Chapter Text
Lan Zhan slides his door open in the morning to Wei Ying falling backwards into his room. He is more surprised at the fact that Wei Ying managed to escape his notice for the whole thirty minutes since Lan Zhan rose and made himself presentable rather than that Wei Ying sat and rested against his door at all.
“Lan Zhan!” says Wei Ying, upside down, grinning as if it did not bother him. “Good morning to you!”
The feelings Lan Zhan found out yesterday that he apparently had swirl inside his chest. Wei Ying rights himself and rubs his neck absentmindedly before his hand drops, and he raises it again to play with his belt.
“Lan Zhan,” says Wei Ying once more, and then he hesitates uncharacteristically. “I wanted to… well, about—erm. How did you sleep?”
Lan Zhan stares at him some, thinking of how the quality of his sleep should matter to him, and then, unbeckoned, his mind slips to last night, to Wei Ying crying in his parents’ embrace.
He walks out of his room, forcing Wei Ying to step back.
“I’m going to breakfast,“ Lan Zhan tells him.
Wei Ying perks up. “Right! Breakfast. Let me take you to that.”
It’s only a short walk from Lan Zhan’s room to the hall, but Wei Ying hangs behind so pointedly Lan Zhan can do nothing but follow suit. They meet Jiang Wanyin on the way, but he must sense the tension coming off of Wei Ying in waves, and so he bids them good morning and runs off ahead.
After a vain conversation about how the weather is nice today, don’t ya think so?, Lan Zhan can’t take it anymore.
“I will make sure breakfast is brought into His Highness’ room,” he says, which effectively makes Wei Ying quiet. “I understand he is doing better?”
Wei Ying nods, and his shoulders drop slightly, as though Lan Zhan bringing that up was everything he hoped for from the start.
“He says he’s well enough to come to breakfast himself, but Hua Cheng won’t hear of it.” Wei Ying glances at him in a way that has Lan Zhan pay entirely too much attention to the steps they are climbing.
He says, “They are both welcome to stay here as long as they like.”
“Is that what Lan Qiren says?”
Lan Zhan supposes so. Considering he took Wei Ying on as a pupil in the first place, Lan Zhan doubts his uncle will have any reservations about housing a Calamity and a Martial God in their home for a few more days.
“Thank you,” Wei Ying says. He has stopped completely now, looking in Lan Zhan’s face in a way he can only mimic. “Lan Zhan, I really… I don’t know why it was so hard to say before, but you don’t understand how much this means to me.”
“They are your parents,“ says Lan Zhan carefully.
“No, I meant,” Wei Ying shakes his head. “What you’ve done. It would have taken so much longer to find him if you hadn’t… it just could have been worse. Would have been worse. And nobody just summons a Ghost King for fun, I know it couldn’t have been fun, and it’s not as if ancient scrolls of summoning just lay around on library tables free for the taking. So… thank you.”
And he looks at Lan Zhan so sincerely that for a moment Lan Zhan isn’t sure if Wei Ying hadn’t up and gone, and who he is speaking to isn’t an elaborate illusion. But it isn’t—he knows it isn’t, because Wei Ying has a scent and a particular presence, and both these things are only too clear to all Lan Zhan’s senses. His throat is dry, suddenly. He is not so inept at feeling that he doesn’t hear all the words Wei Ying doesn’t say.
He thinks how ironic this all is—everything started that one night, with Wei Ying using his mother to insult him in that terrible way Lan Zhan could not help but forgive.
Before the moment lasts too long, Wei Ying’s serious face brightens, and he throws a heavy arm around Lan Zhan’s shoulders (which almost makes them both tumble down the steps and to their demise).
“I know! As a proper thank you, I shall buy you a gift! Tell me, what would you like? You know, in Ghost City there are so many things…”
Breakfasting with Wei Ying in the hall feels very reminiscent, and natural, and loud. It’s only been a few months since Wei Ying left Cloud Recesses, but immediately the air changes with his presence, something lively and fire-like filling a void Lan Zhan did not realise was there.
With receding horror and mounting acceptance, he allows it into his mind that he has missed Wei Ying.
…
Xie Lian stays at Cloud Recesses for three days. It isn’t that he truly needs it—it takes only one night of good sleep for his concussion to have gone, and were it not for the vague memory of something heavy landing on his temple and San Lang’s incessant (though subtle) hovering, Xie Lian would forget he had been injured at all. He spends his days about his room, doing his best to convince Wei Ying that he is taking the time to recover; he sits by the window and watches Lan Qiren’s pupils train in the yard (Wei Ying often stops by that window with big grins, joking how now Xie Lian can watch him perfect his martial arts, as Lan Qiren allowed him to train with the rest again).
