziness blurring the world into a smear of color and sound. Stomach cramps gnaw at him, sharp as blades carving into his flesh.

And still—still—he burns.

Too warm. Too sensitive. Too tense. Every nerve frays at the edges, raw and exposed. His skin tingles with the ache of something just out of reach, some relief denied.

Instead, his qi flickers—weakens—shuts down. Fear slithers through his chest. Did he just mess up his body permanently?

He doesn’t know how long this will last, how long he’ll be trapped in this agonizing limbo. When the sun finally rises, pale and indifferent, he forces himself to apply the scent-blocking paste.

He hopes for the best. But dread curdles in his gut as he steps out to train. They’re staring at him. Eyes flicker his way, sharp and questioning. His pulse quickens, skin prickling under the weight of their scrutiny.

Is it obvious?

Do they know?

Fuck.

His body fights the suppressant like a wounded beast refusing to die. Flickers of heat symptoms still claw at him, simmering beneath the surface. But the suppressant is winning—dragging him into something worse. An exhausted, feverish state that leaves him hollowed out and trembling.

He can still move. Still fight. But it’s sloppy, every motion sluggish and imprecise. They notice. He knows they do. His meridians ache with every attempt to summon his qi, the energy sputtering and faltering like a flame gasping for air.

This is it. The realisation crashes over him like a wave, cold and unforgiving. He’s fucked.

And then stalker speaks.

“Your footwork is sloppy.”

The first time Xue Yuan has spoken since openly stalking him — and this is what he chooses to say?

Heat curls in his gut, sharp and biting, and his heart kicks against his ribs. He wants to laugh Yeah, no shit, you bastard. Of course his footwork is sloppy.

He only just nearly permanently fucked up his body by taking a bastardised version of brothel heat suppressants. Which — never mind the "bastardised" part — those things are already as sketchy as the black-market junk peddled under bridges in the dead of night.

His legs tremble, muscles useless and aching. His lungs are tight, dragging in air like they've forgotten how. His meridians? Oh, completely fried.

But sure.

Let’s talk about his fucking footwork.

He doesn't say any of this, of course.

He's a civilised human being. He's fine. He's great. Everything is fucking dandy.

He doesn’t say anything because he is calm, but also mostly because if he opens his mouth, he’s going to lose whatever thin shred of control he’s still clinging to, and he’s either going to laugh or set Xue Yuan on fire.

Actually—no.

Fuck this.

Fuck the visions.

Why did he get them? What divine asshole decided, oh, let’s give Jiang Cheng a front-row seat to every disaster imaginable and see what he does with it!

Fuck being a siren.

Fuck this body that betrays him at every turn—this fragile, overheating, pathetic excuse for a form that never lets him forget how close he is to breaking.

And fuck Yuanzhi Huí, that creepy motherfucking pedophilic little shit. Actually fuck him the most, his obsession, his games, his sick, possessive slimy fingers.

He bites down so hard his teeth ache. He adjusts his stance with shaking legs, turning away from Xue Yuan without a word.

Fuck you. Fuck this place. Fuck everyone watching.

Xue Yuan breaks his silence. Jiang Wanyin reacts like a startled, furious cat. Sun Li loses it immediately.

"Oh, he speaks! He lives! Amazing, tell us more, oh wise one—”

Xue Yuan ignores her, as he always does, and keeps watching Jiang Wanyin with the same unreadable expression. Li Rong, however, does not ignore it.

Because this isn’t just Xue Yuan being obsessive. If that were the case, he’d keep watching in silence, filing whatever he noticed away for later analysis, the way he always does.

No—he saw something.

And that means something is off.

Li Rong glances back at Jiang Wanyin. He’s… blank. His expression is flat, unreadable, except for the slight furrow of his brow that, on anyone else, would just look like mild irritation.

But on Jiang Wanyin, it’s the kind of thing that usually precedes someone getting yelled at. Or nearly stabbed. Or both.

Actually, now that Li Rong is paying attention—he does look slightly murderous.

His strikes are relaxed. Too relaxed. At first glance, they look effortless, like he isn’t even trying. But now that Li Rong is actually watching properly…

Wait. That’s not confidence.

That’s slowness.

His movements are delayed by fractions of a second. Almost imperceptible. The kind of thing only someone trained to recognize weaknesses in an opponent would pick up on. But it’s there.

The effortless dodging? That’s him struggling to react in time. Li Rong suddenly does not feel like teasing anymore. Jiang Cheng leaves the very second training ends.

Not hours later—just exactly when he’s permitted to.

This, too, is wrong. Because Jiang Wanyin usually stays behind. He always stays behind. The concept of “just doing the required amount and stopping” does not exist in his mind.

Sun Li, still watching the entrance, frowns. "Okay, wait. Is he actually sick?”

Li Rong doesn’t say anything. But his mind is racing. Because he knows what it means to slow down. He was taught that if you slow down, you die. He learned to move carefully, to conserve energy, to survive longer. But Jiang Wanyin? Jiang Wanyin is a storm that never stops moving. And today—he did.

Li Rong does not like that.

Something’s wrong. And now—he needs to know what.

It’s only after lectures that they get the time to check up on him.

Sun Li frowns, crossing her arms. “Alright, I’m gonna check on him.”

Pause.

“Wait. Where does he stay?”

Li Rong shrugs. “The omega quarters, right?”

He says it lightly, a bit unsure. Meishan Yu does not give preference or special treatment to anyone. But at the same time, Jiang Wanyin is Sect Leader Yu’s only grandson.

Xue Yuan interjects with a flat voice. “Left junior hall, at the very end, on the right.”

Silence.

Sun Li stares at him. “…The hell?”

Li Rong has a very visceral, immediate nope reaction.

He is not thinking about that. He is not processing that. He is going to pick up that horrifying little realization and throw it directly into the sun.

Yu Shuren looks like he’s suffering from a mild case of internal combustion.

Xue Yuan, meanwhile, looks calm. Like what he just said was completely normal and not at all bone-chillingly concerning.

So now—it’s Li Rong’s problem.

Because only omegas are allowed inside the quarters.

Jiang Cheng wakes up feeling like he fought a war inside his own skin.

Every limb is leaden, his chest stuffed with fog. The ache in his bones lingers like old bruises pressed too hard.

Cultivating is out of the question—his qi falters and stutters like broken machinery. Useless. He knows he won’t be able to channel it properly for days, maybe longer.

Still, staying inside is unbearable.

The air within his room presses against his skin like oil. He should be studying—scrolls wait on his desk, accusing in their silence. But his mind fractures when it tries to hold focus.

His body hums with restless agitation, taut like a bowstring drawn too tight. He needs out. It’s still daytime. He tells himself it’s fine.

The river clearing calls to him like an ancient song. He follows instinct, feet carrying him toward that familiar place.

The river gleams under the midday sun—clear, fresh, cool. It beckons to him.

Come, it whispers. Let go.

He hesitates for only a moment before yielding to the call. Boots abandoned on the shore, outer robes discarded without thought, he steps into the water.

It embraces him instantly—cool relief against feverish skin. He wades in deeper, the current curling around his calves, thighs, ribs. His breath catches, sharp and clean, as the chill seeps into his bones.

Deeper.

He goes deeper.

Deeper still.

Until the river swallows him whole.

Hair fans out around his face like ink dissolving into water. The weight of the world dissolves, carried away by current.

Here, beneath the surface, there is nothing but silence.

His qi, fractured and frayed, steadies for the first time. The chaos in his meridians quiets, soothed. His body, always tense, always braced for the next blow, finally unclenches.

He stops thinking.

He stops fighting.

And he lets go.

The water cradles him, cool fingers brushing against fevered skin. The ache in his chest dissolves into something softer, gentler. His breath evens out, slow and deep.

He sinks deeper, hair drifting like silk around him, limbs loose and pliant. The river hums around him. And Jiang Cheng—always fighting, always braced for war—finally breathes.

The omega quarters are silent.

Li Rong stops at the entrance, taking in the realisation he really should have had earlier. Jiang Wanyin is the only junior omega.

He remembers a kid he sometimes tried to look after in the streets. The one who tried to fight a pack of older boys alone because they stole his food.

Weak things don’t survive long.

Jiang Wanyin isn’t weak. But he’s alone. And that’s sometimes worse.

But Li Rong doesn’t get far in life by feelings. He shakes it off. Knocks. No response. He waits, considering. He could push. He could force it.

But Jiang Wanyin doesn’t do well with force.

So instead, he leans against the door and speaks lightly. “I don’t know if you’re in there, but my door’s open if you ever need anything.”

He pauses.

“I’m two halls over. Just saying.”

And then—he leaves.

He’s in a cave system.

The tunnels stretch into darkness, twisting like veins under flesh. It should scare him—the vast, gaping emptiness, the way sound dies before it can echo.

It doesn’t.

He floats, still half-submerged. The cold water clings to his skin, numbing the feverish heat that has plagued him for days.

Let me heal you, the river murmurs, and for once, he listens.

Time slips sideways in this place. He doesn’t know how long he’s been under—minutes, hours, lifetimes.

When he finally surfaces, gasping, it’s into a cavern vast enough to swallow the world. Stalactites hang like the teeth of some ancient beast, glistening with river spray.

Interesting, he thinks vaguely. He hadn’t realised the river bled into caves, but it makes sense. Meishan is south—southeast, maybe?

He can’t remember. His mind feels floaty, unmoored from logic.

He craves.

The sensation gnaws at his belly, sharp and insistent. His eyes track the lone flash of silver in the water—a fish darting through the currents.

No, he tells himself firmly. Bad Jiang Cheng. You do not eat raw fish.

The fish flicks its tail and vanishes into darkness.

He frowns, disappointed.

His fingers curl absently around a stone near the water’s edge. He lifts it to his mouth without thinking, teeth scraping against its rough surface. Salt floods his senses.

It soothes the craving. He gnaws on it like a feral thing, unbothered by how strange it looks, how strange he is.

There is blood under his nails—old blood, thick and stubborn, clinging like sin. It has been there long before the war.

He clawed himself out of hell once and didn’t come back quite human.

He isn’t human. Not anymore. The realisation settles over him. He doesn’t care, not really. What he is now makes him stronger.

And strength is all that matters. When the Wens come, he will drown them before they can touch land. He will rip them apart before they can breathe his air.

There is already blood on his hands—what’s a little more?

It doesn’t matter what he becomes, what sins he carves into his own flesh, so long as they are safe. His people. His sect. His. No one gets to touch what belongs to him.

No one but him.

Only he can love them right. Only he can care for them. Only he can hurt them.

He sinks deeper into the cavern’s embrace, teeth still stained with salt and stone, blood still clinging to his skin.

And lets go.

Chapter Text

Yu Weizhe liked visiting home when he had the time.

It wasn’t often—he traveled too much, saw too many things, and spent more nights on the road than in a sect hall. He wasn’t some sentimental fool who clung to his childhood home like a lifeline.

He was practical. Logical. A well-adjusted adult who just happened to get a little nostalgic sometimes.

(He also liked free food.)

But sometimes, the old halls of the Yu Sect called him back. And when they did, he answered. So when he arrived, bag slung over his shoulder, dust clinging to his robes from the road, he expected the usual routine:

• Share drinks with old friends.

• Annoy his mother just enough to remind her he existed.

• Disappear before anyone asked him to do actual work.

What he didn’t expect—

Was to hear his nephew’s name in passing.

“Jiang Cheng?” He perked up immediately, pausing mid-step as he overheard a group of disciples talking. He turned on his heel, sliding easily into their conversation.

“Did I hear that right? Ziyuan’s kid is here?”

The disciples straightened, slightly startled by his sudden presence. One of them, a younger boy who clearly hadn’t learned how to mask his reactions yet, nodded.

“Yes, Senior Yu. He’s been here for several months now.”

Yu Weizhe raised an eyebrow. “Huh. Didn’t know my sister was planning a visit.”

Another disciple hesitated. “Ah… Jiang Gongzi came alone.”

Yu Weizhe blinked.

Alone? That—didn’t make sense. Yu Ziyuan was many things, but she was not the type to let her only son travel unaccompanied.

And if she were visiting the Yu Sect, she would’ve made a spectacle out of it. Yu Weizhe adjusted his stance slightly, folding his arms.

“Just to clarify—he came here by himself?”

“Yes, Senior.”

Yu Weizhe let out a low whistle. Why would she send him alone? It wasn’t a casual visit, then. A temporary exile, perhaps? Something for discipline?

“Alright,” he said lightly, shifting back into a grin. “What’s he like?”

The disciples glanced at each other.

“Cool,” one finally said.

“Aloof,” added another.

“Mysterious,” the first one agreed.

Yu Weizhe raised an eyebrow.

“That’s quite the reputation. No one called him difficult?”

The disciples shook their heads.

“He doesn’t cause trouble,” one of them offered.

“He’s serious. And focused. He trains a lot.”

The other disciples nod vigorously.

Yu Weizhe exhaled slowly, rubbing his jaw. That was… odd. A twelve-year-old exiled (a possibility, but he’s always right, thank you very much) from home should be angry.

This piqued his interest.

Yu Weizhe found his mother in her study.

She barely looked up when he entered, unsurprised by his presence.

“I thought you were supposed to be in Yunping.”

“I was. Then I heard my dear nephew was here, and I simply had to stop by.” Yu Weizhe set his travel bag down with an easy grin.

“So, what’s the story? Because I hear my nephew is here alone, and I have questions.”

She finally looked at him. “So do I.”

Something in her tone made him straighten slightly. “Explain.”

She set her brush down, fingers folding together. “Ziyuan sent him here on a training program. One year.”

“No explanation?”

“No.”

He hummed. “That’s suspicious, but not that suspicious. Ziyuan has always been—”

“He’s traumatised.”

His grin faded slightly.

She continued. “Not difficult. Not rebellious. Just… quiet.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s not exactly unheard of—”

She cut him off. “It’s not the quiet of a disciplined child. It’s the quiet of someone waiting for something to happen.”

He exhaled, leaning back. “...What happened to him?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I sent people to Lotus Pier to investigate. No one spoke.”

He frowned. “What do you mean, no one spoke?”

She met his gaze. “I mean they wouldn’t say anything. Not the servants, not the guards, not the kitchen staff.”

His fingers tapped against the chair’s armrest.

“So, let me get this straight. A twelve-year-old is exiled to the Yu Sect, clearly traumatised, and when you try to ask what happened, the entire place goes silent?”

“Yes.”

His mind whirred.

A sect was a breathing thing. Servants gossiped. Guards whispered. If something major happened, there were always stories.

Even if the facts got twisted, even if the truth was buried, there were always rumours.

But this?

Complete silence?

That wasn’t just a lack of answers. That was protection.

“So, they’re protecting him,”

His mother was quiet for a long moment. Then, finally, she said, “I suspect the same.”

He exhaled, rubbing his jaw. “Alright. That means one of two things: either he’s a victim, or he’s done something bad enough that people are covering for him.”

She studied him. “And which do you think it is?”

He thought about what he’d heard so far. Quiet. Restrained. Waiting. He didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he stood, rolling his shoulders.

“Well,” he said lightly, grinning just a little too sharply now, “why don’t I just go meet the kid and find out?”

His mother sighed.

“Don’t push him.”

“Mother,” he said cheerfully, “I would never.”

She gave him a look.

He laughed.

The moment his feet touch solid ground, he exhales—long and ragged, like something torn from the depths of him.

The ache in his limbs loosens, the heaviness in his chest lifts. His head clears, thoughts sharpening after days of feverish haze. It worked. The river helped.

He allows himself one precious second of relief.

But then—

He catches his reflection in the fractured surface of a shallow pool.

No.

His breath falters as he takes it in:

Features too sharp, skin too luminous in the early morning light—too smooth, too flawless, shimmering faintly as though kissed by starlight.

His eyes gleam like polished amethyst, catching the light in ways they shouldn’t. It’s him, and it’s not him. It’s the beast. The thing lurking beneath his flesh, waiting for cracks to bleed through.

His heart slams against his ribs, wild and panicked. Not here. Not now. This cannot be seen. He cannot let this be known.

He forces himself to steady—inhale, exhale, control—but it’s slipping from him, the edges fraying faster than he can catch them.

He has to fix it. The next moments are a blur. He barely remembers getting back to his room, the door slamming shut behind him like the tolling of a death knell.

His hands are shaking, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t think. The knife gleams in his grip. The seal needs reinforcement. It always does.

Normally, he does it long before morning training, gives it time to settle into his skin like a whispered prayer. But now? Now, it’s too fresh. Too urgent. He grits his teeth, presses the blade to his flesh.

The tip bites deep, carving over old scars, reopening wounds not yet healed. The pain is immediate—searing, blinding. It tears through him like fire, like a storm raging under his skin.

Something inside him screams.

His siren instincts lash out, wild and defiant, resisting the mutilation of their sacred vessel. Power coils beneath his ribs, a living, breathing thing desperate to break free.  But he doesn’t listen.

His hand trembles, but the blade doesn’t falter. He drags it through skin and sinew, carving the seal deeper, anchoring it with every ounce of willpower he has left.

The pain is everything—consuming, absolute. It’s what keeps him human. Or what’s left of it, anyway.

He drops the knife with a clatter, blood-slick fingers numb from strain. The seal hums faintly against his skin, pulsing with power. Imperfect, but it will hold. For now.

His body sags against the wall, exhaustion weighing heavy on every limb.

He doesn’t cry. Instead, he stares at the ceiling, breath shallow and uneven, and waits for the numbness to take him.

Yu Shuren was exactly as Yu Weizhe remembered—calm, even-tempered, difficult to rattle. And still a bookworm, Yu Weizhe thinks as he drops down across him.

“So,” Yu Weizhe said, smiling. “Tell me about my nephew.”

Yu Shuren sighed in a truly offensive way, Yu Weizhe was a pleasure to be around.

“He is an exceptional student.”

“Mm. I’m sure. And what else?”

Yu Shuren took a slow sip of tea. “Polite. Focused. Disciplined.”

Yu Weizhe’s smile widened. “And?”

A pause.

“He keeps to himself.”

There it is.

Yu Weizhe leaned forward, elbows on the table. “And why do you think that is?”

Yu Shuren set his cup down, measuring his words.

“It is not my place to speculate.”

“Oh, come now,” Yu Weizhe said cheerfully. “You’re an intelligent man. Surely, you have thoughts.”

Yu Shuren was silent. Which was, in itself, an answer.

Yu Weizhe exhaled, shaking his head. “Alright. Fine. What’s his fighting style?”

“Defensive,” Yu Shuren said immediately. “Fluid. Precise.”

A beat.

“…Too precise, sometimes,” he admitted.

Interesting.

Yu Weizhe tilted his head. “Too precise?”

“He does not make mistakes,” Yu Shuren said. “Not in the way most disciples do.”

Yu Weizhe frowned. “And that’s a bad thing?”

Yu Shuren’s gaze was steady. “When someone fights like that, it means they are used to being punished for failure.”

And you said it’s not your place to speculate, Yu Weizhe thought.

Before Yu Weizhe could respond, a third voice cut in.

“Oh, finally, someone else noticed,” Sun Li said, dropping down next to Yu Weizhe with zero ceremony.

Yu Weizhe blinked. “And you are?”

“Sun Li,” she said. “One of the other senior disciples.”

Yu Weizhe leaned his chin on one hand. “Ah, wonderful. Another person to answer my many, many questions.”

She grinned. “Happy to provide.”

“Alright, then,” Yu Weizhe said. “Tell me—what do you think of my dear nephew?”

Sun Li considered, then smirked.

“Oh, he’s like a feral kitten.”

Yu Weizhe choked on his tea.

Yu Shuren sighed, rubbing his temple. “Sun Li.”

“What? He is.”

Yu Weizhe, still wheezing, “Please. Explain.”

Sun Li grinned. “You know—he’s all quiet and cool and broody, like some kind of lone wolf, but if you get too close, it’s like he hisses at you.”

Yu Weizhe cackled.

“Plus if you give him food, he starts to trust you slowly.”

Yu Shuren did not look amused.

Jiang Cheng had learned early to pay attention to movement. People thought sound was the first indicator of danger. It wasn’t.

Weight shifts. Hands tightening. Eyes locking on a target. That was how you knew when to react. So when a stranger moved into his path during training, he noticed immediately.

Jiang Cheng slowed, sword still in hand, breathing steady. And then—

“Well, well, well,” the man drawled. “So this is my dear nephew.”

Jiang Cheng stilled. The disciples around him turned to watch. Jiang Cheng’s gaze flickered over the man. Tall, sharp-eyed, wearing the Yu Sect robes like he wasn’t used to them. The typical sharp Yu look. Older than Yu Ziyuan, but not by much.

His posture was too casual to belong to a true sect leader, too relaxed for someone who cared about rank. A traveler, then. Someone who didn’t stay in one place.

A distant relative? Someone from the main family?

The man grinned.

“What, no hug for your dearest uncle?”

Yu Weizhe hadn’t been expecting recognition, exactly. The last time he’d seen Jiang Cheng, the boy had been barely out of infancy—round-cheeked, clumsy, hiding behind his mother’s robes.

But he also hadn’t expected this. This controlled, detached thing standing before him. Jiang Cheng didn’t react. No confusion. No curiosity. No flicker of recognition.

Instead, his expression was unreadable. Then, finally— he dipped into a shallow bow.

“…Senior.”

Ah. So that’s how he wanted to play it.

Yu Weizhe smiled wider. “Oh, come now, don’t be like that. Surely, you have something warmer for your mother’s favorite brother?”

“Mother never mentioned you.”

Yu Weizhe laughed, sharp and delighted. So that’s how it is.

“No, I imagine she didn’t,” he said cheerfully. “She barely tolerates me as it is. But she must be thrilled to finally have you here.”

Silence.

Yu Weizhe leaned in, grin sharp. “She did send you here personally, didn’t she?”

Jiang Cheng’s shoulders tensed. Then, smoothly, he lowered his gaze.

“She has responsibilities at home,” he said.

“So you’ve been here a while, then?” Yu Weizhe continued, as if he hadn’t noticed.

“Yes.”

“And how do you like it?”

Jiang Cheng hesitated again.

“The training is adequate.”

Yu Weizhe tilted his head. “And the people?”

A beat too long.

“They are… acceptable.”

The disciples snorted.

Oh, Yu Weizhe thought. That’s interesting. They liked him. That much was clear. But Jiang Cheng…

Jiang Cheng wasn’t letting them in.

“So serious, so refined,” Yu Weizhe sighed dramatically. “What happened to you, little nephew? The last time I saw you, you were a round-cheeked, drooling mess.”

Jiang Cheng exhaled through his nose. “I was three.”

“And you were adorable!” Yu Weizhe clapped him on the shoulder, loud enough that several disciples stifled laughter. “And now look at you! A proper young master, stiff as a board.”

Jiang Cheng didn’t jerk away. He just stood there. His body didn’t move under the weight of Yu Weizhe’s hand, but there was something too still about him.

Hmm. Interesting.

By the time training ended, Jiang Cheng was thoroughly exhausted.

His robes clung to his body, sticky with sweat and the heat of reopened wounds. He was sure the wounds had split again during training.

But there was no telltale bloom of red seeping through the fabric—his robes were dark, the inner layers darker still, a quiet blessing for secrets best left unseen.

If blood stained the silk, it would hide well enough until he could slip away unnoticed. As soon as the training session ended, Jiang Cheng left.

He was thoroughly spent, weariness digging sharp hooks into his muscles, pulling him toward collapse. But he had wasted an entire day yesterday. He couldn’t afford another loss.

So despite the gnawing exhaustion, he headed for the clearing. The familiar stretch of wild earth called to him, the river somewhere in the distance murmuring its eternal song.

