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Chapter Text

When a-Yao was nine, Sisi-ayi came home from the market with a boy holding on to her skirts. The boy was about his own age, perhaps a little younger, but small, and very thin, and dirty, and he smelled bad. But a-Yao didn’t wrinkle his nose. He bowed to Sisi-ayi and asked if he could help carry her things, which made her smile; only then did he allow himself to look directly at the boy, and then back at Sisi-ayi, and let a little curiosity show.

She ignored his hint, only handed him a basket to take to her room and swept away towards the Mama’s office. The boy had to jog to keep up, his little hands still determinedly fisted in her skirt, getting it dirty. But before they disappeared around the corner, he turned back to meet a-Yao’s eyes and smile at him. Not a shy smile, like he might have expected, but a great big grin, as though they were the best of friends already.

A-Yao did not want to be caught running, but he hurried as much as he dared to put Sisi-ayi’s things in her room and then slipped down to the courtyard, to sit underneath Mama’s window. There was a small space among the bushes there, behind a tree, that was perfectly child-sized, and wonderful for eavesdropping.

Mama sounded annoyed; Sisi-ayi sounded like she didn’t much care that Mama was annoyed. A-Yao wished that he could be so calm in the face of Mama’s anger. But when she was angry with a-Yao, she tended to take it out on Mother, and if she was angry with Mother she took it out on a-Yao, so maybe it was easier for Sisi-ayi, when she was the only one getting yelled at.

He snuck a quick peek into the room. Sisi-ayi was bowing, and the boy was copying her. His form was good. Elegant, respectful, and he looked like he could hold that position all day - but his appearance undercut the effect. Sisi-ayi just looked like she was waiting for Mama to stop yelling.

“This is what I get for being such a soft-hearted and generous Mama to my children,” Mama was saying. “I let Meng Shi keep that boy for her vain hopes, and now everyone wants a pet of her own. If you’re going to bring in a stray, can’t you at least pick a girl?”

“Ah, but none of the girl urchins were half so pretty and charming, Mama,” Sisi-ayi teased. “Look at those dimples! Show her your dimples, a-Ying.” A-Yao bit his lip and resisted the urge to risk another peek, but it must have been quite a smile, because Mama only let out a little ‘Hmph,’ as she often did when she was trying not to by mollified. Maybe a-Yao could get some pointers from this boy. A good smile, deployed carefully, was one of Mama’s weaknesses. Now lay on the gratitude, and Sisi-ayi would be home free…

“You are indeed a generous and soft-hearted Mama, much loved by her daughters. How could you blame me for wanting to share that love and kindness? A-Ying is a sweet boy, and he’ll work hard. He’s old enough not to take up too much time, and he won’t ruin my body. He won’t get underfoot or make trouble. He might even keep a-Yao occupied – maybe Meng Shi could worry less about him and have more energy for clients if he had a friend. Don’t you think, Mama?”

The a-Yao in question frowned. He didn’t know how to feel about being friends with this boy. It was true that he didn’t really know any other children, but if he had to have a friend - couldn’t it be someone… well. Cleaner? He wasn’t interested in running about on the street in packs, playing nonsense games, like he saw other children do. If he had to have a friend, it should be someone quiet and studious, who could help him with his cultivation and wouldn’t make trouble for him or Mother. There was enough trouble as things stood, and here this boy was, causing more already.

But was Sisi-ayi right? Would Mother worry less if she knew he wasn’t lonely? She used to encourage him to play with other children, but they would always sneer at him and chase him away. Then Mother would say it was their loss, that he was a sect-leader’s son and a cultivator and he didn’t need to be playing with peasant children, and he should focus on his studies. But she was the one who told him to play with them in the first place. She felt bad that he couldn’t be with his peers. This boy wasn’t his peer either, he was just some orphan, but maybe… maybe. After he was cleaned up. He did have a good smile, and that was important.

He slipped away upstairs, to practise his meditation.

The boy’s name was Wei Ying, courtesy name Wuxian, and he was the son of two cultivators. Sisi-ayi hadn’t mention that to Mama, because Mama disapproved of a-Yao spending so much time practicing cultivation instead of making himself useful, but Mother was giddy with excitement. A-Yao was, too – someone who could help him! Someone he could share cultivation with. Maybe when his father came, he would take them both to Jinlintai, and they could become great heroes together, battling legendary monsters and protecting the ordinary people, and eating out of golden bowls and sleeping on golden beds.

A-Ying was clean now, and borrowing some clothes from a-Yao until Sisi-ayi bought him some new ones. He was scarfing down his third bowl of congee while Mother and Sisi-ayi talked animatedly. He looked much better now, more appropriate, but he was attacking the food like a starving dog. How undignified.

Suddenly, he looked up and caught A-Yao staring. A flash of startled guilt appeared on his thin, wide-eyed face, though A-Yao wasn’t sure why. “Oh no! I’m being greedy! Here, have some!” he said urgently, thrusting the half-eaten bowl and spoon at A-Yao, who flinched away. This upset him even more, and his lower lip began to tremble.

Oh no. A-Yao quickly gathered himself up and brought out his best manners, gave Wei Ying a small bow and his brightest smile. “No thank you, Wei-gongzi,” he said, with all the graciousness of Mama greeting their richest guests. “I have already eaten. You should eat as much as you like. Please enjoy our hospitality!”

Like the sun through clearing storm clouds, Wei Ying smiled again. He pulled the food back towards his chest, but instead of going back to eating, he stood there beaming at a-Yao as though he were being offered a grand feast and a palace to live in, instead of some congee and a cot in the corner of Sisi-ayi’s room. And offered by Sisi-ayi, not a-Yao, who didn’t have a say in it. But, being a little stunned by the force of that joy, he wasn’t sure what to say, so they just stood there smiling at each other for a while.

At least, until he became aware that Mother and Sisi-ayi had stopped talking and were watching them with mirthful expressions. A-Yao jerked away, blushing red as a chili pepper, and the two women let go of their laughter.

“Come here, baobei,” said Mother, holding out her arms, still laughing gently, and he obediently went and hid his face in her shoulder. It was good to hear her laughing, even if she was laughing at him. “You’ll take care of your new didi, won’t you, Yao-er? A-Ying has been lonely, these past couple of months, and he needs a friend. It’s good to have a friend,” she said, with a weight in her voice that made him look up. She was looking at Sisi-ayi, and her smile didn’t wobble – she was too disciplined for that – but a-Yao knew his mother.

She needed some time alone.

He wriggled out of her grip and into a bow. “With your gracious permission, Mother, Sisi-ayi, this one would like to show… Wei… Wei-didi around the compound.”

Sisi-ayi laughed again and told them to “Go play, go play!” and Mother simply smiled and inclined her head, so he grabbed a-Ying by the arm and pulled him outside. He went willingly enough, though he looked a little alarmed and clutched the congee protectively.