Lan Zhan is introduced to him and San Lang properly by a Wei Ying who seems to deliberately ignore his friend’s apparent tautness. Xie Lian is unsure whether it would be more merciful to Lan Zhan was he to ask questions and try to lighten the mood, or to let him go after the It’s an honour to meet you’s and We were glad to be of help’s.
“You neednt’a been so fidgety!” Wei Ying exclaims happily as they are leaving, underneath Xie Lian’s window (another thing Xie Lian thinks was deliberate on Wei Ying’s part and which has him shaking his head). “They aren’t going to bite your head off!”
“I do not fidget.” Lan Zhan sounds very stoically appalled.
San Lang sneaks an arm around Xie Lian’s waist and rests his chin against his shoulder. He is smiling. “He wasn’t so nervous when he was summoning me.”
Xie Lian sighs. “I tried so hard to lighten the mood, too.”
“Lighten the mood? It is the Lan Sect Gege is talking about.”
Jiang Cheng comes around every day just after noon to inquire about Xie Lian’s health, and Xie Lian keeps him occupied asking about life at Lotus Pier until Lan Qiren’s afternoon lessons begin. Xie Lian has always been fond of him—something he knows, thanks to Wei Ying, has not been understood by Jiang Cheng himself very well—and after a while of coming and going, Jiang Cheng drops his tense demeanor and starts recounting his days with enthusiasm that makes Xie Lian a little sad.
“Happy birthday,” he says the first day that he can sit up, watching as San Lang passes Jiang Cheng the little gift-wrapped package Wei Ying had helped them pick out some time ago. “We would have stopped by later, but, well…”
Jiang Cheng stares at the package with a stupefied expression, as though he hadn’t received birthday gifts from them every year since he was ten years old.
“Thank you,” he says, holding the trinket in his palms. It’s a sword pommel charm, beautiful, sterling silver, with a purple gemstone in its middle. “I will treasure it.”
(There are protective runes carved into the metal that Jiang Cheng does not know about.)
“He has our A-Ying,” San Lang tells Xie Lian in low, soothing tones. “And that sister of Jiang Cheng’s—she seems nice enough.”
It all does not go without curious peering eyes and whispers, but Xie Lian is so overly used to those his only worry is if it would hurt Wei Ying in the long run. It doesn’t seem it will (the Cloud Recesses might be the calmest place he has ever visited, though he would hesitate to say mild), and Wei Ying makes friends as easily as he breathes.
On the third day, Xie Lian wanders through the grounds and comes across the notorious Wall of Discipline.
“Do not act impulsively,” he reads with some humour. “Causing noise is forbidden. I now understand why A-Ying finds it so horrible.”
“I find it horrible,” says San Lang, staring up at the great mass of stone, running his fingers across Do not flatter. “Gege.”
“What is it?”
“You look especially godly today.”
Xie Lian laughs. “You shouldn’t consciously disgrace a place such as this.”
“I am a ghost,” says San Lang. “What else am I to do?”
“—I see Your Highness has found the pride of our Lan Sect.”
Lan Qiren is walking towards them with his hands in the sleeves of his robe, his head bowed ever so slightly. They have established upon their first meeting that Xie Lian does not consider prostrating oneself a suitable show of respect, not in front of him, not from the esteemed sect leader who Xie Lian has asked to look after his son. It had been a problem in the Jiang Sect, with Jiang Fengmian unable to meet Xie Lian’s gaze for more than a few seconds (a phenomenon Xie Lian now assigns to the complicated history of Jiang Fengmian and Wei Ying’s biological parents), but Lan Qiren understood very swiftly and did not seem to be the kind of man who would waste time second-guessing the words of others.
Lan Qiren looks at Xie Lian while spending not so much a glance in San Lang’s direction, and it’s because of Lan Qiren’s respectable character that Xie Lian concludes San Lang must be concealing himself from him on purpose. He does not question his husband’s decision and turns to face Lan Qiren with a smile.
Lan Qiren does not return it, but Xie Lian doesn’t think smiling is his natural state.
“I am glad to see Your Highness hale,” Lan Qiren continues.
“Your hospitality is very kind,” says Xie Lian. “I have always wished to see modern cultivators train, and now I have the opportunity, thanks to you. You are a great teacher—I knew that before, of course, but Wei Ying has improved so much.”
“You humble me.” Lan Qiren tilts his head. He adds covertly, “Doesn’t Your Highness think perhaps your presence is the cause of that? He has never trained quite so vigorously before.”
San Lang cocks his head with a smirk, as if lightly gauging whether he should take offense, but Xie Lian only laughs.