This time, he didn’t sink into the river or let himself drift aimlessly. This time, he practiced. Blade in hand, Jiang Cheng moved through the drills.

The air hummed with the sharp swish of his blade cutting through it, sweat dripping from his brow. His body protested, sluggish and sore, but he forced it forward. He had to push through.

It was only when he caught movement in the corner of his eye that he faltered.

The wolf pup. The same one he'd seen before, small and scrappy with bright, curious eyes. It lingered at the edge of the clearing, watching him intently.

Jiang Cheng paused mid-step, lowering his blade. The pup tilted its head, then did something unexpected—it tried to mimic him. It stumbled awkwardly, paws shuffling as though imitating his stance.

Cute, Jiang Cheng thought despite himself, a smile tugging at his lips. The expression felt strange on his face, foreign, as though his muscles had forgotten how to shape joy.

After finishing his set, he sheathed his blade and sat down, letting the wind cool his sweat-slicked skin. His breath slowed, heart still thrumming from exertion.

The wolf pup crept closer, ears twitching with curiosity. Jiang Cheng remained still, neither reaching out nor retreating, though the urge to ruffle its soft fur gnawed at him.

The pup took another tentative step, then another, until it was close enough to place its small paws on his lap. He froze. Unsure of what to do, Jiang Cheng glanced up—and saw her. It’s mother.

She sat a distance away, watching them with lazy, half-lidded eyes. There was no hostility in her gaze. Jiang Cheng’s breath eased. Slowly, cautiously, he raised a hand and stroked the pup’s head.

Soft fur met his fingers, warm and alive beneath his touch. The pup nuzzled into his palm, tail wagging faintly. The mother didn’t stir.

Sunlight filtered through the trees, dappling the clearing in golden patches. The light poured through the branches like honey, thick and sweet, bathing everything in a soft, otherworldly glow.

The air was crisp, cool against his flushed skin. Jiang Cheng breathed in deeply, exhaled slowly.

And for a fleeting, precious moment—

He felt at peace.

Chapter Text

The lake is calm. Wei Wuxian sits on the pier, legs dangling over the edge, throwing pebbles into the water. Jiang Yanli sits beside him, hands folded in her lap.

"Did you write to him?" Jiang Yanli asks softly.

Wei Wuxian flicks another pebble into the lake. It skips twice, then sinks.

“Yeah."

He doesn’t say how many times. He doesn’t say how none of them were answered. Jiang Yanli nods.

"Me too.”

Wei Wuxian glances at her. She is smiling, but it is the quiet kind. The kind that doesn’t reach her eyes. And suddenly—he hates this. Hates the silence. Hates the waiting. Hates the not knowing.

"He could have written back." Wei Wuxian mutters. "It’s not like he lost his hands."

Jiang Yanli doesn’t flinch.

"Maybe he’s just busy." She says it gently. Carefully.

"Or maybe he’s just ignoring us.”

Jiang Yanli doesn’t answer. Wei Wuxian huffs, shaking his head.

"You know, I thought he’d at least yell at me."

Jiang Yanli tilts her head. "Yell at you?"

"Yeah." Wei Wuxian kicks at the water. "For calling him a crybaby. For not visiting. For—"

He stops.

He exhales sharply. "Never mind.”

Jiang Yanli watches him for a long moment. Then she says, softly—

"He probably misses us too.”

Wei Wuxian scoffs. "Then he should have written back.”

Jiang Yanli doesn’t argue. Because what else can they do but wait? Because how do you say—

"I think something’s wrong."

"I think he didn’t leave because he wanted to."

"I think he’s alone, and I don’t know how to reach him."

Instead, Jiang Yanli just leans against Wei Wuxian’s shoulder. And Wei Wuxian lets her. The lake ripples beneath them, steady and silent. Like the letters that never arrived.

Like the home that feels a little emptier than before.

Jiang Cheng had been bracing himself for another confrontation. His uncle had already proven himself to be persistent, nosy, and entirely too sharp. He assumed this would be more of the same.

He was wrong.

Instead of standing in his way, Yu Weizhe swept into his space, threw an arm around his shoulders, and grinned like they were long-lost drinking buddies. Jiang Cheng stiffened.

His fingers twitched—normally, he would shove someone off immediately. But this wasn’t some stranger pressing too close. It wasn’t an opponent trying to bait him.

It was just… A weight. Solid. Warm. Not demanding anything. He didn’t move. He couldn’t relax.

But he didn’t mind it much.

Ah. Now that was interesting. He’d half expected Jiang Cheng to elbow him in the ribs and duck away. Instead? Just a brief hesitation. No resistance. Yu Weizhe he filed it away.

“Well, nephew,” he said cheerfully, steering them forward, “clearly, no one has taught you where the real good spots are around here. That ends today.”

Jiang Cheng blinked. “What?”

“C’mon, let’s go.” Yu Weizhe grinned. “You like to train? Good. I’ll show you the best places to sneak off for solo training.”

Jiang Cheng narrowed his eyes. “And why would you do that?”

“Because I’m an excellent uncle, obviously.”

Jiang Cheng made a face.

Yu Weizhe laughed.

Yu Weizhe talked as he led him across the sect grounds, filling the silence so Jiang Cheng didn’t have to.

“Over there? Good for meditation. No one bothers you there.”

“Under that bridge? Best place to sit and pretend you’re doing something important.”

“Oh, and that tree? Best climbing branches. No, seriously, they hold weight better than the others—“

Jiang Cheng listened. Not because he had to. Not because this was strategy or obligation. Just because… It was easy.

The weight of an arm over his shoulders. The presence of someone pulling him forward instead of standing in his way.

It reminded him of better days.

Running across the pier, stealing lotus seeds, once upon a time, another boy—sunshine smile and bright-eyed—would pull him close, arm around his shoulder, a red ribbon in his hair and a sunshine laugh as he tumbled into mischief.

That boy had later turned away, walking away, always away from Jiang Cheng.

He clenched his teeth and tried to focus on the present. The warmth of nostalgia curdled into something bitter, acrid. Memory had sharp teeth, and it bit deep. He hated it.

Hated that it still had power over him. Hated that when he closed his eyes, he still saw golden light tangled in dark hair, still heard laughter so bright it could cut through anything.

Hated that it seemed everything fell apart before the war.

Was it because of Yuanzhi Huí?

Or was it him?

By the time Yuanzhi Huí sunk in, dug deep, Jiang Cheng was too afraid to speak out except for that one time. After that? He never did. It was what Yuanzhi Huí wanted, wasn’t it?

And the threat of his sister or Wei Wuxian going through the same thing was enough to keep him at bay. Until Yuanzhi Huí pulled the leash too much, and it snapped.

For so long Yuanzhi Huí was worried about his sins being too visible on Jiang Cheng’s skin. For years he pulled on the leash—I can find more compliant students, Cheng’er, I never thought you’d be so selfish—that he didn’t think what would happen when he had enough.

(Blood in his hair, in his mouth, on his hands, in his bed. Gurgling, screaming—it wasn’t him this time)

No. Stop. He breathes.

In.

Out.

He let’s Yu Weizhe’s chatter wash over him.

It’s in the past now.

Jiang Cheng wasn’t talking much. But that was fine. Yu Weizhe didn’t need words to see the shape of things. This kid had been alone for a long time. Not just physically. Socially. Emotionally.

He hadn’t been taught how to push back against playfulness. He only knew how to push back against threats. So if Yu Weizhe framed it as a demand, Jiang Cheng would resist.

But if he framed it as a simple, unthinking thing, then—

Then Jiang Cheng didn’t know what to do with it. Didn’t even realize he was accepting it. Yu Weizhe smiled.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s go cause some trouble.”

Jiang Cheng huffed a quiet laugh. Just once. Soft. Barely there. But Yu Weizhe caught it.

Oh, kid. You have no idea how easy you are to like, do you?

Xue Yuan watched from the training grounds, expression unreadable. Jiang Cheng wasn’t pushing him off.

Jiang Cheng, who barely let anyone near him, who reacted to unexpected closeness like a cat being picked up by a stranger—

Was letting this man pull him into things. Xue Yuan’s jaw tightened. Xue Yuan had been nice. He had been polite. He had given him space. And yet?

Nothing.

Not a glance.

Li Rong, without looking, whacked Xue Yuan on the head.

Xue Yuan scowled. “What—”

“You were making a face.”

Sun Li leaned in, amused. “You do realise you look like a kicked puppy, right?”

Xue Yuan glared at them. “I do not.”

Li Rong sighed, exasperated. “We all know what you’re thinking.”

“I—”

“Why doesn’t Jiang Cheng ever look at me when I’m nice and quiet and leave him alone?” Li Rong mimicked, hand on his heart.

Xue Yuan looked genuinely betrayed.

“I did not say that.”

“You didn’t have to,” Sun Li snickered.

Xue Yuan crossed his arms. “I’m thinking that this uncle of his is suspicious.”

“Sure you are.”

Jiang Cheng was not expecting to be here. They had been walking the sect grounds when Yu Weizhe suddenly veered off-course, dragging him toward a side hall.

“Where are we going?” Jiang Cheng asked warily.

“The kitchen,” Yu Weizhe said cheerfully.

Jiang Cheng narrowed his eyes.

“What for?”

Yu Weizhe grinned. “Snacks.”

Jiang Cheng blinked. “You’re a grown man.”

“Yes, and?”

Jiang Cheng sighed. Why was he even surprised?

The kitchen was warm, filled with the quiet clatter of cooking.

At the center of it all was a woman with greying hair and sharp eyes—someone who carried herself like she had survived decades of nonsense and had no patience for any more of it.

The moment she saw Yu Weizhe, she narrowed her eyes.

“Yu Weizhe.”

Yu Weizhe grinned. “Auntie Song! You look younger every time I see you.”

She snorted. “And you look more and more like trouble. What do you want?”

Yu Weizhe clutched his chest dramatically. “Auntie, must you wound me? Can’t a man visit an old family friend just to say hello?”

“No.”

Jiang Cheng covered his mouth to hide his smirk.

Auntie Song wiped her hands on her apron and gave Yu Weizhe a look too sharp for his comfort.

“You know,” she mused, “this reminds me of that time when you—”

Yu Weizhe immediately cut her off.

“Haha, wow, would you look at that—have you met my nephew?”

Jiang Cheng blinked as he was abruptly shoved forward like a human shield. Auntie Song raised an eyebrow.

“Oh? The one they sent here alone?”

Jiang Cheng tensed.

Yu Weizhe’s hand landed lightly on his shoulder, steadying.

“Yes, that one,” Yu Weizhe said easily. “He’s terribly serious, isn’t he?”

Jiang Cheng stared at him.

Auntie Song snorted. “Well, if he takes after his mother, I’m not surprised.”

Jiang Cheng’s fingers twitched slightly. But he said nothing. Auntie Song noticed.

And without saying anything else, she turned, grabbed something off a nearby tray, and pressed it into Jiang Cheng’s hand.

“Here, here,” she said. “Eat.”

Jiang Cheng looked down. Tanghulu.

Jiang Cheng frowned at it. He hadn’t asked for it. He hadn’t done anything to earn it.

“…Why?” he asked, wary.

Auntie Song raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “What, you don’t want it? Alright, then.”

She moved to take it back. Jiang Cheng’s fingers clenched instinctively around the stick. Yu Weizhe, watching with barely concealed amusement, leaned in.

“What are you talking about, Auntie? He loves tanghulu.”

Jiang Cheng frowned. “I do not—”

“Of course you do! You used to beg me to get you some all the time when you were younger.”

Jiang Cheng stared. “I was three.”

“Exactly! A connoisseur from birth.”

Jiang Cheng narrowed his eyes. He had a feeling some bullshit was going to come out of his mouth.

“You see,” Yu Weizhe continued, completely unbothered by Jiang Cheng’s unimpressed expression, “every time you asked me for tanghulu, I had to go on a perilous journey.”

Jiang Cheng exhaled sharply. “I doubt that.”

“Oh, but it’s true! I had to travel over the mountains, fight off a fire beast, straight from the depths of a volcano and—”

“There are no fire beasts in Yummeng.”

“—and then sneak past the dragon to smuggle it back to you.”

Jiang Cheng blinked.

“…The dragon?”

“A fearsome, fire breathing beast.” Yu Weizhe nodded gravely. “One who hoarded all the good things and guarded them jealously.”

Auntie Song covered her mouth to stifle her laughter. Jiang Cheng stared at him, then slowly blinked in understanding.

“You mean my mother.”

Yu Weizhe grinned.

“That did not happen.”

Yu Weizhe shrugged. “Believe what you want, but I’m the one who survived the mission. I still have the battle scars.”

Jiang Cheng sighed, deeply unimpressed. But—

He took a bite of the tanghulu.

And Yu Weizhe caught it—the way his shoulders relaxed, the way his chewing slowed just slightly, savoring it. Jiang Cheng looked ridiculously huffy and adorable.

Yu Weizhe’s chest went warm and he smiled. Logically, he knew the kid was a little feral. But it was difficult to remember when the kid was being so cute. 

Jiang Cheng had eaten both skewers. He looked marginally more relaxed. Yu Weizhe, watching from the side, felt deeply, deeply satisfied.

This kid—this tense, serious, deeply repressed kid—

Had no idea how easy he was to like.

Yu Weizhe made a mental note: Jiang Cheng needed to be spoiled. Preferably by him.

Ruan Yue had seen him last the day before his field trip. It was a normal night at the brothel. The flickering of lanterns, the sound of laughter and music bleeding through silk curtains.

And Jiang Cheng, sitting cross-legged on her bed, scowling at his tea.

“You don’t even like tea,” she had said, amused.

Jiang Cheng huffed, arms crossed. “It’s soothing.”

Ruan Yue had arched an eyebrow. “For who?”

“Me.”

She had laughed, ruffling his hair, because he was so serious, this kid. So sharp-edged and full of fire. But still a kid. Her Little Dancer. That was the last time she had seen him.

By the time morning came, he was gone. Taken on a "field trip" with his teacher.

Days later, the rumors started.

• Jiang Cheng attacked his teacher.

• Jiang Cheng was punished.

• Jiang Cheng was exiled to the Yu Sect.

Ruan Yue had shut those rumours down fast. She didn’t even have to do much. Because the people of Yunmeng already knew. Jiang Cheng didn’t attack without reason.

Jiang Cheng didn’t destroy unless someone pushed him to the edge. And whatever happened that night…

Someone pushed him to the edge.

A man leaned into a brothel doorway, voice low. “What do you know about—”

“Not half as much as I know about you.” The courtesan smiled, sliding his drink toward him “You always lead with questions. Why not try an answer first?”

A merchant’s apprentice, wide-eyed and curious, whispered, “Did Jiang-gongzi really—”

His master flicked his ear. “Mind your business.”

A passing Yunmeng Jiang disciple frowned. “I heard—”

“Oh?” the fruit seller smiled. “That’s nice. Buy something or leave.”

Yunmeng’s streets, its people—they closed ranks. Because if Jiang Cheng had done something violent? Then they would clean up after him.

Just like he had cleaned up after them.

Jiang Cheng had always been a storm. Loud. Unrelenting. Angry. But he had never forgotten his people.

He patched street kids’ clothes. He brought them food. He was already making plans for safe houses, institutions, real change.

And the merchants? He helped them carry goods. He argued, yelled, grumbled—but always followed through.

Yes, he had a temper. Yes, he had a sharp tongue. But his actions had always been steady, reliable. He protected Yunmeng, so Yunmeng would protect him.

Simple as that.

One night, long before all of this, Jiang Cheng had leaned against a doorway, watching the women chat.

“You hear a lot, don’t you?” he mused.

Ruan Yue smirked. “That’s our job, Little Dancer.”

Jiang Cheng hummed. “You could use that.”

She tilted her head. “Use it how?”

He shrugged, casual. “To build something. A system. People already talk to you. You could control what spreads.”

Ruan Yue laughed, ruffling his hair.

“Too much scheming for a boy your age.”

But later, when she thought about it more…

He wasn’t wrong. And so, she built it. An information hub. A way to control the flow of rumors. To spread truth—or erase it. She had cleaned up after Jiang Cheng many times.

She would do it again now.

That night, she sat by the window, watching the city. The people were still talking. Still whispering. But no one spoke against Jiang Cheng. Because they knew. And if Jiang Cheng ever came back?

If he needed anything—

The people of Yunmeng would give it to him. No hesitation. No questions. Because he was theirs. And they were his. Ruan Yue sighed, tapping her fingers against the table.

“Where are you, A’Cheng?”

Deep in the woods, far from the sect. The air is cool against his skin, the ground damp beneath his bare feet. He walks without sound, the earth swallowing each step, as if the forest itself wishes to keep him. The trees stretch tall, dark against a bruised sky.

The nightlife is mostly silent—hushed, reverent. As per usual, whenever the wolves are near. Jiang Cheng watches. Fascinated. They move like water over stone, all sinew and shadow, no wasted motion, no hesitation. More mist than fur, fleeting and untouchable.

They are ghosts in the undergrowth, bodies made for running, for slipping through the world without ever being caught. He watches the way their muscles coil and release, the way they run because they can, because it is in their nature, because they do not need to think about it.

He envies them.

They don’t hesitate. They don’t second-guess. They just run. His lungs expand as he breathes in—deep, steadying.

The scent of damp earth and pine and the distant iron of river water. And yet, beneath it, there is something else.

The faint, unmistakable stench of decay.

The rot of something drowned.

The absence of green.

The death of all things, seen and unseen.

Jiang Cheng exhales.

Every version of him is dead and buried. He does not know what it means to be whole, to be clean. He has never known peace like the damp grass that yields beneath him.

He has never known hunger like the insects that have feasted on him, hollowed him out, made a home of his ruined flesh.

He is rot now.

Once, he was something. Now, he is not. Because to rot, one must first be something else—something sweet, something full of life, something ripe with potential. A thing meant to be good.

And he must have been good, once, if what remains is this ruin. If the fruit within him soured, blackened, went to waste.

Something must have gone terribly wrong. He was left there. Forgotten. Abandoned. And with time, he grew tired of himself, too.

When he was nine, he gave up on wanting dogs.

Not because he didn’t love them. Not because he didn’t dream of running through the fields, a loyal hound at his side, warm breath and bright eyes and a heart that would always belong to him.

No. He gave up because animals know. Because they can sense the things you try to hide, the things that fester beneath your skin.

And Jiang Cheng was convinced—if he let them too close, if they pressed their noses into his palm, looked him in the eyes, they would see what was wrong with him.

They would know, beyond any doubt, that there was something undeniably, irreparably rotten about him.

The young pup barks once. A sharp sound, breaking the night apart like a stone through glass. Then—he’s off.

Jiang Cheng watches, just for a breath. The way the wolves move—seamless, untamed. No pause, no doubt. Before he follows.

The pack flows through the trees like river water, a single body made of many, shifting, weaving, slipping past the undergrowth with an ease he cannot grasp.

His steps are too slow. His balance too structured. His whole life, he has trained for control. For rigid, precise footwork. Every motion deliberate. Every movement meant to win.

But wolves don’t move like that. They do not fight their bodies; they listen to them. Jiang Cheng pushes forward, trying to match their rhythm, but his body resists. The pack slows down. Just a little. At first, he doesn’t notice. Then—he does. They’re humoring him. The pup matches his pace. Holds back, waiting.

Something twists, sharp and ugly, in Jiang Cheng’s chest. He is not weak. He grits his teeth. He’ll get better. Just wait. He pushes harder. Forces his body past the ache, past the hesitation.

Faster. Faster. But then—

A misstep. His foot catches on a root, just barely. A split second of imbalance, and—

The world snaps.

The wolves do not stop. They do not hesitate. They do not think about falling, about failure. They just run. And that—that—is what he’s been missing. Not precision. Not strength.

Instinct. Flow.

Winning doesn’t matter. Balance doesn’t matter. He just—

Lets go.

His body stops resisting. He stops forcing himself to run like a human, like a disciple trying to impress, to perfect, to prove. He doesn’t fight for balance—he moves with it.

The pack surges ahead. He does not chase them. He does not need to. He runs with them. His feet skim the earth, barely touching.

The wind tears past his skin, cool and sharp, carrying away the pressure in his bones. For the first time in a long time—

He exists without burden.

Without expectations.

Without anyone watching.

And for the first time in even longer—

He laughs.

Jiang Cheng lands lightly after a rapid series of dodges, barely breaking a sweat. Li Rong, stretching nearby, stares.

“…You’re faster.”

Jiang Cheng wipes his forehead. “Obviously.”

“No, but—” Li Rong tilts his head. “Like. Really faster.”

Sun Li, rolling her shoulders, grins. “More fluid, too. What, you been sneaking extra training behind our backs?”

Jiang Cheng pauses. He hadn’t noticed. Sun Li, grinning like a feral little menace, suddenly tosses her sword at him. Jiang Cheng catches it midair without thinking.

Too fast. Too smooth.

Li Rong whistles. “See? Feral kitten reflexes.”

Jiang Cheng huffs sharply, as if already resigning himself to whatever nonsense is about to follow. “That’s a terrible analogy.”

Sun Li crosses her arms, mock-serious. “Alright then, oh wise and mighty Jiang-gongzi, what do you think you move like?”

Jiang Cheng narrows his eyes, takes a moment to consider, and then, with all the emotion of a brick, deadpans—

“A person.”

Li Rong and Sun Li burst into laughter.

Meanwhile, on the sidelines, a great tragedy unfolds.

Xue Yuan is sulking.

For weeks—weeks—he has been watching Jiang Cheng. Studying him. Dedicating an unhealthy amount of time to observing every minuscule detail of his existence.

And yet, somehow—

Li Rong and Sun Li got to him first. Xue Yuan scowls, arms crossed. What did they do? What did it do? What am I doing wrong?

Beside him, Yu Shuren pinches the bridge of his nose, already mourning his own involvement in whatever crisis this is.

Li Rong leans in, mock-whispering to Sun Li.

“Did he just joke?”

Sun Li gasps. “Wait. Wait. Hold on. We need to document this.”

Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes. “You two are insufferable.”

Sun Li, grinning, taps her chin. “No, no, this is important. We need a record.”

She turns to Yu Shuren.

“Shixiong. Jiang Cheng made a joke. What are the legal consequences?”

Yu Shuren doesn’t even look up from his work.

“Execution.”

Jiang Cheng exhales sharply. “Oh, for god’s sake—”

Li Rong cackles.

Xue Yuan, still watching from the sidelines, looks like he’s witnessing a betrayal.

Xue Yuan turns to Yu Shuren.

“…He talks to them. He talks to you.”

Yu Shuren does not argue.

“Yes.”

Xue Yuan, more offended now. “He laughs with them.”

Yu Shuren sighs. “Yes.”

Xue Yuan, utterly destroyed, “They—They’re teasing him. And he’s just—taking it?”

Yu Shuren sighs even more the slow resignation of a man who has long since lost the will to fight. He meets Xue Yuan’s devastated gaze.

“Welcome,” he says, voice bone-dry, “to my suffering.”

Xue Yuan stares.

Meanwhile, Li Rong and Sun Li continue heckling Jiang Cheng. Jiang Cheng, to his own horror, does not leave.

And Xue Yuan, clutching his metaphorical pearls, dies a little inside.

Xue Yuan steps forward, clears his throat.

"You fight well."

Jiang Cheng stills. His entire body locks up. What does that mean? Does that mean he’s impressed? …Or does that mean Xue Yuan has decided he’s strong enough to be a threat?

So he’s still planning to kill him?

Sun Li and Li Rong immediately stop talking.

Silence.