It was early in the day, so there were no customers, and they could run about as they pleased without worrying about staying out of sight. A-Yao showed him everything he could think of, from where the kitchens were to Mama’s office to all the little nooks and crannies he had discovered. He managed to introduce him to some of the nicer aunties, the ones inclined to coo at children instead of shoo them away – carefully avoiding the ones who outright hated children. ZhenGui-ayi and Ai-ayi, who were painting fans before the children stopped by, dropped everything to exclaim over a-Ying and pinch his cheeks. They even gave the boys a piece of candied watermelon each, which made a-Ying’s eyes almost fall out of his head.

It was all going perfectly well. A-Ying began to relax and lose his shyness, and charmed the aunties thoroughly with cuteness and flattery. A-Yao was growing used to the idea of being someone’s big brother. It was a big responsibility, but he was a very responsible young man, and he would take this poor, unfortunate boy under his wing and make his mother and Sisi-ayi proud.

But then he brought a-Ying to his room and showed him the books, and a-Ying eviscerated them, laughing.

“What’s this? What’s this? Your spiritual energy isn’t carried in your blood! You won’t lose any if you cut yourself! What’s this? They’ve mixed up monsters and fairies! What! What! What is that even supposed to mean? That’s just some vaguely cultivation-sounding words!”

“You’re holding it upside down,” said a-Yao weakly, through lips that felt numb.

“It makes more sense upside down!” a-Ying exclaimed with all the derision his little frame could muster, which turned out to be a lot. A-Yao felt himself grow hot all over, and before he quite realised what he was doing, he reached out and pushed a-Ying over.

A-Ying sat there on the floor for a moment, staring up at him, too startled to react, and then he began to cry. Little, quiet, hiccupping tears, eyes welling up and spilling over, like he was trying desperately not to cry but couldn’t hold his feelings in. A-Yao watched him, horrified.

He had once dropped his mother’s zither onto a cat and broken its leg. It had howled like it was being murdered. It had healed, and could run and jump and mouse as well as ever, but it had never forgiven him. In the confusion, and since the instrument had escaped unscathed, no-one had bothered to punish him; instead, he had taken it upon himself to kneel for two hours in his room, and had eschewed sweets until his mother had grown concerned and pushed pastries on him.

And then a-Ying started to apologise.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Meng-gege! I’m sorry I made fun of your books! I’m sorry I made you sad! I didn’t mean to! They’re very nice books! Please don’t be upset!” all punctuated with hiccups and pauses to wipe his snotty nose on his sleeve.

A-Yao felt himself well up too. He bit his lip, and then darted over to where a-Ying sat on the floor and enveloped him in a hug. They sat there crying on each other until they were dry.

A-Ying taught a-Yao everything he knew about cultivation. It wasn’t much, because he was only eight, but his parents had been diligent about his education before they had died, and he had even gone on some of the safer night-hunts, when it seemed like leaving him alone would be the more dangerous option. He knew proper meditation techniques, at least, and some things that couldn’t be learned from books – and he knew enough to be able to spot nonsense. Mother was as shaken as a-Yao had been to realise that some of their treasured, expensive books were worse than useless, but with a-Ying’s help they got rid of the ones that they could prove had bad information, and hoped with all their hearts that the rest were good.

In return, a-Yao taught a-Ying everything he knew about etiquette, and calligraphy, and life in the brothel, and anything else he could think of. And then, when they were finished studying at the end of the day, they played.

Neither of them had much experience of playing with other children, so it took a little practice to get good at it. They had different expectations about what play even was. A-Yao wanted to play games like Go, that he played with his mother, while a-Ying wanted to run around playing things like tag, and other, more confusing games that involved pretending to be someone else. Or not even another person, sometimes, but hopping around like a fierce corpse or clucking and scratching the ground like a chicken.

The aunties didn’t like these loud, wild games, and Mama definitely didn’t, so they had to go out into the town on their own to do it, which made a-Yao nervous. But he turned out to have a natural talent at playing pretend, once he got the idea - and although there were still children who refused to play with them, or whose parents wouldn’t allow it, they soon had a small group of friends in town. A-Ying’s stubborn cheerfulness was hard to resist.

A-Ying was actually in a-Yao’s room, not Sisi-ayi’s like he had assumed. That made sense – she needed the room for work. It was the same reason he had been allowed his own room in the first place. He wasn’t keen on the idea, at first, used to having his own space, but a-Ying was good at not pushing when he wanted to be alone, and good enough company the rest of the time. They argued sometimes, but neither one of them wanted to risk making trouble for the adults, so they got good at working it out between themselves.

Slowly, experimentally, a-Yao began to call him Wei-didi, which seemed to make him happy; he had been calling a-Yao Meng-gege the whole time.

They grew up. Trained hard. Got into trouble, got out of trouble. Grew tiny, fledgling golden cores – Wei Ying first, which Meng Yao tried not to be upset about, but he wasn’t far behind. Began working in the brothel as servants, more and more as Mother grew sicker and they needed to pay for her keep. Left together when she passed.

When Meng Yao was fifteen – as soon as he became fifteen, in fact – he met his father. It… was not all he had hoped it would be.

Jinlintai, now, that was everything he had dreamed. The main road leading to it was immense, grand all by itself, and lined either side with murals of Jin Sect’s leaders and most legendary cultivators – his ancestors. He drank them in with a mixture of awe and pride as the Jin cultivator driving the carriage described the stories shown in the murals to himself, Wei Ying, and a handful of minor, unimportant guests who were leaping at the chance to experience the splendour of the Jin Sect’s hospitality on this, the occasion of Sect heir Jin Zixuan’s fifteenth birthday.

And Meng Yao’s, as well. So, in a way, wasn’t this his party too? Although no-one knew it yet.

After an eternity – and too soon, all at once – they reached the steps to the tower, clambered out of the carriage, and began their ascent. Wei Ying was uncharacteristically quiet, but he couldn’t worry about that now. Maybe he was just out of breath.

They reached the apex, and there, that could only be his father, looking regal in his elaborate golden robes and greeting his guests personally. Each guest presented their invitations; he and Wei Ying did not have one, but he did have something else… he bowed deeply, flicked Wei-didi with spiritual power until he bowed too, and presented the pearl button.

He cursed that he could not see his father’s reaction. His only option was to stay there, bowed low, concentrating on keeping his hands and his breathing steady, and wait for the thousand years it took for his father to address him.

His father’s feet moved away. His father’s voice, addressing other guests, a little louder and brighter than before, to cover the tension. Meng Yao’s blood pounded in his eardrums. Wei Ying made a small, indignant noise. Meng Yao flicked him again, and sank to his knees, still presenting the pearl, heart still thundering.

Then Jin-furen appeared.

She demanded to know what was going on. A guard dragged Meng Yao up by the hair, and he clutched the pearl tightly to his chest by instinct but managed to stop a yelp from escaping. Wei Ying protested, and was grabbed by another guard for his troubles – then another, as he continued to struggle.

Jin-furen was shouting – Jin-zhongzhu trying to appease her – Wei Ying, thirteen years old and reckless, who had never understood that sometimes protesting the indignity only prolonged and worsened it, now struggling against three guards and muffled by a gag. Meng Yao kept himself still and quiet, even when Jin-furen turned her glare on him. Oh, there was murder in those eyes. She reminded him of Mama.