“Has Your Highness visited many places of cultivation?”
“I have had a lot of time to wander,” replies Xie Lian. “Cultivation changes in such strange ways over the centuries, but some things still stay the same. It feels a little nostalgic to me. The amount of things one learns simply from paying attention is amazing.”
“Then, surely Your Highness is the best teacher there could be.”
“Oh,” says Xie Lian lightly. “I wouldn’t say that.”
“I would,” says San Lang.
“I wanted to ask,” Xie Lian starts. “How can I repay the Lan Sect for your kindness? I’m afraid my negligence has caused you trouble.”
“It is our honour to be of assistance to you.”
“Please,” Xie Lian says. “None of that. I’m sure there are things that need doing, aren’t there? Is there nothing at all?”
Lan Qiren pauses. “Well,” he says. He links his arms in front of himself, as if preparing for something. His eyes bear a hidden glint of anticipation. “I wouldn’t want to impose on Your Highness…”
“Whatever you wish to ask, you may ask it.”
(Hua Cheng makes a noncommittal sound in his throat.)
“Then.” Lan Qiren bows his head a little lower. “There is only one thing…”
…
“Have you heard, have you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“The morning lessons tomorrow have been exchanged for combat training! Lan Qiren said so, you should have listened.”
“Is that so surprising?”
“I wonder, perhaps it’s to do with the mysterious man?”
“The white-clothed man! I thought the same! Is he a new student, do you think?”
In the corner of the hall, Jiang Cheng chokes on his breakfast tea. (So much for the Lan Clan’s undisputed rule not to gossip.)
…
“Does Gege agree with this?” San Lang asks as Xie Lian is walking to the training grounds with a jump in his step.
“Mm?” Xie Lian takes San Lang’s cold hand in his. “Oh, well, I can’t say I really know what I’m doing, but I suppose walking around and watching can’t hurt?”
“Indeed.”
Xie Lian grins, joking. “Oh, don’t be jealous. San Lang, you know I will spar with you whenever you should ask.”
“Hm,” San Lang says. His eyes flick to the healed wound on Xie Lian’s head. “You don’t feel dizzy?”
“I promise.” Xie Lian stops to meet San Lang’s eyes. “If I feel sick, I will stop and go lie down. You know I will.”
“…Alright.” San Lang pauses and then he is pressing a soft kiss to Xie Lian’s lips. His eye sparkles mischievously. ”Bring them down a peg. Or five.”
Xie Lian laughs.
“They need it.”
“Perhaps,” says Xie Lian. “But they did save me a world of trouble. All I have given them in return was a couple of terrible scares.”
The older Lan sibling—the tall one with a striking resemblance to Lan Zhan—appeared many times more physically ill than Xie Lian these past few days. And Xie Lian has had a concussion. And most likely internal bleeding.
San Lang smiles down at him. (Privately, he thinks that if the Lan Clan have not helped His Highness, they would have another thing coming. Or rather, nothing coming. Hua Cheng would have crushed them, and their Wall, into the ground.)
…
Lan Zhan wondered how seeing a martial god fight would differ from the masters he has watched his entire life. He thought perhaps there would be more techniques, more difficult or elaborate that would take too long to learn to be truly useful for a mortal such as him.
“My name is Xie Lian,” Wei Ying’s father says when Lan Qiren explains. This daozhang has kindly agreed to oversee the lesson today. Rremember your teachings.“It’s nice to meet you all.”
He thought there would be pride and arrogance. He expected a weapon beyond anything he had ever seen before, a sword no mortal could hope to bear.
“Thank you,” His Highness declines when the other disciples have offered him a blade. “Have you a wooden stick by any chance? That should do nicely.”
Wei Ying is laughing at Lan Zhan’s expression. “Don’t worry!” he whispers—too loudly. “He knows what he’s doing, you know.”
”I know.” It is only surprising, is all. Then again, perhaps Lan Zhan should not have expected anything else.
Wei Ying keeps grinning at him. He keeps grinning at an empty spot by the wall of the training grounds once every few moments too, but Lan Zhan thinks better of asking about it—he feels a prickling chill on the back of his neck as he frowns at Wei Ying’s theatrics, which makes this decision very easy.
He focuses on His Highness. It is an opportunity one does not pass up to be tutored in combat by a martial god.
It is an opportunity one does not pass up to look upon a god. Lan Zhan has had many within the past few days already, and he still has to remind himself to breathe in His Highness’ presence. The other disciples whisper among themselves.
“Is he a famous cultivator? I don’t know him!”
“He can’t be—I’ve studied them all, you know.”
“But he’s so handsome!”
“A wooden sword? Is this real?”
“If he’s looking down on us, he’s got another thing coming.”