Li Rong, very, very slowly, turns to look at Jiang Cheng. Sun Li is visibly holding back laughter, his shoulders shaking. Why are they laughing? This is serious.

Xue Yuan is talking to him.

Xue Yuan. Who never speaks. Who usually just stares ominously like he’s contemplating murder. Xue Yuan, who is now approaching him.

Conclusion: He is going to die.

Good thing he has contingencies for this. Still, Jiang Cheng would really, really prefer not to be murdered in the dead of night.

Li Rong grins, tilting his head, voice thick with amusement.

"Wow. A compliment. How rare.”

Sun Li throws an arm around Jiang Cheng’s shoulder, grinning.

"You must be special, Jiang-gongzi."

Jiang Cheng glares at them both. This is not funny. Xue Yuan tilts his head slightly, still utterly unreadable. Then—

"…It is surprising.”

Jiang Cheng blinks. What?

"Excuse me?”

Xue Yuan meets his gaze, unblinking.

"That you survived this long.”

“…"

What the fuck does that mean. No. No, seriously. What the fuck does that mean.

Does he mean he shouldn’t have survived? That it’s some kind of miracle? That he’s been too weak to justify still being alive?

Oh gods. He really is planning to kill him.

Li Rong loses his shit. Sun Li practically doubles over, wheezing. Xue Yuan still has that weirdly stoic, might-be-constipated expression.

Yu Shuren, from the sidelines, is visibly suffering. Jiang Cheng relates because he not okay.

Xue Yuan then says, “We should spar sometime.”

And Jiang Cheng because he has common sense, says ”No.”

Xue Yuan, blinking,“Why not?”

"Because no.”

"…But why?”

Yu Shuren sighs.

"Xue Yuan. Stop talking.”

Yes. Please, for the love of all things holy, stop talking. Jiang Cheng wants to live. He is not very strong. He is just trying to survive, thank you very much.

Chapter Text

Jiang Wanyin was finally cleared for missions.

This was good news for Yu Shuren, who had already given his input when asked and was glad the matter was settled so he wouldn’t have to hear about it anymore.

It was less good news for everyone else, who now had to deal with the consequences. Hall Master Liu, who was in charge of assigning missions, wasted no time.

“Jiang Wanyin, Han Yimu, Qin Xinyao and Lu Zihe,” he said, flipping through some documents. “You’ll be heading to Qīnghuā City, your supervisor will be—”

It was a reasonable assignment. A normal assignment. Nothing particularly unusual about it.

“I volunteer,” Xue Yuan said immediately.

Li Rong, who had been half-listening, turned slightly to Sun Li and muttered, “That was fast.”

Yu Shuren exhaled through his nose in a way that suggested deep spiritual exhaustion.

Xue Yuan volunteering for something was already suspicious. Xue Yuan volunteering for something involving Jiang Wanyin was downright alarming.

This was not because Xue Yuan wanted Jiang Wanyin dead—though the way he watched him like a cat tracking a particularly interesting mouse did not exactly put people at ease—but rather because Xue Yuan’s idea of “watching over” someone usually meant either intense, unblinking observation or something deeply unsettling that required legal intervention.

Yu Shuren was not in the mood to find out which it would be today.

“I’ll join as well,” he said, in the tone of a man accepting his fate.

Li Rong and Sun Li exchanged a glance.

“Oh,” Li Rong said. “This is going to be fun.”

“Absolutely,” Sun Li agreed.

They both turned to Hall Master Liu, beaming like students volunteering for extra credit in a class they were already passing.

“We’ll go too,” Li Rong said.

Sun Li nodded. “We’ll look after our juniors.”

Hall Master Liu gave them all a long, deeply skeptical look, as if considering whether he should just burn the entire mission list and start over.

But in the end, he only sighed.

“…Fine.”

And just like that, what had been a perfectly reasonable assignment became a disaster waiting to happen.

Qīnghuā City is a prosperous trade hub, known for two things: commerce and, now, paranoia.

On one hand, it boasts an impressive economy—silks from the south, spices from the west, masterfully crafted porcelain that merchants would gleefully sell for triple its worth.

On the other, it is home to a population that watches shadows like omens of death.

This is a city of contradictions.

Some citizens scoff at tales of demons lurking in the alleys, yet most of those who do live in cushy homes far from the plague of deaths running amok the streets.

Others refuse to step outside after sunset, whispering of “demon-claimed” deaths in hushed, frightened tones.

These rumours, like all folktales, have been passed down for generations. Most assume they’re exaggerated. Embellished. Nothing but old wives’ tales meant to keep children from wandering where they shouldn’t.

Unfortunately, the bodies suggest otherwise.

The deaths began discreetly—just a few at first. Easily dismissed. But soon, the pattern emerged.

The victims, often commoners or lower-class citizens, were found in specific districts of the city, their bodies bearing unsettling similarities.

Nighttime deaths.

Black, vein-like markings creeping beneath their skin.

A chilling, unnatural absence of vitality.

Which, if you were the sort of person inclined toward dramatic phrasing, could be described as having one’s soul sucked out of their body.

And now, with no rational explanation available, the city’s uncertainty has curdled into fear.

When they arrive, the streets of Qīnghuā City appear lively. On the surface, everything seems normal—vendors calling out their wares, people haggling in the market.

But beneath it, something is off.

There’s an edge to the way people glance at strangers. Conversations quiet when the disciples pass. A few vendors make subtle, superstitious gestures, as if warding off bad luck.

Others murmur quick, barely audible prayers. No visible threat presents itself. No lurking figure in the shadows.

And yet—the entire city feels like it’s holding its breath.

Meanwhile, Jiang Cheng is trying very hard not to take offense at the way everyone keeps looking at him like he’s a flight risk.

The seniors—Yu Shuren, Li Rong, Sun Li, and Xue Yuan—are calm, nonchalant, even.

They watch the city with sharp gazes, the kind that suggest they would notice an assassination attempt three streets away but also wouldn’t bother to intervene unless it was personally inconvenient.

The juniors—Han Yimu, Qin Xinyao, and Lu Zihe—are another matter entirely. They are bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

Qin Xinyao, in particular, has that eager, wide-eyed look of someone who has never had a mission go terribly wrong before. Jiang Cheng almost envies her. Almost.

Meanwhile, Xue Yuan, ever the unsettling presence, is scanning the crowds with his usual unreadable expression. Jiang Cheng is just grateful that he is not the one currently being stared.

Sun Li leans in toward Li Rong, voice just low enough to be suspicious.

"I should set something on fire. Just to see if people react.”

Li Rong grins in a way that suggests he is both considering it and making mental calculations on how much property damage would be too much.

But even he eventually looks toward the sky, noting the time. Jiang Cheng watches everything with wary detachment.

He notices how the scent in the air changes as they pass through different districts—the sharp, savoury aroma of food stalls in the main street, then something damp, metallic near the alleys.

His frown deepens. He wants to investigate, but—

Sun Li throws an arm around his shoulders, a gesture that is supposed to be casual but feels more like a leash.

Yeah. It’s not just Sun Li. The seniors—and even the juniors, for gods' sake—are watching him like a hawk.

It’s not that Jiang Cheng doesn’t understand why. Technically, he is the youngest here. But they are all acting like he has never been on a mission before, which is frankly insulting.

His first mission was when he was eleven. Eleven. And now that he thinks about it—

How did his parents let that happen?

No, seriously. How did they just let him run off on a mission with a random adult (even if he was a supposed well-respected teacher)?

Ugh. Whatever.

The point is, he has been on missions before, and he does not need to be handled like he’s going to either bolt or be immediately kidnapped the moment they lose sight of him.

That would be ridiculous.

He’s very difficult to kidnap, thank you very much.

Jiang Cheng, having the excellent survival instincts of someone who is actively trying to avoid being murdered, immediately latches onto Sun Li the moment the group splits off.

This is, of course, entirely because Xue Yuan has started looking at him weird again. Sun Li laughs—probably at his suffering—but she doesn’t object. She’s an easy person to be around.

A little too eager to cause chaos, maybe, but far less likely to stab him in his sleep than some other people he could name.

The rest of the team splits off as well, the juniors looking noticeably more nervous about being left alone with a senior. Which is fair.

Their first objective is information gathering. Before they even think about looking at the bodies, they need context. Clues. Any shred of useful detail.

Sun Li and Jiang Cheng decide to go to the temple, because even if most people dismiss the rumours, the deeply paranoid will have already gone to the gods for help.

On the way, they make small talk here and there. The locals aren’t outright hostile, but there is hesitation. A wariness in the way they look at Jiang Cheng and Sun Li.

Some deflect questions.

"These things happen, young master.”

"There are forces beyond our control.”

"Some doors are better left closed.”

(Yes, thank you, very ominous. Jiang Cheng will make sure to put that in his official report right between "the moon was full last night" and "I think the colour red is unlucky.”)

Others give practical answers, but with visible unease.

"It happens at night. People go missing, then turn up dead.”

"No one ever hears anything. No screams. No fighting.”

"People are afraid, but it’s not like they can stop living their lives.”

A few speak more openly—

But they contradict each other.

"The victims were all in the same district.”

"No, they weren’t. One of them was found all the way across town.”

"They all died in their homes.”

"No, some were found outside.”

"The bodies were cold when we found them.”

"That’s wrong. I saw one myself, and there was still warmth.”

Jiang Cheng glances at Sun Li.

She raises a single eyebrow.

Neither of them say anything, but the conclusion is obvious:

This is going to be so annoying.

The city patrol officers are already tired of them.

Xue Yuan can see it in their expressions—the skepticism, the thinly veiled irritation. Lu Zihe, to his credit, looks politely indifferent, but Xue Yuan does not have the patience for posturing.

"You don’t know how much we’ve seen," a middle-aged officer grumbles. "Half the time it turns out to be some random fucker causing trouble.”

"And the other half?" Xue Yuan asks.

The officer shrugs. "Tragedy. Bad luck. People die.”

"People die," Xue Yuan repeats, tone flat.

A younger patrol guard hesitates. Just for a second.

"Some of us… have felt something.”

Lu Zihe’s attention sharpens. "What do you mean?”

The guard hesitates again. Clearly doesn’t want to sound like an idiot in front of his colleagues. But something about the way Xue Yuan is watching him makes him speak anyway.

"Like the air’s too still in certain places." He shifts awkwardly. "Not always. Just sometimes. At night.”

"The air," Xue Yuan repeats.

The senior investigator finally cuts in. "We have no suspects, no signs of normal crime. If it were a killer, there’d be blood. If it were a spirit, there’d be some kind of energy surge. There’s nothing.”

"That doesn’t disturb you?" Xue Yuan asks.

The investigator exhales sharply. "Of course it does.”

It’s too clean. Too precise. No trace of a struggle, no sign of force. No evidence of anything at all. Which means whatever is doing this knows how to leave no trace.

The others keep talking, but Xue Yuan is barely listening now. Because—

The stillness.

He knows that stillness.

Knows what it means.

The memory comes fast and sharp, before he can stop it—

Soft hands. A softer heart. The scent of ink and old parchment. His mother’s voice, excited, animated as she wrote, as she spoke, as she built history like a legend.

"Energy, Qi, is the pulse of the world," she had said. "And what happens when something drains that pulse?”

Xue Yuan had frowned, considering. "The air goes still.”

"Yes," she had smiled, so proud—

Xue Yuan blinks. Shakes himself out of it. No time for that.

He turns to Lu Zihe. "We need to check the bodies."

Yu Shuren is an expert at making people talk.

It’s not a secret skill. It’s nothing elaborate. He listens, he buys something, and he lets people talk. That’s all it takes.

Han Yimu, still young, still eager, watches him carefully. She mimics Yu Shuren’s relaxed posture, the way he holds himself like he has all the time in the world.

It works. The vendors open up.

The elderly fruit vendor shakes her head dramatically, arranging bright oranges in a woven basket.

“It’s a demon’s curse,” she declares. “No one should be out at night.”

Yu Shuren peels an orange, slow and methodical. “That so?”

She leans in. Conspiratorial. “I tell you, young man, this city is cursed.”

Han Yimu slides her a few extra coins for the fruit. Encouraging.

A spice merchant, hands dusted in crushed red pepper, hums thoughtfully. “My grandmother used to tell stories of nights like this,” he says, scooping fragrant Sichuan peppercorns into a small bag.

“When something unseen steals the breath from the living.”

Yu Shuren nods. That’s the kind of thing worth remembering.

Han Yimu perks up. “So this has happened before?”

The merchant hesitates, then shakes his head. “I don’t know. But the old stories say it has.”

A butcher’s apprentice—young, nervous—leans against a wooden counter, wiping a cleaver clean.

“I saw something the other night,” he says, voice low. “A shadow, moving between the stalls. But when I turned, it was gone.”

Han Yimu straightens. “Really? What did it look like?”

The apprentice shrugs, uneasy. “Just… dark. Fast.”

Yu Shuren exchanges a glance with Han Yimu. The kid probably imagined it. But—

Even unreliable witnesses have their uses.

By the time they’re done, Yu Shuren is holding far too many things.

Tanghulu, skewers glistening with hardened sugar. Spicy rice cakes, their scent sharp and rich. Soy milk, still warm. Sweet buns, soft and golden.

Han Yimu looks at the haul. “Uh—”

Yu Shuren tucks a pack of dried fruit under his arm. “Dinner and breakfast. Waste not.”

Han Yimu grins. “You’re really like an old man, huh?”

Yu Shuren doesn’t dignify that with a response.

Instead, he sorts through the information, pushing aside the more dramatic claims. The stories differ, but the patterns don’t.

Same locations. Same type of victims.

He exhales, handing Han Yimu a skewer of tanghulu.

“Let’s go.”

Li Rong likes the lower districts. They remind him of things he doesn’t mind remembering. He walks with easy confidence,  a smile at the ready. 

The lower districts know his kind. A street rat once, a fox always.

Qin Xinyao? Qin Xinyao does not like the lower districts.

She walks like someone expecting an ambush. Her spine is too straight, her steps too careful. It’s making her stand out, and Li Rong has to bite back the urge to laugh.

“Relax,” he says, tilting his head toward her. “You look like you’re expecting someone to jump out and rob you.”

Qin Xinyao presses her lips together. “I’m being cautious.”

Li Rong grins. “Right. Cautious. That’s why you look like a baby deer that accidentally wandered into a wolf den.”

She glares.

He holds up his hands, mock-innocent. “Just saying. A little confidence wouldn’t hurt.”

The first woman they talk to is a carpenter’s wife. She wipes her hands on her apron, gaze flicking between them.

“I didn’t see anything, but my neighbour's son was found dead just two streets away.”

Li Rong watches her carefully. “Was he sick?”

She shakes her head. “No. Wasn’t weak either. Just… gone.”

Her voice wavers on that last word. Like she still doesn’t believe it. Like she’s waiting for the boy to walk through the door, laughing, saying it was all some mistake.

Li Rong nods, easy, reassuring. “Thank you for telling us.”

She exhales, like she’d been holding her breath.

The courtesan watches them with amused interest.

“All the deaths happened near the market or the lower district,” she says, running a delicate hand through her hair. “But no signs of forced entry. No robbery.”

She tilts her head. “Just… them, left behind.”

Li Rong smiles, lazy, charming. “You seem to know quite a bit.”

The courtesan laughs. “I listen. And people talk to me more than they do the guards.”

Qin Xinyao crosses her arms. “Because they pay you?”

The courtesan grins. “Because I make them feel good about talking.”

Li Rong bites back a laugh. He likes this one.

The street cleaner is old, hunched, and smells like the river. He doesn’t stop sweeping when they approach.

“I was near the market,” he says, voice rough with age. “Felt this cold—like winter, but only for a moment.”

Qin Xinyao frowns. “A draft?”

The old man snorts. “Ain’t no draft that feels like death.”

Li Rong tucks that away.

By the time they finish, Qin Xinyao still looks uneasy.

Li Rong stretches, rolling his shoulders. “See? No one robbed you.”

She glares. “I wasn’t worried about that.”

Li Rong grins. “No? You were looking around like you expected someone to grab you.”

Qin Xinyao scoffs. “Maybe I was worried you’d get pickpocketed.”

Li Rong laughs. “Cute. But I’d like to see them try.”

She shakes her head. But she looks less tense now.

Sun Li finds the temple nostalgic.

Not in a soft, sentimental way. More like the way a scar reminds you of a wound. Her parents worshipped like it made them better than others. Like faith was currency, and they were drowning in it.

They were not good people.

She adjusts her sleeves as she steps into the temple courtyard, shaking off the feeling. Jiang Wanyin follows behind her, silent, stiff. Sun Li notices things. She always notices things.

Jiang Wanyin doesn’t like this place.

Not that you’d see it right away. His default setting is either detached or pissed off. But she sees the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers curl like he wants to ball them into fists but won’t.

Interesting. She tucks that knowledge away and keeps walking.

The middle-aged monk they speak to has a calm face and tired eyes.

“If it were a demon,” he says, “there would be an imbalance in the city’s natural qi.”

Jiang Wanyin crosses his arms. “So you don’t think it’s a demon?”

The monk hesitates. “The energy disturbance is strange. It’s not chaotic, it’s more controlled.”

Sun Li exchanges a glance with Jiang Wanyin.

Controlled is worse.

She taps her fingers against her arm. “Controlled by what?”

The monk exhales. “That, I do not know.”

Great. So no answers.

The old scholar has ink-stained fingers and an absentminded air, but his eyes are sharp.

He rubs his beard as they explain. “Markings on the bodies, you say?”

Jiang Wanyin nods.

The scholar hums. “If they are runes, they must be studied carefully. Spirits do not carve marks like that.”

Sun Li cocks her head. “Then who does?”

The scholar shrugs. “Someone with knowledge.”

Sun Li fights the urge to sigh. That much is obvious.

Jiang Wanyin frowns. “But why leave markings at all?”

The scholar spreads his hands. “Why does any artist sign their work?”

Sun Li’s eyes narrow.

That is not a comforting thought.

When they leave, Sun Li rolls her shoulders. “Well, that was mostly useless.”

Jiang Wanyin makes a noncommittal sound. He’s been too quiet.

Sun Li side-eyes him. “You hate temples or something?”

Jiang Wanyin scowls. “No.”

Sun Li lifts a brow. “You sure? You look like you wanna punch a monk.”

Jiang Wanyin gives her a flat look. “I’m sure.”

Sun Li lets it drop. For now.

She scans him again, frowning. Did he eat before they left? She didn’t see him touch a single thing. If Shuren doesn’t have snacks, she’s going to steal some.

It’s been an hour now.

Jiang Cheng can feel it. That slow, creeping unease curling up the back of his spine, pressing down on his shoulders like an unseen hand. Someone is watching him. Or something.

He isn’t sure when the feeling started. Not when he first stepped into the city—back then, he was too busy cataloging the details, the way the market chatter was just slightly too forced, the way people’s eyes darted away the moment they saw them.

No, it started later.

He doesn’t like it.

But he says nothing.

The inn is quiet, private, safe. Secured by the Yu Sect. Jiang Cheng doesn’t trust it. He sits near the door anyway, arms crossed, back straight. He won’t be caught off-guard.

Sun Li and Li Rong burst into laughter the moment they see the amount of food Yu Shuren brought from the marketplace. They heckle him like crows picking at a feast.

"Gods, are you feeding a sect or an army?" Sun Li snorts, peaking into at one of the baskets.

"You know you only have one stomach, right?" Li Rong grins, reaching for a skewer.

Yu Shuren rolls his eyes but doesn’t rise to the bait. "You’ll eat it, won’t you?”

The juniors don’t even try to act offended. They descend upon the haul like they’ve been starved. Sticky tanghulu, spicy rice cakes, sweet soy milk, baskets of fruit—it’s too much, but none of it will go to waste.

Jiang Cheng is content to watch until something slides into his line of vision. A skewer of tanghulu, a warm cup of soy milk.

He blinks at it. Then at Yu Shuren, who is already looking away.

"You like them, don’t you?" Yu Shuren says simply.

Jiang Cheng takes it, bowing his head in thanks. Bites into the candied fruit. The sweetness settles something inside him.

Yu Shuren can be kind of cool, huh.

They get to summarising.

“We have multiple victims, all found in the lower district or near the marketplace.”

“No blood, no signs of struggle. Just… lifeless.”

“Witness accounts are conflicting—some claim to have seen a shadow, others say the night was unnaturally quiet.”

Many believe it’s a demon.

Because demon is a convenient word. A catch-all for what they do not understand.

Jiang Cheng presses his lips together.

Demon attacks do happen, but not like this. Demons fall into two categories:

Yāo—spirits, animals, objects that have cultivated intelligence, power, and sometimes, a humanoid form.

They are neither inherently good nor evil. A fox spirit may trick a man for fun. A mountain spirit may bless a wandering traveler. But Yāo rarely kill.

Mó—demonic entities born from corruption, obsession, or malevolent qi. They are hungry. They are cunning. They do not kill mindlessly—they kill with intent, with precision.

If a Mó had attacked, there wouldn’t be a city left standing whole in the aftermath. The Burial Mounds are a testament to that.

No. This does not feel like a demon.

This fits the work of a spirit. A ghoul. A ghost.

Something that lingers.

Something that steals breath but not blood.

His fingers twitch at his side.

Outside the inn, the wind shifts. The wooden shutters rattle. 

And Jiang Cheng still feels watched.

His thoughts churn as he bites into a rice cake.

His face twists.

Ugh. It’s bland.

"So it’s not a demon?”

"Okay, so if it’s not a demon, then what is it?”

The juniors are restless, their voices edged with a tension they don’t quite know how to name yet. Fear, maybe. Or the beginnings of it.

Yu Shuren is calm when he shuts them down, like a rock in a tide that refuses to move. "We need to examine the bodies directly. If there’s a pattern in the markings or the qi residue, we’ll find it there."

The morgue awaits.

The bodies are kept in a secured, cooled chamber, the chill clinging to skin and bone. The local officials guard the entrance with a stiffness that speaks of unease.

Even they don’t want to be here longer than necessary. Jiang Cheng remains silent, but his instincts are sharpening. There’s something wrong about this place.

It’s not just the stillness—it’s the way the stillness presses. Like something watching, like something waiting. The air doesn’t move right.

Even his own breathing feels slightly off, like the walls are breathing with him. Something deep inside him coils tight. A warning. 

Leave.

The first victim is a young man, early twenties. A commoner from the lower district. At first glance, he looks untouched. No stab wounds. No bruises. No blood, no sign of violence.

But then they peel back his robes—

And the juniors gag.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t.

He watches as Sun Li takes control, leading the juniors out.

Han Yimu is the first to leave, practically stumbling. Lu Zihe follows fast. Qin Xinyao lingers for half a second longer, face pale, before ducking out.

Li Rong doesn’t move. He raises a brow at Jiang Cheng, asking the question without words.

You good to stay?

Jiang Cheng nods.

This isn’t the first time he’s seen a dead body.

(Blood on his hands, in his mouth, on his face. Lotus Pier burning, corpses littered across the dusk-lit pier. Smoke in his throat, fire eating the world alive—)

No.

Even before that, he had seen one.

And after the incident?

He doubts anything could overwhelm him now.

(Seeing a corpse is different from taking one.)

The seniors are gentler with the juniors than his own had been.

Yuanzhi Huí—that pig—had berated him for gagging. Had mocked him. Had sneered. And later—

(No. Stop. Don’t think of that.)

Jiang Cheng exhales, slow, steady. His hands are still. He’s glad the seniors are gentler.

The body is a map of something unholy. Dark veins spill across the skin, twisting like ink in water, like roots clawing for something deeper.

They stretch up his throat, curl over his arms, drawn tight and deliberate. This is not decay. This is not random. It is intentional.