She stalked over to personally pry open his clenched fist, and when she saw the pearl button she became even more incensed. She plucked it out of his hand without a word and threw it down the stairs, then turned one last glare on her husband and stalked back inside.

His father… his father’s gaze slid off of him, as though he were trying to look but could find no purchase. He looked to the guard holding Meng Yao instead, and said… he said…

And the guards, obeying orders, kicked him and Wei Ying both down the stairs.

Head ringing, arms shaking, he forced himself up off of the ground to grab Wei Ying, who was trying to climb the stairs again, yelling invectives at the top of his lungs. Wei-didi almost pushed him off, but when he saw Meng Yao’s face he stopped, mouth wobbling, and gently touched Meng Yao’s forehead. It stung, and his hand came away bloody.

He let go, pushed away, and started looking around, wildly. There, there, was that a glint? No, someone else’s lost ring. He pocketed it anyway, to sell, and kept looking, but before long Wei Ying caught him by the arm and dragged him away.

He was a little grateful for it. He knew he was being undignified. Blame it on the head wound.

Wei Ying took him back to the inn. They had to walk, slowly, all the way down the main road – more than half a mile – because the carriages would not take them, then to the outskirts of town, to the only place they had been able to get a room. It was cheap, and cheap for a reason, but it was private, and safe enough that their things were still there.

He would have insisted on spending all their money on the best rooms available, if everywhere else hadn’t been full. What a stroke of luck that had turned out to be; when the old man on the frontier lost his horse, it came back with several more.

He passively allowed Wei-didi to sit him down and tend to his injuries, barely aware of his surroundings by this point. Eventually it occurred to him that Wei Ying must also be injured, and he pulled back suddenly, but Wei Ying had been passing him spiritual energy for quite a while at that point. Passing it back and forth would not help either of them, he reasoned. Still, he insisted on checking him over. Wei-didi gave him a sceptical look – hurtful – but allowed it, and to his relief he found only bruises. Some nasty ones, though. He tended them as best he could.

Wei Ying kept up a constant stream of chatter through all this, and Meng Yao tried his best to pay attention and respond at least occasionally, but Wei-didi clearly didn’t really expect him to, which was just as well. Nevertheless, he needed to pull himself together – no-one else was going to do it for him. He was fifteen years old, a man making his way in the world, not some blubbering child. He pasted on a smile; he could smile through anything, after all the practice he’d had. Sometimes it even helped.

He knew it was perfect, but Wei-didi looked unnerved by it anyway.

So. So. They needed a new plan. Some time to regroup and find another angle of attack. Frontal assault was no use. They needed to come at this sideways – find their way into another sect, figure it out from there.

But first they needed money, and information. And to get far, far away from Lanling. Let the dust settle before their next move.

Chapter Text

Over the next two years, they made a living on the outskirts of Gusu, working for a merchant: Meng Yao doing the books, and Wei Ying doing whatever else needed doing. It was a modest living, but they made enough between them to send some to Sisi-jie. Wei Ying missed her. Meng Yao wouldn’t say he missed her, exactly – well, he would, out loud, whenever Wei Ying brought it up. But the feelings in his heart were more complicated.

She was the only person still living in that place that he liked. A few others had moved on – the rest had lost patience with his mother as she got sicker and less able to pull her weight, and with himself and Wei Ying as they got older and less cute, and those who hadn’t been actively cruel still never lifted a finger to prevent it. Only Sisi-jie had turned her sharp tongue on the other sisters in their defence. Only Sisi-jie had swooped in when a disgruntled customer had attacked his mother. Only Sisi-jie had been his mother’s true friend, and not just clung to her thighs until she was no longer popular. Had treated her like her own mother, really.

(He hadn’t had any understanding, as a child, of just how young Sisi-jie really was.)

So he cared for her. Wished her good fortune, did not resent the expense of sending her money. But miss her? He hoped in his heart never to see her again. She was a part of that miserable, shameful life and he could not think of her without remembering all of it. If the whole place was burning to the ground, he would save only her; the rest he would leave to burn. In his worst moments he thought he might lock the doors.

He said none of this to Wei Ying, who was of a far more forgiving nature, and who insisted on making excuses for and enumerating the good qualities of the ladies of the house and especially Mama, even when he couldn’t deny their bad qualities either. It was a habit that Meng Yao found highly irritating, particularly when all he could say in a lady’s favour was that she was pretty, as if that had anything to do with anything. But it wasn’t as though he wouldn’t defend mother or Meng Yao. He would defend them to the death. It was more that he would leap in with his sword drawn, and then forgive afterwards, where Meng Yao smiled until his teeth hurt and never forgave anything.

Anyway, anyway. That wasn’t worth dwelling on.

He had been channelling his efforts into collecting as much information about the cultivator clans as he could, but a bookkeeper was not an ideal occupation for gathering gossip. He did let Wei Ying spend slightly more than was wise on alcohol simply because inns were wonderful places for gossip.

Wei Ying may have talked a good game about being happy with what they had, but he didn’t want to be ordinary either.

He had not learned as much as he would have liked, and had heard far more about his father’s extra-marital exploits and – to hear the gossips tell it – dozens, possibly hundreds of bastards than he ever wanted to know. But he did have a rough idea, now, of the relative power of the clans and how likely they were to take in outsiders.

The Qishan Wens were the most powerful by far, though not well-liked, and perfectly willing to take in outsiders; in fact many smaller clans had been absorbed under their banner, and Wen Zhulio, Wen Rouhan’s right-hand man, had apparently been born penniless. So that was promising, but it would be difficult to distinguish himself among so many people, and Wen Rouhan already had a very capable and famous second in command.

Then the Jins. Well. Leave that for now.

Next were the Lan Clan of Gusu. Ascetics, not a place where Wei Ying would fit in well, but influential, respected, and they did take in applicants who could pass their exam although the blood-related Lans held higher status. Promising. The next exam was in the winter – presumably surviving the trip up the mountain was part of the test.

Hard to say whether the Nie or Jiang were more influential, but they were structured very differently. The Jiang Clan was seated in Yunmeng, surrounded by lotus lakes. Their motto was “attempt the impossible,” which appealed to him greatly, and they were said to be less concerned with a person’s birth than was usual; their servants were treated like family, and also learned some cultivation. A few of their servants’ children had even been allowed to join the clan as disciples.

The Nie were far more martial and strict, but again prized merit above birth. Their Sect Leader had died last year – some said murdered, but they said it quietly – and the new Sect Leader, Nie Mingjue, was said to be strict but fair. It was also said that he cared deeply for his young half-brother, so there was leverage to be had there, one way or another.

In the meantime, he and Wei Ying kept their hands in, training, sparring, night-hunting. Night-hunting was exhausting work on top of an already full schedule, but it honed their skills like nothing else, occasionally provided a little extra income from grateful civilians, and turned out to be excellent for networking as well; for it was on one of these night-hunts that they first met the peerless, beautiful, pure-hearted Zewu-jun, soon to be one of the most powerful people in the cultivation world and currently a desperate refugee.