“He looks like a painting.”
Wei Ying is actually trying with his moves. That is not to say he is a bad swordsman—quite on the contrary. But he is a lazy one. With his father watching, this quality promptly disappears, and his steps are sharp, movements controlled.
Jiang Wanyin rolls his eyes.
His Highness smiles at him as he is passing them, and Jiang Wanyin looks away, reddening. Something flashes through His Highness’ face at this, but it is gone in the blink of an eye. Then he whispering into Wei Ying’s ear.
“Well done,” he says. “Strange that Lan Qiren was saying you are not so meticulous when I’m not here.”
Wei Ying beams. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I am sure.” His Highness looks at Lan Zhan. “You are very skilled,” he tells him. Then, “If I may…”
“Please.” Lan Zhan will not cower from a Martial God’s advice. Not from Wei Ying’s father’s advice. He straightens.
His Highness says, “You hold your sword too tightly at times. I know that the Lan Clan, you teach a technique called firm, yes? I admit I do not know the rules of it, but if someone stronger than you attacks you, it is better to—ah. Evade the hit. If you hold the sword too tightly, it will jump from your hand upon impact.”
Lan Zhan nods. He knows as much. He has never been able to practice it, but he shall try his best. He wonders if His Highness speaks from experience—perhaps as a mortal, before ascension. He is sure His Highness has no trouble with strength now, but he is, by comparison, very little. “Thank you.”
“I think we should test that method,” says a voice. He is a tall, cocky pupil Lan Zhan doesn’t remember the name of, and he is scowling in His Highness’ direction, at the wooden stick in his hand. “Are you going to beat me with that twig, daozhang?”
His Highness asserts him with a smile. It is a funny picture—the pupil, big, with a blade, a cheeky grin. His Highness, smaller, gentler, with a wooden stick.
Wei Ying’s eyes flash dangerously at the tall man, his beam momentarily smothered by a shadow of doubt. Lan Zhan understands this—His Highness had only recovered a few days ago, after all. Jiang Wanyin, too, seems tenser than before, unfolding his arms in the corner of Lan Zhan’s gaze. Wei Ying steps closer to his father, but His Highness gifts him a content glance, shoos him away with his hand.
He asks the pupil calmly, “Are you going to beat me with a sword?”
The pupil is an idiot. He chuckles and charges at His Highness, like an idiot, barreling forward with brute strength. His Highness has time to glimpse at Lan Qiren’s nod of approval, and then he is stepping back easily, away from reach. The pupil’s blade catches on the stick, and with a flick of his wrist, His Highness slides the thin wood over the metal, misdirecting the blade with the fluidity of water.
It happens incredibly quickly. The pupil stumbles and falls on his face into the dirt.
There is a moment of silence before the laughter begins. His Highness looks up at it, a bashful expression on his face, before he turns back to the man who challenged him. He is sitting on the ground with a look of shock.
“You rely too much on your strength,” His Highness tells him kindly. “You are unstable on your feet. A weaker but skilled opponent could overpower you instantly.” Then His Highness smiles again and extends a hand to him. “You should never underestimate someone because of their weapon.”
The man stares some more before he lets himself be tugged to his feet. He glances from His Highness to Wei Ying, to Jiang Wanyin.
“You know him?” he asks.
“You could say that,” says Wei Ying, grinning again. Jiang Wanyin elbows him in the side.
His Highness pats Wei Ying’s arm. To the pupil, “What is your name?”
“Lan Yuchen,” says the pupil.
“Lan Yuchen,” His Highness repeats. “Should we try again?”
Lan Zhan can only look on, trying not to let his shock show. He had known His Highness was skilled—of course he was skilled. But Lan Zhan was unsure whether anyone else noticed, allowed themselves to notice, the way His Highness had just moved. It was not the grandiose he had expected from a martial god, no golden burst of power, but an incredible, easy precision Lan Zhan had never seen before in his life. His Highness moved as if he was flying, or floating upon the grass like a boat on water. His weapon was an extension of his arm in a way Lan Zhan knew now he would never achieve. This was not a godly power—this was innate talent, it was years and years of practice, of experience, honed into something beautiful. Something specific. As though His Highness just wrote his signature into time and space in curved calligraphy.
Lan Zhan swallows and continues ignoring Wei Ying’s covert grins.
(He still does not quite believe it. A God. And a Ghost King. Wei Ying’s parents.)
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying calls. He is swinging his sword in the air with a joyful expression. “Spar with me!”
So Lan Zhan spars with him. Under His Highness’ steady presence, and a chilling gaze he feels at the back of his neck.
He glances over his shoulder, but the space by the wall is empty.