Yu Shuren places a hand over the corpse, fingers light, but the weight in the room shifts. A ripple, a distortion.

The air darkens. A pulse of something faint—wrong, heavy, lingering like the echo of a scream long after the throat has gone silent. The body shudders, or maybe it is just the light playing tricks.

Li Rong is the first to speak, voice sharp but steady. “That’s not demonic, is it?”

Xue Yuan does not answer immediately. He stares, eyes narrowing, cataloging details, stripping away possibilities. Demonic qi is wild, ravenous. It spreads. It does not settle.

This—this is controlled. Jiang Cheng feels it like a note struck too deep in his bones.

Not in his mind, but in the part of him that does not belong to the land. The part of him buried beneath seals and silence, the part of him that has always known the call of the tide.

It is not knowledge, it is recognition. He clenches his fists. Steady. His jaw tightens. Focus.

And for a split second—

The world bends.

Water.

Hands, rising. Reaching.

Something pulling.

Something extracting.

A sharp inhale—and it is gone.

His pulse is a hammer against his ribs. His breath is too shallow, his senses too sharp. The lamps are flickering wrong, too slow, too deliberate, too—

Focus.

He shifts his gaze to the next body. The same black veins, the same intricate web of stolen life. The second victim. The same pattern. A technique, not an accident. 

The markings follow the natural flow of qi but in reverse. A siphon. A drain. This is not natural, it is engineered.

“What does this mean?”

Qin Xinyao’s voice breaks the silence.

Jiang Cheng almost jumps.

They’re back. When had they come back?

He frowns, more at himself than at her, irritation curling hot under his skin. Sloppy. He should have noticed. He should have—

Focus.

He exhales, slow and measured, forces his heartbeat to settle.

Yu Shuren says,“This is precise, too precise.”

The words settle like a blade pressed to the throat of an answer no one wants to say.

Xue Yuan exhales, slow and quiet, but when he speaks, his voice is certain. “A spirit, any sort, wouldn’t do this.”

“This was done by a person.”

The silence that follows is not empty. It is full. 

And then—

Jiang Cheng speaks for the first time.

"…It’s a weapon.”

The moment the words leave his mouth, the room turns to him. His stomach tightens. His skin itches.

Not from discomfort, but from the feeling of something shifting, something inside him pressing against its edges. A memory that does not belong to now.

He forces the words out.

"The killer could be testing the weapon on random people to refine the technique."

Han Yimu shifts, uncertain. “What do we do now?”

Jiang Cheng considers what they need answered:

Does anyone in the city practice forbidden techniques?

Are there any known rogue cultivators in the region?

Has anyone recently arrived in Qīnghuā City with unusual behaviour?

Does the energy signature match any historical cases?

They are running through records now. Theories. Cases. Blood-soaked histories.

Han Yimu is the first to recall something.

"There was an early record—victims found with intricate black markings scorched along their meridians."

"The worst part," she continues, voice tightening, "was the technique itself. It forcibly redirects the victim’s life force. By targeting key meridian junctions, the siphoning creates a vacuum where qi should be.”

Jiang Cheng exhales through his nose, turning it over in his mind. A slow, gnawing thought takes root.

"Since a golden core is the crystallisation of refined qi…" Jiang Cheng says, a thoughtful lilt to his voice. ”that means these patterns don’t just drain them. They prevent cultivation altogether. This technique—" he pauses, the realisation settling “—it doesn’t kill immediately."

Then, Li Rong clicks his tongue, sharp. "Sounds like someone’s harvesting them.”

Qin Xinyao frowns. "For what?”

"A weapon.”

It is Jiang Cheng who answers, distantly, again. Because he remembers something. 

But more than that—

“Again."

His knees ache from kneeling. His shoulders burn from tension.

The cold press of a hand against his back, pushing, forcing—

"Again, Cheng'er.”

He recites. Because if he does not recite, he does not breathe.

"The Mark of Yin case," he mutters now, dragging himself from the memory. "The victims bore markings resembling ancient talismans. They were conduits.”

"The energy was transferred and the essence was channeled into a spirit-bound weapon."

Xue Yuan’s expression darkens. "You’re saying it was a harvest."

Jiang Cheng nods, fingers curling into his sleeves.

"The technique works on two levels. First, the physical—" he gestures to the markings on the corpses, "—they correspond to specific meridian channels. Siphon points as a sort.”

"Second," he continues, voice lowering, "the energetic. It disrupts the victim’s spiritual lattice, leaving behind the cold aura we’ve been noticing after death. It’s a signature of demonic cultivation.”

Yu Shuren hums, thoughtful.

"Typically, yin energy is cold, inward. It balances yang. But this—" Jiang Cheng gestures vaguely, "—this forcibly injects corrupted yin into the qi stream. It’s not balance, it’s consumption.”

Li Rong exhales, shaking his head. "Sounds like a bastardisation of spirit-cultivation techniques.”

"More than that," Jiang Cheng murmurs, "it might be an improved version of the old demonic cultivation techniques, if this is the only aftermath. There are no organs harvested nor any dual cultivation.”

Eyes flick toward him.

"The markings record the flow of stolen qi like an energetic ledger." His voice is quieter now. "It might even be decipherable—if we find someone who can read ancient inscriptions.”

A long pause.

The implications settle like a blade to the gut.

Sun Li exhales sharply. "You mean this thing is keeping track of every single victim.”

Jiang Cheng nods once.

Xue Yuan’s voice snaps him back.

About a legend of a sword. The Blood-Slumbering Blade.

The story goes like this:

Bái Zhēn, the White Sage of the Lotus Court, was a healer of immense power, sworn never to take a life. But when war came and his sect was slaughtered, he made a desperate pact with Chì Xū, the Crimson Ruin, an ancient spirit of hunger.

In exchange for his golden core, a cursed sword was born—the Blood-Slumbering Blade. It devoured souls with every strike, draining Bái Zhēn’s life each time he wielded it. Though he avenged his fallen sect, he betrayed his own vow, and the heavens punished him.

Celestial fire consumed him, but the sword remained. Over centuries, it passed from hand to hand, claiming each wielder in turn—none could escape its hunger, and none could master its curse.

"You're saying this thing is real?”

Xue Yuan shrugs, leaning against the cold stone wall, arms crossed. "I mean, my mother swore it was. But she also thought eating peaches on the new moon invited disaster, so, you know. Grain of salt.”

Jiang Cheng scowls. "A soul-devouring sword that eats your lifespan? That's the kind of myth sect elders use to scare juniors into behaving.”

"Yeah? Then why does this case look exactly like the stories?" Xue Yuan raises a brow. "Bodies drained of life. Qi consumed, any possibility of cultivation consumed too. Sound familiar?”

It does. And Jiang Cheng hates it.

Because the thing about myths? They don’t come from nowhere. Every ghost story, every legend, every terrifying bedtime tale—somewhere, once upon a time, something like it was real. Everything comes from something.

Yu Shuren is quiet, thoughtful. "Even if the blade itself is myth, the technique behind it might not be.”

"Right." Qin Xinyao nods. "Weapons can be lost. Techniques can be recorded. If someone found a way to replicate the effects—“

"Then we’re looking at a man-made catastrophe, it could be a single person or an entire operation.”

A silence follows. The air feels heavier. Like the room itself is absorbing their unease.

Sun Li breaks it first, exhaling sharply. "Okay. Let's say this sword—or something like it—exists. How do we stop it?”

Li Rong snorts. "Step one: Don't let it touch you.”

"Oh, great advice. I'll be sure to just... not get my soul eaten.”

"Glad we're on the same page.”

Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes. "If the technique is draining life force, then there has to be a conduit— a ritual. We find out how it's being used, we disrupt it.”

Han Yimu frowns. "Wouldn't that risk triggering a backlash?”

"Yeah," Jiang Cheng says flatly. "Which is why you're gonna stay behind us.”

Sun Li grins. "Oh? Protective now, are we?”

"No, I just think you’d be the first to drop dead, and I don’t want to listen to your ghost complaining.”

Xue Yuan exhales, rubbing his temples. "Can we focus?”

Yu Shuren nods. "We need to cross-reference known techniques with historical cases. See if there’s any record of cultivators who—“

Jiang Cheng tunes them out for a second. Something is gnawing at the edge of his thoughts. 

Demonic cultivation doesn’t grant power freely. It takes. It corrodes. It hollows you out until nothing remains but hunger and the ruins of whatever you once were. 

And yet—

That pig had no problem accessing it. 

Jiang Cheng’s fingers twitch.

And in turn—

Neither did I.

His stomach twists. He doesn’t want to think about this.

“Jiang Gongzi?”

Xue Yuan again.

Jiang Cheng exhales, shoving it all down, down, down where it can rot undisturbed.

"I’m fine.”

And if his voice is a little too sharp, a little too quick—

No one calls him on it.

They split up.

Li Rong, Sun Li, Lu Zihe, and Jiang Cheng visit the victims’ families, seeking answers among the living.

Meanwhile, Yu Shuren, Han Yimu, Qin Xinyao, and Xue Yuan head toward Qīnghuā City’s archives, chasing old ghosts through brittle scrolls and dust-covered texts.

At the archives, Xue Yuan drags a hand through his hair, flipping through ancient texts.

"We’re looking for anything about qi siphoning techniques, spirit-bound weapons, life-draining rituals—“

"And ideally something that tells us how to stop them," Qin Xinyao mutters, eyes scanning over a yellowed parchment.

Yu Shuren is already a step ahead, fingers brushing over the pages of a war-era record. His voice is calm, even.

"The legend isn’t just a story. There are actual records of techniques like this—ones that extract qi and refine it into something stronger. Dangerous, unstable and banned for good reason.”

Han Yimu frowns. "Banned, but not erased.”

"Nothing ever is." Yu Shuren’s expression doesn’t shift.

"There’s a reference here—The Hollow Meridian Doctrine. It was a war-time cultivation method. Not demonic in origin, but close enough.”

Qin Xinyao leans in. "How does it work?”

"It targets the meridians directly, siphoning qi while keeping the victim alive just long enough to refine it into a purer form. It was meant for battlefield use—injured cultivators would be ‘repurposed’ into living reservoirs of energy."

He exhales. "A human weapon.”

Silence.

Han Yimu swallows. "And if someone is trying to bring it back?”

Yu Shuren meets his gaze, steady. "Then they’re not just experimenting.”

Xue Yuan closes the scroll with a dull thump. "They’re building something.”

And if they don’t stop it?

It won’t be long before the body count rises.

The house was quiet. Not the comforting kind of quiet, but the kind that made even footsteps sound like an intrusion.

Xu Ming stood by the door, arms crossed tight over her chest, her thin frame drawn in like she was bracing for another blow. She hadn’t offered them tea. Jiang Cheng didn’t begrudge her for it.

A girl who just lost her brother and suddenly became the sole breadwinner had better things to worry about than hospitality.

Li Rong spoke first. “Your brother, Xu Wen. Did he mention anything unusual before he—”

“He was tired.” Xu Ming’s voice was flat. Tired but holding.

“He never used to get tired, not like that. He worked from sunrise to midnight sometimes, and he’d still be the first to wake up. But a few days before he… before it happened, he kept saying he was exhausted.”

Lu Zihe frowned. “Any injuries? Any signs of sickness?”

“No. Just the fatigue. And…” Her fingers twisted in the fabric of her sleeve. “He said he kept seeing someone.”

Sun Li leaned forward. “Seeing someone?”

“A cloaked figure. Same one, multiple times. He thought it was just someone passing through, but then…” Her voice lowered, like speaking too loudly might make it worse.

“The night before he died, he woke up drenched in sweat. Shaking, like he was freezing, but he wasn’t sick. And then the next day, he just… got worse over time. Until he couldn’t even lift the brush.”

Jiang Cheng exhaled slowly. “How long from the first symptom to his death?”

Xu Ming hesitated. “Four days.”

Four days.

Jiang Cheng exchanged a glance with Li Rong. The rogue cultivator wasn’t striking all at once. They were taking their time. Picking their victims, weakening them, letting them wither.

That meant two things: one, this wasn’t random. And two—

“There might be more victims who aren’t dead yet,” Lu Zihe murmured, catching on fast.

“We find them before it’s too late,” Sun Li finished, voice grim.

Xu Ming’s grip tightened on her sleeve. “If you find them, can you save them?”

Jiang Cheng didn’t lie. “We’ll try.”

Xu Ming exhaled and stepped back. “You should go before dark. No one will let you in after nightfall.”

Li Rong offered a small smile. “We appreciate the warning.”

Sun Li added, “We’ll be careful.”

Jiang Cheng reached into his sleeve, pulling out a small bag of coins and setting it on the nearest table. Xu Ming stiffened.

“I don’t need charity,” she snapped.

“It’s not charity,” Jiang Cheng said evenly. “It’s payment for your information and your time.”

Xu Ming hesitated. He could see the fight in her eyes, the urge to refuse, to hold onto whatever scrap of pride she had left. But then, from behind her, a small head peeked out.

A boy. Four, maybe. Too young to understand, but old enough to know something was wrong. Xu Ming swallowed hard and, without another word, closed her fingers around the bag.

Jiang Cheng inclined his head. “Goodbye.”

As they turned to leave, the little boy whispered something.

“Goodbye.”

Jiang Cheng didn’t look back.

The streets felt wrong, shadows stretched too far. The market, usually buzzing with life, was silent. People moved faster, heads down, doors shutting early. Not just fear—expectation.

And then, they found him. A narrow street between two merchant buildings, barely visible unless you were looking.

No signs of struggle. The body simply collapsed. Limbs slack, face peaceful in a way that made Jiang Cheng’s stomach turn.

Li Rong cursed. “Shit.” Then he was gone, running to get the others.

Lu Zihe hesitated, breath hitching but he didn’t gag this time. Progress. His hands still shook as he crouched, but he focused.

Jiang Cheng and Sun Li were already kneeling beside the body. Same black vein-like markings. Same wrongness in the air.

“The Qi's stronger,” Jiang Cheng muttered.

Sun Li nodded. “Closer to the source.”

She pulled Lu Zihe down beside her, taking his hands and pressing them lightly over the corpse’s chest. “Feel that?”

Lu Zihe’s jaw tightened, he looked vaguely ill. “…It’s like static.”

“Residual Qi,” Sun Li corrected. “It lingers, especially after a violent death.”

The body was still slightly warm, but there was no pulse.

“Died recently,” Jiang Cheng said. “Hours ago, at most.”

The others arrived moments later, panting.

Yu Shuren pressed a talisman to the body, watching the ink glow faintly before darkening to a deep, sickly red. “It’s holding on too long.”

Han Yimu flicked open another talisman, fingers steady despite the weight in the air. 

Li Rong knelt beside them, gaze sharp as he traced the blackened veins on the corpse. “These are getting more defined.”

“The technique’s becoming more precise,” Sun Li murmured, comparing it against an earlier sketch.

Li Rong had unfurled a map. His brush flicked over the parchment, marking each crime scene in quick, deliberate strokes.

Qin Xinyao leaned over stiffly, eyes scanning. “That’s not random.”

Li Rong tapped the map. “He’s circling the city.”

Xue Yuan barely heard them.

He should have been paying attention—he should have been looking at the map, at the patterns, at the proof that they were running out of time—but his eyes kept dragging back to Jiang Cheng.

He’s still.

The kind of still a predator has when it’s caught prey. Not stiff, not frozen but balanced. 

His pupils—

Xue Yuan blinked. No. That wasn’t—

But—

Dilated. Into slits.

Xue Yuan’s breath hitched. He must be seeing things. A trick of the light. The energy in the air was playing with his head.

But Jiang Cheng hadn’t moved.

Hadn’t even blinked.

The energy in the street didn’t settle—it writhed, alive and active. Jiang Cheng felt it coil tight around his ribs.  Something was here. Watching.

He didn’t move. Not right away. His breath stayed even, controlled, as his fingers ghosted toward his weapon. The air had that same cold stillness as the other crime scenes, but this felt deliberate.

Paranoia? Maybe. But paranoia keep people alive.

And then he saw it.

Or rather, saw them.

Across the street. Beneath the wooden overhang, half-swallowed by darkness. Cloaked. Face obscured.

Watching. Not fleeing, not attacking. Just… watching.

His heartbeat slowed. His vision sharpened. Colours turned too vivid, too crisp. The grain of the wooden beams, the way the fabric of their cloak barely shifted despite the breeze.

Every detail locked into place. His grip on his sword tightened, but he didn’t draw it. Slow. Deliberate. He turned his head. Their eyes met.

The figure tilted their head.

For a split second, stillness. The kind before a storm, before the first crack of lightning splits the sky.

Then—the rogue ran.

Jiang Cheng moved. No hesitation. No warning. His body didn’t react on thought—it reacted on instinct. He launched forward with explosive speed.

Jiang Cheng didn’t just run—he moved. A pivot of his heel, steps near silent against the stone. The cold night air burned his lungs, but he didn’t care.

Dark alleyways. Rooftops casting deep shadows. But Jiang Cheng could see everything. The dark couldn’t hide anything from him.

The rogue was fast. But Jiang Cheng was closing in. The smell of damp stone and burning oil. Footsteps echoing. Distant city noise too far away. He wasn’t thinking.

His instincts anticipated the rogue’s movements—he wasn’t just chasing, he was predicting. Every turn, every hesitation, every split-second decision.

He wasn’t reacting to them. They were reacting to him.

He didn’t question why he could move like this. He didn’t stop to wonder why his heart wasn’t hammering in fear. There was no fear.

Only the hunt.

Xue Yang sprints, breath ragged, mind thrumming with questions he can't afford to ask right now. His legs burn, his lungs scream, but he pushes forward because—

What the hell—why is he this fast?

He's seen Jiang Cheng train, but not like this. Not with this kind of vicious, single-minded determination. Not with this hunger. It doesn’t look like running. It looks like hunting.

Behind him, Li Rong and Sun Li are half-impressed, half-panicked, their footfalls frantic on the uneven ground.

Sun Li wheezes, "Since when could he run like that?”

Li Rong doesn't waste breath answering. He just barks, "Less talking, more running!”

They try, they really do, but Jiang Cheng is pulling away. A sharp left, a sudden burst of speed, and he slips through the narrowing streets like water.

Yu Shuren, normally composed, is shocked into silence but keeps his focus on the chase. He clenches his teeth, refusing to fall behind—but it’s no use. None of them can keep up.

They skid to a stop.

"Shit—" Li Rong gasps, doubling over. “Where—?"

"There!" Xue Yang jabs a finger at a dark alleyway, pulse hammering. "I think they went there.”

They move.

Lu Zihe, Han Yimu, and Qin Xinyao are barely hanging on. Their breath gasps and curses, steps uneven, bodies betraying them.

Han Yimu stumbles, cursing under her breath. She stops for half a second, clutching her side, before forcing herself forward again.

"How—" She grits his teeth, breath hitching. "How is a twelve-year-old more fit than me? What the hell are they doing in Yunmeng?”

Her stomach twists, a sharp pain stabbing into her ribs. She almost trips. Holy shit. Her stomach hurts.

The rogue is panicking—Jiang Cheng can taste it, and it makes his blood sing. The rogue turns sharply, blind with desperation, and barrels straight into a dead end.

Jiang Cheng drops in front of him, weightless as a shadow, teeth aching like hunger. His fingers twitch. Then he moves.

He lunges, snaring the rogue’s wrist in a grip of iron. The rogue twists, thrashes, tries to pull away—but Jiang Cheng is stronger, too strong, an immovable force.

He locks the rogue into an incapacitating hold. But then—

A surge. A wrongness. The rogue’s energy slams against his core, worming deep like a poisoned blade. It’s familiar—too familiar, too wrong.

His instincts scream at him, and for one reckless moment, he obeys. His fingers uncoil. A mistake. He regrets it the instant he does.

The rogue doesn’t hesitate—activates a talisman, vanishes. The others arrive then, their breathing ragged, chests rising and falling with exertion. Jiang Cheng doesn’t move.

He stands too still, unnaturally still, his fingers curling tighter around the scrap of the rogue’s cloak still caught in his grip. The energy residue lingers sinking into his bones.

Every cultivator’s Qi resonates at its own frequency—a subtle note shaped by personal cultivation, experience, and spirit. Residual Qi imprints onto objects like fingerprints.

A refined golden core can be tuned like a delicate instrument; a cultivator who quiets and refines their Qi can calibrate their core to resonate specifically with a target’s signature.

Jiang Cheng had only recently mastered the technique. Truthfully, he struggles immensely with it. It’s a bitter subject, a quiet shame—Wei Wuxian had grasped it in less than three months.

But Jiang Cheng has something else. Something that runs deeper than technique, deeper than study. His (inhuman) instincts are woven into his marrow, threaded through his soul.

If he uses that—

If he hones it just right—

He can track the rogue.

Xue Yuan watches Jiang Cheng, sharp-eyed, fascinated. Legends, his mind whispers.

“What was that?” he blurts.

Li Rong, panting slightly, shakes his head. “Okay, so that was impressive—but also terrifying.”

Sun Li narrows her eyes, studying Jiang Cheng. “You’re not even winded.”

Jiang Cheng ignores them. His gaze snaps downward, then across the space around them. It’s like watching a predator track, seeing something they can’t. Then, without a word, he takes off again.

Xue Yuan follows immediately, instincts kicking in before thought. His breath is sharp in his throat as he wonders—

Is he tracking the Qi?

Impossible. He’s only twelve. That technique is something even Xue Yuan struggles with at his age. The others scramble to keep up. The city is darker now. More streets empty. The air turns colder.

Light is scarce, shadows stretch long and deep. Xue Yuan curses under his breath and lights a talisman, the glow flickering in his palm.

Jiang Cheng is already so far ahead.

Xue Yuan pushes harder, feet slamming against stone, breath burning in his lungs. He only catches up when Jiang Cheng slows slightly, and then—

His pupils—

They’re slits.

Xue Yuan’s breath hitches. He doesn’t know if he’s seeing things, but the sight is unnerving. The eerie gleam of his eyes, the way his skin shines—smooth, pearlescent, unnatural.

Even his hair flows as if submerged in water, shifting with his movement in ways that shouldn’t be possible.

It’s freaky.

Xue Yuan should be unnerved, should be wary.

Instead, he is fascinated.

Jiang Cheng slows, then pivots sharply. The night is thick with unraveling threads of qi, fading fast, dissipating like mist in the cold air. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t think. His body simply knows.

He adjusts his own Qi, not to force, not to overtake, but to sharpen. To see in ways others cannot. A breath, a pulse, the world bending to his will—not because he commands it, but because he is made for this.

His senses stretch outward, seeking the resonance left behind.

There. There.

Faint traces of a talisman burn on the ground. A short-distance teleportation charm. The rogue is close. Their hideout—near.

Jiang Cheng steps forward—too fast. He pushes too hard, draws in too much, and—he feels it, too late. The shift. The wrongness. The qi pushes back.

The rogue was smart. They left behind more than a trail. There’s a mechanism—set to trigger the moment someone probes too deeply. The ground hums beneath his feet. The air folds in on itself.

Then—impact.

The explosion is sudden, vicious. Energy slams into him, cracking against his seal. It sends him flying—a sharp, brutal arc before his back hits the ground, ribs rattling, breath torn from his lungs.

“Jiang Wanyin—!” Sun Li’s voice, raw, alarmed.

Li Rong curses, rushing forward. “Are you okay?”

Xue Yuan’s eyes are sharp, tracking him. He moves like he’s about to check if Jiang Cheng is ok—

But Jiang Cheng is already moving.

His teeth clench. His vision rings at the edges, the world stuttering between too bright and too dim. The burn of his seal is sharp, slicing down his spine, curling deep into his ribs, but he pushes it away.