They were tracking what was probably a spirit, a creature that had recently been luring or attempting to lure people off into the woods. It was the third night they had gone out searching for it, and late enough that they were almost ready to go home and try again some other night until they heard flute music floating through the trees.

In the middle of the woods and the middle of the night, one would expect such mysterious music to be described as haunting; but it was rather peaceful, actually, and almost friendly. Like a lullaby. Meng Yao had to shake himself to get himself moving again, and then he had to shake Wei Ying too – he looked ready to curl up and take a nap under a tree.

But he snapped out of it easily enough, and, obviously irritated at having almost fallen under this strange spell, immediately took charge. He quietly unsheathed his sword and communicated through gestures that he and Meng Yao should split up and perform a pincer movement. Meng Yao nodded, doing his best to convey the impression that this was a very clever idea and not, in fact, an extremely basic one and exactly what he had been about to suggest.

So Wei Ying went left and Meng Yao went right, and they slipped through the trees towards the ghostly unghostly music, until they found… a young man, ethereally beautiful, dressed in shining white too clean to be natural, with a sword sheathed at his waist. He held a flute to his lips and played a short tune on it, then lifted it into the air –

And something responded.

This was different to the music from before. He carried on this way, playing a burst of melody like a question, and receiving an answer. Meng Yao caught Wei Ying’s eye on the opposite side of the small clearing, and they had a moment of sibling telepathy, both far too curious to interrupt this.

At some point, the music played by the invisible other party began to sound sharp, angry, and the man in white – a spirit, or a cultivator? – played the other piece of music again, the lullaby. It didn’t seem to be working. Black smoke seeped into being, a formless but undeniably threatening thing, seemingly made of pure resentful energy. The man, undaunted, stared directly at this malevolent being less than an arm’s length from his face and played louder. The smoke shifted, grew darker somehow, and something in the shape of its swirls gave the impression of teeth and claws.

Something else joined in. Was that? He looked at Wei Ying again – yes, he was whistling along, and giving Meng Yao a meaningful look. Catching on, Meng Yao started whistling as well, doing his best to match the melody. This would have been far easier with an instrument, but it seemed to be working. The smoke quietened, paled until it was a murky white, lost its teeth and claws and formed, instead, a face. Impossible to tell if it was a man’s or woman’s face, or how old, or anything like that, but it did look… sad. More than sad. Sorrowful – like it was full to the brim of sorrow, made out of pure sorrow, no room for anything else. It reached out a smoky tendril towards the stranger and Meng Yao darted forward in a panic, his soft sword ready to strike, too far away, too slow – it stroked the man’s hair, softly, once, and then faded away.

Meng Yao stopped, stock-still, sword out, as the ethereal gentleman in white turned to face him and he remembered that he was only reasonably sure this stranger was not a threat.

But, just in case he was, Wei Ying was behind him in the trees.

Deliberately, he sheathed his sword and bowed low. When he glanced up he saw that the other man had done the same, just as low, and he felt himself relax.

The stranger met his eyes and smiled. There was something in his eyes – a twinkle, almost mischievous but too kind for that. Like being let in on a joke, perhaps.

Ah – etiquette demanded that he should be the first to speak. Of course. He must introduce himself –

“Thank you for your help, gongzi,” said the stranger, smiling softly. “Without it, I am afraid I would have been forced to eliminate the spirit instead of being able to liberate it.”

Meng Yao returned the courtesy without hesitation, of course. If he was off-balance, it would not show. Nor did he so much as flick his eyes at Wei Ying, sneaking up behind. But the stranger noticed him anyhow, and turned smoothly on his heel to offer the same courtesies.

Such extraordinary grace, marvelled Meng Yao. Referring, of course, to the cultivator in white, and not to Wei Ying, who was frozen with one foot still in the air and begging for help with his eyes. Sighing internally, Meng Yao swept around the stranger to grab his little brother’s arm and pull him into a bow. He heard a muffled sound that might have been a laugh, but the cultivator’s face was the very picture of earnest friendliness when they rose.

“This humble one is Meng Yao, and this is my shidi, Wei Ying. We are pleased to have been of some small assistance, although you clearly had the matter under control… daozhang?” That was the proper address for a rogue cultivator, if that was what he was. Rogue cultivators did often wear white… but they weren’t the only ones. And his clothes were clearly of good make, and almost conspicuously plain.

Indeed, the cultivator seemed put off by that appellation. Not offended, but certainly unhappy. Tense jaw, a distance in his gaze, for just a moment before he shook it off. “Your assistance was not at all small, Meng-gongzi, Wei-gongzi, and I am very grateful for it. Were you seeking the same spirit?” He batted wide, innocent eyes at them as though they would not notice that he had not introduced himself.

Wei Ying opened his mouth, and closed it again when Meng Yao tightened his grip. “We were,” said Meng Yao pleasantly. “And there is a reward offered – we would be happy to escort you to the merchant who set it.”

The stranger tensed again, for only half a beat, and attempted to demur – as Meng Yao had suspected he might. “That is certainly not necessary – since I wandered in unasked for and stole your hunt, please feel free –”

“You insult us by suggesting we would take credit for your work, daozhang,” he interrupted, keeping his tone warm and jocular, smiling like they were old friends who could tease one another so. The cultivator looked a little hunted, but also as though he couldn’t quite help smiling back. “To have been able to learn a little from a cultivator who is obviously far more skilled than we humble amateurs is more than reward enough for us! Please, allow us your company a little longer. In fact, do you have an inn for this evening? We would be honoured to host you. If, that is, the meagre hospitality we can offer would not offend you.”

The stranger wavered, unable to see an escape without causing offence. Right where Meng Yao wanted him. He was about to deliver the killing blow when Wei Ying, losing patience, jumped in in spite of the vice-like grip on his arm – “I’ll go speak to the merchant, then, and bring the reward money home. And you’ll stay the night and give us some pointers, and we’ll talk about a fair way to divide the reward. Right? That’s as fair as it gets.” Ah. Not bad after all. Wei Ying may have been young and rough-edged, but he wasn’t stupid. The cultivator looked relieved by the idea of not having to meet the merchant, and was caught in a trap of politeness.

Then Wei Ying had an even better idea, one that made Meng Yao vow to not underestimate him again – he scuffed his feet and looked down at them, then back up, bashfully, and muttered, “But – would it be all right if. Lao-Shang – the merchant – has a very pretty daughter, is all, and. I wouldn’t lie. But if I told a story a certain way, and I talked more about what I did and left out any handsome, mysterious cultivators who might have been around, that’s not really lying, is it?” and pushed out his bottom lip pleadingly.

Lao-Shang did not, in fact, have any daughters at all, pretty or otherwise. He had three sons, none of whom were even tolerably handsome.

The stranger’s eyes crinkled, and Meng Yao relaxed. “Who am I to stand in the way of young love? Of course, of course, I don’t mind that at all,” he declared indulgently, with far too paternal an air for someone who looked so young. But with the way strong cultivators aged, he could be twenty or he could be fifty.