There’s no time. He gets up. The juniors arrive, skidding to a stop, breathless, worried. Yu Shuren frowns when Jiang Cheng waves off medical aid.

“It’s just scratches,” Jiang Cheng says, flexing his fingers. The sting is nothing. Nothing to waste supplies over.

But they are here.

In front of the hideout.

And Jiang Cheng, despite the ache in his bones, despite the raw burn in his core—

He is ready.

This kid—

Sun Li nearly curses, but there’s no time. Later. Later, she’s gonna grab Jiang Cheng by the collar and shake some sense into him.

Right now, they’re standing in front of a warehouse that stinks of something wrong. Jiang Cheng is sure the rogue is inside.

His instincts are sharp, too sharp for a twelve-year-old. But he hasn’t been wrong yet. The doorframe pulses with faint, bitter qi.

“Don’t touch the entrance,” Xue Yuan says, sharp-eyed. He gestures at barely-there ink markings, almost invisible under the dirt and dust. A hidden formation.

Sun Li catches a different scent. Charred, acrid—remnants of a fire-based talisman.

“Yang-based,” she mutters. The others move, swords drawn, shifting into a loose formation. Jiang Cheng steps forward, ignoring them.

Sun Li clenches her jaw. She winces the moment she sees his hands—deep, jagged wounds, the kind that look like someone took a serrated knife and dragged it across his palms. Blood, crusted and fresh— it looks painful.

This stubborn brat—

Jiang Cheng hovers a bloody hand over the markings, breath steady. Then, a burst of Qi—sharp, controlled, precise—tears through the formation.

The trap dissolves. The doors groan open. And the world shifts. The moment they step inside, the barrier slams shut behind them. A pulse of energy rolls through the air—

Mist.

Blinding, choking mist floods the space, swallowing sound, swallowing light. Shapes twist in the fog, wraith-like constructs forming in the thick haze.

Jiang Cheng moves. Straight for the strongest energy signature. He cuts through the mist like it isn’t even there, eyes locked on something the rest of them can’t see.

Xue Yuan follows immediately, blade already drawn, tracking movement with eerie precision. Sun Li curses and yanks out a flame talisman.

The fire erupts, light flickering through the mist. Li Rong and Qin Xinyao move like clockwork, covering weak spots, swords flashing.

Han Yimu and Lu Zihe press together, defensive formations clicking into place. Yu Shuren takes charge.

“Stick to pairs! Don’t lose formation!” His voice cuts through the chaos, calm and steady. “Find the constructs’ core—break them.”

Sun Li’s flame catches onto something in the mist.

A shape screams.

The fight begins.

The mist is thick, twisting, full of illusions, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t see it—he sees him.

The rogue.

His instincts sharpen, coil tight in his bones, rage curling beneath his ribs like a beast with its teeth bared. His prey got away once. It won’t happen again.

The rogue bolts. Jiang Cheng doesn’t hesitate—he lunges, blade flashing. They tear through the mist like the eye of a storm, locked in a deadly chase.

The rogue moves fast, slippery with desperation, but Jiang Cheng is faster. His body sings with something beyond training, something deeper, something older.

Siren blood hum beneath his skin, hunger sharpening the edges of his vision. He feels the rogue’s qi move—erratic, frantic, grasping for escape.

The rogue throws a movement talisman. His last chance. Jiang Cheng sees it before it lands, but he doesn’t need to act—

Shhhhk.

Xue Yuan’s blade cuts through the air. The talisman shreds before it can even activate. The rogue stumbles. Qin Xinyao is already moving, counter-seal snapping into place.

Han Yimu follows, slamming a grounding array into the floor. The space locks. No escape. The rogue lashes out—wild, reckless, throwing everything he has left.

His strikes are desperate, rabid, edged with the bite of someone who knows he’s already lost. Jiang Cheng doesn’t falter. He dodges, faster than sight, his movements fluid, honed, predatory.

The rogue swings for his center —Jiang Cheng sidesteps. A talisman flickers—Jiang Cheng tears through it.

The rogue switches targets, sensing something wrong in Jiang Cheng’s qi, sensing the difference—

A mistake.

Sun Li’s flame erupts, burning the last shreds of mist to nothing. Yu Shuren’s talisman activates. Restraints snap into place. Jiang Cheng doesn’t give the rogue time to react.

He crushes him to the ground, blade at his throat, breath steady. The rogue thrashes. Xue Yuan steps in, movements efficient, sharp, wrapping the bindings tight.

The rogue finally stops struggling. He knows it’s over. But then he laughs. A dry, quiet sound, curling at the edges with something bitter, something knowing.

"You’re different." His voice is thin, rasping. "You felt it, didn’t you? That energy—it called to you.”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t react save for the tightening of his grip.

The bindings are already secure, but he leans in, pressing down just a little harder, just enough to remind the rogue that he is completely at Jiang Cheng’s mercy.

The rogue wheezes, lips stretching over too-brown teeth. "I wonder what you really are."

Jiang Cheng feels cold. It’s the kind of cold that slips beneath the skin, that sinks into the marrow. He locks it down, tucks it away into the ever-growing pile of Things He Will Panic Over Later.

Future Jiang Cheng can deal with that. Current Jiang Cheng has more immediate problems. Like the fact that this guy’s face is the most horrifying thing he’s ever seen.

They rip off the mask and—oh. Oh.

Jiang Cheng is startled in the same way one might be startled to find a corpse suddenly sitting up and asking for a cup of tea.

His expression doesn’t change, but internally, it’s a full five seconds of horrified screaming.

The guy looks—

Like a decayed raisin.

Old, wrinkled, shrivelled up in a way that isn’t just age, but something wrong, something unnatural. He looks like someone drained every ounce of life out of him and then left the husk to rot in the sun.

Qin Xinyao gasps.

Lu Zihe, ever the eloquent scholar, blurts, "What the fuck—“

Han Yimu mouths a stunned wow.

Sun Li, unimpressed as ever, just snorts.

Li Rong folds his arms, gaze flat. "And that, kids, is why you don’t practice demonic cultivation."

Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes. Wow. Thanks, shixiong. Deeply educational. What a wonderful, inspiring lesson for the children. Truly a paragon of wisdom.

But—wait.

His brows furrow. Because now that he’s thinking about it—Wei Wuxian never looked like this. Not even at the peak of his demonic cultivation era.

Which means—

Jiang Cheng gasps.

Did Wei Wuxian hide it?

With illusion arrays? With talismans??

Oh no.

Poor Wei Ying.

Jiang Cheng clenches his fist, solemn. Don’t worry, Wei Ying. This time, I’ll protect your beauty.

Xue Yuan is staring at Jiang Cheng the whole walk back.

He has questions.

Many, many questions.

Unfortunately, none of them are appropriate questions to ask while they’re trudging back from a fight, still caked in sweat, blood, and the lingering stench of resentful energy.

So Xue Yuan settles for staring, burning holes into the back of Jiang Cheng’s skull with the sheer force of his gaze.

It’s a tense walk.

And not because of the fight. No, the fight is over. The rogue is dealt with.

The problem is that Jiang Wanyin, studious, brilliant, prodigy Jiang Wanyin, DOES NOT REALISE THAT HIS HANDS ARE MAULED.

Xue Yuan would find it hilarious how both Sun Li and Yu Shuren are visibly holding back their mother-henning tendencies—literally holding their breath, clutching their robes like if they let go, they might lunge at Jiang Cheng and forcefully bandage him—if he also wasn’t curious (concerned, shut up, not the point) about Jiang Cheng’s hands.

He’s not even reacting to them. Not a wince. Not a flinch. Just a “tis’ but a scratch.” Does he not feel it? Of course not. Of course he doesn’t.

Jiang Cheng seems like the type to get disemboweled and then complain that the blood is staining his robes.

And Xue Yuan is not concerned. Not at all.

He is merely fascinated by the limits of human endurance and how this particular creature might function if he wasn’t constantly on the verge of falling apart.

A purely scientific curiosity.

That’s all.

The moment they step into the inn, Yu Shuren and Sun Li physically sit Jiang Cheng down. It takes both of them.

Jiang Cheng glares at them like a particularly spiteful cat who knows he is about to be force-fed medicine.

Sun Li, exasperated beyond belief, huffs, "Hold still, you stubborn little—“

Yu Shuren, calm but immovable, "If you fight this, I will tie you down.”

Jiang Cheng exhales sharply through his nose, visibly contemplating his options. He could fight it, but that would take effort. He could complain, but that would only make them even more annoying.

He settles for the classic Jiang Cheng manoeuvre—sulking.

His glare could set people on fire.

Then someone hands him soy milk.

He takes it automatically. Sips it. His mood instantly improves. The team stares. Xue Yuan struggles. He’s processing information at a speed that would put divine scholars to shame.

Because. What. This whole time.

This WHOLE TIME.

Jiang Cheng can be bribed.

WITH. FOOD.

Xue Yuan clenches his fist, grappling with the sheer stupidity of it all. I should have just fed him. That was the answer the whole time? What else does he like?

Xue Yuan mentally combs through his observations:

• Jiang Cheng likes soy milk. This is proven fact.

• He likes tanghulu. Also proven.

• He didn’t like the spicy rice cakes—but hold on. He didn’t react like it was too spicy. He reacted like it wasn’t spicy enough.

• So the question is—does he not like spicy food? Or does he only like it if it’s a challenge?

• He liked the peaches and plums best out of the fruit basket.

Good. Noted. Filed away for future use.

He will never be caught unprepared again.

Everyone heads toward their rooms, and Jiang Cheng is ready to forget this entire day ever happened. Probably sneak away because he just realised, Yan Huai lived here.

The way rooms were divided was like this; Han Yimu and Qin Xinyao share the room nearest the exit. Lu Zihe took the room across from theirs. Jiang Cheng took the one at the end of the hall.

Omegas are considered ‘vulnerable’ in traditional cultivation society. It’s an outdated notion, but it means they’re often given separate quarters for privacy and safety. The idea is that sharing a room with another omega is a risk in case one goes into heat unexpectedly and the other follows.

It's outdated and untrue— but in this case, it works in his favour. Jiang Cheng doesn’t care.

What he does care about is that, oh wow, there’s no free room next to his.

Sun Li and Li Rong’s room is beside Jiang Cheng’s, with Yu Shuren’s room directly across. That places Xue Yuan at the far end of the hall, next to Han Yimu and Qin Xinyao’s room.

Hah.

Take that, you stalker.

This does not show on his face, of course.

Then—

He notices something.

Something truly horrifying.

Yu Shuren and Xue Yuan switched rooms.

What.

Jiang Cheng stops. Slowly turns to stare at Yu Shuren, who very deliberately avoids looking at him.

That coward.

Sun Li and Li Rong walk past, oblivious. The juniors continue chatting, completely unaware that Jiang Cheng has been betrayed in the most dishonourable vile ways.

Jiang Cheng stares harder.

Yu Shuren walks into his room like it’s not his problem.

It is absolutely your problem, you traitor.

What was the reason?! Jiang Cheng does not know. What he does know is that tonight, his room is going to be warded like he’s under siege. He practically engraves the talismans into the doorframe.

Yu Shuren, I trusted you.

…Well. Not really.

But he expected better.

Whatever.

He exhales, wards his room again, makes a vague human shape under the covers, and slips into the night.

The city shifts in the dark. The respectable Qinghuā City of the daytime is gone. What’s left is the underbelly, a thing with its ribs bared, exhaling smoke and money and secrets.

This isn’t the city sect disciples walk through.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t need a reason to be here, but if he had to name one, it would be this:

Merchant guilds double as informants.

He’s known that since his dreams started bleeding into waking thought. He knows what’s coming, what people will become, and what roles they’ll play.

Some brothels run the rumour networks—he learned that from Yue Jiejie while she was setting up hers. Sex, money, and connections run the world, she had said.

And she wasn’t wrong.

Sex is something many fall prey to, especially in a world littered with aphrodisiac-laced traps and fuck-or-die flora.

People talk more when they’re comfortable, when their hands are tangled in silk sheets and their guard is down.

Money—money buys silence, buys alliances, buys survival. And connections—connections can make a man untouchable.

Brothel informants aren’t guilds per say, but they have power. They spread rumours most effectively, know which names to say and which to leave in the dark, knows the deepest secrets that slip from the lips of satisfied powerful men.

But merchant guilds? They’re something else.

They control trade routes, supply chains, even underground black markets. If someone needs something illegal, expensive, or both, the merchant guilds will sell to whoever bids highest.

And the man Jiang Cheng is looking for?

Yan Huai.

Nineteen years old. Overlooked bastard son of the Yan Trading Guild. The same man who, in another future, will become one of the most powerful underground trade leaders in the cultivation world.

They were acquainted in that other time. That other life.

Jiang Cheng had saved him once—back when Lotus Pier was nothing but burnt wreckage and he was collecting survivors like stray embers in his hands.

And later, Yan Huai repaid that debt in full.

Not out of gratitude. Not out of loyalty. Just to settle the scales.

"I don’t stay in anyone’s debt." That was all he had said.

And with a single move, he had helped Jiang Cheng stabilise Yunmeng Jiang when it was still weak. Jiang Cheng had never thanked him for it. Yan Huai had never expected him to.

And now, they were about to meet for the first time. Again.

Hopefully.

He should ask for directions, he knows that much—he has a name, not a place. But then, fate hands him something better.

A scuffle. A good one. The unmistakable sound of fists meeting flesh, the snap of fabric tearing, the clatter of boots against wet stone.

Jiang Cheng rounds a corner and sees them. A group of masked thugs cornering a man in a secluded alley. The kind of scene that plays out in every city, in every life, again and again.

He doesn’t recognise them. But he does recognise the man they’re after.

Yan Huai.

He isn’t weak—far from it. He fights back with sharp, efficient movements, but the numbers aren’t in his favor. He’s quick. But not quick enough.

Jiang Cheng resists the urge to cackle.

This is—this is ridiculous. This is perfect. Luck is on his side tonight.

Alright, he thinks, let’s make an entrance.

He drops down from the rooftops, silent as a blade slipping free of its sheath. He moves before they notice, before anyone has a chance to react.

One strike. One man down. The others panic. They turn, but they don’t even know who they’re turning to. Too late.

Jiang Cheng finishes it before anyone can blink. A sharp twist of the wrist, a precise shift of the blade, a clean break in the rhythm of their breath.

The last thug crumples.

Silence.

Yan Huai exhales. Not in relief. In amusement.

His gaze flickers over Jiang Cheng, assessing. He wipes a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth, tilts his head.

His eyes catch on Jiang Cheng’s sword, the hilt barely visible beneath the cloth covering it. Recognition flickers. Not of who he is, but what he is.

A sect heir.

At the very least. Whether he recognises Jiang Cheng as Yummeng Jiang’s sect heir is up for debate.

Jiang Cheng watches that understanding settle in, sees the moment Yan Huai decides not to pretend otherwise.

A debt is a debt. He won’t insult Jiang Cheng by acting like it isn’t.

He shakes his head, a sharp-edged smile curling at the corner of his lips. “Well. Didn’t expect to owe my life to a child today.”

Jiang Cheng deadpans, “You’re welcome,” but inside, he’s cackling. This is perfect.

Yan Huai tilts his head, still amused. “I’d offer to buy you wine, but I’m pretty sure you still drink milk.”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t miss a beat. “Mmm, I like sweet soy milk.”

Yan Huai chokes on a laugh, shaking his head. “Alright, alright, I owe you one. You want a favour? A token? I work at Yan Trading Guild.”

Jiang Cheng tilts his head. “No, that’s too small.”

That does make Yan Huai pause. “Alright, what? A rare cultivation artefact? I know some that are popular with you kiddies.”

“If I wanted something small, I wouldn’t be talking to you this long.”

Yan Huai exhales. “You’re a bold one, I’ll give you that. Alright, what do you actually want?”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t blink, he knows it's best to be forward and bold with Yan Huai. “An alliance.”

That actually makes Yan Huai laugh. “I’m sorry? You’re a sect heir. Why would you need an alliance with me?”

“Because it benefits us both.”

“You talk like you already know how this plays out.” Like you know me, he doesn't say but Jiang Cheng hears it all the same.

“I do.” Jiang Cheng keeps his face blank, but his stare is intense.

Yan Huai raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Enlighten me. What grand future do you see, Gongzi?” His voice is slightly mocking.

Jiang Cheng just shrugs. “One where we both get what we want.”

“You still haven’t told me why you want me. There are better connections out there. More powerful ones.”

“You’re underestimated. That makes you useful.”

Yan Huai laughs again, this time softer. “Most people would try to flatter me.”

“You’re not stupid enough to fall for it.”

Yan Huai grins, but it's clear he's not taking Jiang Cheng seriously. “Alright, you’ve got my attention.” 

Jiang Cheng gives him a slow, deliberate look.

Then he says, “I know Ruan Yue.”

Yan Huai stills.

“…Oh?”

“One of my people.”

Yan Huai’s expression changes. His gaze sharpens. “Ruan Yue. Owner of the most well-connected brothel in Yunmeng?”

“The very same one.”

Yan Huai exhales through his nose, appraising him again with new eyes. “I wasn’t aware the Jiang Sect was in the brothel business.”

“That’s because we aren’t.”

“And yet, you’re name-dropping one of the most dangerous information networks in the region.”

Jiang Cheng shrugs. “I thought you’d appreciate efficiency.”

Yan Huai grins. It’s sharp. “Alright. Let’s say I believe you. What exactly do you want?”

“The right information at the right time. You need leverage against your competitors. We both get what we want.”

“And in return?”

“A long-term understanding. When I need something, you help me. When you need something, I help you.”

Yan Huai snorts. “That’s a vague contract. What if you die before the favour is repaid?”

Jiang Cheng’s tone is dangerously soft. “Then that would be your loss.”

Yan Huai throws his head back and laughs. “You’re terrifying, you know that?”

“Hm.”

Yan Huai tilts his head, considering, then finally nods. “Fine. Consider me interested, Jiang-gongzi.”

Jiang Cheng smiles, slow and satisfied. “Consider it done.”

The next morning, Jiang Cheng makes sure his glare digs into Yu Shuren’s face. It is a masterful glare.

A glare crafted by years, perfected after his mother’s glares, sharpened by sheer force of will, honed by the unholy combination of exhaustion.

Yu Shuren, “unfazed”, continues eating.

Jiang Cheng intensifies the glare. He wants the full abject rage (misery) of BETRAYAL™ to sink into that traitorous skull.

Jiang Cheng spent the entire night wondering what kind of unhinged, feral bullshit Xue Yuan was getting up to while being one door away instead of the other side of the hall.

At least, he managed to get Yan Huai as one of his tentative cards.

But still.

He glares harder. Yu Shuren, look at me, you coward. Acknowledge my pain.

Yu Shuren, still not reacting, takes another leisurely bite of breakfast. Jiang Cheng contemplates homicide.

They sit down to eat. It is blessedly quiet. For exactly three minutes. Then Jiang Cheng notices. Xue Yuan is still staring.

Like he’s trying to dissect him with his eyes. Like Jiang Cheng is some kind of rare specimen to be studied.

Jiang Cheng grits his teeth. “What."

Xue Yuan, intense, says, "You ran faster than a hunting hound and moved like you’ve fought for decades.”

Jiang Cheng, sipping his soy milk, not even blinking, replies, "Sounds fake, but okay.”

Li Rong snickers.

Sun Li exhales the weary sigh of someone who has aged forty years in the span of one conversation. Yu Shuren, traitor that he is, does not react.

The juniors, however, are buzzing with far too much morning energy for Jiang Cheng to deal with.

Someone, please, make them stop looking at him like he just singlehandedly reinvented combat techniques.

As they’re preparing to leave—

—someone remembers.

They have notes, artefacts, and confiscated items from the rogue cultivator’s hideout. They were supposed to drop them off at a local sect branch for analysis. They forgot.

Which is objectively hilarious, because these are the kinds of priceless, dangerous things that probably shouldn’t be left unattended in an inn room.

Sun Li groans, rubbing his temples. "I can’t believe we almost left this behind."

Jiang Cheng can.

He doesn’t say that out loud.

So they check the artefacts and records, just to make sure nothing is missing. Then they notice something. Something’s off. The records aren’t just from a rogue cultivator.

There are names. Transactions. Ledgers. They investigate further.

And realise—

This isn’t just one rogue cultivator.

It’s part of an underground smuggling ring.

The juniors are enthusiastic. Lu Zihe is already rambling about the smuggling operation. Cursed artefacts, illegal cultivation tools.

Jiang Cheng suppresses a groan.

The seniors are actually considering it.

Oh, no.

No, no, no.

This is bad.

The juniors are 14. He’s younger than them. They’re foetuses. He is not taking a bunch of overly ambitious teenagers on a smuggling ring operation.

His seniors, though? Oh, they look like they might actually be weighing the pros and cons.

Jiang Cheng wants to strangle all of them.

In his visions, he didn’t start dealing with smuggling rings until he was a sect leader. A sect leader. At seventeen. The same age his seniors are now.

He clenches his jaw. This is going to be a long-ass trip.

Chapter Text

Jiang Cheng doesn’t bother eating. He’s already lost his appetite watching his so-called teammates talk themselves into doing something reckless and stupid.

They’ve spread their findings across the table: maps with hastily scribbled notes, an intercepted ledger, a broken talisman with residual dark energy humming against the wood.

There’s more going on here than a single rogue cultivator. That should be a reason to back off.

Instead, Xue Yuan leans forward, all sharp excitement. “This is bigger than we thought. If we keep digging, we might actually find—”

“No,” Jiang Cheng cuts in, voice flat. “Absolutely not.”

Li Rong raises an eyebrow, half-smirking. “Aww, aren’t you the cautious one?”

Jiang Cheng ignores him. “Did you forget we have juniors here? I don’t care how strong you think you are—this is beyond the scope of our mission. We report it and leave it to the elders. We are not getting involved in something this big.”

Yu Shuren sips his tea, amused but ultimately on Jiang Cheng’s side. “He’s right, though. We aren’t exactly prepared for this.”

But Xue Yuan isn’t backing down. He levels Jiang Cheng with a sharp, scrutinising stare. “You’re being too cautious. What’s really stopping you?”

“Common sense.”

Xue Yuan leans in, eyes narrowing. “You keep talking like you’ve done this before.”

“Like you know something we don’t,” Li Rong adds.

“How are you this competent?” Xue Yuan presses on. “You’ve been faster than all of us, fought better than some of the seniors—and now you’re treating this like it’s routine.”

The table goes quiet. The juniors stop pretending not to eavesdrop.

Jiang Cheng levels them with a blank look. Then, very flatly, he says,

“This isn’t my first mission.”

That gets a reaction.

Yu Shuren frowns. “Wait, what?”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t bother looking up as he pours himself soy milk. Even flatter, he says, “I’ve been going on missions since I was eleven.”

Li Rong stares. “You’re twelve.”

Xue Yuan’s jaw tightens. “That’s—” He stops himself.

Jiang Cheng takes a slow sip of soy milk, a bit confused.

Jiang Cheng has the look of someone who thinks he explained everything.

He did not.

No one at the table speaks for a long, stretched moment. The air is heavy with unspoken things.

Across from him, Xue Yuan looks like he’s mentally losing his mind. Eleven?! That explains so much. That’s why he fights like that. Why he acts like this. Holy shit.

Li Rong is staring, equal parts horrified and impressed. Damn. Yunmeng is insane.

Sun Li sighs. “So that’s why he’s like this.”

Yu Shuren remains calm, but his fingers drum lightly against the table in a quiet tell of concern. That… That is not normal.

Lu Zihe leans toward Han Yimu, voice barely above a whisper. “Are all Yunmeng Jiang disciples like this??”

Qin Xinyao blinks. Opens her mouth. Closes it. Blinks again. Furrows her brows.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t notice. He just keeps eating.

He thinks he answered their questions. The others, however, are looking at him like he’s a war veteran stuffed into a child’s body. They don’t know what to say.

No one wants to be the one to ask more. They let it go—for now.

The conversation shifts, and before Jiang Cheng realises it, they’re talking about how to move forward.

He listens, frown deepening. They’re not listening to him. He glares. “You’re all reckless.”

Xue Yuan waves a hand dismissively.

Jiang Cheng’s jaw tightens. “We should not be doing this.”

Li Rong grins, unconcerned. “Sure we won’t.”

Jiang Cheng exhales sharply through his nose, temper curling under his skin. “If something goes wrong, I’m not saving any of you.”

Sun Li pats his shoulder, entirely too relaxed. “Relax. We’ll be careful.”

Yu Shuren, calm but firm, leans forward. “It’s already decided.”

Qin Xinyao beams, all innocence and baby deer energy. “It’s okay, Jiang-gongzi. We’ll have each other’s backs.”

Jiang Cheng sighs. Long. Deep. Loud.

The others want to infiltrate immediately. They assume the best plan is to go in as buyers, blend in, act like they belong.

Jiang Cheng immediately shuts it down.

"None of us know how this smuggling operation actually works.” His voice is sharp, decisive. “If we go in now, we’ll get caught before we learn anything useful.”

Li Rong tilts his head. “Okay, but what if we just don’t get caught?”

Jiang Cheng glares. “Brilliant. Genius. I’m in awe of your strategic thinking.”

Han Yimu, ignoring the sarcasm, asks, “What do you suggest, then?”

Xue Yuan squints at him. “…You sound like you’ve done this before.”

Jiang Cheng, deadpan, “I have infiltrated places before. That doesn’t mean it was a good idea.”

Technically? Yes.

But also no.

He hasn’t yet, not in this timeline. But he knows how this works. Knows how badly it can go. Knows that charging in blind is the fastest way to end up dead.

Yu Shuren interrupts. “Then what do you suggest?”

Jiang Cheng leans back. “We gather intel first.”

Sun Li hums, considering. She props her chin on her hand. “Merchants. They always know where money is going.”

Jiang Cheng nods. “Then let’s go to an informant.”

Li Rong raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Do we have one?”

Jiang Cheng shrugs, utterly unbothered. “I do.”

Xue Yuan frowns at him. “Since when?”

Jiang Cheng shrugs. “Since before this conversation.”

Sun Li grins, now very interested. “And you’re just telling us now?”

Jiang Cheng tilts his head slightly. “You didn’t ask.”

Yu Shuren glances around at the others before nodding. “Then we should all go.”

Jiang Cheng immediately shuts that down, shaking his head. “No.”

Xue Yuan narrows his eyes. “Why not?”

Jiang Cheng remains utterly calm. “Too many people will make them nervous. Informants talk in private, not to crowds.”

Li Rong leans forward. “So, what? You just walk in and ask nicely?”

Jiang Cheng deadpans. “Obviously not.”

Yu Shuren exhales, rubbing his temples. “It’s risky.”

Jiang Cheng shrugs. “So is walking into a smuggling ring blind.”

Sun Li snorts. “He’s not wrong.”

Xue Yuan’s frown deepens. He doesn’t like this, but… “Fine. But if you’re not back in an hour, we’re coming after you.”

Jiang Cheng stands, stretching lazily. “I’ll try not to keep you waiting.”

Jiang Cheng slips into the teahouse. The scent of jasmine and spiced smoke lingers in the air, curling through the dim lantern light. It’s warm, but not inviting.

Yan Huai is already there, lounging with the confidence of someone who believes the whole room belongs to him. He watches the space lazily, like a cat at rest, but Jiang Cheng knows better.

Jiang Cheng sits down across from him.

Yan Huai lifts an eyebrow, his smirk slow, amused. “Back already? What, miss me?”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t blink. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Yan Huai chuckles, leaning forward, propping his chin on one hand. “Then what can I do for you, Jiang-gongzi?”

“I need information. About a smuggling ring.”

Yan Huai hums, rolling his wrist in a slow, lazy circle. “Smuggling? That’s vague.”

Jiang Cheng meets his gaze, steady. “Artefacts. People. Maybe both.”

Yan Huai watches him for a beat. Then he laughs, low and quiet. “And what do I get in return?”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t hesitate. “Leverage. And the knowledge that you’re making the right bet.”

Yan Huai grins. “Ha! Alright then.”

Sun Li scowls, drumming her fingers against the table. “I hate waiting.”

Li Rong snorts. “You just hate that he’s doing something we’re not.”

Sun Li doesn’t deny it.

Xue Yuan stands with his arms crossed, gaze locked on the teahouse. “I don’t trust this.”

Yu Shuren, calm and measured, speaks without looking up. “It’s not about trust. It’s about knowing when to push and when to hold back.”

Xue Yuan’s expression doesn’t change. “I don’t like it.”

Sun Li snorts. “We know.”

Nearby, the juniors huddle together, whispering amongst themselves.

“Jiang-gongzi is really cool.”

“He’s been on missions before. Infiltration missions.”

“He didn’t even flinch at the bodies. Like it was nothing.”

“He’s really accomplished, huh?”

The seniors overhear.

Li Rong squints. “Okay, but how sure are we that he’s not making all that up? Because, I’m sorry, but there’s no way he did all that.”

Yu Shuren shakes his head. “The way he reacts, the way he thinks, even the way he fights—it tells us everything. He’s done it before.”

Sun Li nods. “Besides, he’s too… what’s the word? Straight laced? Yeah, he’s too straight laced to lie about something like that.”

Xue Yuan doesn’t speak. Just keeps staring at the teahouse, frowning.

Jiang Cheng steps out of the teahouse, his expression unreadable. The others are waiting, coiled like a drawn bowstring, tension rippling in the air.

He can feel their impatience, their frustration at being left in the dark.

Li Rong, leaning against a pillar, tilts his head with lazy amusement. “So, what’s the damage?”

Jiang Cheng stops in front of them. “Three warehouse locations. A smuggling route. Something’s changed in their operation—they moved high-value goods recently. And we have a merchant contact.”

Xue Yuan’s eyes sharpen. “High-value goods?”

“People,” Jiang Cheng clarifies. “Most likely.”

That kills the humour instantly.

Li Rong straightens, arms uncrossing. “Alright,” he exhales, any trace of teasing gone. “That’s bigger than expected.”

Yu Shuren nods. “Then we need a plan.”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t hesitate. “We split into three teams.”

He gestures first to Yu Shuren, Sun Li, Qin Xinyu and Han Yimu. “You three take the warehouses. See if they’re storing artefacts. We need proof.”

Yu Shuren leads because he’s the most level-headed. Sun Li is there because she has an eye for spotting fakes. Han Yimu and Qin Xinyu have a good sense of artifacts—their worth, their origin, their danger.

Sun Li hums. “Not a bad idea. We should know what we’re dealing with before we get in too deep.”

Jiang Cheng moves on. “The merchant contact—Xue Yuan, Li Rong, Lu Zihe, you’re handling it.”

Xue Yuan leads because he looks like he eats intimidation for breakfast. Li Rong for social manipulation—he’s good at twisting words into weapons. Lu Zihe is backup muscle, if things go south.

Jiang Cheng exhales, shifting his weight slightly. “And I’ll check the smuggling route.”

That stops them.

Yu Shuren’s gaze sharpens. “Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Jiang Cheng rolls his shoulders. “Because too many people will get noticed. And because I know what I’m looking for.”

Sun Li watches him for a long moment. Then sighs, rubbing her temple. “You know, for someone so capable, you’re also a pain in the ass.”

Jiang Cheng huffs.

Yu Shuren considers him carefully. “And if something happens to you?”

Jiang Cheng waves a hand. “If I’m not back in an hour, assume I’m dead and set up a memorial tablet.”

Sun Li is exasperated, “That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

Li Rong pinches the bridge of his nose. “You are so annoying.”

The juniors look on with wide eyes.

Jiang Cheng shrugs. Then, before anyone else can argue, he starts walking. “You all have your assignments. Get moving.”

They watch him go.

Li Rong turns to Yu Shuren. “Be honest. How sure are we that he’s not making half of this up?”

Yu Shuren just sighs.

Jiang Cheng is exhausted. Bone-deep, soul-rotting, why-did-I-even-get-out-of-bed exhausted. The mission is over. He got what he needed in the city.

And yet—somehow—his patience is being stretched thinner than a blade’s edge.

Maybe that’s unfair. Maybe he’s just being difficult. But he hasn’t trained properly in days, his seals burn like someone’s pressing red-hot needles into his skin, and he almost lost control chasing that rogue.

That part still bothers him.

There was a moment—just a moment—where instinct took over. He had looked at the rogue not as an opponent, not as a threat to eliminate, but as prey.

His teeth had ached like he wanted to bite down, his pulse a slow, echoing drumbeat against his ribs.

Weird.

Feral.

Was he feral?

…Whatever. He files it away, focuses on the present.

The smuggling route is too clean. Too careful. Someone with experience planned this. The paths are hidden, the movements precise. The smugglers travel in pairs, never alone.

Silent signals mark the safe routes—subtle, nearly invisible. You’d only notice if you knew exactly what to look for.

Jiang Cheng adjusts, falling into step with their rhythm, his own body slipping into shadow. One step behind. Just enough distance to remain unseen.

Then—he finds it.

A transport station.

The carts are covered with thick, dark cloth, but he can see the formations built into the wheels—designed to suppress movement, to keep something from escaping.

The scent of wards thickens the air. There’s a perimeter, a subtle enchantment that muffles sound.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t need to lift the covers. He already knows.

Still, he moves forward, slow and careful, pulling back a fraction of the cloth—

—Cages. Rows of them. Bodies inside. Bound. Gagged. Their eyes dull with exhaustion.

His blood turns to ice.

The chains glint in the dim light, seals carved into the metal—specific, deliberate seals. Meant for Omegas.

And beneath the chains, a second layer of barriers. This isn’t a holding station. This is a transfer point.

This isn’t just artefact smuggling. This is human trafficking. Jiang Cheng inhales, and something shifts deep in his gut.

His instincts—usually a murmur at the back of his mind—roar. The air around him tightens. This place is wrong. This place is wrong. This place is wrong.

His teeth ache again.

Bite. Rend. Break them apart.

Destroy.

But.

If he leaves now, they’ll relocate the captives. If he acts alone, he risks everything. His hands clench, nails pressing into his palms. He doesn’t need to win.

He just needs to make it a nightmare for them to continue.

Yu Shuren wasn’t sure what he was expecting.

Well, maybe illegal artefacts—possibly dangerous, but nothing catastrophic. Evidence linking the smuggling ring to something bigger, because from the documents they combed through, there was a larger body involved.

A sect, maybe?

Hopefully.

Hidden ledgers or transaction records—something that proved this wasn’t just petty crime. That was what he’d planned for.

This?

This was worse.

He scanned the entrance, keeping his voice low and even.

“We keep it quiet. In and out. No unnecessary fights.”

Sun Li grinned, stretching her fingers like she was warming up for a performance.

"Aw, come on, where’s the fun in that?”

Han Yimu was nervous but steady, posture tense but controlled. Yu Shuren was proud of her—she’d come a long way.

"We’re not here to start a fire," he reminded.

Sun Li placed a hand over her heart, mock-offended.

"I never said anything about fire.”

Which is exactly why I don’t trust you, Yu Shuren thought grimly.

They moved in silence, slipping through corridors like shadows.

Qin Xingyu was calm, but cautious. She’d settled since their last mission—he was proud of her, too. The kids did better than expected.

Jiang Cheng, though…

Yu Shuren didn’t even know where to begin with Jiang Cheng.

He had instincts like a trained fighter, the kind that came from years of real combat. Not sparring. Not drills.

Life or death fights.

Someone put him on missions as a child. An eleven-year-old. And that explained so much about him.

Yu Shuren wasn’t even sure about advocating for Jiang Wanyin to be on missions when he was first asked. Xue Yuan changed his mind.

He didn’t regret it. Well, mostly. But he sure as hell had questions.

"Shixiong."

Qin Xingyu’s whisper pulled him from his thoughts. She stopped, fingers hovering over something. He stepped closer, looking over her shoulder.

His stomach dropped. Cursed items—reactive to spiritual energy. A corrupted spirit-bound weapon, its aura clinging to the air like decay.

Jars of preserved Qi—evidence of life essence extraction.

“This is…” he started, but Qin Xingyu beat him to it.

"This is a Wen artefact.”

Yu Shuren’s fingers curled, expression unreadable.

Han Yimu’s frown deepened, eyes going wide.

"You’re right.”

Sun Li exhaled, shifting closer, eyes flicking over the artefacts.

"Then what is it doing in a smuggling ring?”

The answer settled like iron in Yu Shuren’s gut.

This means—

Some Wen-affiliated group is either supplying these artifacts or trading them illegally. If these artifacts are here, then—

The Wen Sect isn’t fully controlling their own resources. This information alone was explosive—but they needed to get out with proof first.

He inhaled, steadying himself.

Then—

A sudden pulse of spiritual energy.

A sickening flaring of power.

Sun Li grimaced.

“Oops."

Yu Shuren snapped his head around.

“What did you just do?”

Han Yimu tensed, whispering, “What are we going to do?”

Footsteps. Close. Too close.

Qin Xingyu’s voice was flat with resignation. "I knew this was going too well."

A smuggler stumbled into view, eyes widening.

Then—

He slammed a hand onto an artefact. Dark mist flooded the room. Yu Shuren’s eyes narrowed.

The cursed objects reacted violently—energy thrumming in the air, pulling at the walls, making the ground feel wrong beneath their feet. Another smuggler—shouting.

"We’ve been found! Take what you can and get out!”

A second—activating an object. Cold rushed through the chamber, like winter had crawled beneath their skin.

"Don’t let them take anything! Burn the records!”

Yu Shuren was grim, sharp, absolute.

"We can’t let them destroy the evidence—everyone, move!"

Qin Xingyu grabbed ledgers, stuffing them into her bag. Han Yimu reached for scrolls, hands steady despite the tension in her shoulders. Sun Li—Yu Shuren didn’t even want to know what Sun Li grabbed.

The fire spread too quickly. The heat curled against their backs as they jumped from the ledges, hit the ground running. Smoke billowed, thick and choking.

By the time they reached safety, the temple was a burning ruin behind them. Yu Shuren inhaled deeply through his nose. Sun Li—grinning, despite everything.

"Guess we just made their job harder.”

Han Yimu, deadpan, eyeing the stolen artefact in Sun Li’s hands. "I don’t think that’s a good thing."

Qin Xingyu, hefting a bag full of documents, expression unreadable. "Ya think?"

The temple is old. Bones of wood and stone, crumbling under the weight of time. A place of worship turned into a graveyard of stolen lives.

Jiang Cheng thinks it’s in poor taste, though not for the reasons others might. He doesn’t care about the sanctity of the temple itself—see that little bird? you aren't welcome here, you aren’t human—but there’s something about desecration that makes his teeth itch.

Something about ghosts and gods turning their backs while rot sets in.

He moves quietly, shadows curling against him like an old friend. The operation is careful. Slippery. It shifts locations every few weeks, never rooted long enough for the scent of blood to linger.

Most of them are already gone.

The ones who remain are the ones who matter—guards, handlers, transport leaders. The ones who make sure the gears keep turning.

Jiang Cheng runs his fingers over an old temple wall, feeling the age, the cracks. The discarded ropes and half-packed crates. They’re getting ready to leave. His jaw tightens.

That means someone warned them.

He pulls a talisman from his sleeve, pressing his fingers to the ink. “Don’t be late.” and then as an afterthought, “Don’t bring the juniors.”

Then he moves.

Jiang Cheng slips into a rhythm that is not entirely human. First, cut the ropes. Let them fray and unravel, coming apart at the worst possible moment.

Then, loosen the cart wheels. No obvious sabotage—just enough that they’ll break under weight. Lastly, release the ones who can run first. They’ll scatter, make noise.

Make it harder for the smugglers to chase all of them down. The youngest Omegas go first. Some are on the verge of presenting. They shouldn’t be here. They shouldn’t be here.

His hands shake as he presses activated protective talismans into their palms, pushing them toward the darkness.

He has no more left for himself.

He doesn’t need them. Not really.

Rage coils under his skin, slow and boiling, his teeth aching like they want to sink into something. He swallows it down. Tells himself, they’re free. That’s what matters.

Jiang Cheng moves carefully, delicately—disabling protective wards in ways they won’t notice until it’s too late. Thank you, Wei Wuxian.

He never thought he’d find use for his shixiong’s insufferable habit of rambling, of explaining every concept in ways that forced you to learn just to make him shut up. Turns out, it had its benefits.

He mutters as he slashes another restraint, voice low and even. If they don’t notice immediately, they’ll only realise when it’s too late.

Then he pulls out the false evidence. A few letters, marked and scrawled in careful, deliberate handwriting. Just enough to make it seem like an inside betrayal. If everything goes according to plan on the others side, then they'll be too busy scrambling to escape.

Let them tear each other apart before they ever think to look for an outsider.

It starts small.

A smuggler stumbles over a severed rope. Notices a broken crate.

Then—“Someone’s here!”

The Head Smuggler snarls, sharp and instant. “Secure the wagons! Find the rat!”

Then—

A crash.

One of the carts Jiang Cheng sabotaged collapses. A ward stone fizzles out. Another chain snaps. A cage swings open. A child stumbles out, Omega scent thick in the air, wide-eyed and shaking.

A knife flies—aimed for the back of their neck.

It shatters against the protective talisman Jiang Cheng had given them. Well. There it goes.

The Head Smuggler whips back around, expression twisting. “Kill it!”

Jiang Cheng moves first. His sword flashes. One smuggler doesn’t even have time to react before his throat is gone. The second falls before the first body even hits the ground.

The third tries to scream, but Jiang Cheng is faster—his blade cuts through flesh like it’s meant for this, like it was forged for nothing but the act of killing.

They don’t see him coming.

Xue Yuan speaks first. "We keep it simple. He talks, or he regrets it."

Li Rong grins, adjusting his robes, languid, at ease.

"So we’re using my methods, then."

Lu Zihe shifts, looking between them, uneasy. "I feel like you two are planning very different things."

Jiang Wanyin gave him a name. A mid-level trader, a logistics man. The kind of person who doesn’t make decisions, just carries them out.

He’s not powerful, but he knows who moves what, when, and where. And that’s enough. It’s interesting, though—Jiang Wanyin, a twelve-year-old, has more connections than he does.

Or is it just that he’s a sect heir?

Most likely.

Either way, it’s interesting.

The backroom of the tea house is dimly lit, thick with the smell of ink, spice, and something metallic—coin or blood, hard to tell. The merchant sits across from them, stiff, arms folded.

His gaze is wary. But not scared.

Not yet.

The merchant eyes them, unimpressed. “I don’t do business with kids.”

Li Rong smiles—too sharp to be friendly. “Good thing we’re not here for business, then.”

The merchant leans back, voice flat. “Then why are you wasting my time?”

Xue Yuan’s voice is low, deliberate. “We have questions. You’ll answer them.”

The merchant scoffs. “Or what?”

Li Rong hums thoughtfully, fingers tapping the table. Xue Yuan doesn’t move. He just watches.

Li Rong tilts his head, voice light. “You’re not the important one, you know. Just a middleman. People like you? Forgettable.”

The merchant’s jaw tightens. Irritation—good.

“If I’m so unimportant, why are you here?”

Xue Yuan studies him, cataloging every shift, every flicker of emotion. “Because people like you talk when they think they don’t matter.”

A hit. The merchant exhales slowly, like he’s forcing himself to stay calm.

“You think intimidation works on me?” He forces a laugh. “I’ve dealt with real threats. You’re just—“

Xue Yuan interrupts, voice dry. “Taking your time to insult us instead of answering.”

The merchant hesitates. He wasn’t expecting that.

Li Rong leans in, voice pleasant. Too pleasant. “We already know everything.”

He says it so easily. Like it’s fact. Like it’s already over.

“We’re just giving you a chance to confirm before someone else does.”

The merchant’s mouth opens. Closes.

Then, finally—

“Upper District. Third warehouse past the lantern stalls. The real broker operates from there.”

Li Rong leans back, satisfied. Xue Yuan nods once. Lu Zihe exhales like he’s been holding his breath the entire time.

Xue Yuan watches the merchant. Carefully. "If you try to run, we’ll know."

The merchant laughs, bitter. "Where would I even go?"

Lu Zihe mutters as they leave, rubbing his temple.

"I feel like we just made more problems for ourselves."

Li Rong, cheerful, unbothered— "I think that went well!"

Jiang Cheng moves on instinct.

It’s what keeps him alive—instinct, muscle memory, something deeper than thought. He knows how to dodge, how to parry, how to cut between ribs and sever tendons before a scream can form.

But his body—his body is too slow.

A fraction of a second too late. A movement just slightly off. He’s used to something stronger, faster—his reach is shorter than it should be, his core not as deep, not as stable.

Jiang Cheng grits his teeth, ducks under a strike, twists away from another. Frustration blooms sharp and hot in his ribs.

Damn it, I wish I had my older body—

And then—

He freezes.

Wait. What older body?

His foot nearly catches on loose stone. He’s forced to drop his weight, brace with his sword before a blow can catch him off guard.

The thought lingers, gnaws at the back of his skull like a half-forgotten dream. He doesn’t have time to dwell on it. His core strains—not strong enough. His body aches—not fast enough.

He fights anyway.

It’s muscle memory now, the siren-deep pull of something older than thought—something hungry, something that wants to rend flesh from bone.

And then—

A whistle cuts through the chaos. Someone joins the fray. Jiang Cheng exhales, sharp and annoyed.

Finally.

Li Rong, Yu Shuren, Xue Yuan, and Sun Li. No juniors, thank the gods.

Jiang Cheng huffs out. “Took you long enough.”

The tide shifts—his people outmatch the enemy lines within minutes. Smugglers drop, weapons slip from broken fingers, bodies hit the ground.

This is almost over.

Then—he feels it.

The shift. The ripple in the air, pressing down like the weight of a storm. His fingers tighten on his sword. Someone powerful has arrived.

A figure steps out from the shadows, moving unhurriedly, like they have all the time in the world. Jiang Cheng narrows his eyes. Xifeng Sect robes. An elder.

No mask, no attempt to hide. Bold. Arrogant. Stupid. The elder smiles, slow and easy.

"Children playing spy games. How adorable.”

Jiang Cheng hates the way his voice curls, indulgent, like they’re insects beneath his heel. His stomach twists. The smuggling ring isn’t just corrupt merchants.

A Wen-affiliated sect is backing this. Either the Wens are directly profiting, or they’re looking the other way. Neither option is good.

Jiang Cheng feels the tension in his team. This isn’t some rogue cultivator. This is a real threat. The elder doesn’t waste time. He tilts his head, gaze settling on Xue Yuan.

"You first, saber wielder."

Then he moves. Too fast. Energy coils in his palm, a gathered strike meant to kill.

Xue Yuan reacts, but—he’s too slow.

Then—

Jiang Cheng is there before he can think.

The blow connects, not with Xue Yuan, but with him. Pain explodes through his arm. He bites down hard, barely stopping himself from making a sound.

His vision tunnels—not his sword arm. It’s fine. It’s fine.

Xue Yuan stares, frozen, shock and something too close to fear flashing in his eyes.

Jiang Cheng yells, voice cutting like a whip. “Move!”