“And you’ll be at home with my shixiong when I get back?” demanded Wei Ying. The stranger nodded agreement before managing to think better of it, and Wei Ying grinned and scarpered off before he could take it back, leaving the stranger and Meng Yao alone. Meng Yao schooled his expression, bowed once more, and gestured graciously in the direction of town.

Chapter Text

Their guest abstained from meat and alcohol, which on the one hand made him cheaper to feed, but on the other made him difficult to impress. Meng Yao felt almost light-headed with the urge to be hospitable. They were a humble household indeed, several steps down from even the false luxury of the brothel, let alone Jinlintai. They had a couple of threadbare cushions, and only cheap tea, which Meng Yao poured into the best cup they had.

He decided to leave off interrogating the man for now, and allow him to relax a little first, but soon found himself carried away by the stranger’s refined manner and that way he had of looking at Meng Yao as if he were not only an equal, but a particularly interesting one. Surely he had any number of people with whom he could discuss music and poetry, and Meng Yao knew very well that he had not had the opportunity or education to form more than the most pedestrian opinions; but the stranger seemed to find him fascinating, and gave no sign of condescension however closely Meng Yao searched him for it.

But when the subject turned to the guqin, which Meng Yao’s mother had taught him to play, the cultivator abruptly closed off. Again, not as though he were angry or offended, but as if he had pressed on some healing injury and was briefly in too much pain to speak.

And before Meng Yao could quite decide whether or not to press harder, Wei Ying burst in and hissed “Hide!”

They both scrambled up, almost knocking over the tea in the process. Meng Yao looked around wildly while the stranger stared at him with pleading eyes – in such a small house, where could he possibly hide?

He caught the stranger by the arm and pulled him into the kitchen. “I’m so sorry,” he said, and meant it in the depths of his soul, as he began shifting sacks of rice and vegetables around. The stranger understood quickly and submitted gracefully to the indignity, curling up on the floor, making himself as small as possible – not very – and lifting an arm over his head to give himself room to breathe as Meng Yao and Wei Ying piled bags on top of him and adjusted them until he was out of sight, just as there came a pounding on the door.

Meng Yao spared a moment to be grateful that they were at least strong enough cultivators not to be visibly sweaty or out of breath after all that, and also that surprise and alarm were perfectly appropriate emotions and he did not have to school his expression too much. Wei Ying called out, “Who’s there?” with too much bravado – he should have pretended to be more frightened.

“Open up!” demanded the intruders. “The Wen Sect searches for a dangerous fugitive, and it won’t go well for you if you obstruct us!” He banged on the door again. The Wens were far, far away from their jurisdiction, but it did not seem as though telling them so would be a wise move.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” yelled Wei Ying, shooting Meng Yao a look. Meng Yao grabbed his sword and hid it in his robes, easy to grab but out of sight, and knelt in a demure posture with both hands around his cup of tea. Wei Ying adjusted his sword as well, grabbed the stranger’s tea in one hand, and opened the door.

There were four of them, indeed wearing Wen robes, which meant that either they had not split their forces to search or there were far more of them in town; either meant that the stranger was considered powerful and dangerous. Interesting.

They stomped inside and glared around the room, fanning out to search the house, and Meng Yao blinked up at the first soldier to enter, who was scowling specifically at him. Just as the man opened his mouth to start barking orders, Wei Ying danced around in front of him – between them – and started talking. “So you’re all cultivators? Wen Clan cultivators? Who are you looking for? Is he dangerous? Is he a murderer? Is it,” he gasped, just this plausibly deniable side of theatrical, “is it even human? Is it someone who’s possessed? Is it a spirit? Is it…” the soldier turned his glare on Wei Ying and his hand twitched on his sheathed sword in a way Meng Yao didn’t like, so he leapt in. Curses that he couldn’t stand without exposing his sword.

“A-Ying! Leave this man alone, he is far too busy and important to answer your inane prattle. I’m so sorry, sir, please forgive my didi. He’s only a boy, and excited to meet such personages. He doesn’t mean to be disrespectful; he simply has no manners.”

The soldier smirked at him, preened a little. It was not a kind expression, but it was an improvement. It was alright. He could stand being looked down on by this horrid little man. It was worth it. It was fine.

“Just keep him out of my way,” sneered the soldier. “I don’t need brats underfoot while I’m trying to apprehend a fugitive.”

“Of course, of course!” Meng Yao fawned for all he was worth. “We’re so grateful to you and your men for keeping us common people safe! Is there anything I can do to help? Would you like some tea? Wine? It must be thirsty work.”

The soldier huffed at him contemptuously. One of the men passed behind him into the kitchen, and it took all of Meng Yao’s strength not to look. Wei Ying, too, was too smart to follow him in right away, though he did clench his hands. “Don’t be stupid,” the soldier snorted. “We don’t have time for that. And we’re used to much better standards of tea than you could provide, anyway. Why are you up so late, anyway? Every other house we’ve checked everyone was asleep, and here’s you having supper.”

At least Wei Ying was too worried about him to spare anxious glances at the kitchen. He couldn’t think what to say, though – they were often awake this late due to night-hunts, but saying that meant ruining their image as harmless. The opposite of harmless is dangerous, and they certainly did not want to be that in the minds of these men. Not when they weren’t quite dangerous enough.

Meng Yao opened his mouth, hoping something would come to him as he spoke, but the soldier interrupted him. “And why are you still sat down? So disrespectful! Stand up!”

“Ah – I’m sorry, sir, I have a knee injury, it’s not so easy for me to get up and down, I don’t mean to be disrespectful –” he began to stand, now that he had an excuse for the stiffness caused by trying to keep the sword concealed. But the soldier grabbed him roughly by the elbow, almost making him drop it. He shot a warning glance at Wei Ying, who he expected to dart forward to defend him, but Wei Ying was curiously still and blank-faced… oh no.

Sure enough, a little paper figure was slipping out under the door. What an incredibly dangerous, foolhardy thing! If the paper man was damaged, or if they suddenly did need to fight and Wei Ying wasn’t even in his body, what then?

The soldier shook him, and he gasped in fake pain and grabbed his leg with both hands. But a noise came from outside – what sounded like a pot smashing, and then running footsteps. The Wen soldiers all turned to look, and at their leader’s exclamation they poured out of the house to investigate, including, most importantly, the man in the kitchen. Meng Yao stumbled out the door and saw the men chasing a flash of white robes through the streets.

Finding it hard to breathe for some reason, Meng Yao searched his surroundings for a much smaller flash of white. Where was he? Where? He stood waiting, tense as a drawn bow, shivering faintly. From the cold, of course. He closed his eyes and extended his qi sense instead. There – there. He reached up and caught Wei-didi between two fingers just as the little brat was leaping down from the roof to try to startle him, and the paper figure gave a sheepish wave and then, at the look on his face, an apologetic bow. Tch.

He gently shook Wei Ying, then brought him back inside and placed him on his body, which took a great heaving breath and then grinned up at his brother, both sheepish and far too proud of himself.

Meng Yao favoured his didi with his most unimpressed look.