Xue Yuan stumbles back, alive.

Jiang Cheng exhales, forces himself to focus. The elder watches him, gaze sharp, something unreadable curling at the edges of his mouth.

Like recognition.

Like suspicion.

Jiang Cheng raises his sword.

The elder tilts his head.

"Interesting."

Jiang Wanyin just—

He just took a blow for him. A sword meant for him. Xue Yuan. It should have killed him. Jiang Wanyin could’ve died.

But he didn’t hesitate. Not for a second. He moved like it was nothing. Like it was natural.

Xue Yuan stands there, stunned, watching blood seep through Jiang Wanyin’s robes, watching him pivot, strike, kill.

His mind stutters, lags, won’t catch up. He took a blow for me.

Jiang Wanyin moves like a predator on a hunt. No—like something more than that. A predator fights when it has the upper hand. It stalks prey. It waits for the right moment. It doesn’t do this.

This is a creature fighting cornered, bleeding, enraged.

And yet.

It doesn’t even look like a fight. At times, it looks like a dance. The way he pivots, the way he flows, the way his sword finds the softest, weakest places in an opponent’s defense and tears into them like he was born for it.

There is nothing reckless about it. Only precise, merciless brutality.

And yet, he took a hit—a hit that was meant for him.

Xue Yuan’s heart pounds. The first time. First time since his mother that someone cared for him in a way that was—what? Selfless? Sacrificial?

He can’t move. Can’t breathe. He watches Jiang Wanyin, and he knows. This—this is someone he will follow.

The moment snaps.

A figure moves behind Jiang Wanyin. A coward, a lowly nothing, striking from behind while Jiang Wanyin is still facing off with the elder—

Xue Yuan moves. He doesn’t think. His body acts before his mind catches up.

Touch him, and I’ll rip you apart.

His sword buries itself deep. A clean strike, aimed to kill. The first time he’s taken a life. Blood splashes hot across his arm.

The cultivator gasps, chokes, slumps against his blade before he wrenches it free. The body drops. Xue Yuan doesn’t look at it. His eyes are still on Jiang Wanyin.

Jiang Wanyin is still holding the elder back, but he’s bleeding badly. The others are struggling to keep up. Xue Yuan grits his teeth, moves closer—

And then, the air shifts.

A new voice. Dry. Unimpressed.

"An elder against a child? Have some dignity."

The elder stiffens.

Then, in less than a breath—

He gets wrecked.

Xue Yuan barely follows the movement, the sheer speed of the strike. It’s Yu Meixing. Sect Leader Yu’s first born child. She had been away. On a sensitive mission. She shouldn’t have been here.

And the elder—he was moving slower before. Tired. Worn down.

Xue Yuan’s grip tightens. Because it wasn’t just the fight with Jiang Wanyin that weakened him. It was Jiang Wanyin himself.

Because Jiang Wanyin doesn’t just fight. He doesn’t just win.

He wears them down, grinds them into dust, makes it so they fall apart at the seams—so that the next strike, the finishing strike, is already inevitable.

Gods.

Xue Yuan watches the elder crumple, and for the first time, he really, truly understands.

He will follow Jiang Wanyin anywhere.

The Wen Clan is involved. But how deeply?

Is this a rogue sect acting alone, or is Wen Ruohan’s shadow cast over this already? If Wen Ruohan knows, why would he allow it?

The Wens are iron-fisted in their control. Nothing moves without their will.

Unless—

Unless there’s a crack. A power struggle, a schism beneath the surface, something rotting from the inside. If this information got out, it could unite the sects against them.

But expose it too soon—

And Jiang Cheng and his people are dead before the war even begins.

He blinks.

Wow.

Yu Meixing wrecked that guy.

His aunt.

His aunt.

She’s standing there, shaking blood off her blade, and for a moment—just a moment—his stomach turns. She looks just like his mother.

The same sharp gaze. The same way she holds a sword like it’s a natural extension of her arm. The same presence—unshakable, like the tides, like something that was always meant to be.

Yu genes run strong, huh.

He blinks as aunt comes over.

"If your mother finds out, she might come here herself just to whip me for letting you get stabbed,” she says, eyes flicking over the wound like she’s cataloging it for later.

Jiang Cheng exhales. “Then don’t tell her.”

Her eyebrow lifts. Amused. "Cheeky. But I’m taking over from here, kiddo."

He glances at the ruins of the smuggling ring, the bodies, the blood drying on the stone. “Sure.”

And that’s it. No argument, no unnecessary words. She’s capable. He knows that. He doesn’t need to waste breath proving something they both already understand.

She’s here. She’ll handle it.

He has bigger things to think about.

Some smugglers survived. Jiang Cheng can track them. Instead of wiping them out completely, he can use them—let them run, let them think they escaped. Let them become his message.

The Wen Sect got caught. That means they weren’t as careful as they should have been. That means they have hidden weaknesses. Jiang Cheng doesn’t need to destroy them.

Not yet.

He just needs to start collecting their secrets. He looks around, at the wreckage of the fight, at the way Yu Meixing is already organising the cleanup, efficient, precise.

They should probably get out of his aunt’s way.

He starts walking, already thinking of what to do next.

Rumours. That’s the next step.

Oh my god.

This dumbass.

Li Rong watches as Jiang Cheng just walks away, like he didn’t just get stabbed.

Like the wound on his arm and legs are an afterthought, like the pool of his blood on the stone is just a bit of spilt wine.

He glances at Sun Li. She pinches the bridge of her nose.

Yu Shuren exhales through his nose and rubs his temples. Which, for Yu Shuren, is the equivalent of losing his entire temper.

And then, of course, there’s Xue Yuan.

Who is staring at the blood. Fixated. Like he wants to bottle it, preserve it, carve poetry about it into his bones.

Li Rong groans. Ugh.

Xue Yuan just became weirder.

Jiang Cheng, oblivious to the sheer chaos he leaves in his wake, tilts his head at Yu Shuren’s attempted intervention.

“Hmm?”

Sun Li sighs.

“You got stabbed, you—” She grabs his wrist, forces him to sit down, pulling out her medical kit. She’s patching him up before he can make this even dumber.

Li Rong relates. He does. The frustration, the absolute resignation. But he doesn’t show it. He just tilts his head, unimpressed.

Jiang Cheng frowns. Scowls, actually. Like they’re all being dramatic.

“It’s not that bad.”

“And you think you’re just gonna walk back to the inn?”

Jiang Cheng shrugs. Like yes. Obviously.

Fucking lunatic.

But then—Xue Yuan steps forward. Right in front of Jiang Cheng. 

And then—he kneels.

Oh.

Ohhh.

Damn.

Jiang Cheng just got a loyal follower, huh? Jiang Cheng, of course, does not realise this. In fact, he looks faintly horrified.

Xue Yuan’s face is completely serious, unwavering. "You can’t walk, so I’ll carry you."

Jiang Cheng blinks. Still processing.

"I can walk—“

Xue Yuan, ignoring him entirely, scoops him up. Bridal style.

"No, you can’t.”

Sun Li physically turns away, pressing fingers to her mouth. Yu Shuren looks at the sky like it holds the answers to his life choices.

Li Rong? Li Rong is struggling to not laugh. Jiang Cheng, for the first time all night, is actually flustered.

"PUT ME DOWN!”

Xue Yuan doesn’t react. Just holds him like he weighs nothing. Li Rong clears his throat, face carefully blank.

“Xue Yuan. Maybe it’d be better if you carried him a different way?”

Xue Yuan blinks. Looks at Jiang Cheng. Then at Li Rong. Then back at Jiang Cheng. Like a puppy trying to understand what he did wrong.

Jiang Cheng drags a hand down his face, deep inhale, slow exhale.

“…Alright,” he mutters, still looking vaguely scandalised. “Just—put me down.”

Xue Yuan doesn’t hesitate. But then he asks, still completely solemn:

"You’ll get on my back?"

Jiang Cheng’s eye twitches.

“You don’t have to do that.”

Xue Yuan’s face doesn’t falter.

"Let me repay you."

Jiang Cheng stares. A long, assessing, frustrated stare.

Then he just… sighs.

"Yeah, okay. Sure."

Li Rong tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling, biting his lip so he doesn’t start laughing.

Chapter Text

Jiang Cheng had crashed the moment he returned to the sect. Or more accurately, he had not. He had trained. And trained. Night to day, day to night. And then—one night—his body moved before his mind could stop it.

He ran.

Barefoot across the wild earth, across the cool, dark soil, through the damp ferns that clung to his ankles like ghosts. The night was vast, so black it bled into him, but he could see—he could always see.

The wolves ran with him. Sleek and fast, more mist than flesh, glowing ever so slightly in the dark.

He followed them through brambles and shadows, over rotting trunks, through winding paths where the moon barely reached. His lungs burned, his stomach cramped, but he had never felt better.

He had never felt more alive than in the nights when he ran until he forgot that his ribs still ached from old wounds,

that his hands had forgotten how to hold without crushing,

that he had died once, already.

But that didn’t mean he abandoned training.

Who said people needed a full night’s sleep when they could live by the hour?

He collapses under a tree, his body thrumming like a struck chord, his breath tearing its way out of him. The wolves circle nearby, close enough to watch but not close enough to touch.

All except one. The mother. She approaches, moving with the unshaken stillness of something that does not fear him.

Jiang Cheng tenses.

She does not.

She does not snarl, does not snap—instead, she drops her sleeping pup into his lap.

Jiang Cheng freezes.

The warmth. The precious weight. He does not move. If he moves, the pup will wake. If he shifts, the mother might take it back. If he breathes wrong, this moment will shatter.

The pup’s tiny body rises and falls, its breath a soft rhythm against his own erratic one. The mother wolf sits beside him, silent, unbothered. Watching. Trusting.

Jiang Cheng has never been trusted like this before. Not with something so small. So helpless. So alive.

Him—who is inexplicably rotten.

It is mind-boggling. Him—who cannot be touched without burning. Him—who rages and rages until he has nothing left but the ghost of it, clinging to him like a second skin.

Him—who died once, and kept moving anyway. The wolves do not know this. Or maybe they do, and do not care. The wind moves through the trees, a cool hand over his burning skin.

He is so tired. He has been angry all his life. And he had been angry in his death, too. Angry until it burned itself out—

until it turned into exhaustion—

until it settled into regret.

He is tired in a way that seeps into the marrow, settles behind his ribs like silt in a riverbed.

He has carried anger like a birthright, like a fever that never broke, burning through lifetimes, past the reach of death, past the turning of years that should not have been his to see.

There is no room left in him for rage, not now. Not when all that remains is duty.

He will stay, as long as Yunmeng needs him. But when the last thing is mended, when the last oath is answered—then, and only then, he would like to be laid to rest.

His ribs still ache, but for once, his hands do not shake. The pup snuffles in its sleep, burrowing closer.

Jiang Cheng exhales.

And for the first time in weeks, for the first time since he woke up in the wreckage of his own making, since he clawed his way back into a life that had long since closed its doors to him—

He closes his eyes.

No wards. No weapons. No restless thoughts to chase him into waking.

Only the wolves. Only the wind. Only the slow rhythm of a life, breathing steady against his own.

And sleep finally takes him.

Jiang Cheng had known this conversation was coming. Yu Meixing had arrived a few days ago, and unlike his uncle, she hadn’t immediately sought him out with teasing and easy conversation.

Instead, she had watched. And now, at dusk, she finally approaches him.

"You didn’t hesitate," she says.

Jiang Cheng looks up from where he’s adjusting the bandages on his hand.

“When?"

Yu Meixing doesn’t sit. She stands just a little too still, like someone waiting for an answer that will determine something far greater than the question itself.

"When you stepped in front of Xue Yuan.”

Jiang Cheng tightens the bandages.

"He would’ve died," he says simply.

"You didn’t even think about it.”

Jiang Cheng looks up. "Is that bad?”

Yu Meixing studies him for a moment longer. Then, finally, she sits.

"No," she says.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t know how to act around her.

With his mother, it was simple. A test of endurance, a constant battle to hold his ground without getting torn apart. A fight where he always lost, just in varying degrees.

But Yu Meixing?

She doesn’t try to overpower him. She doesn’t demand anything. She just watches, listens, waits. It makes Jiang Cheng feel like a specimen under study.

"Are we having feelings in here?”

Jiang Cheng turns to see his uncle standing in the doorway, grinning like an idiot.

Yu Meixing doesn’t turn around. “Leave."

"So cold. I came to check on my dear nephew—“

"No, you didn’t," Jiang Cheng mutters.

Yu Weizhe laughs. "Ah, he’s learning. He’s learning.”

Yu Meixing exhales. “Weizhe."

"Fine, fine. I’ll just stand here. Not listening. Definitely not eavesdropping on whatever intimidating thing you’re saying to the kid.”

Yu Meixing ignores her brother.

"You think you’re in control.”

Jiang Cheng stiffens.

"You think if you just plan enough, anticipate enough, you’ll always have a way out."

Jiang Cheng doesn’t answer.

Yu Meixing tilts her head slightly. "But you put yourself in front of an elder’s strike. That wasn’t strategy.”

Jiang Cheng swallows. "It was instinct."

She lets the words settle between them.

Yu Weizhe, for once, doesn’t interrupt.

Jiang Cheng exhales slowly. “Is there a point to this?"

Yu Meixing considers him. "If you keep making decisions like that, make sure you have something worth dying for.”

Jiang Cheng blinks.

Yu Meixing stands, just as calmly as she sat. “Don’t push yourself too hard.”

And leaves.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t move for a long moment after Yu Meixing disappears. He isn’t quiet sure what to think about her words.

A sigh cuts through the quiet.

"Well, that looked fun.”

Jiang Cheng turns to find his uncle leaning lazily against the doorway, expression unreadable.

"Are you here to say something meaningful," Jiang Cheng asks flatly, "or are you just here to be annoying?”

Yu Weizhe hums. "Bit of both.”

He doesn’t sit, doesn’t step forward. Just watches. Jiang Cheng tries not to bristle.

"What does she want?" Jiang Cheng asks after a beat, tone flat.

Yu Weizhe hums, tilting his head in exaggerated thought. "Hmmm. I think she wants to know what kind of person her nephew turned into while she was gone.”

Jiang Cheng frowns. "I didn’t turn into anything.”

"No? Then why’s she looking at you like you’re a puzzle she’s half-solved?”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t answer.

Yu Weizhe leans back, smirking. "Relax. If Mei’Jie had a real problem with you, you wouldn’t be having a conversation about it—you’d just disappear.”

Jiang Cheng stares.

"That was a joke.”

"Was it?”

Yu Weizhe grins.

A moment later, he says, "She’s not the only one watching, you know.”

Jiang Cheng frowns. “Meaning?"

Yu Weizhe exhales. Then, as if casually—

“I, too, am curious to see what kind of person my nephew turns out to be.”

Jiang Cheng stills. His fingers tighten briefly around his sleeve before he schools his expression.

"You don’t have to watch," he says. "It’s already decided."

Yu Weizhe raises an eyebrow. "Is it?”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t argue, either.

Yu Weizhe stretches lazily.

“Wanna spar? No promises I won’t completely embarrass you.”

Jiang Cheng gives him a blank stare.

“Leave."

“Wow, you wound me, A-Cheng.”

"I will throw something at you.”

Yu Weizhe grins, already stepping back. "Alright, alright. Just remember—if you need anything, your cool, intelligent, and devastatingly handsome uncle is always around.”

Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes. "Sure. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Yu Weizhe laughs, ruffling Jiang Cheng’s hair before ducking away before he can retaliate. Jiang Cheng scowls, brushing his hair back into place. For a moment, he just sits there.

Then, finally, he exhales and stands.

There is work to do.

Does an oracle see the future or create it?

The bones of a prophet rattle in the wind. A river knows its own way home. If the river already knows the way to the sea, then what difference is the boatman?

If the storm is already coming, then what difference is the name you give it?

All roads lead to ruin, but he walks them just the same.

A tongue that speaks of tomorrow is a tongue that cannot lie. And a tongue that cannot lie is a thing that must be burned.

What is a ghost but a thing that loved too much to leave?

What is lost can be found—for the right price.

There is a city.

And beneath that city, there is an old tunnel system, veins running like a forgotten body beneath the stone.

Decades ago, smugglers traced these paths like the blood of a beast they had long since tamed. Then the city grew, paved over its own bones, and the tunnels were lost to time.

But Jiang Cheng knows better than to believe in things like loss.

Lost things wait to be found. Lost things are only waiting for the right hands to dig them up.

Someday, the Ronghai Guild will rediscover these tunnels. Someday, they will use them for illegal trade, secret passage, safe transport.

Someday, one of Ronghai’s top merchants, Zhou Lihua, will betray them.

And someday, Jiang Cheng will make sure Yan Huai will recruit her.

The Ronghai Guild and the Yan Trading Guild have been at each other’s throats for decades. Yan Huai’s trade runs wide, steady, safe—he deals in bulk, in the certainty of tradition.

Ronghai runs lean, sharp, hungry—they deal in high-margin exclusivity, in the art of undercutting. But they have one weakness.

They have yet to dig their hands into the earth beneath their own feet.

And Jiang Cheng will hand that earth to Yan Huai.

In return?

An alliance. And a letter, delivered safely to the hands of Yue-jiejie.

How did he get out of the sect? It was easy. Too easy. His uncle was surprisingly simple to manipulate—Jiang Cheng hardly had to try. His uncle announced a trip to the city, and Jiang Cheng asked nicely to come along. His uncle had agreed.

Later that day, Jiang Cheng slipped away quietly, moving through the city like a shade between alleys, and found Yan Huai. He needed to get in contact with Yue-jiejie.

Needed to see a sign of life.

The last time he saw her was in his dreams—her charred body, lying in the wreckage, defiled by pigs.

But there is no fate set in stone. If the river already knows the way to the sea, then what difference is the boatman?

So he wrote.

He does not say it is urgent. He does not say please, for the love of the gods, tell me you are still breathing.

He does not say the future is a beast I cannot recognise, and I do not know if I am meant to feed it or run from it.

The teahouse was quiet at this hour, its usual hum of conversation replaced by the lazy crackling of lanterns swaying in the night breeze.

Yan Huai sat calmly, too calmly for it to be natural.

“You only show up when you want something,” Yan Huai mused, tapping his fingers against his cup. “Should I be flattered or bracing for impact?”

Jiang Cheng didn’t rise to the bait. “You have traders going to Yunmeng, right?”

Yan Huai raised an eyebrow. “I might. Why?”

Jiang Cheng reached into his sleeve, pulling out a folded letter, sliding it across the table. “A delivery.”

Yan Huai didn’t touch it immediately. Just glanced at it, then back at Jiang Cheng. “That’s it?”

Jiang Cheng exhaled slowly. “You want me to make it more complicated?”

Yan Huai laughed, finally taking the letter and tucking it away in his robes. “You, complicated? Never.”

Jiang Cheng shifted, adjusting his sleeves. “There’s something else.”

Yan Huai smirked. “Ah. And there it is.” He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. “Go on, tell me what little scheme you’ve cooked up this time.”

Jiang Cheng didn’t bother with theatrics. “The tunnel system under the city. The old smuggler routes.”

Yan Huai blinked. “That place is a graveyard. Half of it’s collapsed.”

“It can be reopened,” Jiang Cheng said. “Cleared. Reused. No one else is touching it.”

Yan Huai huffed, amused. “Yet. You think I should?”

“You should.” Jiang Cheng’s voice was flat, matter-of-fact. “Ronghai will get to it eventually. You can get there first.”

Yan Huai tilted his head, thoughtful. “And if I do?”

Jiang Cheng met his gaze. “You’ll have a trade route no one else does. No taxes, no oversight.”

Yan Huai let out a low whistle. “Alright. Let’s say I bite. What else?”

Jiang Cheng leaned back slightly. “Zhou Lihua.”

Yan Huai’s fingers stilled against his cup.

“She’s going to betray them,” Jiang Cheng said, voice even. “It’s just a matter of time.”

Yan Huai’s expression didn’t change, but there was something sharp in his gaze now. He considered it, rolling the thought over. Then, he sighed.

“And what do I get out of this?”

Jiang Cheng pushed another slip of paper across the table. Yan Huai picked it up, unfolded it, scanned the numbers inside. His eyebrows lifted.

“Oh?” He looked at Jiang Cheng, interested now. “This… and the price from before?”

Jiang Cheng nodded. “All of it.”

Yan Huai exhaled, shaking his head with a grin. “You really are a menace.” He tucked the paper into his sleeve, then lifted his cup in mock salute.

Jiang Cheng stood, already turning to leave.

Behind him, Yan Huai laughed. “Don’t die, alright? You’re much more fun alive.”

Jiang Cheng didn’t look back.

The sect had its charm, but Yu Weizhe had been here far longer than he intended. His feet itched for the road. The open sky, the thrill of going nowhere familiar, the kind of trouble that made life worth living.

He was mentally preparing to leave soon—already half-planning which excuse would sound the least offensive when he abandoned his duties for the hundredth time—when a small, familiar storm approached.

Jiang Cheng, looking vaguely huffy, shoulders squared like he was gearing up for battle. Yu Weizhe watched, amused.

The kid was adorable. All puffed-up pride and sharp eyes. A kitten pretending to be a tiger.

Then, oh no.

He just tilted his head. Yu Weizhe almost cooed. He barely held it in, managing a smirk instead.

Jiang Cheng hesitated, then asked, in a quiet voice, ”…Can I come with you?”

Yu Weizhe blinked. Then grinned.

"What, you finally want to spend time with your favourite uncle?"

Jiang Cheng stared at him, blank, cheeks slightly puffed out..

“…Hm."

Yu Weizhe paused. He wasn’t expecting that. Oh. The kid actually likes him. He just doesn’t know how to show it. He should take him somewhere fun.

He must’ve taken too long to respond, because Jiang Cheng’s expression twitched—his brows pinched, his mouth forming the beginnings of a pout.

Oh, no. Too cute. Too dangerous for my heart. Abort.

Yu Weizhe clapped a hand on his shoulder, guiding him toward the city before he had time to change his mind. The market was bright, loud, brimming with life.

Yu Weizhe threw money around like it meant nothing. Because, really, it didn’t.

Jiang Cheng kept eyeing things and then pretending he wasn’t eyeing them. Rookie mistake. Did he not know who he was dealing with?

Yu Weizhe was a generous man.

Jiang Cheng’s gaze lingered on a set of golden hair bells.

Bought.

He frowned at them when Yu Weizhe handed them over. “You didn’t have to.”

Yu Weizhe shrugged. “I don’t mind.”

Jiang Cheng scowled, but tucked them into his sleeve.

Then, a pale lavender hair ribbon.

Bought.

A sword tassel.

Bought.

Jiang Cheng actually protested that one. “I have one.”

Yu Weizhe smirked. “Yeah, and now you have two.”

Jiang Cheng made a noise of deep, long-suffering exasperation. Yu Weizhe grinned wider. The kid was cute. Annoying, sharp-tongued, probably a little too tightly wound, but cute.

Maybe he should stick around a little longer.

Or—better idea—maybe he should convince Mother to let him take the kid with him.

Wouldn’t that be fun? A Yunmeng Jiang disciple, learning the true Yunmeng way—wandering, drinking, fighting, laughing. Doing the impossible just because they could.

He glanced at Jiang Cheng, who was currently trying to pretend he wasn’t pleased with his new hair bells.

Yeah.

It’d be fun.

The art is older than him. Older than his name, older than the blood that sings in his veins.

It remembers the hands that came before his, the bodies that bled into the dirt, the prayers whispered into the hilt of a blade.

The battlefield does not care for names or legacies, for mercy or honour—it cares only for the feast, for the crimson offering poured into its hungry mouth before the night is over.

This is not learned. This is known.

The way a river knows how to find the sea. The way a beast knows when it is being hunted. The way the earth knows how to drink from the dead.

Jiang Cheng does not fight with his hands alone. He fights with the cage of his ribs, the gnash of his teeth, the soles of his feet biting into the soil.

He fights with the breath rattling in his chest, the hum of his wanting, the scream of knowing. The world gnashes its teeth at the sky, and he answers.

Over and over. Again and again. Until his muscles scream and his bones rattle in his skin. Until the line between body and blade disappears entirely.

(If you fall, the forest will take you back. If you rise, the blade will ask for more.)

No matter what, the trees will stand. The wind will move. The fight will go on.

He does not wield the sword. He carries it—like a prayer, like a curse, like the blade of an altar where something holy was once laid to rest.

He moves, he runs, he lets the steel become an extension of his ribs, his spine, his hunger. Barefoot, bare-throated, all sharp edges and sweat and something half-mad in his grin.

And when the fight is done—when his body still hums with restlessness, when the grief of knowing gnaws at the edges of his ribs like a starving dog, when waiting feels like a slow death—

He runs.

Through the undergrowth, through the mist-thick dark, through the ribs of the forest where the air tastes of freedom and wildness, magnolias on his tongue, dandelions in his breath.

His feet know the earth like an old lover, every root and stone and moss-soft patch that catches his step.

The bells at his ankles sing with every motion—light, laughing, unbothered by the blood of war.

The wolves keep pace, breath curling white into the night air.

He is not their master. Not their prey. Just another creature of the deepwood, another creature answering the call of the wild.

His hair is a snarl of wind. His lungs are full of the damp breath of the trees. The earth is slick beneath him, but he does not stumble. If he could, he would run forever.

(He has always belonged here.)

If death comes, it will not find him kneeling.

It will not find him waiting.

It will find him running.

It will find him free.

The juniors return from their mission full of energy, which is a polite way of saying they are utterly feral with excitement. At first, they are simply answering questions.

“How did the mission go?” someone asks.

And the juniors, who have just had the most thrilling and traumatic experience of their young lives, respond like normal, well-adjusted individuals.

Which is to say, they do not respond normally at all.

“Jiang Wanyin is terrifyingly strong,” one breathless junior says. “He single-handedly fought off ten fierce corpses.”

“He moves like a phantom,” another adds, wide-eyed. “You blink, and he’s already behind you.”

“He tames wild beasts with a glance.”

None of this is technically untrue. It is, however, deeply misleading.

And then Xue Yuan gets involved.

Now, Xue Yuan is not a talkative person. He prefers to watch, to analyse, to stalk people in the way that is concerning if you think about it too hard.

However.

If someone asks about Jiang Cheng, Xue Yuan talks.

“Jiang-Gongzi has never lost a spar,” he says, voice heavy with conviction.

“He doesn’t flinch in battle,” he continues, eyes glinting. “Not even against an elder-level opponent.”

“He can shake off any injury. It’s like he doesn’t even feel it.”

All of these statements are technically true. However, context is important, and Xue Yuan has no interest in providing it.

As a result, the rumours spiral.

Some people say Jiang Wanyin is a half-demon prince. Others whisper that he is a cursed immortal, doomed to wander the earth forever.

And instead of stopping this nonsense, Xue Yuan makes it worse.

If someone says, “Jiang Gongzi’s movements are like flowing water,”

Xue Yuan nods solemnly and corrects them.

“Because he understands the natural order of the world.”

If admiration is not extreme enough, Xue Yuan personally corrects it.

At some point, he starts vetting who is allowed to be near Jiang Cheng, as though Jiang Cheng is some divine artefact that must not be touched by mortal hands.

One junior, overwhelmed, finally asks, “Is Jiang Cheng really as strong as they say?”

Xue Yuan, dead serious, “Stronger.”

The junior, awed, “…I see.”

And then.

Yu Weizhe hears about the rumours.

Now, Yu Weizhe is many things: a cultivator, a respected senior, an incredibly bad influence.

And when he hears that Jiang Cheng’s reputation has somehow morphed into “mystical, untouchable legend,” he does what any reasonable person would do.

He makes it so much worse.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, when someone asks. “When he was three, he knocked out a grown man.”

“You think his sword skills are impressive? He once killed a snake with a single glare.”

At some point, Yu Qiao joins in along side Yu Weizhe, because if there is one thing Yu Qiao loves more than anything, it is causing problems on purpose.

By now, Jiang Cheng is no longer just a mysterious prodigy. He is a divine figure. Disciples start whispering when he walks past. Some of them bow.

Jiang Cheng, who has done absolutely nothing to deserve any of this, is increasingly confused and vaguely horrified.

Yu Meixing watches all of this unfold. She sighs. Deeply.

“Weizhe, stop it.”

Yu Weizhe grins at her, entirely unrepentant.

“What? It’s all true.”

Yu Meixing levels him with a look.

“…In their hearts,” Yu Weizhe amends.

Jiang Cheng has come to the conclusion that the Yu Sect must be cursed.

Or collectively inhaling psychedelics.

Either option seems equally plausible.

It’s the only reasonable explanation for whatever the fuck is happening, because he has walked through the sect grounds three times now, and every single time, the junior disciples have either bowed to him—bowed—or greeted him with a “Jiang-gongzi” that is just a little too reverent.

Like he’s a revered monk or prophesied saint.

And okay, sure, he's used to getting some respect.

Yunmeng Jiang is a great sect, his father is Sect Leader, and he as a sect heir is enough to warrant acknowledgment. But this? This is weird.

He narrows his eyes at the next disciple who does it, but they just look even more determined, like yes, Jiang-gongzi, you are worthy of my admiration, please accept my devotion.

Which—what the fuck does that even mean?

Jiang Cheng is now alarmed and has started working on contingency plans in case he gets murdered.

Again.

(He refuses to rule out cursed. This is a sect that works with poisons, and poisons do things to the brain. They should have built-up immunity. He, personally, is immune to most aphrodisiacs and knockout drugs thanks to how often people have tried to roofie him, but that’s beside the point. If he’s noticing something off, then something is off.)

And then there’s Xue Yuan.

Jiang Cheng has also come to the conclusion that Xue Yuan must have sustained significant head trauma during their last mission because he has—

Stopped trying to murder him.

Which is concerning.

Not in the oh no, I’m in danger way, but in the what the fuck happened, and when is the other shoe going to drop way.

Because Xue Yuan has been nice to him. Which is unnerving. Nice in the way that makes Jiang Cheng instinctively check for poison (there isn’t any), and traps (none), and secret ulterior motives (…to be determined).

Xue Yuan brings him tanghulu. And soy milk. And peaches and plums.

And Jiang Cheng checks every single one for toxins, for sedatives, for anything remotely suspicious—nothing.

And then keeps eating them anyway, because hey, free food. Which is not the point. The point is, Xue Yuan is easy to manipulate, which is both a boon and a concern.

Because it means Jiang Cheng can leverage this odd truce to his advantage—Xue Yuan takes him into the city, which gives him the opportunity to move unnoticed, gather information, establish connections.

But it also means Jiang Cheng has no idea how far he can push before Xue Yuan snaps and goes back to trying to kill him.

(And Jiang Cheng does not want to find out.)

Yu disciples are terrifying on a normal day, and Xue Yuan is… on another level. Especially after he casually mentioned that he knows exactly where Jiang Cheng’s room is.

Like it’s nothing.

Like it’s a fun fact and not a terrifying revelation that has Jiang Cheng lying awake at night and wondering if he should start setting traps around his bed.

Which—he absolutely should.

He has also realised that his uncle is aware of all of this.

And has said nothing.

Which means one of two things:

1. His uncle is waiting to see if Jiang Cheng gets eviscerated.

2. His uncle thinks Jiang Cheng deserves this for one reason or another.

Either way, not helpful.

So, Jiang Cheng starts spending more time in the forest.

Because at least the forest is predictable.

At least the wolves only look at him like that because he saved their baby once and runs with them. At least the trees don’t bow to him like he’s something worth reverence.

(He still refuses to rule out cursed.)

Ruan Yue recognises the handwriting immediately. Elegant, measured, careful—but not too careful. A deliberate casualness.

Her lips curve, relief and fondness curling deep in her ribs. A trader from Meishan had delivered it, which means her little dancer has found connections there.

She isn’t surprised—although, she would have expected it a few years down the road, not this soon. But that’s just like him, isn’t it?

Moving faster than anyone expects, always more behind the reputation and perception he has. She smooths out the letter, eyes skimming over the words.

Yue-jiejie,

I trust everything is well on your end. Meishan has been enlightening, though it lacks Yunmeng’s warmth.

Yunmeng’s warmth. She huffs, amused. A poetic way of saying I miss home.

Still, one meets all sorts here—merchants, travelers, performers.

I had the pleasure of seeing an interesting street act the other day. The juggler was particularly skilled—he kept so many things in the air, yet never dropped a single one.

A rare talent, don’t you think? Though I wonder how long he can keep it up before his arms grow tired.

Ruan Yue hums, tapping a nail against the table. A juggler. Perhaps meaning a smuggler?

Someone balancing too many risks, keeping too many plates spinning. And not just any smuggler—one that hasn’t been caught yet. Which means someone very careful. Someone very skilled.

But not, apparently, skilled enough to go unnoticed. Her mouth twitches. They won’t be able to keep this up for long before making a mistake.

I hear the Yan Trading Guild serves excellent wine, it’s a shame I couldn’t try it myself. The merchant I met with has a sharp eye and an even sharper tongue. We met under the shade of an old pagoda tree. He sends his regards.

Yan Trading Guild. That’s where he’s been setting up, then. Pagoda tree—ah. Yan Huai. The bastard son.

Her dancer has always loved outcasts and strays.

Yan Huai is sharp, ruthless, and—most importantly—unclaimed. No true allegiance to his father’s business, no deep ties binding him to any cause.

If he’s being mentioned, then he’s useful. If he’s sending regards, then he’s interested.

She makes a note to keep an eye on him.

Please send my best to our friends. It’s been too long since I last visited.

Meaning: Tell me what’s happening with our people.

If any of them are traveling, let me know—I’d love to hear their stories.

Meaning: Watch for movement in the smuggling rings, and also—

She smirks.

Tell me how you’ve been.

I hope I’ll be back for the Red Lantern Festival.

If things go well, he’ll be back by year’s end. She exhales, pressing the letter flat against the table. He’s okay.

That tight coil in her chest, the one wound with worry, with a thousand sharp-edged possibilities of what could have gone wrong—it loosens. Just a little.

She reads the letter again, slower this time. Lets herself linger in the way he writes to her—not like a subordinate, not like a spy reporting to their handler, but like a son.

A sharp, clever thing, always fighting like a storm made flesh, but still hers. And then she sets the letter aside, reaching for fresh paper.

If he’s going to play, she’ll make sure he’s playing well.

She has information to send, stories to tell. Our friends are doing well. There have been some recent disruptions—the juggler you saw isn’t the only one balancing too many things.

And, because she knows he’ll be smug about it—Your merchant with the sharp tongue should have no trouble biting back, then. Perhaps he’ll be more interesting than his father.

She turns to the small lacquered box in the corner of her desk. Inside, a gift she’d already been preparing.

His birthday is soon. She runs a finger along the edge of the box, smiling.

Her darling dancer is okay.

And he’ll be back soon.

Jiang Cheng thinks he’s really done well with his sword style.

No, really. It’s good. It’s sharp. It’s clever. The wolves, however, look uncertain.

The pup is cocking its head, ears twitching like it’s trying to understand, and the oldest wolf just gives him a slow, deliberate blink—the same kind Yue jiejie gives when she’s unimpressed but too tired to say so.

“No, listen,” Jiang Cheng insists, waving his sword for emphasis. “Look. It works if I do—”

He moves, his hips leading the turn, smooth and controlled, the air whispering against his skin as he spins. His blade cuts through the space where an enemy’s throat would be, the force of it sharp enough to stir the wind.

“See?” he says triumphantly. “And if I use quick footwork—”

One second, he’s in front. The next, he’s behind. A flash of movement, weight shifting, barely a rustle in the grass.

The pup perks up, tail wagging slightly. The old wolf twitches an ear. A very skeptical ear.

Jiang Cheng pouts.

“It will work,” he mutters.

Silence.

He adjusts his grip on the sword, expression thoughtful. “I’ve been thinking—if I use false feints, plus terrain advantages, it could be really good. I don’t have a naturally strong body, not really. No matter how much I train, I’m never going to be strong as a Nie, or Wei Wuxian.”

He exhales, long and slow, pressing the tip of his blade into the dirt.

“So I have to make it work with what I do have. And what I have is a smaller frame. And a yin core.” His mouth quirks. “I’m a siren. I’m naturally graceful. Naturally quick. So why not play that to my advantage?”

The pup yips, tilting its head. Jiang Cheng leans down and scratches behind its ears.

“If I can’t be strong enough to overpower, I’ll just have to be tricky enough to overcome.”

He straightens, twirling his sword between his fingers. “I don’t need to block. I just need to redirect.” He shifts on his feet, already moving through the motions, fluid and effortless.

“I move just before an attack lands. Instead of parrying, I turn my body sideways, let the attack slide past, and I’m already preparing my counter. The enemy overcommits—bam. Perfect opening.”

The old wolf snorts. A very unimpressed sound. Jiang Cheng glares.

“This is good,” he insists.

The wolf yawns.

Jiang Cheng narrows his eyes.

“Well,” he says, flipping his sword in his palm. “Since I’m apparently not convincing enough, I’ll just have to keep perfecting it.”

Which is exactly what he does. All evening, he tests it. Revises, changes, improves—each motion refined, each shift made sharper, smoother.

He finds what works, what doesn’t, what needs adjusting. He fine-tunes every detail, every breath, until there is no room for doubt.

The pup watches, fascinated. The old wolf—finally, grudgingly—dips its head.

Jiang Cheng grins.

That’s what he thought.

Jiang Cheng’s style is unconventional.

It’s fluid, defensive, dance-like. Not soft, not yielding—no, never that. But reactive, shifting like a tide, turning force against itself. He doesn’t block; he redirects. He doesn’t overpower; he outlasts.

It’s a style that relies on intelligence, on efficiency, on a sharp eye that catches every flicker of motion before it lands. And most disciples aren’t strong enough to challenge him properly.

The only one who spars with him regularly is Xue Yuan. But Xue Yuan fights like a wildfire—aggressive, overwhelming, meant to consume.

Jiang Cheng’s style is the opposite: a river that refuses to burn. He catches on too quickly, adapts too easily.

At first, Xue Yuan overpowers him, brute force against technique, but soon enough, Jiang Cheng starts winning. And then he starts winning consistently.

Which, predictably, sends Xue Yuan into an obsessive training spiral, dragging other disciples into the fray, as if sheer determination will force him ahead.

But Yu Meixing watches, and she wonders how much of this is about beating Jiang Cheng, and how much is about…

The cult.

Because that’s what it is.

A slow, creeping thing that’s been growing beneath their notice. It started with respect. Then admiration. Then reverence.

The way the disciples watch him—like a fire they’re not sure whether to fear or worship. The way they push themselves to match him.

Even though it’s impossible, because Jiang Cheng trains until he looks like a corpse. Until his limbs shake, until he’s swaying from exhaustion, until his ribs carve sharp shadows beneath his skin.

Her nephew is a strange boy.

Are all nephews this strange and worry-inducing? A’Li never worried her like this. Then again, he’s her only nephew.

(If Weizhe ever settles down… well, that’s a problem for another day.)

She watches him fight, and she sees it—sees what he’s doing. He’s building something. This style isn’t inherited. It’s not borrowed.

Every movement is crafted to fit him perfectly, to accommodate his weaknesses, to sharpen his strengths. He isn’t following a path. He’s making one.

But a blade can’t be sharpened without resistance. And if there’s no one who can push him—no one who can truly challenge him—then how will he improve?

So, one day, she simply says:

"You’re too rigid.”

Jiang Cheng frowns, confused.

Yu Meixing draws her sword. “Fight me.”

His eyes sharpen.

She knows what he’s thinking—her swordstyle should be predictable. It should follow the principles of the Yu Sect.

Should be defensive, methodical, something he can learn from observation alone. But she is not most Yu disciples.

Her style is something she built, piece by piece, refined over decades. It’s not rigid, but it’s not flowing, either. It’s unreadable.

And Jiang Cheng realises it immediately. He adapts quickly, impressively so—but he doesn’t defeat her.

Yu Meixing steps back, lowering her sword.

"You rely on flow," she says, "but what happens when your opponent refuses to follow your rhythm?”

Jiang Cheng is frustrated. Thoughtful. His jaw tightens.

“…I break them.”

She smirks.

"Then show me next time.”

She watches him. She sees it before anyone else does. The way he slips past the sect’s wards at night. Sometimes during the day. More often, now. She doesn’t ask him where he goes.

When Weizhe or another disciple questions his absence, she covers for him. And when Jiang Cheng returns, she’s waiting.

"I assume whatever you’re doing is important."

Jiang Cheng stiffens. He doesn’t confirm or deny. He just watches her warily, waiting to see what she’ll do with that information. Yu Meixing hums. Crosses her arms.

"Just don’t be reckless."

He frowns. “…You’re not going to stop me?”

She shrugs. "You wouldn’t listen."

Jiang Cheng stares at her like he’s waiting for the catch. Like he doesn’t believe it can be this easy.

(Which, to be fair, is the correct instinct.)

She lets the silence hang for a moment. Lets him think she’s letting him off scot-free.

Then—

"I’ll allow it."

A pause.

"If you fix the weak links in our wards."

He exhales. “Fine.”

She nods. That’s that. She trusts her nephew to be responsible. To be smart. She keeps an eye on him anyway.

Before she leaves, she turns back, just once, and says,

"Don’t get caught next time."

Jiang Cheng realises something truly, absolutely mind-boggling and horrifying a little too late. Disciples have stopped treating him like a peer. They treat him like a leader.

At first, it’s subtle—little things he doesn’t notice right away. People start taking his suggestions a little too seriously, agreeing with him a little too quickly. Then suddenly, it’s everything.

His opinions are taken as gospel. People wait for him to speak before making decisions. Their eyes flicker to him in meetings, in training sessions, in moments of uncertainty, like he’s the unshaken axis everything revolves around.

And Xue Yuan is worse than ever.

His loyalty has solidified into something absolute, something Jiang Cheng doesn’t know what to do with. He follows too closely, watches too intently, and when Jiang Cheng tells him to stop being weird about it, he just tilts his head like a confused dog.

It’s because Jiang Cheng saved him again, isn’t it? Now that he thinks about it, it’s weird how Xue Yuan had just… stood there, stock-still, waiting for the fierce corpse to attack him, like a blade poised above his own neck.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t understand. He doesn’t want to understand. He tries to shut it down. It does not work.

Then, he makes another, even worse realisation: Xue Yuan has been quietly enforcing the cult. It’s not just happening—it’s being built, around him, for him.

He corners Xue Yuan about it.

“What the hell is wrong with all of you?” Jiang Cheng hisses.

Xue Yuan, blinking, confused, like he doesn’t even understand why Jiang Cheng is upset, “We follow you.”

“No, you don’t.” Jiang Cheng is horrified.

“Yes, we do.”

“I never asked for this.”

Xue Yuan looks genuinely baffled, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Jiang Cheng turns on his heel and walks away, thinking he’s ended the conversation.

He has not. The cult remains. Xue Yuan remains. I need to get out of this sect before they start making statues, and then knocks on wood later, just in case.

Horrifying. Utterly, completely horrifying. How did it end up like this? He just wanted to train quietly. Lay low.

Instead, he has a fucking following. He tries to ignore it. Forget it. Funny enough, it’s easy. Because for the first time in so long, he writes to his sister.

It’s awkward, stilted, a little too formal. The words don’t come easily, and there’s a distance between them, even on paper.

But he tells her he’s doing well. He tells her what he’s learned. He tells her about the sect, about the people he’s met, about the strangeness of it all.

He doesn’t say everything, doesn’t tell her about the way he feels like he’s drowning under the weight of something he never wanted—but he writes to her, and that’s something.

And then. Weeks pass. And she doesn’t reply. No letter. No word. No anything. His hands shake when he checks for mail each day, until he stops checking at all.

Until it settles, dull and aching in his chest. His sister hasn’t written him back. She hasen’t sent him single letter either, before this. Neither has Wei Wuxian.

And his father… well. Jiang Cheng never expected him to, so it doesn’t hurt. Not really.

His mother, though—

She had only sent one letter once.

Four words.

"Do not disappoint me.”

Nothing else.

But he doesn’t need anything else. He can read between the lines. That night, for the first time since the incident, Jiang Cheng cries.

He curls up under the thin sheets of his bed, bites down hard against the sound, and cries himself to sleep.

Xue Yuan sees Jiang Cheng’s rejection of the cult as proof of his worthiness. A true leader does not seek power. A false king crowns himself. A real one denies it even as the world kneels at his feet.

Jiang Cheng is humble. Jiang Cheng is brilliant. Jiang Cheng is too modest to acknowledge his own greatness. So Xue Yuan will acknowledge it for him.

By the end of the year, disciples have started mimicking Jiang Cheng’s training routines. Some of them adjust their footwork to match his—sharp pivots, controlled spins.

Others imitate the way he grips his sword, the way he stands, the way he breathes. The phrase “What Would Young Master Jiang Do?” is no longer a joke.

It’s a motto.

Xue Yuan watches this all with something smug and satisfied curling inside him. Jiang Cheng refuses to see it, but it doesn’t matter. It only makes it more true.

One day, the sky darkens. The sea rages. The wind howls through the mountains, wailing like something starved and mourning. The forest grows eerily, unnaturally silent.

The entire sect feels it. A pressure—a stillness. The bones of the land feel it, a deep, ancient thing stirring, the air thick with the kind of power that doesn’t belong to the mortal world.

Xue Yuan feels it in his ribs. Then he knows. Jiang Wanyin. He doesn’t think. Doesn’t hesitate. He moves.

It takes an hour to slip through the layers of wards, but he does. Of course he does. When he reaches Jiang Cheng’s quarters, the room is ice cold.

The air is heavy with it—power so thick it weighs on his skin, makes the hair on his arm stand. The windows rattle. Jiang Cheng is asleep. His body is trembling.

His shadow—it does not move like it should. It shudders, writhes, something restless beneath the light. It peels itself from the ground in unnatural ways, like a beast learning how to stand on too many legs.

It is less human, more monster. Less man, more absence.

Tendrils of gnawing void bloom outward, twisting into the shape of hands—too many hands, clawed and starving, curling at the edges of the world.

The moon outside flickers. It stutters like it knows fear, like it has seen what lurks beneath the skin of the boy sleeping before him.

And yet it shines bright—too bright—like it cannot bear to look away. A god. A horror. A being meant to be worshipped or feared, and he does not yet know which.

Xue Yuan steps inside and kneels next to him. He doesn’t wake him. He doesn’t touch him.

He just—stays.

The wind outside is howling, but Xue Yuan does not flinch. He watches the way Jiang Cheng’s breath comes shallow, watches the storm thrumming beneath his skin, something too big for him, something clawing its way out.

I don’t know what he is, Xue Yuan thinks.

And then—

But he is mine to protect.

He swears to protect him. Even if he is not meant to be protected. Even if he was meant to be the hunter, not the hunted.

Xue Yuan swears, he is not a knight, not a saint. He has no crown, no altar. But he will stand at his side, shoulders squared, blade drawn, and dare the world to try and take Jiang Cheng from him.