“Ah, don’t look like that, Meng-ge. It worked, didn’t it? I just had to make sure they chased that sheet far enough. And that they didn’t find out they’d been chasing a piece of cloth. Also we owe lao-Fei for a broken pot and stolen sheet. I’ll bring him some fruit or something.” Then he darted into the kitchen, dodging Meng Yao’s grab, calling out, “Fugitive-gege! You can come out now!”

The cultivator emerged from under the sacks like a greater rock serpent slithering out onto a mountain path. Although, having a rock serpent smile at you with that much force would surely feel quite different. He stood, being careful not to spill any of the food, and then bowed deeply to them both.

Meng Yao caught his hands, and the cultivator looked up at him through his lashes and smiled so sweetly he thought his heart would stop.

“I owe you my life, Meng-gongzi, Wei-gongzi. I am more grateful than words can express. All I have to give right now is my word, but you have it – that I will never forget your kindness.” He said all this without looking away from Meng Yao’s eyes, even when addressing Wei Ying by name, and Meng Yao found it hard to look away as well, for all that he could feel waves of pettishness rolling off of Wei-didi.

“It’s no more than anyone would do,” he said modestly, although it was certainly not true and they had put themselves in a significant amount of danger. Wei Ying, however, gave every appearance of meaning it in earnest when he agreed. Likely it had never occurred to him to do anything else, the way it had occurred to Meng Yao.

Uncomfortable all of a sudden, he let go at last of the stranger’s hands and broke their staring match. He turned to ask Wei Ying about the reward money.

“Ah, no, the Wen soldiers were there when I got there – I ran home as soon as I saw them. We should wait until morning, anyway, that’s what we would normally do.”

The stranger blinked. Suspicion dawned in his eyes. “Was… does he even have a daughter?”

Wei Ying smirked and shrugged, and Meng Yao ignored the question. But the cultivator simply laughed and shook his head. He gave another, smaller bow. “I am Lan Huan, courtesy Xichen. The Wen Sect attacked and burned my home over an imagined slight, and my uncle and teacher insisted that I flee to protect my clan’s future. I... understand his reasoning, but it is both shaming and painful to be so far away when my family is in danger.”

“Zewu-Jun?” Meng Yao breathed, involuntarily, and Zewu-Jun looked almost embarrassed.

Wei Ying broke in with a teasing grin. “Ah, don’t they call you first in your generation? One of the twin jades of Lan?”

He definitely looked embarrassed now. Which was better than the haunted look from talking about his family. “That – ah – that’s a silly list. It refers to who is the best looking or most marriageable, not the strongest cultivator.”

“As if you’re trying to be modest by saying that!” Wei Ying laughed. “I can believe it though! I’ve never seen anyone so handsome.” He meant nothing by it, Wei Ying was just like that, but Meng Yao felt himself colour. Which was all the more unfortunate when Zewu-Jun’s gaze cut to him.

It was decided that Zewu-Jun would stay, since the Wen had already passed through and would be unlikely to return, and since he had nowhere else to go. Meng Yao would go to see Lao-Shang in the morning, and he and Wei Ying would keep the reward for the night-hunt, but it would be as payment for Zewu-jun’s keep. He would help Meng Yao and Wei Ying with their training, although he made it clear that some things, such as the spiritually-infused music, were proprietary to the Lan and not something he was at liberty to share.

He also insisted that he would make himself useful around the house as much as possible, although he admitted to being… unversed in the intricacies of common household chores. The first time he tried to wash his own clothes… hah. It was cute, in a way, his wide-eyed shock and dismay at having failed so badly at it as to literally tear his robes apart. He certainly seemed to be unused to failing at things. But he sheepishly admitted that perhaps it was for the best if Meng Yao took over the laundry, and the cloth could be turned to other purposes. It was very cute, but at the same time, the strength in those arms… there was something about a man that was so strong, and so gentle at the same time. But Meng Yao tried not to think too hard about that.

It was also rather comical to watch him take book after book out of his sleeves and respectfully store them in space they had cleared for his use; apparently this was what he had meant by “protecting his clan’s future.” A seemingly endless number of books, and apparently more still in there, since there wasn’t actually room in their house for all of them. (And, Meng Yao inferred, because they were the most dangerous or proprietary books and not things that Zewu-Jun could justify trusting them with. Which certainly did make him curious.) They had heard of qiankun pouches and qiankun sleeves, common amongst cultivation clans, but never seen them in use before. Comical, also, that Zewu-Jun had apparently used all of his available time and sleeve-space for books and not saved any for more practical necessities. His sword, his flute, and books were all he had fled with.

They managed to keep his presence secret for almost a week, and then staged his arrival in town and passed him off as an old friend from “back home”. Which, unfortunately, opened them up to questions about “home”, but they had a set of partial truths ready for that.

They argued about it, but in the end they told Lan Xichen the truth about their origins. Meng Yao braced for the worst, but Lan Xichen, wealthy scion of the famously austere and upright Lan, smiled and said, “The thread in the hands of a fond-hearted mother makes clothes for the body of her wayward boy.”

Meng Yao thought of his mother’s music, her poetry, the grace of her dancing; her grace, too, in managing the volatile egos of customers, and of Mama; and of the smell of her hair, the softness of her hand on his forehead, her voice singing him to sleep. She had always smiled, and she had never let her spine bow. That was who Meng Shi had been, and who Meng Yao wanted most to emulate. “Carefully she sews and thoroughly she mends, dreading the delays that will keep him late from home.” Meng Jiao. A Traveler’s Song. Zewu-jun smiled, and Meng Yao smiled tremulously back.

This man… ah, it turned out he was only nineteen, not yet at the age of majority himself; but he had a steadiness to him, a grace and wisdom and gentle benevolence that made Meng Yao think that this must be what immortals were like. He could have stepped straight out of Meng Yao’s childhood fantasies about heroic cultivators, from before he had actually met any. From before he met his father, and was rudely introduced to reality.

Meng Yao was scrupulously polite and deferential. He wanted so badly to make a good impression on this man. For practical reasons, of course – he would be a good ally to cultivate, so to speak – but also for… personal reasons. Reasons he tried not to think about too much, reasons Wei Ying obliquely teased him for, reasons that fizzed in his blood like too much wine. Zewu-jun was the very picture of refinement, and was endlessly courteous in return, seeming to think of it as simply how people treated one another and not just what was due to him according to his station.

Conversely, he didn’t seem to mind Wei Ying climbing all over him, bothering him while he was meditating, or calling him “Xichen-ge” or, worse, “fugitive-gege.” He took it all in stride, and it was Meng Yao who was being driven to a qi deviation. And that was nothing compared to the embarrassment of Wei Ying making dreadful excuses to leave Meng Yao and Zewu-Jun alone, always with a “subtle” wink which Zewu-jun was kind enough to pretend not to see.

There were many things that Zewu-jun pretended not to see. And that – well. It was probably for the best. Meng Yao would probably say no, if he did ask. Probably.

He was not too proud to use his mother’s methods to reach the top. She had wanted him to succeed, to become powerful and respected, and he was determined to honour her, whatever his father’s opinion on the matter. It would be advantageous to have a lover like Zewu-jun, who was rich and influential as well as handsome and gentlemanly. And yet… Zewu-jun was respectful now, but men pledged loyalty and advantage to people they wanted to fuck all the time, and rarely followed through. Meng Yao believed in Zewu-jun’s honest nature, but Meng Shi had believed in Jin Guangshan. If Zewu-jun let the mask slip once he had what he wanted, Meng Yao didn’t think he could bear it. Besides, they had already gained favour with him by saving his life; a far more reliable currency. Hopefully.

But Wei Ying didn’t think like that, and Meng Yao said none of this to him.

He cursed himself for getting twisted up over this when Zewu-jun might not even be interested after all. Perhaps he was only friendly. Perhaps he only wanted to flirt a little. Perhaps he had a lover. Perhaps…

Perhaps he expected Meng Yao to be… more experienced than he was. Perhaps he expected Meng Yao to make the approach, to seduce him and free him from the responsibility. Perhaps he would be angry when that didn’t happen. Men could be like that, sometimes.

But not Zewu-jun. Zewu-jun was not like that.

Eventually, word arrived of the indoctrination in Qishan, the inner disciples of all the Sects taken hostage – ah, “invited to be taught” – by the Wen. Zewu-jun’s beloved little brother, walking stiffly into a known trap on a broken leg. And worse news still – the death of his father, from the injuries sustained in the attack.

The three of them sat in silence for a minute. Wei Ying, ever uncomfortable with emotions – especially grief – darted in for a hug, which Zewu-jun was too startled to reject, and then fled, leaving the two of them alone.

After another minute – or an hour, or a year, it felt like – Zewu-jun broke the silence to say what they had all been thinking. “I must go home.” He did not seem happy – of course not. But he spoke as if this was another piece of bad news. “I am the Sect Leader now, officially and not just in practise. My people must be rebuilding. They need me.”

Meng Yao took his hand, squeezed it. This was the most they had touched, and it felt daring – but Zewu-jun squeezed back, gave him a brave, sad smile.

“In the morning. You’ll leave in the morning,” he said softly, and cursed himself for making it sound so much like an invitation. But Zewu-jun smiled again, stronger this time, and pulled him into an embrace, where he fit so neatly it was like the completion of a puzzle, and perhaps – and then Zewu-jun let go and stepped back, and they both took a few deep breaths, and he agreed that he would leave in the morning.

Later, as they tidied up after dinner, Zewu-jun asked if they were determined to join a sect, given the rising likelihood of war. They professed that they were; Meng Yao added that he hoped the Wen could be reasoned with before things became that desperate, which made Zewu-jun nod approvingly and Wei Ying roll his eyes and declare that injustice would not be tolerated, and that he and Meng Yao would fight for what was right.

Zewu-jun and Meng Yao locked eyes and sighed quietly over this, and then ignored it, and Zewu-jun returned to what he had been saying. “Then I suggest Qinghe Nie. They are the most prepared for that eventuality. And Sect Leader Nie is my friend. He is a good man. He will promote based on merit, I can assure you of that.”

Meng Yao had been hoping for an invitation into the Lan Sect, and he thought Wei Ying had been also, but he could understand why not. The Lan Sect held firmly to its pure jade reputation, after all.

Or, more charitably, Zewu-jun feared for their safety if they joined the weakened sect.

He bowed. A recommendation was no small offer, after all. No use in being greedy or bitter.

“I will most likely be gone before you both wake -”

“No, no, I will certainly wake to see you off. It’s no trouble at all.”

Wei Ying shook his head. “I’ll miss you dreadfully, fugitive-gege, but I am not getting up at five in the morning. Not for anything. I’ll say my goodbyes tonight, and wish you good fortune. But we will meet again someday – and we will be famous cultivators by then! So be prepared to welcome us as equals!”

“I will always greet you as my equals. And I am certain you will convince the rest of the cultivation world of the same.”

Meng Yao ducked his head and smiled.

When Wei Ying had left the room for a moment, Meng Yao looked at Zewu-jun with wide eyes and said, “A-Ying’s heart is in the right place. He just… doesn’t quite understand the upheaval and the chaos that war would bring. It is easy to say that injustice must not be born, but the lives that would be lost, the cost to the common people…”

Zewu-jun’s sad smile said that he agreed. “ Sometimes preserving harmony is more important than punishing evil. But I fear Wen Rouhan may be making harmony impossible.” He sighed. “Wei-gongzi is a kind young man, with a strong sense of justice. I am certain my brother would agree with him. I wonder what they would make of one another – they are so different in many ways, and so similar in others.” He laughed a little, but his face was pinched with worry. Meng Yao shuddered to think of a-Ying in that place, where he would certainly not be keeping sensibly out of trouble – if Hanguang-jun were similar in that respect, Zewu-jun had cause to worry.

Meng Yao did wake to see Zewu-jun off, and helped him pack his many, many books into his sleeves. Their hands brushed several times during this. Once, Meng Yao even touched the pale, soft skin of his wrist. When it was done, Zewu-jun removed a white, cloud-embroidered ribbon from his sleeve, which he had not worn during his stay but which Meng Yao recognised as a symbol of the Lan Clan. “May I help you with that?” he asked, as Zewu-jun moved to tie the ribbon around his forehead, and Zewu-jun stared like a startled rabbit, stock still with his mouth half-open and his hands in the air. “Or… not?”

Zewu-jun hesitated for a moment longer, then continued tying the ribbon. “Not today,” he said, sounding… regretful? But perhaps also pleased? Hopeful, even? “Ask me again some other time. If you would still like to.” And then he smiled, a soft, small thing that struck Meng Yao like a blow from an angry tree demon.

How cryptic! What was the meaning behind the Lan Clan’s forehead ribbon? He would need to be sure to find out at the earliest possible opportunity.

Once his ribbon was in place, Zewu-jun bowed, and thanked him once more for his help, and, ignoring the hand that Meng Yao had reflexively reached out with to pull him from his bow, mounted his sword to fly home to Cloud Recesses.

Chapter Text

Supporting his wrist with his free hand, Meng Yao smoothly poured tea into cups that not one single soldier touched or thanked him for. None of them even looked at him – at least not while he was pouring their tea; if he turned around quickly enough he usually caught at least a few pairs of eyes on him. The conversation carried on around him as if he was not there.

When he was done, his lieutenant acknowledged his existence long enough to send him out for more water. The second he was a plausibly deniable distance away, he was suddenly the only thing anyone wanted to discuss – how out of place he was, how weak – the elegant way he poured tea, must have learned it in the brothel, wonder what else he learned – and he walked faster, until he truly was out of hearing distance.

For all the scorn they heaped on him for being raised in a brothel, they reminded him of the women there. Gossiping, backbiting little snakes, bitter about being small and taking it out on those yet smaller.

This lieutenant had been the one to recruit himself and Wei Ying, along with several other young men, in a town on the edge of Qinghe. He had promised that the two of them would not be separated, and broken that promise the very second they returned to the Unclean Realm, whereupon he foisted Wei Ying on the first lieutenant who would take him. This was a move apparently motivated by pure, petty spitefulness.

A move he regretted when he actually saw Wei Ying fight. Meng Yao had never quite managed to be uncomplicatedly proud of Wei Ying’s natural aptitude for the blade, but that moment, and that grimace on his lieutenant’s face as Wei Ying knocked his immense sparring opponent to the ground, would live forever in his memory. Every time he needed to smile at his so-called superior officer, that moment was his inspiration.

He had time to visit Wei Ying now, perhaps. Briefly. He was in no hurry to return to his unit with water they didn’t actually need.

He found his little brother on the training grounds, running through blade forms with his new sabre – better than the old one, but still a basic non-spiritual weapon. And there, walking amongst the recruits, correcting posture here and nodding approvingly there, was Chifeng-zun.

He was rather unmissable. A big man, tall and strong, in his dark green silks and the solid, imposing silver headpiece atop a mass of elaborate braids. His men stood taller in his presence. He passed Wei Ying, and Wei Ying was one of the lucky few to be graced with a nod. He glowed with it; Meng Yao could barely stand to look at him, he shone so brightly.

They had not met, as such. The Nie Sect Leader did his best to be a leader who knew and was known to the men under his command, but he was a busy man. He gave welcoming speeches as batches of new recruits came in. Stirring stuff. Very honourable and manly. The grand traditions of the clan, of which they were now a part. How they were all now one big Wen-hating family.

He had not reacted to the names Meng Yao or Wei Wuxian at all, one way or the other. Whether he had received any letters from any mutual friends, or anyone had ever whispered in his ear about any Sect Leaders’ bastard sons being kicked down any stairs during any birthday celebrations, was unclear. He did seem a straightforward sort, whom one would hesitate to whisper to.

Zewu-jun had said that Sect Leader Nie would treat them according to their merits, that he was scrupulously fair – but Meng Yao had hoped for a little unfairness in his favour, just this once. That would have been nice. Just enough to get him some attention, just a chance to prove his worth. Was that so much to ask?

At any rate, if Chifeng-zun was present, best not to interrupt Wei Ying even for a moment – or to be spotted slacking off himself. What could he do in the area to seem industrious… ahah! One of the deput ies was also spectating, and right within Chifeng-zun’s line of sight. How obliging of him.

He wasn’t typically a very obliging fellow, but Meng Yao didn’t actually need anything from him at the moment except a brief and professional-looking conversation, so that was fine.

He made a slow and conspicuously respectful approach through the crowd. But with his deferential posture, hands clasped and head lowered, and his real attention pinned on Chifeng-zun, he failed to properly mind his surroundings. He didn’t notice a cultivator wink at his fellows and kick out a foot to trip him.

It was a solid kick, from a skilled warrior, albeit one who was acting like a child . Meng Yao went down, hard. If he had hit the floor it would have been humiliating enough, but the heavens showed him no such mercy; he crashed right into the deputy, hurled into full-body contact. He grabbed reflexively at the sour-faced old man’s shoulders, helpless to stop himself, feeling as though his brain was a few seconds ahead of his body – in his mind he saw the revulsion on the deputy’s face, felt himself be shoved away, heard the spat curse, all right before they happened exactly as predicted.

But he didn’t predict Chifeng-zun.

The Sect Leader was suddenly behind him, a steadying hand on his elbow. A quiet fury asking the deputy if he cared to repeat himself. Quiet being relative – more the low rumble of distant thunder.

“ That filth put his hands on me,” complained the deputy, unwisely, too busy franticly brushing off his robes to pay attention to his commander’s mood. Meng Yao felt himself start to smile without meaning to, and dragged his face back into seriousness. How odd. Usually it was the opposite.

Then the deputy looked up, saw whatever expression was on the face behind (and, truthfully, quite far above) Meng Yao, and froze like he had been hit with a talisman. “S...Sect Leader,” he began, before giving up and kowtowing.

“This man is a disciple of the Nie and you will address him as such. The Nie Sect is made great by our loyalty to our brothers. Not by petty gossip and mistreatment of our own. There are Wen-dogs out there who want to crush the Nie Sect under their heel, and you want to start fights because a disciple tripped?”

Meng Yao shrank smaller and smaller under Chifeng-zun’s powerful frame, under the eyes of the entire training hall. Everyone was watching, the whole Nie sect and half the rest of the cultivation world would know about this by morning. He was trembling, shaking, vibrating, his heart going a thousand beats a minute.

This was the best thing that had ever happened to him in his life. He owed the cultivator who tripped him a deep debt of gratitude. He would certainly repay it.

He had missed some of Chifeng-zun’s speech under the sound of his blood roaring in his ears, he realised. He tuned back in in time to hear a growl of, “Until I tell you to stop,” and see the white-faced deputy knock his head against the floor once more before inelegantly stumbling to his feet and forcing himself into an ungainly run around the training grounds. Around half the eyes present watched him go; the rest stayed on Meng Yao and Chifeng-zun.

A large, warm, strong hand hovered briefly over Meng Yao’s shoulder, clasped it even more briefly, and flitted away like a manly dragonfly. Meng Yao turned and bowed deeply to Chifeng-zun, who coughed awkwardly but made no move to stop him. When he rose, he found himself looking into Wei Ying’s grinning face. Chifeng-zun grabbed Wei Ying by the shoulder to shove him forward between them – no hesitation there – then nodded, once, muttered something gruff that Meng Yao didn’t catch, and went back to supervising training.

Wei Ying winked at him and started dragging him out of the room, waving at people as they passed, announcing loudly and cheerfully that he was on break. A short but strong-looking cultivator called out that Wei Ying would use any excuse to slack off, and Meng Yao nearly bit his tongue off out of rage before Wei Ying shot back an insult in the same vein, and they both laughed, and he realised it had been meant in a friendly manner. Meng Yao would never quite grasp that particular brand of masculine bonding through insulting each other.

Thankfully it was only eyes that followed them (eyes, and tongues) and no actual people, so they did manage to find somewhere quiet eventually. There, Wei Ying rounded on him, and Meng Yao saw the thunder storm of his own emotions reflected in a-Ying’s eyes – dark rolling clouds of affront, the pouring rain of shame at the public spectacle, and bright, terrifying flashes of joy.

Chifeng-zun had defended him. Chifeng-zun had publicly defended him. Chifeng-zun made one of his highest-ranked officers run laps as punishment for being rude to Meng Yao. This was going to make his life so much harder and yet – and yet!

A-Ying shook him by the arms, and, having absolutely no way to put any of this into words, Meng Yao shook a-Ying back. One of them started giggling, and the other followed, and they continued like this for quite some time, and if one managed to calm himself the other’s laughter made him start up again. At some point they did both manage to calm down at the same time, long enough for a-Ying to breathlessly and conspiratorially say, “He’s really something, isn’t he?” and then add, horribly but not inaccurately, “And his arms, and that chest, I can’t cope,” and the hysterics overtook them both again.

And then the drums sounded, and there was no more laughter nor any other sound in the entire Unclean Realm.